The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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Title: The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

Author: Thomas Moore

Commentator: William Michael Rossetti

Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8187]

Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

Credits: E-text produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Robert Connal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COMPLETE POEMS OF SIR THOMAS MOORE ***

E-text produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Robert Connal, and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Team

THE COMPLETE POEMS OF SIR THOMAS MOORE

COLLECTED BY HIMSELF

WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI

THOMAS MOORE

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin on the 28th of May 1780. Both his parents were Roman-Catholics; and he was, as a matter of course, brought up in the same religion, and adhered to it—not perhaps with any extreme zeal—throughout his life. His father was a decent tradesman, a grocer and spirit-retailer—or "spirit-grocer," as the business is termed in Ireland. Thomas received his schooling from Mr. Samuel Whyte, who had been Sheridan's first preceptor, a man of more than average literary culture. He encouraged a taste for acting among the boys: and Moore, naturally intelligent and lively, became a favorite with his master, and a leader in the dramatic recreations.

His aptitude for verse appeared at an early age. In 1790 he composed an epilogue to a piece acted at the house of Lady Borrows, in Dublin; and in his fourteenth year he wrote a sonnet to Mr. Whyte, which was published in a Dublin magazine.

Like other Irish Roman-Catholics, galled by the hard and stiff collar of Protestant ascendancy, the parents of Thomas Moore hailed the French Revolution, and the prospects which it seemed to offer of some reflex ameliorations. In 1792 the lad was taken by his father to a dinner in honor of the Revolution; and he was soon launched upon a current of ideas and associations which might have conducted a person of more self-oblivious patriotism to the scaffold on which perished the friend of his opening manhood, Robert Emmet. Trinity College, Dublin, having been opened to Catholics by the Irish Parliament in 1793, Moore was entered there as a student in the succeeding year. He became more proficient in French and Italian than in the classic languages, and showed no turn for Latin verses. Eventually, his political proclivities, and intimacy with many of the chiefs of opposition, drew down upon him (after various interrogations, in which he honorably refused to implicate his friends) a severe admonition from the University authorities; but he had not joined in any distinctly rebellious act and no more formidable results ensued to him.

In 1793 Moore published in the Anthologia Hibernica two pieces of verse; and his budding talents became so far known as to earn him the proud eminence of Laureate to the Gastronomic Club of Dalkey, near Dublin, in 1794. Through his acquaintance with Emmet, he joined the Oratorical Society, and afterwards the more important Historical Society; and he published An Ode on Nothing, with Notes, by Trismegistus Rustifucius, D. D., which won a party success. About the same time he wrote articles for The Press, a paper founded towards the end of 1797 by O'Connor, Addis, Emmet, and others. He graduated at Trinity College in November, 1799.

The bar was the career which his parents, and especially his mother, wished Thomas to pursue; neither of them had much faith in poetry or literature as a resource for his subsistence. Accordingly, in 1799, he crossed over into England, and studied in the Middle Temple; and he was afterwards called to the bar, but literary pursuits withheld him from practicing. He had brought with him from Ireland his translations from Anacreon; and published these by subscription in 1800, dedicated to the Prince Regent (then the illusory hope of political reformers), with no inconsiderable success. Lord Moira, Lady Donegal, and other leaders of fashionable society, took him up with friendly warmth, and he soon found himself a well-accepted guest in the highest circles in London. No clever young fellow—without any advantage of birth or of person, and with intellectual attractions which seem to posterity to be of a rather middling kind—ever won his way more easily or more cheaply into that paradise of mean ambitions, the beau monde. Moore has not escaped the stigma which attaches to almost all men who thus succeeded under the like conditions—that of tuft-hunting and lowering compliances. He would be a bold man who should affirm that there was absolutely no sort of ground for the charge; or that Moore—fêted at Holland House, and hovered-round by the fashionable of both sexes, the men picking up his witticisms, and the women languishing over his songs—was capable of the same sturdy self-reliance and simple adhesion to principle which might possibly have been in him, and forthcoming from him, under different conditions. Who shall touch pitch and not be defiled,—who treacle, and not be sweetened? At the same time, it is easy to carry charges of this kind too far, and not always through motives the purest and most exalted. It may be said without unfairness on either side that the sort of talents which Moore possessed brought him naturally into the society which he frequented; that very possibly the world has got quite as much out of him by that development of his faculties as by any other which they could have been likely to receive; and that he repaid patronage in the coin of amusement and of bland lenitives, rather than in that of obsequious adulation. For we are not required nor permitted to suppose that there was the stuff of a hero in "little Tom Moore;" or that the lapdog of the drawing-room would under any circumstances have been the wolf-hound of the public sheepfold. In the drawing-room he is a sleeker lapdog, and lies upon more and choicelier-clothed laps than he would in "the two-pair back;" and that is about all that needs to be said or speculated in such a case. As a matter of fact, the demeanor of Moore among the socially great seems to have been that of a man who respected his company, without failing to respect himself also—any ill-natured caviling or ready-made imputations to the contrary notwithstanding.

In 1802 Moore produced his first volume of original verse, the Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little (an allusion to the author's remarkably small stature), for which he received £60. There are in this volume some erotic improprieties, not of a very serious kind either in intention or in harmfulness, which Moore regretted in later years. Next year Lord Moira procured him the post of Registrar to the Admiralty Court of Bermuda; he embarked on the 25th of September, and reached his destination in January 1804. This work did not suit him much better than the business of the bar; in March he withdrew from personal discharge of the duties: and, leaving a substitute in his place, he made a tour in the United States and Canada. He was presented to Jefferson, and felt impressed by his republican simplicity. Such a quality, however, was not in Moore's line; and nothing perhaps shows the essential smallness of his nature more clearly than the fact that his visit to the United States, in their giant infancy, produced in him no glow of admiration or aspiration, but only a recrudescence of the commonest prejudices—the itch for picking little holes, the petty joy of reporting them, and the puny self-pluming upon fancied or factitious superiorities. If the washy liberal patriotism of Moore's very early years had any vitality at all, such as would have qualified it for a harder struggle than jeering at the Holy Alliance, and singing after-dinner songs of national sentimentalism to the applause of Whig lords and ladies, this American experience may beheld to have been its death-blow. He now saw republicans face to face; and found that they were not for him, nor he for them. He returned to England in 1806; and soon afterwards published his Odes and Epistles, comprising many remarks, faithfully expressive of his perceptions, on American society and manners.

The volume was tartly criticised in the Edinburgh Review by Jeffrey, who made some rather severe comments upon the improprieties chargeable to Moore's early writings. The consequence was a challenge, and what would have been a duel at Chalk Farm, but for unloaded pistols and police interference. This fiasco soon led to an amicable understanding between Moore and Jeffrey; and a few years later, about the end of 1811, to a friendship of closer intimacy between the Irish songster and his great poetic contemporary Lord Byron. His lordship, in his youthful satire of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, had made fun of the unbloody duel. This Moore resented, not so much as a mere matter of ridicule as because it involved an ignoring or a denial of a counter-statement of the matter put into print by himself. He accordingly wrote a letter to Byron on the 1st of January 1810, calculated to lead to further hostilities. But, as the noble poet had then already for some months left England for his prolonged tour on the Continent, the missive did not reach him; and a little epistolary skirmishing, after his return in the following year, terminated in a hearty reconciliation, and a very intimate cordiality, almost deserving of the lofty name of friendship, on both sides.

Re-settled in London, and re-quartered upon the pleasant places of fashion, Moore was once more a favorite at Holland House, Lansdowne House, and Donington House, the residence of Lord Moira. His lordship obtained a comfortable post to soothe the declining years of Moore's father, and held out to the poet himself the prospect—which was not however realized—of another snug berth for his own occupancy. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland never received the benefit of the Irish patriot's services in any public capacity at home—only through the hands of a defaulting deputy in Bermuda: it did, however, at length give him the money without the official money's-worth, for in 1835, under Lord Melbourne's ministry, an annual literary pension of £300 was bestowed upon the then elderly poet. Nor can it be said that Moore's worth to his party, whether we regard him as political sharpshooter or as national lyrist, deserved a less recognition from the Whigs: he had at one time, with creditable independence, refused to be indebted to the Tories for an appointment. Some obloquy has at times been cast upon him on account of his sarcasms against the Prince Regent, which, however well merited on public grounds, have been held to come with an ill grace from the man whose first literary effort, the Anacreon, had been published under the auspices of his Royal Highness as dedicatee, no doubt a practical obligation of some moment to the writer. It does not appear, however, that the obligation went much beyond this simple acceptance of the dedication: Moore himself declared that the Regent's further civilities had consisted simply in asking him twice to dinner, and admitting him, in 1811, to a fête in honor of the regency.

The life of Moore for several years ensuing is one of literary success and social brilliancy, varied by his marrying in 1811, Miss Bessy Dyke, a lady who made an excellent and devoted wife, and to whom he was very affectionately attached, although the attractions and amenities of the fashionable world caused from time to time considerable inroads upon his domesticity. After a while, he removed from London, with his wife and young family, to Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire—a somewhat lonely site. His Irish Melodies, the work by which he will continue best known, had their origin in 1797, when his attention was drawn to a publication named Bunting's Irish Melodies, for which he occasionally wrote the words. In 1807 he entered into a definite agreement with Mr. Power on this subject, in combination with Sir J. Stevenson, who undertook to compose the accompaniments. The work was prolonged up to the year 1834; and contributed very materially to Moore's comfort in money matters and his general prominence—as his own singing of the Melodies in good society kept up his sentimental and patriotic prestige, and his personal lionizing, in a remarkable degree. He played on the piano, and sang with taste, though in a style resembling recitative, and not with any great power of voice: in speaking, his voice had a certain tendency to hoarseness, but its quality became flute-like in singing. In 1811 he made another essay in the musical province; writing, at the request of the manager of the Lyceum Theatre, an operetta named M.P., or the Bluestocking. It was the reverse of a stage-success; and Moore, in collecting his poems, excluded this work, save as regards some of the songs comprised in it. In 1808 had appeared anonymously, the poems of Intolerance and Corruption, followed in 1809 by The Sceptic. Intercepted Letters, or The Twopenny Postbag, by Thomas Brown the Younger, came out in 1812: it was a huge success, and very intelligibly such, going through fourteen editions in one year. In the same year the project of writing an oriental poem—a class of work greatly in vogue now that Byron was inventing Giaours and Corsairs—was seriously entertained by Moore. This project took shape in Lalla Rookh, written chiefly at Mayfield Cottage—a performance for which Mr. Longman the publisher paid the extremely large sum of £3150 in advance: its publication hung over till 1817. The poem has been translated into all sorts of languages, including Persian, and is said to have found many admirers among its oriental readers. Whatever may be thought of its poetic merits—and I for one disclaim any scintilla of enthusiasm—or of its power in vitalizing the disjecta membra of orientalism, the stock-in-trade of the Asiatic curiosity-shop, there is no doubt that Moore worked very conscientiously upon this undertaking: he read up to any extent,—wrote, talked, and perhaps thought, Islamically—and he trips up his reader with some allusion verse after verse, tumbling him to the bottom of the page, with its quagmire of explanatory footnotes. In 1815 appeared the National Airs; in 1816, Sacred Songs, Duets, and Trios, the music composed and selected by Stevenson and Moore; in 1818, The Fudge Family in Paris, again a great hit. This work was composed in Paris, which capital Moore had been visiting in company with his friend Samuel Rogers the poet.

The easily earned money and easily discharged duties of the appointment in Bermuda began now to weigh heavy on Moore. Defalcations of his deputy, to the extent of £6000, were discovered, for which the nominal holder of the post was liable. Moore declined offers of assistance; and, pending a legal decision on the matter, he had found it apposite to revisit the Continent. In France, Lord John (the late Earl) Russell was his travelling companion: they went on together through Switzerland, and parted at Milan. Moore then, on the 8th of October 1819, joined in Venice his friend Byron, who had been absent from England since 1816. The poets met in the best of humor, and on terms of hearty good-fellowship—Moore staying with Byron for five or six days. On taking leave of him, Byron presented the Irish lyrist with the MS. of his autobiographical memoirs stipulating that they should not be published till after the donor's death: at a later date he became anxious that they should remain wholly unpublished. Moore sold the MS. in 1831 to Murray for £2100, after some negotiations with Longman, and consigned it to the publisher's hands. In 1824 the news arrived of Byron's death. Mr. (afterwards Sir Wilmot) Horton on the part of Lady Byron, Mr. Luttrell on that of Moore, Colonel Doyle on that of Mrs. Leigh, Lord Byron's half-sister, and Mr. Hobhouse (afterwards Lord Broughton) as a friend and executor of the deceased poet, consulted on the subject. Hobhouse was strong in urging the suppression of the Memoirs. The result was that Murray, setting aside considerations of profit, burned the MS. (some principal portions of which nevertheless exist in print, in other forms of publication); and Moore immediately afterwards, also in a disinterested spirit, repaid him the purchase-money of £2100. It was quite fair that Moore should be reimbursed this large sum by some of the persons in whose behoof he had made the sacrifice, this was not neglected.

To resume. Bidding adieu to Byron at Venice, Moore went on to Rome with the sculptor Chantrey and the portrait-painter Jackson. His tour supplied the materials for the Rhymes on the Road, published, as being extracted from the journal of a travelling member of the Pococurante Society, in 1820, along with the Fables for the Holy Alliance. Lawrence, Turner, and Eastlake, were also much with Moore in Rome: and here he made acquaintance with Canova. Hence he returned to Paris, and made that city his home up to 1822, expecting the outcome of the Bermuda affair. He also resided partly at Butte Goaslin, near Sèvres, with a rich and hospitable Spanish family named Villamil. The debt of £6000 was eventually reduced to £750: both the Marquis of Lansdowne and Lord John Russell pressed Moore with their friendly offers, and the advance which he at last accepted was soon repaid out of the profits of the Loves of the Angels—which poem, chiefly written in Paris, was published in 1823. The prose tale of The Epicurean was composed about the same time, but did not issue from the press till 1827: the Memoirs of Captain Rock in 1824. He had been under an engagement to a bookseller to write a Life of Sheridan. During his stay in France the want of documents withheld him from proceeding with this work: but he ultimately took it up, and brought it out in 1825. It was not availed to give Moore any reputation as a biographer, though the reader in search of amusement will pick out of it something to suit him. George the Fourth is credited with having made a neat bon mot upon this book. Some one having remarked to him that "Moore had been murdering Sheridan,"— "No," replied his sacred majesty, "but he has certainly attempted his life." A later biographical performance, published in 1830, and one of more enduring interest to posterity, was the Life of Byron. This is a very fascinating book; but more—which is indeed a matter of course—in virtue of the lavish amount of Byron's own writing which it embodies than, on account of the Memoir-compiler's doings. However, there is a considerable share of good feeling in the book, as well as matter of permanent value from the personal knowledge that Moore had of Byron; and the avoidance of "posing" and of dealing with the subject for purposes of effect, in the case of a man whose career and genius lent themselves so insidiously to such a treatment, is highly creditable to the biographer's good sense and taste. The Life of Byron succeeded, in the list of Moore's writings, a History of Ireland, contributed in 1827 to Lardner's Cyclopaedia, and the Travels of an Irishman in Search of a Religion, published in the same year: and was followed by a Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, issued in 1881. This, supplemented by some minor productions, closes the sufficiently long list of writings of an industrious literary life.

In his latter years Moore resided at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes in Wiltshire, Where he was near the refined social circle of Lord Lansdowne at Bowood, as well as the lettered home of the Rev. Mr. Bowles at Bremhill. Domestic sorrows clouded his otherwise cheerful and comfortable retirement. One of his sons died in the French military service in Algeria; another of consumption in 1842. For some years before his own death, which occurred on the 25th of February 1853, his mental powers had collapsed. He sleeps in Bromham Cemetery, in the neighborhood of Sloperton.

Moore had a very fair share of learning, as well as steady application, greatly as he sacrificed to the graces of life, and especially of "good society." His face was not perhaps much more impressive in its contour than his diminutive figure. His eyes, however, were dark and fine; his forehead bony, and with what a phrenologist would recognize as large bumps of wit; the mouth pleasingly dimpled. His manner and talk were bright, abounding rather in lively anecdote and point than in wit and humor, strictly so called. To term him amiable according to any standard, and estimable too as men of an unheroic fibre go, is no more than his due.

No doubt the world has already seen the most brilliant days of Moore's poetry. Its fascinations are manifestly of the more temporary sort: partly through fleetingness of subject-matter and evanescence of allusion (as in the clever and still readable satirical poems); partly through the aroma of sentimental patriotism, hardly strong enough in stamina to make the compositions national, or to maintain their high level of popularity after the lyrist himself has long been at rest; partly through the essentially commonplace sources and forms of inspiration which belong to his more elaborate and ambitious works. No poetical reader of the present day is the poorer for knowing absolutely nothing of Lalla Rookh or the Loves of the Angels. What then will be the hold or the claim of these writings upon a reader of the twenty-first century? If we expect the satirical compositions, choice in a different way, the best things of Moore are to be sought in the Irish Melodies, to which a considerable share of merit, and of apposite merit, is not to be denied: yet even here what deserts around the oases, and the oases themselves how soon exhaustible and forgettable! There are but few thoroughly beautiful and touching lines in the whole of Moore's poetry. Here is one—

"Come rest in this bosom, mine own stricken deer."

A great deal has been said upon the overpowering "lusciousness" of his poetry, and the magical "melody" of his verse: most of this is futile. There is in the former as much of fadeur as of lusciousness; and a certain tripping or trotting exactitude, not less fully reducible to the test of scansion than of a well-attuned ear, is but a rudimentary form of melody—while of harmony or rhythmic volume of sound Moore is as decisively destitute as any correct versifier can well be. No clearer proof of the incapacity of the mass of critics and readers to appreciate the calibre of poetical work in point of musical and general execution could be given than the fact that Moore has always with them passed, and still passes, for an eminently melodious poet. What then remains? Chiefly this. In one class of writing, liveliness of witty banter, along with neatness; and, in the other and ostensibly more permanent class, elegance, also along with neatness. Reduce these qualities to one denomination, and we come to something that may be called "Propriety": a sufficiently disastrous "raw material" for the purposes of a poet, and by no means loftily to be praised or admired even when regarded as the outer investiture of a nobler poetic something within. But let desert of every kind have its place, and welcome. In the cosmical diapason and august orchestra of poetry, Tom Moore's little Pan's-pipe can at odd moments be heard, and interjects an appreciable and rightly-combined twiddle or two. To be gratified with these at the instant is no more than the instrument justifies, and the executant claims: to think much about them when the organ is pealing or the violin plaining (with a Shelley performing on the first, or a Mrs. Browning on the second), or to be on the watch for their recurrences, would be equally superfluous and weak-minded.

CONTENTS

Advertisement.

After the Battle.

Alarming Intelligence.

Alciphron: a Fragment.

Letter I. From Alciphron at Alexandria to Cleon at Athens.

II. From the Same to the Same.

III. From the Same to the Same.

IV. From Orcus, High Priest of Memphis, to Decius, the Praetorian

Prefect.

All in the Family Way.

All that's Bright must Fade.

Almighty God.

Alone in Crowds to wander on.

Amatory Colloquy between Bank and Government.

Anacreon, Odes of.

I. I saw the Smiling Bard of Pleasure.

II. Give me the Harp of Epic Song.

III. Listen to the Muse's Lyre.

IV. Vulcan! hear Your Glorious Task.

V. Sculptor, wouldst Thou glad my Soul.

VI. As Late I sought the Spangled Bowers.

VII. The Women tell Me Every Day.

VIII. I care not for the Idle State.

IX. I pray thee, by the Gods Above.

X. How am I to punish Thee.

XI. "Tell Me, Gentle Youth, I pray Thee".

XII. They tell How Atys, Wild with Love.

XIII. I will, I will, the Conflict's past.

XIV. Count Me, on the Summer Trees.

XV. Tell Me, Why, My Sweetest Dove.

XVI. Thou, Whose Soft and Rosy Hues.

XVII. And Now with All Thy Pencil's Truth.

XVIII. Now the Star of Day is High.

XIX. Here recline You, Gentle Maid.

XX. One Day the Muses twined the Hands.

XXI. Observe When Mother Earth is Dry.

XXII. The Phrygian Rock, That braves the Storm.

XXIII. I Often wish this Languid Lyre.

XXIV. To All That breathe the Air of Heaven.

XXV. Once in Each Revolving Year.

XXVI. Thy Harp may sing of Troy's Alarms.

XXVII. We read the Flying Courser's Name.

XXVIII. As, by His Lemnian Forge's Flame.

XXIX. Yes—Loving is a Painful Thrill.

XXX. 'Twas in a Mocking Dream of Night.

XXXI. Armed with Hyacinthine Rod.

XXXII. Strew Me a Fragrant Bed of Leaves.

XXXIII. 'Twas Noon of Night, When round the Pole.

XXXIV. Oh Thou, of All Creation Blest.

XXXV. Cupid Once upon a Bed.

XXXVI. If Hoarded Gold possest the Power.

XXXVII. 'Twas Night, and Many a Circling Bowl.

XXXVIII. Let Us drain the Nectared Bowl.

XXXIX. How I love the Festive Boy.

XL. I know That Heaven hath sent Me Here.

XLI. When Spring adorns the Dewy Scene.

XLII. Yes, be the Glorious Revel Mine.

XLIII. While Our Rosy Fillets shed.

XLIV. Buds of Roses, Virgin Flowers.

XLV. Within This Goblet Rich and Deep.

XLVI. Behold, the Young, the Rosy Spring.

XLVII. 'Tis True, My Fading Years decline.

XLVIII. When My Thirsty Soul I steep.

XLIX. When Bacchus, Jove's Immortal Boy.

L. When Wine I quaff, before My Eyes.

LI. Fly Not Thus My Brow of Snow.

LII. Away, Away, Ye Men of Rules.

LIII. When I beheld the Festive Train.

LIV. Methinks, the Pictured Bull We see.

LV. While We invoke the Wreathed Spring.

LVI. He, Who instructs the Youthful Crew.

LVII. Whose was the Artist Hand That Spread.

LVIII. When Gold, as Fleet as Zephyr's Pinion.

LIX. Ripened by the Solar Beam.

LX. Awake to Life, My Sleeping Shell.

LXI. Youth's Endearing Charms are fled.

LXII. Fill Me, Boy, as Deep a Draught.

LXIII. To Love, the Soft and Blooming Child.

LXIV. Haste Thee, Nymph, Whose Well-aimed Spear.

LXV. Like Some Wanton Filly sporting.

LXVI. To Thee, the Queen of Nymphs Divine.

LXVII. Rich in Bliss, I proudly scorn.

LXVIII. Now Neptune's Month Our Sky deforms.

LXIX. They wove the Lotus Band to deck.

LXX. A Broken Cake, with Honey Sweet

LXXI. With Twenty Chords My Lyre is hung.

LXXII. Fare Thee Well, Perfidious Maid.

LXXIII. Awhile I bloomed, a Happy Flower.

LXXIV. Monarch Love, Resistless Boy.

LXXV. Spirit of Love, Whose Locks unrolled.

LXXVI. Hither, Gentle Muse of Mine.

LXXVII. Would That I were a Tuneful Lyre.

LXXVIII. When Cupid sees How Thickly Now.

Let Me resign This Wretched Breath.

I know Thou lovest a Brimming Measure.

From Dread Lucadia's Frowning Steep.

Mix Me, Child, a Cup Divine.

Anacreontic.

Anacreontic.

Anacreontic.

Anacreontic.

Anacreontic.

And doth not a Meeting Like This.

Angel of Charity.

Animal Magnetism.

Anne Boleyn.

Announcement of a New Grand Acceleration Company.

Announcement of a New Thalaba.

Annual Pill, The.

Anticipated Meeting of the British Association in the Year 1836.

As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters may glow.

As down in the Sunless Retreats.

Ask not if Still I Love.

Aspasia.

As Slow our Ship.

As Vanquished Erin.

At Night.

At the Mid Hour of Night.

Avenging and Bright.

Awake, arise, Thy Light is come.

Awful Event.

Ballad, A.

Ballad for the Cambridge Election.

Ballad Stanzas.

Beauty and Song.

Before the Battle.

Behold the Sun.

Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms.

Black and Blue Eyes.

Blue Love-Song, A.

Boat Glee.

Boy of the Alps, The.

Boy Statesman, The.

Bright be Thy Dreams.

Bright Moon.

Bring the Bright Garlands Hither.

Brunswick Club, The.

But Who shall see.

By that Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore.

Calm be Thy Sleep.

Canadian Boat Song, A.

Canonization of Saint Butterworth, The.

Captain Rock in London.

Case of Libel, A.

Catalogue, The.

Cephalus and Procris.

Characterless, A.

Cherries, The.

Child's Song—From a Masque.

Church Extension.

Cloris and Fanny.

Cocker, on Church Reform.

Come, chase that Starting Tear Away.

Come Not, oh Lord.

Come o'er the Sea.

Come, play Me That Simple Air Again.

Come, rest in This Bosom.

Come, send Round the Wine.

Come, Ye Disconsolate.

Common Sense and Genius.

Consultation, The.

Copy of An Intercepted Despatch.

Corn and Catholics.

Corrected Report of Some Late Speeches, A.

Correspondence between a Lady and Gentleman.

Corruption, an Epistle.

Cotton and Corn.

Country Dance and Quadrille.

Crystal-Hunters, The.

Cupid and Psyche.

Cupid Armed.

Cupid's Lottery.

Curious Fact, A.

Dance of Bishops, The.

Dawn is breaking o'er Us, The.

Day-Dream, The.

Day of Love, The.

Dear Fanny.

Dear Harp of My Country.

Dear? Yes.

Desmond's Song.

Devil among the Scholars, The.

Dialogue between a Sovereign and a One Pound Note.

Dick * * * *.

Did not.

Dog-day Reflections.

Donkey and His Panniers, The.

Do not say That Life is waning.

Dost Thou Remember.

Dream, A.

Dreaming For Ever.

Dream of Antiquity, A.

Dream of Hindostan, A.

Dream of Home, The.

Dream of the Two Sisters, The.

Dream of Those Days, The.

Dream of Turtle, A.

Dreams.

Drink of This Cup.

Drink to Her.

Duke is the Lad, The.

Dying Warrior, The.

East Indian, The.

Echo.

Elegiac Stanzas.

Elegiac Stanzas.

Enigma.

Epigram.—"I never gave a Kiss" (says Prue).

Epigram.—"I want the Court Guide," said My Lady, "to look".

Epigram.—What News To-day?—"Oh! Worse and Worse".

Epigram.—Said His Highness to Ned, with That Grim Face of His.

Epilogue.

Epistle from Captain Rock to Lord Lyndhurst.

Epistle from Erasmus on Earth to Cicero in the Shades.

Epistle from Henry of Exeter to John of Tuam.

Epistle from Tom Crib to Big Ben.

Epistle of Condolence.

Epitaph on a Tuft-Hunter.

Erin, oh Erin.

Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes.

Euthanasia of Van, The.

Eveleen's Bower.

Evening Gun, The.

Evenings in Greece.

Exile, The.

Expostulation to Lord King, An.

Extract from a Prologue.

Extracts from the Diary of a Politician.

Fables for the Holy Alliance,

I. The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance.

II. The Looking-Glasses.

III. The Torch of Liberty.

IV. The Fly and the Bullock.

V. Church and State.

VI. The Little Grand Lama.

VII. The Extinguishers.

VIII. Louis Fourteenth's Wig.

Fairest! put on Awhile.

Fallen is Thy Throne.

Fall of Hebe, The.

Fancy.

Fancy Fair, The.

Fanny, Dearest.

Fare Thee Well, Thou Lovely One.

Farewell!—but Whenever You welcome the Hour.

Farewell, Theresa.

Fear not That, While Around Thee.

Fill the Bumper Fair.

Fire-Worshippers, The.

First Angel's Story.

Flow on, Thou Shining River.

Fly not Yet.

Fools' Paradise.

Forget not the Field.

For Thee Alone.

Fortune-Teller, The.

Fragment.

Fragment of a Character.

Fragment of a Mythological Hymn to Love.

Fragments of College Exercises.

From Life without Freedom.

From the Hon. Henry ——, to Lady Emma ——.

From This Hour the Pledge is given.

Fudge Family in Paris, The.

Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——, of Clonkilty, in

Ireland.

II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

III. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard ——, Esq.

IV. From Phelim Connor to ——.

V. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——.

VI. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to His Brother Tim Fudge, Esq., Barrister

at Law.

VII. From Phelim Connor to ——.

VIII. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard ——, Esq.

IX. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Viscount Castlereagh.

X. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——.

XI. From Phelim Connor to ——.

XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ——.

Fudges in England, The.

Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard —— Curate of

—— in Ireland.

II. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Mrs. Elizabeth —— Extracts from My

Diary.

III. From Miss Fanny Fudge to her Cousin, Kitty ——.

IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ——.

V. From Larry O'Branigan In England, to His Wife Judy, at Mullinafad.

VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, to Mrs. Elizabeth —— Extracts from My

Diary.

VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, to her Cousin, Miss Kitty ——.

VIII. From Bob Fudge, Esq., to the Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan.

IX. From Larry O'Branigan, to his Wife Judy.

X. From the Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, to the Rev. ——.

XI. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ——.

Fum and Hum, the two Birds of Royalty.

Garland I send Thee, The.

Gayly sounds the Castanet.

Gazel.

Gazelle, The.

Genius and Criticism.

Genius of Harmony, The.

Ghost of Miltiades, The.

Ghost Story, A.

Go forth to the Mount.

Go, let Me weep.

Go, Now, and dream.

Go, Then—'tis Vain.

Go Where Glory waits Thee.

Grand Dinner of Type and Co.

Grecian Girl's Dream of the Blessed Islands, The.

Greek of Meleager, From the.

Guess, guess.

Halcyon hangs o'er Ocean, The.

Hark! the Vesper Hymn is stealing.

Hark! 'Tis the Breeze.

Harp That Once thro' Tara's Halls, The.

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days shaded.

Hat versus Wig.

Hear Me but Once.

Here at Thy Tomb.

Here sleeps the Bard.

Here's the Bower.

Here, take My Heart.

Her Last Words at Parting.

Hero and Leander.

High-Born Ladye, The.

High Priest of Apollo to a Virgin of Delphi, From the.

Hip, Hip, Hurra.

Homeward March, The.

Hope comes Again.

Horace:

Ode I. Lib. III.—I hate Thee, oh, Mob, as My Lady hates Delf.

Ode XI. Lib. II.—Come, Yarmouth, My Boy, Never trouble your Brains.

Ode XXII. Lib. I.—The Man Who keeps a Conscience Pure.

Ode XXXVIII. Lib. I.—Boy, tell the Cook That I hate All Nicknackeries.

How Dear to Me the Hour.

How Happy, Once.

How lightly mounts the Muse's Wing.

How Oft has the Banshee cried.

How Oft, When watching Stars.

How shall I woo.

How to make a Good Politician.

How to make One's Self a Peer.

How to write by Proxy.

Hush, hush.

Hush, Sweet Lute.

Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi.

Hymn of Welcome after the Recess, A.

I'd mourn the Hopes.

"If" and "Perhaps".

If in Loving, Singing.

If Thou'lt be Mine.

If Thou wouldst have Me sing and play.

Ill Omens.

I love but Thee.

Imitation.

Imitation of Catullus.

Imitation of the Inferno of Dante.

Impromptu.

Impromptu.

Impromptu.

Incantation.

Incantation, An.

Inconstancy.

Indian Boat, The.

In Myrtle Wreaths.

Insurrection of the Papers, The.

Intended Tribute.

Intercepted Letters, etc.

Letter I. From the Princess Charlotte of Wales to the Lady Barbara

Ashley.

II. From Colonel M'Mahon to Gould Francis Leckie, Esq.

III. From George Prince Regent to the Earl of Yarmouth.

IV. From the Right Hon. Patrick Duigenan to the Right Hon. Sir John

Nicol.

V. From the Countess Dowager of Cork to Lady ——.

VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mohassan, in Ispahan.

VII. From Messrs. Lackington and Co. to Thomas Moore, Esq.

VIII. From Colonel Thomas to —— Skeffington, Esq.

Appendix.

In the Morning of Life.

Intolerance, a Satire.

Invisible Girl, To the.

Invitation to Dinner.

Irish Antiquities.

Irish Peasant to His Mistress, The.

Irish Slave, The.

I saw from the Beach.

I saw the Moon rise Clear.

I saw Thy Form in Youthful Prime.

Is it not Sweet to think. Hereafter.

It is not the Tear at This Moment shed.

I've a Secret to tell Thee.

I Will, I will, the Conflict's past.

I wish I was by That Dim Lake.

Joke Versified, A.

Joys of Youth, how fleeting.

Keep Those Eyes Still Purely Mine.

King Crack and His Idols.

Kiss, The.

Lalla Rookh.

Lament for the Loss of Lord Bathurst's Tail.

Language of Flowers, The.

Late Scene at Swanage, A.

Latest Accounts from Olympus.

Late Tithe Case.

Leaf and the Fountain, The.

Legacy, The.

Legend of Puck the Fairy, The.

Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye.

Les Hommes Automates.

Let Erin remember the Days of Old.

Let Joy Alone be remembered Now.

Let's take This World as Some Wide Scene.

Letter from Larry O'Branigan to the Rev. Murtagh O'Mulligan.

Light of the Haram, The.

Light sounds the Harp.

Like Morning When Her Early Breeze.

Like One Who, doomed.

Limbo of Lost Reputations, The.

Lines on the Death of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., of Dublin.

Lines on the Death of Mr. Perceval.

Lines on the Death of Sheridan.

Lines on the Departure of Lords Castlereagh and Stewart for the Continent.

Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into Naples.

Lines written at the Cohos, or Falls of the Mohawk River.

Lines written in a Storm at Sea.

Lines written on leaving Philadelphia.

Literary Advertisement.

Little Man and Little Soul.

"Living Dog" and "the Dead Lion," The.

Long Years have past.

Lord Henley and St. Cecilia.

Lord, Who shall bear That Day.

Love Alone.

Love and Hope.

Love and Hymen.

Love and Marriage.

Love and Reason.

Love and the Novice.

Love and the Sun-Dial.

Love and Time.

Love is a Hunter-Boy.

Love's Light Summer-Cloud.

Loves of the Angels, The.

Love's Victory.

Love's Young Dream.

Love Thee.

Love Thee, Dearest? Love Thee.

Love, wandering Thro' the Golden Maze.

Lusitanian War-Song.

Lying.

Mad Tory and the Comet, The.

Magic Mirror, The.

Meeting of the Ships, The.

Meeting of the Waters, The.

Melologue.

Memorabilia of Last Week.

Merrily Every Bosom boundeth.

Millennium, The.

Mind Not Tho' Daylight.

Minstrel-Boy, The.

Missing.

Morality.

Moral Positions.

Mountain Sprite, The.

Mr. Roger Dodsworth.

Musical Box, The.

Musings of an Unreformed Peer.

Musings, suggested by the Late Promotion of Mrs. Nethercoat.

My Birth-Day.

My Gentle Harp.

My Harp has One Unchanging Theme.

My Heart and Lute.

My Mopsa is Little.

Natal Genius, The.

Nature's Labels.

Nay, tell Me Not, Dear.

Ne'er ask the Hour.

Ne'er Talk of Wisdom's Gloomy Schools.

Nets and Cages.

New Costume of the Ministers, The.

New Creation of Peers.

New-Fashioned Echoes.

New Grand Exhibition of Models

New Hospital for Sick Literati.

News for Country Cousins.

Night Dance, The.

Nights of Music.

Night Thought, A.

No—leave My Heart to Rest.

Nonsense.

Not from Thee.

Notions on Reform.

Numbering of the Clergy, The.

Occasional Address for the Opening of the New Theatre of St. Stephen.

Occasional Epilogue.

Odes to Nea.

Ode to a Hat.

Ode to Don Miguel.

Ode to Ferdinand.

Ode to the Goddess Ceres.

Ode to the Sublime Porte.

Ode to the Woods and Forests.

O'Donohue's Mistress.

Oft, in the Stilly Night.

Oh! Arranmore, Loved Arranmore.

Oh Banquet Not.

Oh! Blame Not the Bard.

Oh! Breathe Not His Name.

Oh, call it by Some Better Name.

Oh, come to Me When Daylight sets.

Oh, could We do with This World of Ours.

Oh, Days of Youth.

Oh, do not look so Bright and Blest.

Oh! doubt Me Not.

Oh Fair! oh Purest.

Oh for the Swords of Former Tim.

Oh, guard our Affection.

Ob! had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own.

Oh, No—Not—Even. When First We loved.

Oh, Soon return.

Oh, teach Me to love Thee.

Oh the Shamrock.

Oh, the Sight Entrancing.

Oh! think Not My Spirits are Always as Light.

Oh Thou Who dry'st the Mourner's Tear.

Oh, Ye Dead.

On a Squinting Poetess.

One Bumper at Parting.

One Dear Smile.

On Music.

On the Death of a Friend.

On the Death of a Lady.

Origin of the Harp, The.

O say, Thou Best and Brightest.

Our First Young Love.

Paddy's Metamorphosis.

Paradise and the Peri.

Parallel, The.

Parody of a Celebrated Letter.

Parting before the Battle, The.

Pastoral Ballad, A.

Peace and Glory.

Peace be around Thee.

Peace, Peace to Him That's gone.

Peace to the Slumberers.

Periwinkles and the Locusts, The.

Petition of the Orangemen of Ireland, The.

Philosopher Artistippus to a Lamp, The.

Pilgrim, The.

Poor Broken Flower.

Poor Wounded; Heart.

Pretty Rose-tree.

Prince's Day, The.

Proposals for a Gynsecocracy.

Quick! We have but a Second.

Reason, Folly, and Beauty.

Recent Dialogue, A.

Rector and His Curate, The.

Reflection at Sea, A.

Reflections.

Reinforcements for Lord Wellington.

Religion and Trade.

Remember Thee.

Remember the Time.

Remonstrance.

Resemblance, The.

Resolutions passed at a Late Meeting of Reverends and Right Reverends.

Reuben and Rose.

Reverend Pamphleteer, The.

Rhymes on the Road.

Introductory Rhymes.

Extract I. Geneva.

II. Geneva.

III. Geneva.

IV. Milan.

V. Padua.

VI. Venice.

VII. Venice.

VIII. Venice.

IX. Venice.

X. Mantua.

XI. Florence.

XII. Florence.

XIII. Rome.

XIV. Rome.

XV. Rome.

XVI. Les Charmettes.

Rich and Rare were the Gems She wore.

Rings and Seals.

Ring, The.

Ring, The.

Rival Topics.

Rondeau.

Rose of the Desert.

Round the World goes.

Row Gently Here.

Russian Lover, The.

Sad Case, A.

Sail on, sail on.

Sale of Cupid.

Sale of Loves, The.

Sale of Tools, The.

Say, What shall be Our Sport To-day.

Say, What shall We dance.

Scene from a Play.

Scepticism.

Sceptic, The.

Second Angel's Story.

See the Dawn from Heaven.

Selections.

Shall the Harp Then be Silent.

She is Far from the Land.

She sung of Love.

Shield, The.

Shine Out, Stars.

Should Those Fond Hopes.

Shrine, The.

Silence is in Our Festal Halls.

Since First Thy Word.

Sing—sing—Music was given.

Sing, Sweet Harp.

Sinking Fund cried, The.

Sir Andrew's Dream.

Sketch of the First Act of a New Romantic Drama.

Slumber, oh slumber.

Snake, The.

Snow Spirit, The.

Some Account of the Late Dinner to Dan.

Song.—Ah! Where are They, Who heard, in Former Hours.

Array Thee, Love, Array Thee, Love.

As by the Shore, at Break of Day.

As Love One Summer Eve was straying.

As o'er Her Loom the Lesbian Maid.

As Once a Grecian Maiden wove.

Bring Hither, bring Thy Lute, while Day is dying.

Calm as Beneath its Mother's eyes.

Fly from the World, O Bessy! to Me.

Have You not seen the Timid Tear.

Here, While the Moonlight Dim.

If I swear by That Eye, You'll allow.

If to see Thee be to love Thee.

I saw from Yonder Silent Cave.

March! nor heed Those Anna That hold Thee.

Mary, I believed Thee True.

No Life is Like the Mountaineer's.

Of All My Happiest Hours of Joy.

Oh, Memory, How Coldly.

Oh, Where art Thou dreaming.

Raise the Buckler-poise the Lance.

Smoothly flowing Thro' Verdant Vales.

Some Mortals There may be, so Wise, or so Fine.

Take back the Sigh, Thy Lips of Art.

The Wreath You wove, the Wreath You wove.

Think on that Look Whose Melting Ray.

Thou art not Dead—Thou art not Dead.

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the Cup-loving Boy.

Up and march! the Timbrel's Sound.

Up with the Sparkling Brimmer.

Weeping for Thee, My Love, Thro' the Long Day.

Welcome Sweet Bird, Thro' the Sunny Air winging.

When Evening Shades are falling.

When the Balaika.

When Time Who steals Our Years Away.

Where is the Heart That would not give.

"Who comes so Gracefully,".

Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's Shop, who'll buy.

Why does Azure deck the Sky.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn.

Song and Trio.

Song and Trio.

Song of a Hyperborean.

Song of Fionnuala, The.

Song of Hercules to his Daughter.

Song of Innisfall.

Song of Old Puck.

Song of O'Ruark, The.

Song of the Battle Eve.

Song of the Box, The.

Song of the Departing Spirit of Tithe.

Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods.

Song of the Nubian Girl.

Song of the Olden Time, The.

Song of the Poco-Curante Society.

Song of the two Cupbearers.

Songs of the Church.

Sound the Loud Timbrel.

Sovereign Woman.

So Warmly We met.

Spa, The Wellington.

Speculation, A.

Speech on the Umbrella Question.

Spring and Autumn.

Stanzas.

Stanzas from the Banks of the Shannon.

Stanzas written in Anticipation of Defeat.

Steersman's Song, The.

Still, like Dew in Silence falling.

Still Thou fliest.

Still When Daylight.

St. Jerome on Earth.

Stranger, The.

St. Senanus and the Lady.

Study from the Antique, A.

Sublime was the Warning.

Summer Fête, The.

Summer Webs, The.

Sunday Ethics.

Surprise, The.

Sweet Innisfallen.

Sylph's Ball, The.

Sympathy.

Take Back the Virgin Page.

Take Hence the Bowl.

Tear, The.

Tell Her, oh, tell Her.

Tell-Tale Lyre, The.

Temple to Friendship, A.

The Bird, let Loose.

Thee, Thee, Only Thee.

Then, Fare Thee Well.

Then First from Love.

There are Sounds of Mirth.

There comes a Time.

There is a Bleak Desert.

There's Something Strange.

They know not My Heart.

They may rail at This Life.

They met but Once.

They tell Me Thou'rt the Favored Guest.

Third Angel's Story.

This Life is All checkered with Pleasures and Woes.

This World is All a Fleeting Show..

Tho, Humble the Banquet.

Tho' Lightly sounds the Song I sing.

Those Evening Bells.

Tho' the Last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see.

Tho' 'tis All but a Dream.

Thou art, O God.

Thou bidst Me sing.

Thoughts on Mischief.

Thoughts on Patrons, Puffs, and Other Matters.

Thoughts on Tar Barrels.

Thoughts on the Late Destructive Propositions of the Tories.

Thoughts on the Present Government of Ireland.

Thou lovest No More.

Three Doctors, The.

Tibullus to Sulpicia.

Time I've lost in wooing, The.

'Tis All for Thee.

'Tis Gone, and For Ever.

'Tis Sweet to think.

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer.

To……: And hast Thou marked the Pensive Shade.

To……: Come, take Thy Harp—'tis vain to muse.

To……: Never mind How the Pedagogue proses.

To……: Put off the Vestal Veil, nor, oh.

To……: Remember Him Thou leavest behind.

To……: Sweet Lady, look not Thus Again.

To……: That Wrinkle, when First I espied it.

To……: The World had just begun to steal.

To……: 'Tis Time, I feel, to leave Thee Now.

To……: To be the Theme of Every Hour.

To……: When I loved You, I can't but allow.

To……: With All My Soul, Then, let us part.

To……'s Picture: Go Then, if She, Whose Shade Thou art.

To a Boy, with a Watch.

To a Lady, with Some Manuscript Poems.

To a Lady, on Her singing.

To Cara, after an Interval of Absence.

To Cara, oh the Dawning of a New Year's Day.

To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort.

To Cloe.

To-Day, Dearest, is Ours.

To George Morgan, Esq.

To His Serene Highness the Duke of Montpensier.

To James Corry, Esq.

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

To Julia, in Allusion to Some Illiberal Criticisms.

To Julia: Mock me No More with Love's Beguiling Dream.

To Julia: Though Fate, My Girl, may bid Us part.

To Julia, on Her Birthday.

To Julia: I saw the Peasant's Hand Unkind.

To Julia weeping.

To Ladies' Eyes.

To Lady Heathcote.

To Lady Holland.

To Lady Jersey.

To Lord Viscount Strangford.

To Miss Moore.

To Miss Susan Beckford.

To Miss —— on Her asking the Author Why She had Sleepless Nights.

To Mrs. Bl——, written in Her Album.

To Mrs. ——, on Some Calumnies against Her Character.

To Mrs. ——: To see Thee Every Day That came.

To Mrs. ——, on Her Beautiful Translation of Voiture's Kiss.

To Mrs. Henry Tighe.

To My Mother.

To Phillis.

To Rosa, written during Illness.

To Rosa: And are You Then a Thing of Art.

To Rosa. Is the Song of Rosa Mute.

To Rosa: Like One Who trusts to Summer Skies.

To Rosa; Say Why should the Girl of My Soul be in Tears.

Tory Pledges.

To Sir Hudson Lowe.

To the Boston Frigate.

To the Fire-Fly.

To the Flying-Fish.

To the Honorable W. R. Spencer.

To the Lady Charlotte Rawdon.

To the Large and Beautiful Miss ——.

To the Lord Viscount Forbes.

To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegall.

To the Rev. Charles Overton.

To the Reverend ——.

To Thomas Hume, Esq., M.D.

To the Ship in Which Lord Castlereagh sailed for the Continent.

Tout pour la Tripe.

To weave a Garland for the Rose.

Translation from the Gull Language.

Translations from Catullus.

Trio.

Triumph of Bigotry.

Triumph of Farce, The.

Turf shall be My Fragrant Shrine, The

'Twas One of Those Dreams.

Two Loves, The.

Twin'st Thou with' Lofty Wreath Thy Brow.

Unbind Thee, Love.

Up, Sailor Boy, 'tis Day.

Valley of the Nile, The.

Variety.

Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, The.

Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand.

Vision, A.

Vision of Philosophy, A.

Voice, The.

Wake Thee, My Dear.

Wake Up, Sweet Melody.

Waltz Duet.

Wandering Bard, The.

War against Babylon.

Warning, A.

War Song.

Watchman, The.

Weep, Children of Israel.

Weep not for Those.

Weep on, weep on.

Wellington, Lord, and the Ministers.

Wellington Spa, The.

We may roam through This World.

Were not the Sinful Mary's Tears.

What shall I sing Thee.

What's My Thought like.

What the Bee is to the Floweret.

When Abroad in the World.

When Cold in the Earth.

When e'er I see Those Smiling Eyes.

When First I met Thee.

When First That Smile.

When He, Who adores Thee.

When Love was a Child.

When Love, Who ruled.

When Midst the Gay I meet.

When Night brings the Hour.

When on the Lip the Sigh delays.

When the First Summer Bee.

When the Sad Word.

When the Wine-Cup is smiling.

When Thou shalt wander.

When Through the Piazzetta.

When to Sad Music Silent You listen.

When Twilight Dews.

Where are the Visions.

Where is the Slave.

Where is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted.

Where shall We bury our Shame.

While gazing on the Moon's Light.

While History's Muse.

Who is the Maid.

Who'll buy My Love Knots.

Why does She so Long delay.

Wind Thy Horn, My Hunter Boy.

Wine-Cup is circling, The.

With Moonlight beaming.

Woman.

Wonder, The.

World was husht.

Wo! wo.

Wreath and the Chain, The.

Wreaths for the Ministers.

Wreath the Bowl.

Write on, write on.

Written in a Commonplace Book.

Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's Commonplace Book.

Written on passing Deadman's Island.

Yes, yes, When the Bloom.

Young Indian Maid, The.

Young Jessica.

Young May Moon, The.

Young Muleteers of Grenada, The.

Young Rose, The.

You remember Ellen.

Youth and Age.

ODES OF ANACREON

(1800).

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE.

WITH NOTES.

TO

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

SIR,—In allowing me to dedicate this Work to Your Royal Highness, you have conferred upon me an honor which I feel very sensibly: and I have only to regret that the pages which you have thus distinguished are not more deserving of such illustrious patronage.

Believe me, SIR,

With every sentiment of respect,

Your Royal Highness's

Very grateful and devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

REMARKS ON ANACREON

There is but little known, with certainty of the life of Anacreon. Chamaeleon Heracleotes, who wrote upon the subject, has been lost in the general wreck of ancient literature. The editors of the poet have collected the few trifling anecdotes which are scattered through the extant authors of antiquity, and, supplying the deficiency of materials by fictions of their own imagination, have arranged what they call a life of Anacreon. These specious fabrications are intended to indulge that interest which we naturally feel in the biography of illustrious men; but it is rather a dangerous kind of illusion, as it confounds the limits of history and romance, and is too often supported by unfaithful citation.

Our poet was born in the city of Teos, in the delicious region of Ionia, and the time of his birth appears to have been in the sixth century before Christ. He flourished at that remarkable period when, under the polished tyrants Hipparchus and Polycrates, Athens and Samos were become the rival asylums of genius. There is nothing certain known about his family; and those who pretend to discover in Plato that he was a descendant of the monarch Codrus, show much more of zeal than of either accuracy or judgment.

The disposition and talents of Anacreon recommended him to the monarch of Samos, and he was formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycrates. Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not the corruptions, of the court; and while Pythagoras fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating his praises oh the lyre. We are told, too, by Maximus Tyrius, that, by the influence of his amatory songs, he softened the mind of Polycrates into a spirit of benevolence towards his subjects.

The amours of the poet, and the rivalship of the tyrant, I shall pass over in silence; and there are few, I presume, who will regret the omission of most of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors has not only promulged, but discussed. Whatever is repugnant to modesty and virtue is considered, in ethical science, by a supposition very favorable to humanity, as impossible; and this amiable persuasion should be much more strongly entertained where the transgression wars with nature as well as virtue. But why are we not allowed to indulge in the presumption? Why are we officiously reminded that there have been really such instances of depravity?

Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the power which his father Pisistratus had usurped, was one of those princes who may be said to have polished the fetters of their subjects. He was the first, according to Plato, who edited the poems of Homer, and commanded them to be sung by the rhapsodists at the celebration of the Panathenaea. From his court, which was a sort of galaxy of genius, Anacreon could not long be absent. Hipparchus sent a barge for him; the poet readily embraced the invitation, and the Muses and the Loves were wafted with him to Athens.

The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. We are told that in the eighty-fifth year of his age he was choked by a grape-stone; and however we may smile at their enthusiastic partiality who see in this easy and characteristic death a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, we cannot help admiring that his fate should have been so emblematic of his disposition. Caelius Calcagninus alludes to this catastrophe in the following epitaph on our poet:—

Those lips, then, hallowed sage, which poured along

A music sweet as any cygnet's song,

The grape hath closed for ever!

Here let the ivy kiss the poet's tomb,

Here let the rose he loved with laurels bloom,

In bands that ne'er shall sever.

But far be thou, oh! far, unholy vine,

By whom the favorite minstrel of the Nine

Lost his sweet vital breath;

Thy God himself now blushes to confess,

Once hallowed vine! he feels he loves thee less,

Since poor Anacreon's death.

It has been supposed by some writers that Anacreon and Sappho were contemporaries; and the very thought of an intercourse between persons so congenial, both in warmth of passion and delicacy of genius, gives such play to the imagination that the mind loves to indulge in it. But the vision dissolves before historical truth; and Chamaeleon, and Hermesianax, who are the source of the supposition, are considered as having merely indulged in a poetical anachronism.

To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiment which pervades his works, is sometimes a very fallacious analogy; but the soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that we may safely consult them as the faithful mirrors of his heart. We find him there the elegant voluptuary, diffusing the seductive charm of sentiment over passions and propensities at which rigid morality must frown. His heart, devoted to indolence, seems to have thought that there is wealth enough in happiness, but seldom happiness in mere wealth. The cheerfulness, indeed, with which he brightens his old age is interesting and endearing; like his own rose, he is fragrant even in decay. But the most peculiar feature of his mind is that love of simplicity, which be attributes to himself so feelingly, and which breathes characteristically throughout all that he has sung. In truth, if we omit those few vices in our estimate which religion, at that time, not only connived at, but consecrated, we shall be inclined to say that the disposition of our poet was amiable; that his morality was relaxed, but not abandoned; and that Virtue, with her zone loosened, may be an apt emblem of the character of Anacreon.

Of his person and physiognomy, time has preserved such uncertain memorials, that it were better, perhaps, to leave the pencil to fancy; and few can read the Odes of Anacreon without imaging to themselves the form of the animated old bard, crowned with roses, and singing cheerfully to his lyre.

After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed both by ancients and moderns upon the poems of Anacreon, we need not be diffident in expressing our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce them the most polished remains of antiquity. They are indeed, all beauty, all enchantment. He steals us so insensibly along with him, that we sympathize even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of compliment not to be found in any other ancient poet. Love at that period was rather an unrefined emotion; and the intercourse of the sexes was animated more by passion than by sentiment. They knew not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual part of affection; their expression of feeling was therefore rude and unvaried, and the poetry of love deprived it of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, attained some ideas of this purer gallantry; and the same delicacy of mind which led him to this refinement, prevented him also from yielding to the freedom of language which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. His descriptions are warm; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words. He is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. His poetic invention is always most brilliantly displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many have endeavored to imitate, though all have confessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, as much as they fascinate by their beauty. They may be said, indeed, to be the very infants of the Muses, and to lisp in numbers.

I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read and felt the original; but to others, I am conscious, this should not be the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of such beauties can but ill justify his admiration of them.

In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied according to the fancy and feelings of the moment. The poems of Anacreon were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the odes performed at a birthday entertainment.

The singular beauty of our poet's style and the apparent facility, perhaps, of his metre have attracted, as I have already remarked, a crowd of imitators. Some of these have succeeded with wonderful felicity, as may be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later period. But none of his emulators have been half so dangerous to his fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, who, being conscious of their own inferiority to their great prototypes, determined on removing all possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, deprived the world of some of the most exquisite treasures of ancient times. The works of Sappho and Alcaeus were among those flowers of Grecian literature which thus fell beneath the rude hand of ecclesiastical presumption. It is true they pretended that this sacrifice of genius was hallowed by the interests of religion, but I have already assigned the most probable motive; and if Gregorius Nazianzenus had not written Anacreontics, we might now perhaps have the works of the Teian unmutilated, and be empowered to say exultingly with Horace,

Nec si quid olim lusit Anacreon delevit aetas.

The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated gave birth more innocently, indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of the gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armor at Lacedaemon, was arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the "Anacreon Recantatus," by Carolus de Aquino, a Jesuit, published 1701, which consisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such, too, was the Christian Anacreon of Patrignanus, another Jesuit, who preposterously transferred to a most sacred subject all that the Graecian poet had dedicated to festivity and love.

His metre has frequently been adopted by the modern Latin poets; and Scaliger, Taubman, Barthius, and others, have shown that it is by no means uncongenial with that language. The Anacreontics of Scaliger, however, scarcely deserve the name; as they glitter all over with conceits, and, though often elegant, are always labored. The beautiful fictions of Angerianus preserve more happily than any others the delicate turn of those allegorical fables, which, passing so frequently through the mediums of version and imitation, have generally lost their finest rays in the transmission. Many of the Italian poets have indulged their fancies upon the subjects; and in the manner of Anacreon, Bernardo Tasso first introduced the metre, which was afterwards polished and enriched by Chabriera and others.

ODES OF ANACREON

ODE I.[1]

I saw the smiling bard of pleasure,

The minstrel of the Teian measure;

'Twas in a vision of the night,

He beamed upon my wondering sight.

I heard his voice, and warmly prest

The dear enthusiast to my breast.

His tresses wore a silvery dye,

But beauty sparkled in his eye;

Sparkled in his eyes of fire,

Through the mist of soft desire.

His lip exhaled, when'er he sighed,

The fragrance of the racy tide;

And, as with weak and reeling feet

He came my cordial kiss to meet,

An infant, of the Cyprian band,

Guided him on with tender hand.

Quick from his glowing brows he drew

His braid, of many a wanton hue;

I took the wreath, whose inmost twine

Breathed of him and blushed with wine.

I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,

And ah! I feel its magic now:

I feel that even his garland's touch

Can make the bosom love too much.

[1] This ode is the first of the series in the Vatican manuscript, which attributes it to no other poet than Anacreon. They who assert that the manuscript imputes it to Basilius, have been mislead. Whether it be the production of Anacreon or not, it has all the features of ancient simplicity, and is a beautiful imitation of the poet's happiest manner.

ODE II.

Give me the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrilled along;

But tear away the sanguine string,

For war is not the theme I sing.

Proclaim the laws of festal right,[1]

I'm monarch of the board to-night;

And all around shall brim as high,

And quaff the tide as deep as I.

And when the cluster's mellowing dews

Their warm enchanting balm infuse,

Our feet shall catch the elastic bound,

And reel us through the dance's round.

Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,

In wild but sweet ebriety;

Flashing around such sparks of thought,

As Bacchus could alone have taught.

Then, give the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrilled along;

But tear away the sanguine string,

For war is not the theme I sing.

[1] The ancients prescribed certain laws of drinking at their festivals, for an account of which see the commentators. Anacreon here acts the symposiarch, or master of the festival.

ODE III.[1]

Listen to the Muse's lyre,

Master of the pencil's fire!

Sketched in painting's bold display,

Many a city first portray;

Many a city, revelling free,

Full of loose festivity.

Picture then a rosy train,

Bacchants straying o'er the plain;

Piping, as they roam along,

Roundelay or shepherd-song.

Paint me next, if painting may

Such a theme as this portray,

All the earthly heaven of love

These delighted mortals prove.

[1] La Fosse has thought proper to lengthen this poem by considerable interpolations of his own, which he thinks are indispensably necessary to the completion of the description.

ODE IV.[1]

Vulcan! hear your glorious task;

I did not from your labors ask

In gorgeous panoply to shine,

For war was ne'er a sport of mine.

No—let me have a silver bowl,

Where I may cradle all my soul;

But mind that, o'er its simple frame

No mimic constellations flame;

Nor grave upon the swelling side,

Orion, scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering wain,

Nor yet the weeping sister train.

But let the vine luxuriant roll

Its blushing tendrils round the bowl,

While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid

Is culling clusters in their shade.

Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,

Wildly press the gushing grapes,

And flights of Loves, in wanton play,

Wing through the air their winding way;

While Venus, from her arbor green,

Looks laughing at the joyous scene,

And young Lyaeus by her side

Sits, worthy of so bright a bride.

[1] This ode, Aulus Gellius tells us, was performed at an entertainment where he was present.

ODE V.

Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul,

Grave for me an ample bowl,

Worthy to shine in hall or bower,

When spring-time brings the reveller's hour.

Grave it with themes of chaste design,

Fit for a simple board like mine.

Display not there the barbarous rites

In which religious zeal delights;

Nor any tale of tragic fate

Which History shudders to relate.

No—cull thy fancies from above,

Themes of heaven and themes of love.

Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,

Distil the grape in drops of joy,

And while he smiles at every tear,

Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near,

With spirits of the genial bed,

The dewy herbage deftly tread.

Let Love be there, without his arms,

In timid nakedness of charms;

And all the Graces, linked with Love,

Stray, laughing, through the shadowy grove;

While rosy boys disporting round,

In circlets trip the velvet ground.

But ah! if there Apollo toys,[1]

I tremble for the rosy boys.

[1] An allusion to the fable that Apollo had killed his beloved boy Hyacinth, while playing with him at quoits. "This" (says M. La Fosse) "is assuredly the sense of the text, and it cannot admit of any other."

ODE VI.[1]

As late I sought the spangled bowers,

To cull a wreath of matin flowers,

Where many an early rose was weeping,

I found the urchin Cupid sleeping,

I caught the boy, a goblet's tide

Was richly mantling by my side,

I caught him by his downy wing,

And whelmed him in the racy spring.

Then drank I down the poisoned bowl,

And love now nestles in my soul.

Oh, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,

I feel him fluttering in my breast.

[1] This beautiful fiction, which the commentators have attributed to Julian, a royal poet, the Vatican MS. pronounces to be the genuine offspring of Anacreon.

ODE VII.

The women tell me every day

That all my bloom has pas past away.

"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,

"Behold this mirror with a sigh;

The locks upon thy brow are few,

And like the rest, they're withering too!"

Whether decline has thinned my hair,

I'm sure I neither know nor care;

But this I know, and this I feel

As onward to the tomb I steal,

That still as death approaches nearer,

The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;

And had I but an hour to live,

That little hour to bliss I'd give.

ODE VIII.[1]

I care not for the idle state

Of Persia's king, the rich, the great.

I envy not the monarch's throne,

Nor wish the treasured gold my own

But oh! be mine the rosy wreath,

Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe;

Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,

To cool and scent my locks of snow.

To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine

As if to-morrow ne'er would shine;

But if to-morrow comes, why then—

I'll haste to quaff my wine again.

And thus while all our days are bright,

Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,

Let us the festal hours beguile

With mantling pup and cordial smile;

And shed from each new bowl of wine,

The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine

For death may come, with brow unpleasant,

May come, when least we wish him present,

And beckon to the Sable shore,

And grimly bid us—drink no more!

[1] Baxter conjectures that this was written upon the occasion of our poet's returning the money to Polycrates, according to the anecdote in Stobaeus.

ODE IX.

I pray thee, by the gods above,

Give me the mighty bowl I love,

And let me sing, in wild delight,

"I will—I will be mad to-night!"

Alcmaeon once, as legends tell,

Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;

Orestes, too, with naked tread,

Frantic paced the mountain-head;

And why? a murdered mother's shade

Haunted them still where'er they strayed.

But ne'er could I a murderer be,

The grape alone shall bleed for me;

Yet can I shout, with wild delight,

"I will—I will be mad to-night."

Alcides' self, in days of yore,

Imbrued his hands in youthful gore,

And brandished, with a maniac joy,

The quiver of the expiring boy:

And Ajax, with tremendous shield,

Infuriate scoured the guiltless field.

But I, whose hands no weapon ask,

No armor but this joyous flask;

The trophy of whose frantic hours

Is but a scattered wreath of flowers,

Ev'n I can sing, with wild delight,

"I will—I will be mad to-night!"

ODE X.[1]

How am I to punish thee,

For the wrong thou'st done to me

Silly swallow, prating thing—

Shall I clip that wheeling wing?

Or, as Tereus did, of old,[2]

(So the fabled tale is told,)

Shall I tear that tongue away,

Tongue that uttered such a lay?

Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been!

Long before the dawn was seen,

When a dream came o'er my mind,

Picturing her I worship, kind,

Just when I was nearly blest,

Loud thy matins broke my rest!

[1] This ode is addressed to a swallow.

[2] Modern poetry has conferred the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

ODE XI.[1]

"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee,

What in purchase shall I pay thee

For this little waxen toy,

Image of the Paphian boy?"

Thus I said, the other day,

To a youth who past my way:

"Sir," (he answered, and the while

Answered all in Doric style,)

"Take it, for a trifle take it;

'Twas not I who dared to make it;

No, believe me, 'twas not I;

Oh, it has cost me many a sigh,

And I can no longer keep

Little Gods, who murder sleep!"

"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,)

"Here is silver for the boy:

He shall be my bosom guest,

Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine,

Warm me with that torch of thine;

Make me feel as I have felt,

Or thy waxen frame shall melt:

I must burn with warm desire,

Or thou, my boy—in yonder fire.[2]

[1] It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

[2] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.

ODE XII.

They tell how Atys, wild with love,

Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1]

Cvbele's name he howls around,

The gloomy blast returns the sound!

Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring,[2]

The votaries of the laurelled king

Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,

And rave in wild, prophetic dream.

But frenzied dreams are not for me,

Great Bacchus is my deity!

Full of mirth, and full of him,

While floating odors round me swim,

While mantling bowls are full supplied,

And you sit blushing by my side,

I will be mad and raving too—

Mad, my girl, with love for you!

[1] There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. It is certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

[2] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there.

ODE XIII.

I will, I will, the conflict's past,

And I'll consent to love at last.

Cupid has long, with smiling art,

Invited me to yield my heart;

And I have thought that peace of mind

Should not be for a smile resigned;

And so repelled the tender lure,

And hoped my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms,

The angry infant flew to arms;

He slung his quiver's golden frame,

He took his bow; his shafts of flame,

And proudly summoned me to yield,

Or meet him on the martial field.

And what did I unthinking do?

I took to arms, undaunted, too;

Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,

And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!)

I fought with Love! I fought with Love!

And now his arrows all were shed,

And I had just in terror fled—

When, heaving an indignant sigh,

To see me thus unwounded fly,

And, having now no other dart,

He shot himself into my heart![1]

My heart—alas the luckless day!

Received the God, and died away.

Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!

Thy lord at length is forced to yield.

Vain, vain, is every outward care,

The foe's within, and triumphs there.

[1] Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines:—

——I'm all o'er Love;

Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast,

He shot himself into my breast at last.

ODE XIV.[1]

Count me, on the summer trees,

Every leaf that courts the breeze;

Count me, on the foamy deep,

Every wave that sinks to sleep;

Then, when you have numbered these

Billowy tides and leafy trees,

Count me all the flames I prove,

All the gentle nymphs I love.

First, of pure Athenian maids

Sporting in their olive shades,

You may reckon just a score,

Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more.

In the famed Corinthian grove,

Where such countless wantons rove,[2]

Chains of beauties may be found,

Chains, by which my heart is bound;

There, indeed, are nymphs divine,

Dangerous to a soul like mine.

Many bloom in Lesbos' isle;

Many in Ionia smile;

Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast;

Caria too contains a host.

Sum them all—of brown and fair

You may count two thousand there.

What, you stare? I pray you peace!

More I'll find before I cease.

Have I told you all my flames,

'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?

Have I numbered every one,

Glowing under Egypt's sun?

Or the nymphs, who blushing sweet

Deck the shrine of Love in Crete;

Where the God, with festal play,

Holds eternal holiday?

Still in clusters, still remain

Gades' warm, desiring train:[3]

Still there lies a myriad more

On the sable India's shore;

These, and many far removed,

All are loving—all are loved!

[1] The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more, than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unfettered by any one object, was warm with devotion towards the sex in general. Cowley is indebted to this ode for the hint of his ballad, called "The Chronicle."

[2] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtesans. Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her worshippers.

[3] The music of the Gaditanian females had all the voluptuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial.

ODE XV.[1]

Tell me, why, my sweetest dove,

Thus your humid pinions move,

Shedding through the air in showers

Essence of the balmiest flowers?

Tell me whither, whence you rove,

Tell me all, my sweetest dove.

Curious stranger, I belong

To the bard of Teian song;

With his mandate now I fly

To the nymph of azure eye;—

She, whose eye has maddened many,

But the poet more than any,

Venus, for a hymn of love,

Warbled in her votive grove,[2]

('Twas, in sooth a gentle lay,)

Gave me to the bard away.

See me now his faithful minion,—

Thus with softly-gliding pinion,

To his lovely girl I bear

Songs of passion through the air.

Oft he blandly whispers me,

"Soon, my bird, I'll set you free."

But in vain he'll bid me fly,

I shall serve him till I die.

Never could my plumes sustain

Ruffling winds and chilling rain,

O'er the plains, or in the dell,

On the mountain's savage swell,

Seeking in the desert wood

Gloomy shelter, rustic food.

Now I lead a life of ease,

Far from rugged haunts like these.

From Anacreon's hand I eat

Food delicious, viands sweet;

Flutter o'er his goblet's brim,

Sip the foamy wine with him.

Then, when I have wantoned round

To his lyre's beguiling sound;

Or with gently moving-wings

Fanned the minstrel while he sings;

On his harp I sink in slumbers,

Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!

This is all—away—away—

You have made me waste the day.

How I've chattered! prating crow

Never yet did chatter so.

[1] The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet to his mistress, is met by a stranger, with whom this dialogue, is imagined.

[2] "This passage is invaluable, and I do not think that anything so beautiful or so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give of the poetry of the man, from whom Venus herself, the mother of the Graces and the Pleasures, purchases a little hymn with one of her favorite doves!"—LONGEPIERRE.

ODE XVI.[1]

Thou, whose soft and rosy hues

Mimic form and soul infuse,

Best of painters, come portray

The lovely maid that's far away.

Far away, my soul! thou art,

But I've thy beauties all by heart.

Paint her jetty ringlets playing,

Silky locks, like tendrils straying;[2]

And, if painting hath the skill

To make the spicy balm distil,

Let every little lock exhale

A sigh of perfume on the gale.

Where her tresses' curly flow

Darkles o'er the brow of snow,

Let her forehead beam to light,

Burnished as the ivory bright.

Let her eyebrows smoothly rise

In jetty arches o'er her eyes,

Each, a crescent gently gliding,

Just commingling, just dividing.

But, hast thou any sparkles warm,

The lightning of her eyes to form?

Let them effuse the azure rays,

That in Minerva's glances blaze,

Mixt with the liquid light that lies

In Cytherea's languid eyes.

O'er her nose and cheek be shed

Flushing white and softened red;

Mingling tints, as when there glows

In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Then her lip, so rich in blisses,

Sweet petitioner for kisses,

Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion,

Mutely courting Love's invasion.

Next, beneath the velvet chin,

Whose dimple hides a Love within,

Mould her neck with grace descending,

In a heaven of beauty ending;

While countless charms, above, below,

Sport and flutter round its snow.

Now let a floating, lucid veil,

Shadow her form, but not conceal;[3]

A charm may peep, a hue may beam

And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.

Enough—'tis she! 'tis all I seek;

It glows, it lives, it soon will speak!

[1] This ode and the next may be called companion-pictures; they are highly finished, and give us an excellent idea of the taste of the ancients in beauty.

[2] The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says that Venus herself, if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan.

[3] This delicate art of description, which leaves imagination to complete the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful poem. Ronsard is exceptionally minute; and Politianus, in his charming portrait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The "questa che tu m'intendi" should be always left to fancy.

ODE XVII.

And now with all thy pencil's truth,

Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!

Let his hair, in masses bright,

Fall like floating rays of light;

And there the raven's die confuse

With the golden sunbeam's hues.

Let no wreath, with artful twine.

The flowing of his locks confine;

But leave them loose to every breeze,

To take what shape and course they please.

Beneath the forehead, fair as snow,

But flushed with manhood's early glow,

And guileless as the dews of dawn,

Let the majestic brows be drawn,

Of ebon hue, enriched by gold,

Such as dark, shining snakes unfold.

Mix in his eyes the power alike,

With love to win, with awe to strike;

Borrow from Mars his look of ire,

From Venus her soft glance of fire;

Blend them in such expression here,

That we by turns may hope and fear!

Now from the sunny apple seek

The velvet down that spreads his cheek;

And there, if art so far can go,

The ingenuous blush of boyhood show.

While, for his mouth—but no,—in vain

Would words its witching charm explain.

Make it the very seat, the throne,

That Eloquence would claim her own;

And let the lips, though silent, wear

A life-look, as if words were there.

Next thou his ivory neck must trace,

Moulded with soft but manly grace;

Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy,

Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy.

Give him the wingèd Hermes' hand,

With which he waves his snaky wand;

Let Bacchus the broad chest supply,

And Leda's son the sinewy thigh;

While, through his whole transparent frame,

Thou show'st the stirrings of that flame,

Which kindles, when the first love-sigh

Steals from the heart, unconscious why.

But sure thy pencil, though so bright,

Is envious of the eye's delight,

Or its enamoured touch would show

The shoulder, fair as sunless snow,

Which now in veiling shadow lies,

Removed from all but Fancy's eyes.

Now, for his feet—but hold—forbear—

I see the sun-god's portrait there:[1]

Why paint Bathyllus? when in truth,

There, in that god, thou'st sketched the youth.

Enough—let this bright form be mine,

And send the boy to Samos' shrine;

Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be,

Bathyllus then, the deity!

[1] The abrupt turn here is spirited, but requires some explanation. While the artist is pursuing the portrait of Bathyllus, Anacreon, we must suppose, turns around and sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for an altar at Samos. He then instantly tells the painter to cease his work; that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, when he goes to Samos, he may make an Apollo of the portrait of the boy which he had begun.

ODE XVIII.

Now the star of day is high,

Fly, my girls, in pity fly.

Bring me wine in brimming urns

Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!

Sunned by the meridian fire,

Panting, languid I expire,

Give me all those humid flowers,

Drop them o'er my brow in showers.

Scarce a breathing chaplet now

Lives upon my feverish brow;

Every dewy rose I wear

Sheds its tears, and withers there.[1]

But to you, my burning heart,

What can now relief impart?

Can brimming bowl, or floweret's dew,

Cool the flame that scorches you?

[1] In the poem of Mr. Sheridan's, "Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone," there is an idea very singularly coincident with this of Angerianus:—

And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve

Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew:

Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve

As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

ODE XIX.[1]

Here recline you, gentle maid,

Sweet is this embowering shade;

Sweet the young, the modest trees,

Ruffled by the kissing breeze;

Sweet the little founts that weep,

Lulling soft the mind to sleep;

Hark! they whisper as they roll,

Calm persuasion to the soul;

Tell me, tell me, is not this

All a stilly scene of bliss?

"Who, my girl, would pass it by?

Surely neither you nor I."

[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it.

ODE XX.[1]

One day the Muses twined the hands

Of infant Love with flowery bands;

And to celestial Beauty gave

The captive infant for her slave.

His mother comes, with many a toy,

To ransom her beloved boy;[2]

His mother sues, but all in vain,—

He ne'er will leave his chains again.

Even should they take his chains away,

The little captive still would stay.

"If this," he cries, "a bondage be,

Oh, who could wish for liberty?"

[1] The poet appears, in this graceful allegory, to describe the softening influence which poetry holds over the mind, in making it peculiarly susceptible to the impressions of beauty.

[2] In the first idyl of Moschus, Venus there proclaims the reward for her fugitive child:—

On him, who the haunts of my Cupid can show,

A kiss of the tenderest stamp I'll bestow;

But he, who can bring back the urchin in chains,

Shall receive even something more sweet for his pains.

ODE XXI.[1]

Observe when mother earth is dry,

She drinks the droppings of the sky;

And then the dewy cordial gives

To every thirsty plant that lives.

The vapors, which at evening weep,

Are beverage to the swelling deep;

And when the rosy sun appears,

He drinks the ocean's misty tears.

The moon too quaffs her paly stream

Of lustre, from the solar beam.

Then, hence with all your sober thinking!

Since Nature's holy law is drinking;

I'll make the laws of nature mine,

And pledge the universe in wine.

[1] Those critics who have endeavored to throw the chains of precision over the spirit of this beautiful trifle, require too much from Anacreontic philosophy. Among others, Gail very sapiently thinks that the poet uses the epithet [Greek: melainae], because black earth absorbs moisture more quickly than any other; and accordingly he indulges us with an experimental disquisition on the subject.—See Gail's Notes.

ODE XXII.

The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,

Was once a weeping matron's form;[1]

And Progne, hapless, frantic maid,

Is now a swallow in the shade.

Oh! that a mirror's form were mine,

That I might catch that smile divine;

And like my own fond fancy be,

Reflecting thee, and only thee;

Or could I be the robe which holds

That graceful form within its folds;

Or, turned into a fountain, lave

Thy beauties in my circling wave.

Would I were perfume for thy hair,

To breathe my soul in fragrance there;

Or, better still, the zone, that lies

Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs![2]

Or even those envious pearls that show

So faintly round that neck of snow—

Yes, I would be a happy gem,

Like them to hang, to fade like them.

What more would thy Anacreon be?

Oh, any thing that touches thee;

Nay, sandals for those airy feet—

Even to be trod by them were sweet!

[1] The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet been graduated Into all its little progressive refinements, that if we were inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it bears, than in any of those fastidious conjectures upon which some commentators have presumed so far.

[2] The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders for the same purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See "Dioscorides," lib. v.

ODE XXIII.

I often wish this languid lyre,

This warbler of my soul's desire,

Could raise the breath of song sublime,

To men of fame, in former time.

But when the soaring theme I try,

Along the chords my numbers die,

And whisper, with dissolving tone,

"Our sighs are given to love alone!"

Indignant at the feeble lay,

I tore the panting chords away,

Attuned them to a nobler swell,

And struck again the breathing shell;

In all the glow of epic fire,

To Hercules I wake the lyre,

But still its fainting sighs repeat,

"The tale of love alone is sweet!"

Then fare thee well, seductive dream,

That madest me follow Glory's theme;

For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,

Shall never more in spirit part;

And all that one has felt so well

The other shall as sweetly tell!

ODE XXIV.

To all that breathe the air of heaven,

Some boon of strength has Nature given.

In forming the majestic bull,

She fenced with wreathed horns his skull;

A hoof of strength she lent the steed,

And winged the timorous hare with speed.

She gave the lion fangs of terror,

And, o'er the ocean's crystal mirror,

Taught the unnumbered scaly throng

To trace their liquid path along;

While for the umbrage of the grove,

She plumed the warbling world of love.

To man she gave, in that proud hour,

The boon of intellectual power.

Then, what, oh woman, what, for thee,

Was left in Nature's treasury?

She gave thee beauty—mightier far

Than all the pomp and power of war.

Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power

Like woman, in her conquering hour.

Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee,

Smile, and a world is weak before thee![1]

[1] Longepierre's remark here is ingenious; "The Romans," says he, "were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beautiful".

ODE XXV.

Once in each revolving year,

Gentle bird! we find thee here.

When Nature wears her summer-vest,

Thou comest to weave thy simple nest;

But when the chilling winter lowers.

Again thou seekest the genial bowers

Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,

Where sunny hours for ever smile.

And thus thy pinion rests and roves,—

Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves,

That brood within this hapless breast,

And never, never change their nest!

Still every year, and all the year,

They fix their fated dwelling here;

And some their infant plumage try,

And on a tender winglet fly;

While in the shell, impregned with fires,

Still lurk a thousand more desires;

Some from their tiny prisons peeping,

And some in formless embryo sleeping.

Thus peopled, like the vernal groves,

My breast resounds, with warbling Loves;

One urchin imps the other's feather,

Then twin-desires they wing together,

And fast as they thus take their flight,

Still other urchins spring to light.

But is there then no kindly art,

To chase these Cupids from my heart;

Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear,

They will for ever nestle here!

ODE XXVI.

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,

Or tell the tale of Theban arms;

With other wars my song shall burn,

For other wounds my harp shall mourn.

'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,

That drank the current of my heart;

Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,

Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;

No—'twas from eyes of liquid blue,

A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1]

And now my heart all bleeding lies

Beneath that army of the eyes!

[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress un petit camp d'amours.

ODE XXVII.

We read the flying courser's name

Upon his side, in marks of flame;

And, by their turbaned brows alone,

The warriors of the East are known.

But in the lover's glowing eyes,

The inlet to his bosom lies;

Through them we see the small faint mark,

Where Love has dropt his burning spark!

ODE XXVIII.

As, by his Lemnian forge's flame,

The husband of the Paphian dame

Moulded the glowing steel, to form

Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;

And Venus, as he plied his art,

Shed honey round each new-made dart,

While Love, at hand, to finish all,

Tipped every arrow's point with gall;

It chanced the Lord of Battles came

To visit that deep cave of flame.

'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed,

His spear with many a life-drop blushed;

He saw the fiery darts, and smiled

Contemptuous at the archer-child.

"What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile?

Here, hold this little dart awhile,

And thou wilt find, though swift of flight,

My bolts are not so feathery light."

Mars took the shaft—and, oh, thy look,

Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!—

Sighing, he felt the urchin's art,

And cried, in agony of heart,

"It is not light—I sink with pain!

Take—take thy arrow back again."

"No," said the child, "it must not be;

That little dart was made for thee!"

ODE XXIX.

Yes—loving is a painful thrill,

And not to love more painful still

But oh, it is the worst of pain,

To love and not be loved again!

Affection now has fled from earth,

Nor fire of genius, noble birth,

Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile,

From beauty's cheek one favoring smile.

Gold is the woman's only theme,

Gold is the woman's only dream.

Oh! never be that wretch forgiven—

Forgive him not, indignant heaven!

Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,

Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.

Since that devoted thirst began,

Man has forgot to feel for man;

The pulse of social life is dead,

And all its fonder feelings fled!

War too has sullied Nature's charms,

For gold provokes the world to arms;

And oh! the worst of all its arts,

It renders asunder loving hearts.

ODE XXX.[1]

'Twas in a mocking dream of night—

I fancied I had wings as light

As a young birds, and flew as fleet;

While Love, around whose beauteous feet,

I knew not why, hung chains of lead,

Pursued me, as I trembling fled;

And, strange to say, as swift as thought,

Spite of my pinions, I was caught!

What does the wanton Fancy mean

By such a strange, illusive scene?

I fear she whispers to my breast,

That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest;

That though my fancy, for a while,

Hath hung on many a woman's smile,

I soon dissolved each passing vow,

And ne'er was caught by love till now!

[1] Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.

ODE XXXI.[1]

Armed with hyacinthine rod,

(Arms enough for such a god,)

Cupid bade me wing my pace,

And try with him the rapid race.

O'er many a torrent, wild and deep,

By tangled brake and pendent steep.

With weary foot I panting flew,

Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.

And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

To my lip was faintly flying;

And now I thought the spark had fled,

When Cupid hovered o'er my head,

And fanning light his breezy pinion,

Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2]

Then said, in accents half-reproving.

"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.

[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."—LA FOSSE.

ODE XXXII.[1]

Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,

Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;

And while in luxury's dream I sink,

Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!

In this sweet hour of revelry

Young Love shall my attendant be—

Drest for the task, with tunic round

His snowy neck and shoulders bound,

Himself shall hover by my side,

And minister the racy tide!

Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,

Our life is hurrying to the goal;

A scanty dust, to feed the wind,

Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.

Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom

Upon the cold, insensate tomb?

Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath,

Affect the still, cold sense of death?

Oh no; I ask no balm to steep

With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:

But now, while every pulse is glowing,

Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;

Now let the rose, with blush of fire,

Upon my brow in sweets expire;

And bring the nymph whose eye hath power

To brighten even death's cold hour.

Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire,

To join the blest elysian choir;

With wine, and love, and social cheer,

I'll make my own elysium here!

[1] We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture by making [Greek: Eros] the name of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho, in one of her fragments, has assigned this office to Venus.

Hither, Venus, queen of kisses.

This shall be the night of blisses;

This the night, to friendship dear.

Thou shalt be our Hebe here.

Fill the golden brimmer high,

Let it sparkle like thine eye;

Bid the rosy current gush.

Let it mantle like thy blush.

Goddess, hast thou e'er above

Seen a feast so rich in love?

Not a soul that is not mine!

Not a soul that is not thine!

ODE XXXIII.

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole

The sullen Bear is seen to roll;

And mortals, wearied with the day,

Are slumbering all their cares away;

An infant, at that dreary hour,

Came weeping to my silent bower,

And waked me with a piteous prayer,

To shield him from the midnight air.

"And who art thou," I waking cry,

"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"

"Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said,

"In pity take me to thy shed;

Nor fear deceit; a lonely child

I wander o'er the gloomy wild.

Chill drops the rain, and not a ray

Illumes the drear and misty way!"

I heard the baby's tale of woe:

I heard the bitter night-winds blow;

And sighing for his piteous fate,

I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.

'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,

His pinion sparkled through the night,

I knew him by his bow and dart;

I knew him by my fluttering heart.

Fondly I take him in, and raise

The dying embers' cheering blaze;

Press from his dank and clinging hair

The crystals of the freezing air,

And in my hand and bosom hold

His little fingers thrilling cold.

And now the embers' genial ray,

Had warmed his anxious fears away;

"I pray thee," said the wanton child,

(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)

"I pray thee let me try my bow,

For through the rain I've wandered so,

That much I fear the midnight shower

Has injured its elastic power."

The fatal bow the urchin drew;

Swift from the string the arrow flew;

As swiftly flew as glancing flame,

And to my inmost spirit came!

"Fare thee well," I heard him say

As laughing wild he winged away,

"Fare thee well, for now I know

The rain has not relaxt my bow;

It still can send a thrilling dart,

As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"

ODE XXXIV.[1]

Oh thou, of all creation blest,

Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest

Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,

To drink the dew that morning drops,

And chirp thy song with such a glee,

That happiest kings may envy thee.

Whatever decks the velvet field,

Whate'er the circling seasons yield,

Whatever buds, whatever blows,

For thee it buds, for thee it grows.

Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,

To him thy friendly notes are dear;

For thou art mild as matin dew;

And still, when summer's flowery hue

Begins to paint the bloomy plain,

We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;

Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear,

And bless the notes and thee revere!

The Muses love thy shrilly tone;

Apollo calls thee all his own;

'Twas he who gave that voice to thee,

'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.

Unworn by age's dim decline,

The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.

Melodious insect, child of earth,

In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth;

Exempt from every weak decay,

That withers vulgar frames away;

With not a drop of blood to stain,

The current of thy purer vein;

So blest an age is past by thee,

Thou seem'st—a little deity!

[1] In a Latin ode addressed to the grasshopper, Rapin has preserved some of the thoughts of our author:—

Oh thou, that on the grassy bed

Which Nature's vernal hand has spread,

Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song,

The dewy herbs and leaves among!

Whether thou lyest on springing flowers

Drunk with the balmy morning-showers

Or, etc.

ODE XXXV.[1]

Cupid once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

Luckless urchin not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee;

The bee awaked—with anger wild

The bee awaked, and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries;

To Venus quick he runs, he flies;

"Oh mother!—I am wounded through—

I die with pain—in sooth I do!

Stung by some little angry thing,

Some serpent on a tiny wing—

A bee it was—for once, I know,

I heard a rustic call it so."

Thus he spoke, and she the while,

Heard him with a soothing smile;

Then said, "My infant, if so much

Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch,

How must the heart, ah, Cupid be,

The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

[1] Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl; but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and naïveté of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins thus:—

Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering

All in his mother's lap;

A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring,

About him flew by hap, etc.

ODE XXXVI.[1]

If hoarded gold possest the power

To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,

And purchase from the hand of death

A little span, a moment's breath,

How I would love the precious ore!

And every hour should swell my store;

That when death came, with shadowy pinion,

To waft me to his bleak dominion,

I might, by bribes, my doom delay,

And bid him call some distant day.

But, since not all earth's golden store

Can buy for us one bright hour more,

Why should we vainly mourn our fate,

Or sigh at life's uncertain date?

Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume

The silent midnight of the tomb.

No—give to others hoarded treasures—

Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures—

The goblet rich, the board of friends,

Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2]

And mine, while yet I've life to live,

Those joys that love alone can give.

[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.

[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends. Whose social soul the goblet blends.

This communion Of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity:

Of mortal blessing here the first is health,

And next those charms by which the eye we move;

The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth,

And then, sweet intercourse with those we love!

ODE XXXVII.

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl

Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul;

As lulled in slumber I was laid,

Bright visions o'er my fancy played.

With maidens, blooming as the dawn,

I seemed to skim the opening lawn;

Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew,

We flew, and sported as we flew!

Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on—

With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone,

Saw me chasing, free and wild,

These blooming maids, and slyly smiled;

Smiled indeed with wanton glee,

Though none could doubt they envied me.

And still I flew—and now had caught

The panting nymphs, and fondly thought

To gather from each rosy lip

A kiss that Jove himself might sip—

When sudden all my dream of joys,

Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,

All were gone!—"Alas!" I said,

Sighing for the illusion fled,

"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore,

Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]

[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion."

ODE XXXVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl,

Let us raise the song of soul

To him, the god who loves so well

The nectared bowl, the choral swell;

The god who taught the sons of earth

To thread the tangled dance of mirth;

Him, who was nurst with infant Love,

And cradled in the Paphian grove;

Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms

So oft has fondled in her arms.

Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,

Which sweet intoxication knows;

With him, the brow forgets its gloom,

And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

Behold!—my boys a goblet bear,

Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.

Where are now the tear, the sigh?

To the winds they fly, they fly!

Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,

Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!

Say, can the tears we lend to thought

In life's account avail us aught?

Can we discern with all our lore,

The path we've yet to journey o'er?

Alas, alas, in ways so dark,

'Tis only wine can strike a spark!

Then let me quaff the foamy tide,

And through the dance meandering glide;

Let me imbibe the spicy breath

Of odors chafed to fragrant death;

Or from the lips of love inhale

A more ambrosial, richer gale!

To hearts that court the phantom Care,

Let him retire and shroud him there;

While we exhaust the nectared bowl,

And swell the choral song of soul

To him, the god who loves so well

The nectared bowl, the choral swell!

ODE XXXIX.

How I love the festive boy,

Tripping through the dance of joy!

How I love the mellow sage,

Smiling through the veil of age!

And whene'er this man of years

In the dance of joy appears,

Snows may o'er his head be flung,

But his heart—his heart is young.

ODE XL.

I know that Heaven hath sent me here,

To run this mortal life's career;

The scenes which I have journeyed o'er,

Return no more—alas! no more!

And all the path I've yet to go,

I neither know nor ask to know.

Away, then, wizard Care, nor think

Thy fetters round this soul to link;

Never can heart that feels with me

Descend to be a slave to thee!

And oh! before the vital thrill,

Which trembles at my heart is still,

I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,

And gild with bliss my fading hours;

Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,

And Venus dance me to the tomb!

ODE XLI.

When Spring adorns the dewy scene,

How sweet to walk the velvet green,

And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,

As o'er the scented mead it flies!

How sweet to mark the pouting vine,

Ready to burst in tears of wine;

And with some maid, who breathes but love,

To walk, at noontide, through the grove,

Or sit in some cool, green recess—

Oh, is this not true happiness?

ODE XLII.[1]

Yes, be the glorious revel mine,

Where humor sparkles from the wine.

Around me, let the youthful choir

Respond to my enlivening lyre;

And while the red cup foams along,

Mingle in soul as well as song.

Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned,

To regulate the goblets round.

Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride,

Be seated smiling by my side,

And earth has not a gift or power

That I would envy, in that hour.

Envy!—oh never let its blight

Touch the gay hearts met here tonight.

Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds,

Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds

Disturb a scene, where all should be

Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the harp's gay note

Upon the breeze inspiring float,

While round us, kindling into love,

Young maidens through the light dance move.

Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace,

Sure such a life should never cease!

[1] The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love of social, harmonized pleasures, is expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing.

ODE XLIII.

While our rosy fillets shed

Freshness o'er each fervid head,

With many a cup and many a smile

The festal moments we beguile.

And while the harp, impassioned flings

Tuneful rapture from its strings,[1]

Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,

Keeps measure to the music's sound;

Waving, in her snowy hand,

The leafy Bacchanalian wand,

Which, as the tripping wanton flies,

Trembles all over to her sighs.

A youth the while, with loosened hair,

Floating on the listless air,

Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,

A tale of woe, alas, his own;

And oh, the sadness in his sigh.

As o'er his lips the accents die!

Never sure on earth has been

Half so bright, so blest a scene.

It seems as Love himself had come

To make this spot his chosen home;—[2]

And Venus, too, with all her wiles,

And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,

All, all are here, to hail with me

The Genius of Festivity!

[1] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The authors extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible. The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenaeus, attributed to Anacreon.

[2] The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea.

ODE XLIV.[1]

Buds of roses, virgin flowers,

Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,

In the bowl of Bacchus steep,

Till with crimson drops they weep.

Twine the rose, the garland twine,

Every leaf distilling wine;

Drink and smile, and learn to think

That we were born to smile and drink.

Rose, thou art the sweetest flower

That ever drank the amber shower;

Rose, thou art the fondest child

Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.

Even the Gods, who walk the sky,

Are amorous of thy scented sigh.

Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,

His hair with rosy fillets braids,

When with the blushing sister Graces,

The wanton winding dance he traces.

Then bring me, showers of roses bring,

And shed them o'er me while I sing.

Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,

Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,

I lead some bright nymph through the dance,

Commingling soul with every glance!

[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."

ODE XLV.

Within this goblet, rich and deep,

I cradle all my woes to sleep.

Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,

Or pour the unavailing tear?

For death will never heed the sigh,

Nor soften at the tearful eye;

And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,

Must all alike be sealed in sleep.

Then let us never vainly stray,

In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;

But wisely quaff the rosy wave,

Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;

And in the goblet, rich and deep,

Cradle our crying woes to sleep.

ODE XLVI.[1]

Behold, the young, the rosy Spring,

Gives to the breeze her scented wing:

While virgin Graces, warm with May;

Fling roses o'er her dewy way.

The murmuring billows of the deep

Have languished into silent sleep;

And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave

Their plumes in the reflecting wave;

While cranes from hoary winter fly

To flutter in a kinder sky.

Now the genial star of day

Dissolves the murky clouds away;

And cultured field, and winding stream,

Are freshly glittering in his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells

With leafy buds and flowery bells;

Gemming shoots the olive twine,

Clusters ripe festoon the vine;

All along the branches creeping,

Through the velvet foliage peeping,

Little infant fruits we see,

Nursing into luxury.

[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.

ODE XLVII.

'Tis true, my fading years decline,

Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,

As deep as any stripling fair,

Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;

And if, amidst the wanton crew,

I'm called to wind the dance's clue,

Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,

Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,

But brandishing a rosy flask,

The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]

Let those, who pant for Glory's charms,

Embrace her in the field of arms;

While my inglorious, placid soul

Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.

Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,

And bathe me in its brimming wave.

For though my fading years decay,

Though manhood's prime hath past away,

Like old Silenus, sire divine,

With blushes borrowed from my wine.

I'll wanton mid the dancing train,

And live my follies o'er again!

[1] Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.

ODE XLVIII.

When my thirsty soul I steep,

Every sorrow's lulled to sleep.

Talk of monarchs! I am then

Richest, happiest, first of men;

Careless o'er my cup I sing,

Fancy makes me more than king;

Gives me wealthy Croesus' store,

Can I, can I wish for more?

On my velvet couch reclining,

Ivy leaves my brow entwining,[1]

While my soul expands with glee,

What are kings and crowns to me?

If before my feet they lay,

I would spurn them all away;

Arm ye, arm ye, men of might,

Hasten to the sanguine fight;

But let me, my budding vine!

Spill no other blood than thine.

Yonder brimming goblet see,

That alone shall vanquish me—

Who think it better, wiser far

To fall in banquet than in war,

[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.

ODE XLIX.

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,

The rosy harbinger of joy,

Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,

Thaws the winter of our soul—

When to my inmost core he glides,

And bathes it with his ruby tides,

A flow of joy, a lively heat,

Fires my brain, and wings my feet,

Calling up round me visions known

To lovers of the bowl alone.

Sing, sing of love, let music's sound

In melting cadence float around,

While, my young Venus, thou and I

Responsive to its murmurs sigh.

Then, waking from our blissful trance,

Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.

ODE L.[1]

When wine I quaff, before my eyes

Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2]

And freshened by the goblet's dews,

My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,

When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;

I think of doubts and fears no more;

But scatter to the railing wind

Each gloomy phantom of the mind.

When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,

Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;

And while we dance through vernal bowers,

Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,

In wine he makes my senses swim,

Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

Again I drink,—and, lo, there seems

A calmer light to fill my dreams;

The lately ruffled wreath I spread

With steadier hand around my head;

Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest

The life of him who lives at rest!"

But then comes witching wine again,

With glorious woman in its train;

And, while rich perfumes round me rise,

That seem the breath of woman's sighs,

Bright shapes, of every hue and form.

Upon my kindling fancy swarm,

Till the whole world of beauty seems

To crowd into my dazzled dreams!

When thus I drink, my heart refines,

And rises as the cup declines;

Rises in the genial flow,

That none but social spirits know,

When, with young revellers, round the bowl,

The old themselves grow young in soul!

Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,

There's bliss in every drop of wine.

All other blessings I have known,

I scarcely dared to call my own;

But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,

Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."

[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia," which begins thus:—

If with water you fill up your glasses,

You'll never write anything wise;

For wine's the true horse of Parnassus.

Which carries a bard to the skies!

ODE LI.

Fly not thus my brow of snow,

Lovely wanton! fly not so.

Though the wane of age is mine,

Though youth's brilliant flush be thine,

Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee,

Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!

See, in yonder flowery braid,

Culled for thee, my blushing maid,[1]

How the rose, of orient glow,

Mingles with the lily's snow;

Mark, how sweet their tints agree,

Just, my girl, like thee and me!

[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair.

ODE LII.[1]

Away, away, ye men of rules,

What have I do with schools?

They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,

But would they make me love and drink?

Teach me this, and let me swim

My soul upon the goblet's brim;

Teach me this, and let me twine

Some fond, responsive heart to mine,

For, age begins to blanch my brow,

I've time for naught but pleasure now.

Fly, and cool, my goblet's glow

At yonder fountain's gelid flow;

I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink

This soul to slumber as I drink.

Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,

You'll deck your master's grassy grave;

And there's an end—for ah, you know

They drink but little wine below!

[1] "This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than Anacreon; for at the period when he lived rhetoricians were not known."—DEGEN.

Though this ode is found in the Vatican manuscript, I am much inclined to agree in this argument against its authenticity: for though the dawnings of the art of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave it any celebrity was. Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in the century after Anacreon.

ODE LIII.

When I behold the festive train

Of dancing youth, I'm young again!

Memory wakes her magic trance,

And wings me lightly through the dance.

Come, Cybeba, smiling maid!

Cull the flower and twine the braid;

Bid the blush of summer's rose

Burn upon my forehead's snows;

And let me, while the wild and young

Trip the mazy dance along,

Fling my heap of years away,

And be as wild, as young as they.

Hither haste, some cordial, soul!

Help to my lips the brimming bowl;

And you shall see this hoary sage

Forget at once his locks and age.

He still can chant the festive hymn,

He still can kiss the goblet's brim;[1]

As deeply quaff, as largely fill,

And play the fool right nobly still.

[1] Wine is prescribed by Galen, as an excellent medicine for old men: "Quod frigidos et humbribus expletos calefaciut," etc.; but Nature was Anacreon's physician.

There is a proverb in Eriphus, as quoted by Athenaeus, which says, "that wine makes an old man dance, whether he will or not."

ODE. LIV.[1]

Methinks, the pictured bull we see

Is amorous Jove—it must be he!

How fondly blest he seems to bear

That fairest of Phoenician fair!

How proud he breasts the foamy tide,

And spurns the billowy surge aside!

Could any beast of vulgar vein,

Undaunted thus defy the main?

No: he descends from climes above,

He looks the God, he breathes of Jove!

[1] "This ode is written upon., a picture which represented the rape, of Europa."—MADAME DACIER.

It may probably have been a description of one of those coins, which the Sidonians struck off in honor of Europa, representing a woman carried across the sea by a bull. In the little treatise upon the goddess of Syria, attributed very' falsely to Lucian, there is mention of this coin, and of a temple dedicated by the Sidonians to Astarte, whom some, it appears, confounded with Europa.

ODE LV.[1]

While we invoke the wreathed spring,

Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;

Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,

Whose breath perfumes the Olympian bowers;

Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye,

Enchants so much our mortal eye.

When pleasure's spring-tide season glows.

The Graces love to wreathe the rose;

And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves,

An emblem of herself perceives.

Oft hath the poet's magic tongue

The rose's fair luxuriance sung;

And long the Muses, heavenly maids,

Have reared it in their tuneful shades.

When, at the early glance of morn,

It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,

'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence

To cull the timid floweret thence,

And wipe with tender hand away

The tear that on its blushes lay!

'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,

Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,

And fresh inhale the spicy sighs

That from the weeping buds arise.

When revel reigns, when mirth is high,

And Bacchus beams in every eye,

Our rosy fillets scent exhale,

And fill with balm the fainting gale.

There's naught in nature bright or gay,

Where roses do not shed their ray.

When morning paints the orient skies,

Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;[2]

Young nymphs betray; the Rose's hue,

O'er whitest arms it kindles thro'.

In Cytherea's form it glows,

And mingles with the living snows.

The rose distils a healing balm,

The beating pulse of pain to calm;

Preserves the cold inurnèd clay,[3]

And mocks the vestige of decay:

And when, at length, in pale decline,

Its florid beauties fade and pine,

Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath

Diffuses odor even in death!

Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?

Listen,—for thus the tale is sung.

When, humid, from the silvery stream,

Effusing beauty's warmest beam,

Venus appeared, in flushing hues,

Mellowed by ocean's briny dews;

When, in the starry courts above,

The pregnant brain of mighty Jove

Disclosed the nymph of azure glance,

The nymph who shakes the martial lance;—

Then, then, in strange eventful hour,

The earth produced an infant flower,

Which sprung, in blushing glories drest.

And wantoned o'er its parent breast.

The gods beheld this brilliant birth,

And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth!

With nectar drops, a ruby tide,

The sweetly orient buds they dyed,[4]

And bade them bloom, the flowers divine

Of him who gave the glorious vine;

And bade them on the spangled thorn

Expand their bosoms to the morn.

[1] This ode is a brilliant panegyric on the rose. "All antiquity [says Barnes] has produced nothing more beautiful."

From the idea of peculiar excellence, which the ancients attached to this flower, arose a pretty proverbial expression, used by Aristophanes, according to Suidas "You have spoken roses."

[2] In the original here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, borrowed from roses, which were used by the poets. We see that poets were dignified in Greece with the title of sages: even the careless Anacreon, who lived but for love and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise Anacreon—fuit haec sapienta quondam.

[3] He here alludes to the use of the rose in embalming; and, perhaps (as Barnes thinks), to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the corpse of Hector.

[4] The author of the "Pervigilium Veneris" (a poem attributed to Catullus, the style of which appears to me to have all the labored luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of the rose to the blood from the wound of Adonis.

ODE LVI.

He, who instructs the youthful crew

To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,

And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses,

All the bliss that wine possesses;

He, who inspires the youth to bound

Elastic through the dance's round,—

Bacchus, the god again is here,

And leads along the blushing year;

The blushing year with vintage teems,

Ready to shed those cordial streams,

Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,

Illuminate the sons of earth![1]

Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,—

Blest infant of the pregnant vine,

Which now in mellow clusters swells,—

Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells,

Brightly the joyous stream shall flow,

To balsam every mortal woe!

None shall be then cast down or weak,

For health and joy shall light each cheek;

No heart will then desponding sigh,

For wine shall bid despondence fly.

Thus—till another autumn's glow

Shall bid another vintage flow.

[1] Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the power of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's conversation. See Bayle, art. Helène.

ODE LVII[1]

Whose was the artist hand that spread

Upon this disk the ocean's bed?

And, in a flight of fancy, high

As aught on earthly wing can fly,

Depicted thus, in semblance warm,

The Queen of Love's voluptuous form

Floating along the silvery sea

In beauty's naked majesty!

Oh! he hath given the enamoured sight

A witching banquet of delight,

Where, gleaming through the waters clear,

Glimpses of undreamt charms appear,

And all that mystery loves to screen,

Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.[2]

Light as a leaf, that on the breeze

Of summer skims the glassy seas,

She floats along the ocean's breast,

Which undulates in sleepy rest;

While stealing on, she gently pillows

Her bosom on the heaving billows.

Her bosom, like the dew-washed rose,

Her neck, like April's sparkling snows,

Illume the liquid path she traces,

And burn within the stream's embraces.

Thus on she moves, in languid pride,

Encircled by the azure tide,

As some fair lily o'er a bed

Of violets bends its graceful head.

Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,

The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,

Bearing in triumph young Desire,

And infant Love with smiles of fire!

While, glittering through the silver waves,

The tenants of the briny caves

Around the pomp their gambols play,

And gleam along the watery way.

[1] This ode is a very animated description of a picture of Venus on a discus, which represented the goddess in her first emergence from the waves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16., it was Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and breast of this Venus.

[2] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of passion ought to be—glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, is impervious to every beam but that of fancy.

ODE LVIII.

When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's' pinion,

Escapes like any faithless minion,[1]

And flies me (as he flies me ever),[2]

Do I pursue him? never, never!

No, let the false deserter go,

For who would court his direst foe?

But when I feel my lightened mind

No more by grovelling gold confined,

Then loose I all such clinging cares,

And cast them to the vagrant airs.

Then feel I, too, the Muse's spell,

And wake to life the dulcet shell,

Which, roused once more, to beauty sings,

While love dissolves along the strings!

But, scarcely has my heart been taught

How little Gold deserves a thought,

When, lo! the slave returns once more,

And with him wafts delicious store

Of racy wine, whose genial art

In slumber seals the anxious heart.

Again he tries my soul to sever

From love and song, perhaps forever!

Away, deceiver! why pursuing

Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing?

Sweet is the song of amorous fire.

Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre;

Oh! sweeter far than all the gold

Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold.

Well do I know thy arts, thy wiles—

They withered Love's young wreathèd smiles;

And o'er his lyre such darkness shed,

I thought its soul of song was fled!

They dashed the wine-cup, that, by him,

Was filled with kisses to the brim.[3]

Go—fly to haunts of sordid men,

But come not near the bard again.

Thy glitter in the Muse's shade,

Scares from her bower the tuneful maid;

And not for worlds would I forego

That moment of poetic glow,

When my full soul, in Fancy's stream,

Pours o'er the lyre, its swelling theme.

Away, away! to worldlings hence,

Who feel not this diviner sense;

Give gold to those who love that pest,—

But leave the poet poor and blest.

[1] There is a kind of pun in these words, as Madame Dacier has already remarked; for Chrysos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for a slave. In one of Lucian's dialogues, there is, I think, a similar play upon the word, where the followers of Chrysippus are called golden fishes. The puns of the ancients are, in general, even more vapid than our own; some of the best are those recorded of Diogenes.

[2] This grace of iteration has already been taken notice of. Though sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is peculiarly expressive of impassioned sentiment, and we may easily believe that it was one of the many sources of that energetic sensibility which breathed through the style of Sappho.

[3] Horace has Desiderique temperare poculum, not figuratively, however, like Anacreon, but importng the love-philtres of the witches. By "cups of kisses" our poet may allude to a favorite gallantry among the ancients, of drinking when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim;—

"Or leave a kiss within the cup And I'll not ask for wine."

As In Ben Jonson's translation from Philostratus; and Lucian has a conceit upon the same idea, "that you may at once both drink and kiss."

ODE LIX.

Ripened by the solar beam,

Now the ruddy clusters teem,

In osier baskets borne along

By all the festal vintage throng

Of rosy youths and virgins fair,

Ripe as the melting fruits they bear.

Now, now they press the pregnant grapes,

And now the captive stream escapes,

In fervid tide of nectar gushing.

And for its bondage proudly blushing

While, round the vat's impurpled brim,

The choral song, the vintage hymn

Of rosy youths and virgins fair,

Steals on the charmed and echoing air.

Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes,

The orient tide that sparkling flies,

The infant Bacchus, born in mirth,

While Love stands by, to hail the birth.

When he, whose verging years decline

As deep into the vale as mine,

When he inhales the vintage-cup,

His feet, new-winged, from earth spring up,

And as he dances, the fresh air

Plays whispering through his silvery hair.

Meanwhile young groups whom love invites,

To joys even rivalling wine's delights,

Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove,

And there, in words and looks of love,

Such as fond lovers look and say,

Pass the sweet moonlight hours away.

ODE LX.[1]

Awake to life, my sleeping shell,

To Phoebus let thy numbers swell;

And though no glorious prize be thine,

No Pythian wreath around thee twine,

Yet every hour is glory's hour

To him who gathers wisdom's flower.

Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers,

And to the soft and Phrygian numbers,

Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat,

Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet.

'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes,

Down the Cayster's current floats,

While amorous breezes linger round,

And sigh responsive sound for sound.

Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream,

Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme;

And hallowed is the harp I bear,

And hallowed is the wreath I wear,

Hallowed by him, the god of lays,

Who modulates the choral maze.

I sing the love which Daphne twined

Around the godhead's yielding mind;

I sing the blushing Daphne's flight

From this ethereal son of Light;

And how the tender, timid maid

Flew trembling to the kindly shade.

Resigned a form, alas, too fair,

Arid grew a verdant laurel there;

Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,

In terror seemed to tremble still!

The god pursued, with winged desire;

And when his hopes were all on fire,

And when to clasp the nymph he thought,

A lifeless tree was all he caught;

And 'stead of sighs that pleasure heaves,

Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!

But, pause, my soul, no more, no more—

Enthusiast, whither do I soar?

This sweetly-maddening dream of soul

Hath hurried me beyond the goal.

Why should I sing the mighty darts

Which fly to wound celestial hearts,

When ah, the song, with sweeter tone,

Can tell the darts that wound my own?

Still be Anacreon, still inspire

The descant of the Teian lyre:

Still let the nectared numbers float

Distilling love in every note!

And when some youth, whose glowing soul

Has felt the Paphian star's control,

When he the liquid lays shall hear,

His heart will flutter to his ear,

And drinking there of song divine,

Banquet on intellectual wine![2]

[1] This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been written by Anacreon; and it is undoubtedly rather a sublimer flight than the Teian wing is accustomed to soar. But in a poet of whose works so small a proportion has reached us, diversity of style is by no means a safe criterion. If we knew Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could dwell such animation in his lyre? Suidas says that our poet wrote hymns, and this perhaps is one of them. We can perceive in what an altered and imperfect state his works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace citing an ode from the third book of Anacreon.

[2] Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority helps to confirm the genuine antiquity of them all, though a few have stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon.

ODE LXI.[1]

Youth's endearing charms are fled;

Hoary locks deform my head;

Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,

All the flowers of life decay.[2]

Withering age begins to trace

Sad memorials o'er my face;

Time has shed its sweetest bloom

All the future must be gloom.

This it is that sets me sighing;

Dreary is the thought of dying![3]

Lone and dismal is the road,

Down to Pluto's dark abode;

And, when once the journey's o'er,

Ah! we can return no more!

[1] The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up in the banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the Teian Muse should disown this ode.

[2] Horace often, with feeling and elegance, deplores the fugacity of human enjoyments.

[3] Regnier, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chaulieu, however, supports more consistently the spirit of the Epicurean philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare.

ODE LXII.[1]

Fill me, boy, as deep a draught,

As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed;

But let the water amply flow,

To cool the grape's intemperate glow;[2]

Let not the fiery god be single,

But with the nymphs in union mingle.

For though the bowl's the grave of sadness,

Ne'er let it be the birth of madness.

No, banish from our board tonight

The revelries of rude delight;

To Scythians leave these wild excesses,

Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses!

And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,

In concert let our voices breathe,

Beguiling every hour along

With harmony of soul and song.

[1] This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be found in Athenaeus, book x., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty, and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet.

[2] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their wine; in commemoration of which circumstance they erected altars to Bacchus and the nymphs.

ODE LXIII.[1]

To Love, the soft and blooming child,

I touch the harp in descant wild;

To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers,

The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers;

To Love, for heaven and earth adore him,

And gods and mortals bow before him!

[1] "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, Storm, lib. vi. and In Arsenius, Collect. Graec."—BARNES.

It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love.

ODE LXIV.[1]

Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear

Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer!

Dian, Jove's immortal child,

Huntress of the savage wild!

Goddess with the sun-bright hair!

Listen to a people's prayer.

Turn, to Lethe's river turn,

There thy vanquished people mourn![2]

Come to Lethe's wavy shore,

Tell them they shall mourn no more.

Thine their hearts, their altars thine;

Must they, Dian—must they pine?

[1] This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephaestion. There is an anecdote of our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anaecreon being asked why he addressed all his hymns to women, and none to the deities? answered, "Because women are my deities."

I have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the odes; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were always allowable in interpreting the writings of the ancients.

[2] Lethe, a river of Iona, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander. In its neighborhood was the city called Magnesia, in favor of whose inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated.

ODE LXV.[1]

Like some wanton filly sporting,

Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting.

Wanton filly! tell me why

Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye,

And seem'st to think my doating heart

Is novice in the bridling art?

Believe me, girl, it is not so;

Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw

The reins around that tender form,

However wild, however warm.

Yes—trust me I can tame thy force,

And turn and wind thee in the course.

Though, wasting now thy careless hours,

Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers,

Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control,

And tremble at the wished-for goal!

[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a young mare belonging to Polycrates.

Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride.

ODE LXVI.[1]

To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine,

Fairest of all that fairest shine;

To thee, who rulest with darts of fire

This world of mortals, young Desire!

And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee

Who bearest of life the guardian key,

Breathing my soul in fervent praise,

And weaving wild my votive lays,

For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre,

For thee, thou blushing young Desire,

And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power,

Come, and illume this genial hour.

Look on thy bride, too happy boy,

And while thy lambent glance of joy

Plays over all her blushing charms,

Delay not, snatch her to thine arms,

Before the lovely, trembling prey,

Like a young birdling, wing away!

Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth,

Dear to the Queen of amorous truth,

And dear to her, whose yielding zone

Will soon resign her all thine own.

Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye,

Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh.

To those bewitching beauties turn;

For thee they blush, for thee they burn.

Not more the rose, the queen of flowers,

Outblushes all the bloom of bowers

Than she unrivalled grace discloses,

The sweetest rose, where all are roses.

Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed

His blandest influence o'er thy bed;

And foster there an infant tree,

To bloom like her, and tower like thee!

[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial banquet.

ODE LXVII.

Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn

The wealth of Amalthea's horn;

Nor should I ask to call the throne

Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1]

To totter through his train of years,

The victim of declining fears.

One little hour of joy to me

Is worth a dull eternity!

[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty.

ODE LXVIII.

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,

The angry night-cloud teems with storms;

And savage winds, infuriate driven,

Fly howling in the face of heaven!

Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom

With roseate rays of wine illume:

And while our wreaths of parsley spread

Their fadeless foliage round our head,

Let's hymn the almighty power of wine,

And shed libations on his shrine!

ODE LXIX.

They wove the lotus band to deck

And fan with pensile wreath each neck;

And every guest, to shade his head,

Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1]

And one was of the Egyptian leaf,

The rest were roses, fair and brief:

While from a golden vase profound,

To all on flowery beds around,

A Hebe, of celestial shape,

Poured the rich droppings of the grape!

[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan, who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.

ODE LXX.

A broken cake, with honey sweet,

Is all my spare and simple treat:

And while a generous bowl I crown

To float my little banquet down,

I take the soft, the amorous lyre,

And sing of love's delicious fire:

In mirthful measures warm and free,

I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!

ODE LXXI.

With twenty chords my lyre is hung,

And while I wake them all for thee,

Thou, O maiden, wild and young,

Disportest in airy levity.

The nursling fawn, that in some shade

Its antlered mother leaves behind,

Is not more wantonly afraid,

More timid of the rustling wind!

ODE LXXII.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid,

My soul, too long on earth delayed,

Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee,

Is on the wing for liberty.

I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,

Since thou hast ceased to love me here!

ODE LXXIII.

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower,

Till love approached one fatal hour,

And made my tender branches feel

The wounds of his avenging steel.

Then lost I fell, like some poor willow

That falls across the wintry billow!

ODE LXXIV.

Monarch Love, resistless boy,

With whom the rosy Queen of Joy,

And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue,

Disporting tread the mountain-dew;

Propitious, oh! receive my sighs,

Which, glowing with entreaty, rise

That thou wilt whisper to the breast

Of her I love thy soft behest:

And counsel her to learn from thee.

That lesson thou hast taught to me.

Ah! if my heart no flattery tell,

Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well!

ODE LXXV.

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled,

Stream on the breeze like floating gold;

Come, within a fragrant cloud

Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;

And, on those wings that sparkling play,

Waft, oh, waft me hence away!

Love! my soul is full of thee,

Alive to all thy luxury.

But she, the nymph for whom I glow

The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe;

Smiles at the chill and hoary hues

That time upon my forehead strews.

Alas! I fear she keeps her charms,

In store for younger, happier arms!

ODE LXXVI.

Hither, gentle Muse of mine,

Come and teach thy votary old

Many a golden hymn divine,

For the nymph with vest of gold.

Pretty nymph, of tender age,

Fair thy silky looks unfold;

Listen to a hoary sage,

Sweetest maid with vest of gold!

ODE LXXVII.

Would that I were a tuneful lyre,

Of burnished ivory fair,

Which, in the Dionysian choir,

Some blooming boy should bear!

Would that I were a golden vase.

That some bright nymph might hold

My spotless frame, with blushing grace,

Herself as pure as gold!

ODE LXXVIII.

When Cupid sees how thickly now,

The snows of Time fall o'er my brow,

Upon his wing of golden light.

He passes with an eaglet's flight,

And flitting onward seems to say,

"Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray,

That lights our life's meandering way,

That God, within this bosom stealing,

Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling.

Which pleases, though so sadly teasing,

And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

* * * * *

Let me resign this wretched breath

Since now remains to me

No other balm than kindly death,

To soothe my misery!

* * * * *

I know thou lovest a brimming measure,

And art a kindly, cordial host;

But let me fill and drink at pleasure—

Thus I enjoy the goblet most.

I fear that love disturbs my rest,

Yet feel not love's impassioned care;

I think there's madness in my breast

Yet cannot find that madness there!

* * * * *

From dread Leucadia's frowning steep,

I'll plunge into the whitening deep:

And there lie cold, to death resigned,

Since Love intoxicates my mind!

* * * * *

Mix me, child, a cup divine,

Crystal water, ruby wine;

Weave the frontlet, richly flushing

O'er my wintry temples blushing.

Mix the brimmer—Love and I

Shall no more the contest try.

Here—upon this holy bowl,

I surrender all my soul!

SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

HERE AT THY TOMB.

BY MELEAGER.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,

Tears, which though vainly now they roll,

Are all love hath to give the dead,

And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;—

Wept in remembrance of that light.

Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,

Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,

But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough

That once my life's sole lustre made?

Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,

And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast

Hast taken all those angel charms,

Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,—

Gently, as in a mother's arms.

SALE OF CUPID.

BY MELEAGER.

Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he,

Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee;

So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,

So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.

See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled,

His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled;

And those fingers, which still ever ready are found

For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.

He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile,

But never you mind—he's laughing all the while;

For little he cares, so he has his own whim,

And weeping or laughing are all one to him.

His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,

His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash;

And so savage is he, that his own dear mother

Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.

In short, to sum up this darling's praise,

He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;

And if any one wants such an imp to employ,

He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.

But see, the boy wakes—his bright tears flow—

His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no,

Sweet child no, no—though so naughty you be,

You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

To weave a garland for the rose.

And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,

Were far less vain than to suppose

That silks and gems add grace to thee.

Where is the pearl whose orient lustre

Would not, beside thee, look less bright?

What gold could match the glossy cluster

Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,

The bright blue gem of India's mine,

And see how soon, though bright its beams,

'Twill pale before one glance of thine:

Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us

With some divine, mellifluous air,

Who would not say that Beauty's cestus

Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms

I now give up my spell-bound heart.

Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms,

When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art.

Thus to the wind all fears are given;

Henceforth those eyes alone I see.

Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,

Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Why does she so long delay?

Night is waning fast away;

Thrice have I my lamp renewed,

Watching here in solitude,

Where can she so long delay?

Where, so long delay?

Vainly now have two lamps shone;

See the third is nearly gone:

Oh that Love would, like the ray

Of that weary lamp, decay!

But no, alas, it burns still on,

Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear

Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!

But to one so false as she

What is man or deity?

Neither doth this proud one fear,—

No, neither doth she fear.

TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow?

Such glory then thy beauty sheds,

I almost think, while awed I bow

'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.

Be what thou wilt,—this heart

Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave,

Like sunny waves to wander free?

Then, such a chain of charms they weave,

As draws my inmost soul from me.

Do what thou wilt,—I must

Be charm'd by all thou dost!

Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils,

Those sunny locks elude the sight,—

Oh, not even then their glory fails

To haunt me with its unseen light.

Change as thy beauty may,

It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend,

Presiding o'er each new attire,

And lending every dart they send

Some new, peculiar touch of fire,

Be what thou wilt,—this heart

Adores what'er thou art!

WHEN THE SAD WORD.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling,

And with it, Hope passes away,

Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling

That fatal farewell, bids me stay,

For oh! 'tis a penance so weary

One hour from thy presence to be,

That death to this soul were less dreary,

Less dark than long absence from thee.

Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking.

Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,

And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking,

Made light what was darkness before.

But mute is the Day's sunny glory,

While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,

More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,

My hopes hang, through life and through death!

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

BY PHILODEMUS.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,

But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,

And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;

In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,

That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,—

Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,

And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,

That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;

Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,

And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget—

Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone,

'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone

From the depths of the grave could revive one:

In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,

I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb—

Unless I could meet with a live

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

BY MELEAGER.

Still, like dew in silence falling,

Drops for thee the nightly tear

Still that voice the past recalling,

Dwells, like echo, on my ear,

Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,

Here forever fixt thou art:

As thy form first shone before me,

So 'tis graven on this heart,

Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,

Dooms me to this lasting pain.

Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,

Why so slow to go again?

Why? why?

UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day!

The west wind blowing,

The spring tide flowing,

Summon thee hence away.

Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?

Chirp, chirp,—in every note he seemed to say

'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.

Up boy, away,—

Who'd stay on land to-day?

The very flowers

Would from their bowers

Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine

On silken pillows;

But be the billows

Of the great deep thine.

Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;"

While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,

Says, with a yielding sigh,

"Yes, where you; please."

Up, boy, the wind, the ray,

The blue sky o'er thee,

The deep before thee,

All cry aloud, "Away!"

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

BY ALCAEUS.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,

Like them of old whose one immortal blow

Struck off the galling fetters that hung over

Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.

Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;

Still midst the brave and free,

In isles, o'er ocean lying,

Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,

Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade

Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'

And in the dust a despot victim laid.

Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story

Your wedded names shall be;

A tyrant's death your glory,

Your meed, a nation free!

JUVENILE POEMS.

1801.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is you have them in their original form:

non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest.

I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a casuiste relâché, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.

Believe me, my dear friend.

With the truest esteem,

Yours,

T. M.

April 19, 1802

JUVENILE POEMS

FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.—JUV.

Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line,

Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,

How heavy sits that weight, of alien show,

Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;

Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light

Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue,

Where are the arts by which that glory grew?

The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze

Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze!

Where is the heart by chymic truth refined,

The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind?

Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art,

His country's interest round the patriot's heart?

* * * * *

Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur spes.—LIVY.

* * * * *

Is there no call, no consecrating cause

Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws,

Where justice flies the herald of our way,

And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath

To slumbering babes or innocence in death;

And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within,

When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.

Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet

An echo in the soul's most deep retreat;

Along the heart's responding chords should run,

Nor let a tone there vibrate—but the one!

VARIETY.

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power

Allures the sportive, wandering bee

To roam untired, from flower to flower,

He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round; her features trace,

Her seasons, all her changes see;

And own, upon Creation's face,

The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above!

Still let me roam, unfixt and free;

In all things,—but the nymph I love

I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms

Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;—

No, let me ever seek those arms.

There still I'll find variety.

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH,

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,

To rove through Erudition's bowers,

And cull the golden fruits of truth,

And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?

And is it not more sweet than this,

To feel thy parents' hearts approving,

And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth;

With this idea toil is lighter;

This sweetens all the fruits of truth,

And makes the flowers of fancy brighter.

The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder,

If indolence or siren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

'Twill tell thee that the wingèd day

Can, ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavor;

That life and time shall fade away,

While heaven and virtue bloom forever!

SONG.

If I swear by that eye, you'll allow,

Its look is so shifting and new,

That the oath I might take on it now

The very next glance would undo.

Those babies that nestle so sly

Such thousands of arrows have got,

That an oath, on the glance of an eye

Such as yours, may be off in a shot.

Should I swear by the dew on your lip,

Though each moment the treasure renews,

If my constancy wishes to trip,

I may kiss off the oath when I choose.

Or a sigh may disperse from that flower;

Both the dew and the oath that are there;

And I'd make a new vow every hour,

To lose them so sweetly in air.

But clear up the heaven of your brow,

Nor fancy my faith is a feather;

On my heart I will pledge you my vow,

And they both must be broken together!

TO …….

Remember him thou leavest behind,

Whose heart is warmly bound to thee,

Close as the tenderest links can bind

A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved,

Though many seemed my soul to snare;

'Twas passion when I thought I loved,

'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Even she, my muse's early theme,

Beguiled me only while she warmed;

Twas young desire that fed the dream,

And reason broke what passion formed.

But thou-ah! better had it been

If I had still in freedom roved,

If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,

For then I never should have loved.

Then all the pain which lovers feel

Had never to this heart been known;

But then, the joys that lovers steal,

Should they have ever been my own?

Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this,

Dearest! the pain of loving thee,

The very pain is sweeter bliss

Than passion's wildest ecstasy.

That little cage I would not part,

In which my soul is prisoned now,

For the most light and winged heart

That wantons on the passing vow.

Still, my beloved! still keep in mind,

However far removed from me,

That there is one thou leavest behind,

Whose heart respires for only thee!

And though ungenial ties have bound

Thy fate unto another's care,

That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,

Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no! that heart is only mine

By ties all other ties above,

For I have wed it at a shrine

Where we have had no priest but Love.

SONG.

When Time who steals our years away

Shall steal our pleasures too,

The memory of the past will stay

And half our joys renew,

Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flower

Shall feel the wintry air,

Remembrance will recall the hour

When thou alone wert fair.

Then talk no more of future gloom;

Our joys shall always last;

For Hope shall brighten days to come,

And Memory gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,

I drink to Love and thee:

Thou never canst decay in soul,

Thou'lt still be young for me.

And as thy; lips the tear-drop chase,

Which on my cheek they find,

So hope shall steal away the trace

That sorrow leaves behind.

Then fill the bowl—away with gloom!

Our joys shall always last;

For Hope shall brighten days to come,

And Memory gild the past.

But mark, at thought of future years

When love shall lose its soul,

My Chloe drops her timid tears,

They mingle with my bowl.

How like this bowl of wine, my fair,

Our loving life shall fleet;

Though tears may sometimes mingle there,

The draught will still be sweet.

Then fill the cup—away with gloom!

Our joys shall always last;

For Hope will brighten days to come,

And Memory gild the past.

SONG.

Have you not seen the timid tear,

Steal trembling from mine eye?

Have you not marked the flush of fear,

Or caught the murmured sigh?

And can you think my love is chill,

Nor fixt on you alone?

And can you rend, by doubting still,

A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move,

Devoutly, warmly true;

My life has been a task of love,

One long, long thought of you.

If all your tender faith be o'er,

If still my truth you'll try;

Alas, I know but one proof more—

I'll bless your name, and die!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls

Had long been remembered with awe and dismay;

For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls,

And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam,

Yet none could the woods of that castle illume;

And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring stream

Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!

"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!"

Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;—

"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse,

"Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"

And who was the bright star of chivalry then?

Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age?

For Reuben was first in the combat of men,

Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat,

For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,

When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,

It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever?

Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,

That darkness should cover that castle forever,

Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell?

Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?"

"Yes, yes—when a spirit shall toll the great bell

Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"

Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!"

And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain;

And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes.

And hoped she might yet see her hero again.

That hero could smite at the terrors of death,

When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose;

To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,

In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.—

How strangely the order of destiny falls!

Not long in the waters the warrior lay,

When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,

And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,

There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:

Two days did she wander, and all the long night,

In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,

And heard but the breathings of night in the air;

Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,

And saw but the foam of the white billow there.

And often as midnight its veil would undraw,

As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream,

She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw,

As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.

And now the third night was begemming the sky;

Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined,

There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,

When—hark!—'twas the bell that came deep in the wind!

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,

A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;

She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed,

And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.

Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?—

Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;

'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold,

And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought

From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor!

Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught,

And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!

DID NOT.

'Twas a new feeling—something more

Than we had dared to own before.

Which then we hid not;

We saw it in each other's eye,

And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,

To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch—

'Twas the first time I dared so much,

And yet she chid not;

But whispered o'er my burning brow,

"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"

Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,

I prest it closer, closer still,

Though gently bid not;

Till—oh! the world hath seldom heard

Of lovers, who so nearly erred,

And yet, who did not.

TO …….

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,

At once put my heart out of pain;

Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,

Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present,

When woman's declension begins;

When, fading from all that is pleasant,

She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,

I would sooner, my exquisite mother!

Repose in the sunset of thee,

Than bask in the noon of another.

TO MRS. …….

ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

Is not thy mind a gentle mind?

Is not that heart a heart refined?

Hast thou not every gentle grace,

We love in woman's mind and face?

And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin

To hold her hateful worship in?

No, no, be happy—dry that tear—

Though some thy heart hath harbored near,

May now repay its love with blame;

Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,

Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;

Though all the world look cold upon thee,

Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still

Unharmed by that surrounding chill;

Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1]

Floating, while all was frozen round,—

Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be,

Safe in thy own sweet purity.

[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendöme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen".

ANACREONTIC.

—in lachrymas verterat omne merum.

TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.

Press the grape, and let it pour

Around the board its purple shower:

And, while the drops my goblet steep,

I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!

Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.

Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,

I'll taste the luxury of woe.

TO …….

When I loved you, I can't but allow

I had many an exquisite minute;

But the scorn that I feel for you now

Hath even more luxury in it.

Thus, whether we're on or we're off,

Some witchery seems to await you;

To love you was pleasant enough,

And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!

TO JULIA.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

Why, let the stingless critic chide

With all that fume of vacant pride

Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,

Like vapor on a stagnant pool.

Oh! if the song, to feeling true,

Can please the elect, the sacred few,

Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,

Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought—

If some fond feeling maid like thee,

The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,

Shall say, while o'er my simple theme

She languishes in Passion's dream,

"He was, indeed, a tender soul—

No critic law, no chill control,

Should ever freeze, by timid art,

The flowings of so fond a heart!"

Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!

That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,

Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,

And hailed me Passion's warmest child,—

Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,

From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;

Oh! let my song, my memory find,

A shrine within the tender mind!

And I will smile when critics chide,

And I will scorn the fume of pride

Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,

Like vapor round some stagnant pool!

TO JULIA.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:

One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;

Your heart was only mine, I once believed.

Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?

And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined

That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;

Julia!—'tis pity, pity makes you kind;

You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

But shall I still go seek within those arms

A joy in which affection takes no part?

No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,

When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

THE SHRINE.

TO …….

My fates had destined me to rove

A long, long pilgrimage of love;

And many an altar on my way

Has lured my pious steps to stay;

For if the saint was young and fair,

I turned, and sung my vespers there.

This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,

Is what your pretty saints require:

To pass, nor tell a single bead,

With them would be profane indeed!

But, trust me, all this young devotion

Was but to keep my zeal in motion;

And, every humbler altar past,

I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

TO A LADY,

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

When, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish here—

Perchance some other friends to find,

But surely finding none so dear—

Haply the little simple page,

Which votive thus I've traced for thee,

May now and then a look engage,

And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,

Let not the eye that seldom flows

With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt

With pity, never melt with love;

And such will frown at all I've felt,

And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,

Which rather loves to praise than blame,

Should in my page an interest find.

And linger kindly on my name;

Tell him—or, oh! if, gentler still,

By female lips my name be blest:

For where do all affections thrill

So sweetly as in woman's breast?—

Tell her, that he whose loving themes

Her eye indulgent wanders o'er,

Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,

And bolder flights of fancy soar;

That Glory oft would claim the lay,

And Friendship oft his numbers move;

But whisper then, that, "sooth to say,

His sweetest song was given to Love!"

TO JULIA.

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,

Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;

The heart will seek its kindred heart,

And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed?

Is all our dream of rapture over?

And does not Julia's bosom bleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she, too, mourn?—Perhaps she may;

Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;

But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow

Of gladness in her blue eye beaming—

But can the bosom bleed with woe

While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!—Yet, love, I will not chide;

Although your heart were fond of roving,

Nor that, nor all the world beside

Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing.

Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing!

TO …….

Sweet lady, look not thus again:

Those bright, deluding smiles recall

A maid remember'd now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart bewildered took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,

Thus would she smile and lisp and look,

And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

Yes, I did love her—wildly love—

She was her sex's best deceiver!

And oft she swore she'd never rove—

And I was destined to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of one whose smile could thus betray;

Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again could steal my heart away.

For, when those spells that charmed my mind

On lips so pure as thine I see,

I fear the heart which she resigned

Will err again and fly to thee!

NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

In vain we fondly strive to trace

The soul's reflection in the face;

In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,

Crooked mouth or short proboscis;

Boobies have looked as wise and bright

As Plato or the Stagirite:

And many a sage and learned skull

Has peeped through windows dark and dull.

Since then, though art do all it can,

We ne'er can reach the inward man,

Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt)

The inward woman, from without,

Methinks 'twere well if nature could

(And Nature could, if Nature would)

Some pithy, short descriptions write

On tablets large, in black and white,

Which she might hang about our throttles,

Like labels upon physic-bottles;

And where all men might read—but stay—

As dialectic sages say,

The argument most apt and ample

For common use is the example.

For instance, then, if Nature's care

Had not portrayed, in lines so fair,

The inward soul of Lucy Lindon.

This is the label she'd have pinned on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this form there lies enshrined

The purest, brightest gem of mind.

Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw

Upon its charms the shade of woe,

The lustre of the gem, when veiled,

Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.

* * * * *

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,

That Nature wrote a second label,

They're her own words—at least suppose so—

And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND.

When I composed the fustian brain

Of this redoubted Captain Vain.

I had at hand but few ingredients,

And so was forced to use expedients.

I put therein some small discerning,

A grain of sense, a grain of learning;

And when I saw the void behind,

I filled it up with—froth and wind!

* * * * *

TO JULIA

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

When Time was entwining the garland of years,

Which to crown my beloved was given,

Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,

Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,

May its verdure forever be new;

Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,

And Sympathy nurse it with dew.

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,

Yon little billow heaves its breast,

And foams and sparkles for awhile,—

Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,

Rises on time's eventful sea:

And, having swelled a moment there,

Thus melts into eternity!

CLORIS AND FANNY.

Cloris! if I were Persia's king,

I'd make my graceful queen of thee;

While FANNY, wild and artless thing,

Should but thy humble handmaid be.

There is but one objection in it—

That, verily, I'm much afraid

I should, in some unlucky minute,

Forsake the mistress for the maid.

THE SHIELD.

Say, did you not hear a voice of death!

And did you not mark the paly form

Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath,

And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

Was it the wailing bird of the gloom,

That shrieks on the house of woe all night?

Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,

To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,

Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast;

'Twas the shade of Helderic—man of blood—

It screams for the guilt of days that are past.

See, how the red, red lightning strays,

And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!

Now on the leafless yew it plays,

Where hangs the shield of this son of death.

That shield is blushing with murderous stains;

Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;

It is blown by storms and washed by rains,

But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,

Demons dance to the red moon's light;

While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield

Sings to the raving spirit of night!

TO JULIA WEEPING.

Oh! if your tears are given to care,

If real woe disturbs your peace,

Come to my bosom, weeping fair!

And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears,

With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;

You look so lovely in your tears,

That I must bid you drop them still.

DREAMS.

TO … ….

In slumber, I prithee how is it

That souls are oft taking the air,

And paying each other a visit,

While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,

Your soul took a fancy to roam,

For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,

Come ask, whether mine was at home.

And mine let her in with delight,

And they talked and they laughed the time through;

For, when souls come together at night,

There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And your little Soul, heaven bless her!

Had much to complain and to say,

Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her

By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal

"For a peep now and then to her eye,

"Or, to quiet the fever I feel,

"Just venture abroad on a sigh;

"In an instant she frightens me in

"With some phantom of prudence or terror,

"For fear I should stray into sin,

"Or, what is still worse, into error!

"So, instead of displaying my graces,

"By daylight, in language and mien,

"I am shut up in corners and places,

"Where truly I blush to be seen!"

Upon hearing this piteous confession,

My Soul, looking tenderly at her,

Declared, as for grace and discretion,

He did not know much of the matter;

"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said,

"Be at home, after midnight, and then

"I will come when your lady's in bed,

"And we'll talk o'er the subject again."

So she whispered a word in his ear,

I suppose to her door to direct him,

And, just after midnight, my dear,

Your polite little Soul may expect him.

TO ROSA.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

The wisest soul, by anguish torn,

Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;

And when the shrining casket's worn,

The gem within will tarnish too.

But love's an essence of the soul,

Which sinks hot with this chain of clay;

Which throbs beyond the chill control

Of withering pain or pale decay.

And surely, when the touch of Death

Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties,

Love still attends the immortal breath,

And makes it purer for the skies!

Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere,

My soul shall leave this orb of men,

That love which formed its treasure here,

Shall be its best of treasures then!

And as, in fabled dreams of old,

Some air-born genius, child of time,

Presided o'er each star that rolled,

And tracked it through its path sublime;

So thou, fair planet, not unled,

Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;

Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed,

Shall linger round thy earthly way.

Let other spirits range the sky,

And play around each starry gem;

I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,

Nor envy worlds of suns to them.

And when that heart shall cease to beat,

And when that breath at length is free,

Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,

And mingle to eternity!

SONG.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,

Is fair—but oh, how fair,

If Pity's hand had stolen from Love

One leaf, to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,

Did gems for dewdrops fall,

One faded leaf where Love had sighed

Were sweetly worth them all.

The wreath you wove,—the wreath you wove

Our emblem well may be;

Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love

Must keep its tears for me.

THE SALE OF LOVES.

I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves,

My nets by moonlight laying,

I caught a flight of wanton Loves,

Among the rose-beds playing.

Some just had left their silvery shell,

While some were full in feather;

So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,

Were never yet strung together.

Come buy my Loves,

Come buy my Loves,

Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!—

They're new and bright,

The cost is light,

For the coin of this isle is kisses.

First Cloris came, with looks sedate.

The coin on her lips was ready;

"I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight,

"Full grown, if you please, and steady."

"Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray—

"Such lasting toys undo one;

"A light little Love that will last to-day,—

"To-morrow I'll sport a new one."

Come buy my Loves,

Come buy my Loves,

Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!—

There's some will keep,

Some light and cheap

At from ten to twenty kisses.

The learned Prue took a pert young thing,

To divert her virgin Muse with,

And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing.

To indite her billet-doux with,

Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair

Her only eye, if you'd ask it;

And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair.

For the youngest Love in the basket.

Come buy my Loves, etc.

But one was left, when Susan came,

One worth them all together;

At sight of her dear looks of shame,

He smiled and pruned his feather.

She wished the boy—'twas more than whim—

Her looks, her sighs betrayed it;

But kisses were not enough for him,

I asked a heart and she paid it!

Good-by, my Loves,

Good-by, my Loves,

'Twould make you smile to've seen us

First, trade for this

Sweet child of bliss,

And then nurse the boy between us.

TO …. ….

The world has just begun to steal

Each hope that led me lightly on;

I felt not, as I used to feel,

And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,

No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,

No circling arms to draw me near—

'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye,

Oh! something seemed to tell me then,

That I was yet too young to die,

And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that crost

Your kindling cheek, you lighted home

Some feeling which my heart had lost

And peace which far had learned to roam.

'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,

Hope looked so new and Love so kind.

That, though I mourn, I yet forgive

The ruin they have left behind.

I could have loved you—oh, so well!—

The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,

Is but a bright, beguiling spell,

That only lives while passion glows.

But, when this early flush declines,

When the heart's sunny morning fleets,

You know not then how close it twines

Round the first kindred soul it meets.

Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one

Who, while his youth's enchantments fall,

Finds something dear to rest upon,

Which pays him for the loss of all.

TO …. ….

Never mind how the pedagogue proses,

You want not antiquity's stamp;

A lip, that such fragrance discloses,

Oh! never should smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kiss

Hath long set the Loves at defiance,

Now, done with the science of bliss,

May take to the blisses of science.

But for you to be buried in books—

Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages,

Who could not in one of your looks

Read more than in millions of pages.

Astronomy finds in those eyes

Better light than she studies above;

And Music would borrow your sighs

As the melody fittest for Love.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

If to count your own charms you endeavor;

And Eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance

Of arts is assembled in you;—

A course of more exquisite science

Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh!—if a Fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts,

With my lip thus I seal your degree,

My divine little Mistress of Arts!

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,

Then will I weep, in anguish weep,

Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery;

Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal—

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,

But sullen clouds the day deform;

Like thee was that young, orient beam,

Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,

So linked thy soul was with the sky;

Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not formed to die.

INCONSTANCY.

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,

When surely there's nothing in nature more common?

She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me—

And could I expect any more from a woman?

Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,

When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,

And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,

He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;

But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute—

If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.

THE NATAL GENIUS.

A DREAM

TO …. ….

THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY.

In witching slumbers of the night,

I dreamt I was the airy sprite

That on thy natal moment smiled;

And thought I wafted on my wing

Those flowers which in Elysium spring,

To crown my lovely mortal child.

With olive-branch I bound thy head,

Heart's ease along thy path I shed,

Which was to bloom through all thy years;

Nor yet did I forget to bind

Love's roses, with his myrtle twined,

And dewed by sympathetic tears.

Such was the wild but precious boon

Which Fancy, at her magic noon,

Bade me to Nona's image pay;

And were it thus my fate to be

Thy little guardian deity,

How blest around thy steps I'd play!

Thy life should glide in peace along,

Calm as some lonely shepherd's song

That's heard at distance in the grove;

No cloud should ever dim thy sky,

No thorns along thy pathway lie,

But all be beauty, peace and love.

Indulgent Time should never bring

To thee one blight upon his wing,

So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly;

And death itself should but be felt

Like that of daybeams, when they melt,

Bright to the last, in evening's sky!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA,

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER.

Though sorrow long has worn my heart;

Though every day I've, counted o'er

Hath brought a new and, quickening smart

To wounds that rankled fresh before;

Though in my earliest life bereft

Of tender links by nature tied;

Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;

Though friends betrayed and foes belied;

I still had hopes—for hope will stay

After the sunset of delight;

So like the star which ushers day,

We scarce can think it heralds night!—

I hoped that, after all its strife,

My weary heart at length should rest.

And, feinting from the waves of life,

Find harbor in a brother's breast.

That brother's breast was warm with truth,

Was bright with honor's purest ray;

He was the dearest, gentlest youth—

Ah, why then was he torn away?

He should have stayed, have lingered here

To soothe his Julia's every woe;

He should have chased each bitter tear,

And not have caused those tears to flow.

We saw within his soul expand

The fruits of genius, nurst by taste;

While Science, with a fostering hand,

Upon his brow her chaplet placed.

We saw, by bright degrees, his mind

Grow rich in all that makes men dear;

Enlightened, social, and refined,

In friendship firm, in love sincere.

Such was the youth we loved so well,

And such the hopes that fate denied;—

We loved, but ah! could scarcely tell

How deep, how dearly, till he died!

Close as the fondest links could strain,

Twined with my very heart he grew;

And by that fate which breaks the chain,

The heart is almost broken too.

TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS……,

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE

IMPROMPTU.

—Ego Pars—VIRG.

In wedlock a species of lottery lies,

Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;

But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,

Should so long have remained in the wheel?

If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,

To me such a ticket should roll,

A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;

For what could I do with the whole?

A DREAM.

I thought this heart enkindled lay

On Cupid's burning shrine:

I thought he stole thy heart away,

And placed it near to mine.

I saw thy heart begin to melt,

Like ice before the sun;

Till both a glow congenial felt,

And mingled into one!

TO …….

With all my soul, then, let us part,

Since both are anxious to be free;

And I will sand you home your heart,

If you will send mine back to me.

We've had some happy hours together,

But joy must often change its wing;

And spring would be but gloomy weather,

If we had nothing else but spring.

'Tis not that I expect to find

A more devoted, fond and true one,

With rosier cheek or sweeter mind—

Enough for me that she's a new one.

Thus let us leave the bower of love,

Where we have loitered long in bliss;

And you may down that pathway rove,

While I shall take my way through this.

ANACREONTIC.

"She never looked so kind before—

"Yet why the wanton's smile recall?

"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,

"'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"

Thus I said and, sighing drained

The cup which she so late had tasted;

Upon whose rim still fresh remained

The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.

I took the harp and would have sung

As if 'twere not of her I sang;

But still the notes on Lamia hung—

On whom but Lamia could they hang?

Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,

Like diamonds in some eastern river;

That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,

A world for every kiss I'd give her.

That frame so delicate, yet warmed

With flushes of love's genial hue;

A mould transparent, as if formed

To let the spirit's light shine through.

Of these I sung, and notes and words

Were sweet, as if the very air

From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords,

And Lamia's voice still warbled there!

But when, alas, I turned the theme,

And when of vows and oaths I spoke,

Of truth and hope's seducing dream—

The chord beneath my finger broke.

False harp! false woman! such, oh, such

Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing;

Any hand, whate'er its touch,

Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.

And when that thrill is most awake,

And when you think Heaven's joys await you,

The nymph will change, the chord will break—

Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!

TO JULIA.

I saw the peasant's hand unkind

From yonder oak the ivy sever;

They seemed in very being twined;

Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy shines:

Torn from its dear and only stay,

In drooping widowhood it pines,

And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,

Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:

Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,

While mine, deserted, droops and dies!

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

Oh, lost, forever lost—no more

Shall Vesper light our dewy way

Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,

To hymn the fading fires of day;

No more to Tempe's distant vale

In holy musings shall we roam,

Through summer's glow and winter's gale,

To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1]

'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,

By nature warmed and led by thee,

In every breeze was taught to feel

The breathings of a Deity.

Guide of my heart! still hovering round.

Thy looks, thy words are still my own—

I see thee raising from the ground

Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.

And hear thee say, "This humble bough

Was planted for a doom divine;

And, though it droop in languor now,

Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!"

"Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,

"Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,

"A viewless hand shall cull it thence

"To bloom immortal in the skies!"

All that the young should feel and know

By thee was taught so sweetly well,

Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,

And all was brightness where they fell!

Fond soother of my infant tear,

Fond sharer of my infant joy,

Is not thy shade still lingering here?

Am I not still thy soul's employ?

Oh yes—and, as in former days,

When, meeting on the sacred mount,

Our nymphs awaked their choral lays,

And danced around Cassotis' fount;

As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,

That mine should be the simplest mien,

My lyre and voice the sweetest there,

My foot the lightest o'er the green:

So still, each look and step to mould,

Thy guardian care is round me spread,

Arranging every snowy fold

And guiding every mazy tread.

And, when I lead the hymning choir,

Thy spirit still, unseen and free,

Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.

Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave

Shall never drop its silvery tear

Upon so pure, so blest a grave,

To memory so entirely dear!

[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute."

SYMPATHY.

TO JULIA.

—sine me sit nulla Venus.

SULPICIA.

Our hearts, my love, were formed to be

The genuine twins of Sympathy,

They live with one sensation;

In joy or grief, but most in love,

Like chords in unison they move,

And thrill with like vibration.

How oft I've beard thee fondly say,

Thy vital pulse shall cease to play

When mine no more is moving;

Since, now, to feel a joy alone

Were worse to thee than feeling none,

So twined are we in loving!

THE TEAR.

On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,

And chilly was the midnight gloom,

When by the damp grave Ellen wept—

Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!

A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,

Congealed it as it flowed away:

All night it lay an ice-drop there,

At morn it glittered in the ray.

An angel, wandering from her sphere,

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,

To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear

And hung it on her diadem!

THE SNAKE.

My love and I, the other day,

Within a myrtle arbor lay,

When near us, from a rosy bed,

A little Snake put forth its head.

"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes—

"Yonder the fatal emblem lies!

"Who could expect such hidden harm

"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"

Never did grave remark occur

Less à-propos than this from her.

I rose to kill the snake, but she,

Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.

"No," said the maiden—and, alas,

Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it—

"Long as the snake is in the grass,

"One may, perhaps, have cause to dread it:

"But, when its wicked eyes appear,

"And when we know for what they wink so,

"One must be very simple, dear,

"To let it wound one—don't you think so?"

TO ROSA.

Is the song of Rosa mute?

Once such lays inspired her lute!

Never doth a sweeter song

Steal the breezy lyre along,

When the wind, in odors dying,

Woos it with enamor'd sighing.

Is my Rosa's lute unstrung?

Once a tale of peace it sung

To her lover's throbbing breast—

Then was he divinely blest!

Ah! but Rosa loves no more,

Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;

And her lute neglected lies;

And her boy forgotten sighs.

Silent lute—forgotten lover—

Rosa's love and song are over!

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

Sic juvat perire.

When wearied wretches sink to sleep,

How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!

How sweet is death to those who weep,

To those who weep and long to die!

Saw you the soft and grassy bed,

Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?

'Tis there I wish to lay my head,

'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.

Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,—

None but the dews at twilight given!

Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,—

None but the whispering winds of heaven!

LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.

SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.

Still the question I must parry,

Still a wayward truant prove:

Where I love, I must not marry;

Where I marry, can not love.

Were she fairest of creation,

With the least presuming mind;

Learned without affectation;

Not deceitful, yet refined;

Wise enough, but never rigid;

Gay, but not too lightly free;

Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid:

Fond, yet satisfied with me:

Were she all this ten times over,

All that heaven to earth allows.

I should be too much her lover

Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving;

Summer garments suit him best;

Bliss itself is not worth having,

If we're by compulsion blest.

ANACREONTIC.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank,

I nothing did but drink and fill;

The bowl by turns was bright and blank,

'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint

Thy image in this ample cup,

That I might see the dimpled saint,

To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip

Now blushes through the wave at me;

Every roseate drop I sip

Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this;

For, ever when the draught I drain,

Thy lip invites another kiss,

And—in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,

And may that eyelid never shine

Beneath a darker, bitterer tear

Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

THE SURPRISE.

Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,

That from this hour I shall not love thee more.—

"What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?"

Because I can not love thee more

—than now!

TO MISS …….

ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,

And in thy breath his pinion dips,

Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,

And faints upon thy sighing lips:

I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep

That used to shade thy looks of light;

And why those eyes their vigil keep

When other suns are sunk in night?

And I will say—her angel breast

Has never throbbed with guilty sting;

Her bosom is the sweetest nest

Where Slumber could repose his wing!

And I will say—her cheeks that flush,

Like vernal roses in the sun,

Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,

Except for what her eyes have done!

Then tell me, why, thou child of air!

Does slumber from her eyelids rove?

What is her heart's impassioned care?

Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis love.

THE WONDER.

Come, tell me where the maid is found.

Whose heart can love without deceit,

And I will range the world around,

To sigh one moment at her feet.

Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,

What air receives her blessed sigh,

A pilgrimage of years I'll roam

To catch one sparkle of her eye!

And if her cheek be smooth and bright,

While truth within her bosom lies,

I'll gaze upon her morn and night,

Till my heart leave me through my eyes.

Show me on earth a thing so rare,

I'll own all miracles are true;

To make one maid sincere and fair,

Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!

LYING.

Che con le lor bugie pajon divini.

MAURO D'ARCANO.

I do confess, in many a sigh,

My lips have breathed you many a lie;

And who, with such delights in view,

Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay,—look not thus, with brow reproving;

Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.

If half we tell the girls were true,

If half we swear to think and do,

Were aught but lying's bright illusion,

This world would be in strange confusion.

If ladies' eyes were, every one,

As lovers swear, a radiant sun,

Astronomy must leave the skies,

To learn her lore in ladies' eyes.

Oh, no—believe me, lovely girl,

When nature turns your teeth to pearl,

Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,

Your amber locks to golden wire,

Then, only then can Heaven decree,

That you should live for only me,

Or I for you, as night and morn,

We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,

For once I'll tell you truth, my dear.

Whenever you may chance to meet

Some loving youth, whose love is sweet,

Long as you're false and he believes you,

Long as you trust and he deceives you,

So long the blissful bond endures,

And while he lies, his heart is yours:

But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth

The instant that he tells you truth.

ANACREONTIC.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,

'Twill chase that pensive tear;

'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,

But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

Like her delusive beam,

'Twill steal away thy mind:

But, truer than love's dream,

It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;

These flowers were culled at noon;—

Like woman's love the rose will fade,

But, ah! not half so soon.

For though the flower's decayed,

Its fragrance is not o'er;

But once when love's betrayed,

Its sweet life blooms no more.

THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS[1]

TO A LAMP WHICH HAD BEEN GIVEN HIM BY LAIS.

Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.

MARTIAL, lib. xiv. epig. 89.

"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said),

"The faithful Lamp that, many a night,

"Beside thy Lais' lonely bed?

"Has kept its little watch of light.

"Full often has it seen her weep,

"And fix her eye upon its flame.

"Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,

"Repeating her beloved's name.

"Then love the Lamp—'twill often lead

"Thy step through learning's sacred way;

"And when those studious eyes shall read,

"At midnight, by its lonely ray,

"Of things sublime, of nature's birth,

"Of all that's bright in heaven or earth,

Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given,

"Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"

Yes—dearest Lamp, by every charm

On which thy midnight beam has hung;

The head reclined, the graceful arm

Across the brow of ivory flung;

The heaving bosom, partly hid,

The severed lips unconscious sighs,

The fringe that from the half-shut lid

Adown the cheek of roses lies;

By these, by all that bloom untold,

And long as all shall charm my heart,

I'll love my little Lamp of gold—

My Lamp and I shall never part.

And often, as she smiling said,

In fancy's hour thy gentle rays

Shall guide my visionary tread

Through poesy's enchanting maze.

Thy flame shall light the page refined,

Where still we catch the Chian's breath,

Where still the bard though cold in death,

Has left his soul unquenched behind.

Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,

Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades,

To whom the nightly warbling Nine

A wand of inspiration gave,

Plucked from the greenest tree, that shades

The crystal of Castalia's wave.

Then, turning to a purer lore,

We'll cull the sage's deep-hid store,

From Science steal her golden clue,

And every mystic path pursue,

Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes,

Through labyrinths of wonder flies.

'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know

How fleeting is this world below,

Where all that meets the morning light,

Is changed before the fall of night!

I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,

"Swift, swift the tide of being runs,

"And Time, who bids thy flame expire,

"Will also quench yon heaven of suns."

Oh, then if earth's united power

Can never chain one feathery hour;

If every print we leave to-day

To-morrow's wave will sweep away;

Who pauses to inquire of heaven

Why were the fleeting treasures given,

The sunny days, the shady nights,

And all their brief but dear delights,

Which heaven has made for man to use,

And man should think it crime to lose?

Who that has culled a fresh-blown rose

Will ask it why it breathes and glows,

Unmindful of the blushing ray,

In which it shines its soul away;

Unmindful of the scented sigh,

With which it dies and loves to die.

Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2]

One precious moment given to thee—

Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth

The sage's immortality.

Then far be all the wisdom hence,

That would our joys one hour delay!

Alas, the feast of soul and sense

Love calls us to in youth's bright day,

If not soon tasted, fleets away.

Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shed

Thy splendor on a lifeless page;—

Whate'er my blushing Lais said

Of thoughtful lore and studies sage,

'Twas mockery all—her glance of joy

Told me thy dearest, best employ.

And, soon, as night shall close the eye

Of heaven's young wanderer in the west;

When seers are gazing on the sky,

To find their future orbs of rest;

Then shall I take my trembling way,

Unseen but to those worlds above,

And, led by thy mysterious ray,

Steal to the night-bower of my love.

[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose.

[2] Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.

TO MRS,—-.

ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS.

Mon ame sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière.

Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit;

Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,

Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit.

VOITURE.

How heavenly was the poet's doom,

To breathe his spirit through a kiss:

And lose within so sweet a tomb

The trembling messenger of bliss!

And, sure his soul returned to feel

That it again could ravished be;

For in the kiss that thou didst steal,

His life and soul have fled to thee.

RONDEAU.

"Good night! good night!"—And is it so?

And must I from my Rosa go?

Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more,

And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,

Till the first glance of dawning light

Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."

And still "Good night," my Rosa, say—

But whisper still, "A minute stay;"

And I will stay, and every minute

Shall have an age of transport in it;

Till Time himself shall stay his flight,

To listen to our sweet "Good night."

"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh,

And tell me it is time to fly:

And I will vow, will swear to go,

While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!"

Till slumber seal our weary sight—

And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"

SONG.

Why does azure deck the sky?

'Tis to be like thy looks of blue.

Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue.

All that's fair, by Love's decree,

Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair!

Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair!

All that's bright, by Love's decree,

Has been made resembling thee!

Why are nature's beauties felt?

Oh! 'tis thine in her we see!

Why has music power to melt?

Oh! because it speaks like thee.

All that's sweet, by Love's decree,

Has been made resembling thee!

TO ROSA.

Like one who trusts to summer skies,

And puts his little bark to sea,

Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,

Consigns his simple heart to thee.

For fickle is the summer wind,

And sadly may the bark be tost;

For thou art sure to change thy mind,

And then the wretched heart is lost!

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.

This tribute's from a wretched elf,

Who hails thee, emblem of himself.

The book of life, which I have traced,

Has been, like thee, a motley waste

Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,

One folly bringing hundreds more.

Some have indeed been writ so neat,

In characters so fair, so sweet,

That those who judge not too severely,

Have said they loved such follies dearly!

Yet still, O book! the allusion stands;

For these were penned by female hands:

The rest—alas! I own the truth—

Have all been scribbled so uncouth

That Prudence, with a withering look,

Disdainful, flings away the book.

Like thine, its pages here and there

Have oft been stained with blots of care;

And sometimes hours of peace, I own,

Upon some fairer leaves have shone,

White as the snowings of that heaven

By which those hours of peace were given;

But now no longer—such, oh, such

The blast of Disappointment's touch!—

No longer now those hours appear;

Each leaf is sullied by a tear:

Blank, blank is every page with care,

Not even a folly brightens there.

Will they yet brighten?—never, never!

Then shut the book, O God, for ever!

TO ROSA.

Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears

At a meeting of rapture like this,

When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years

Have been paid by one moment of bliss?

Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,

Which dwells on her memory yet?

Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,

From the warmth of the sun that has set?

Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,

That smile, which is loveliest then;

And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,

Thou shalt weep them again and again.

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,

When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;

When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,

And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

But, when the foe returns,

Again the hero burns;

High flames the sword in his hand once more:

The clang of mingling arms

Is then the sound that charms,

And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;—

Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over—

When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom—

When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,

And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,

Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest,

When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining,

And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

But, when the battle came,

The hero's eye breathed flame:

Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;

While, to his waking ear,

No other sounds were dear

But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.

But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,

And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest;

When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,

And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.

Fill high the cup with liquid flame,

And speak my Heliodora's name.

Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,

And let the sound my lips adore,

Live in the breeze, till every tone,

And word, and breath, speaks her alone.

Give me the wreath that withers there,

It was but last delicious night,

It circled her luxuriant hair,

And caught her eyes' reflected light.

Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow,

'Tis all of her that's left me now.

And see—each rosebud drops a tear,

To find the nymph no longer here—

No longer, where such heavenly charms

As hers should be—within these arms.

SONG.

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me,

Thou wilt never find any sincerer;

I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,

I can never meet any that's dearer.

Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,

That our loves will be censured by many;

All, all have their follies, and who will deny

That ours is the sweetest of any?

When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet,

Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?—

Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?—

No, rather 'twas heaven that did it.

So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip,

So little of wrong is there in it,

That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,

And I'd kiss them away in a minute.

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,

From a world which I know thou despisest;

And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed!

As e'er on the couch of the wisest.

And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,

And thou, pretty innocent, fearest,

I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven,

'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.

And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love,

Looking back on the scene of our errors,

A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above,

And Death be disarmed of his terrors,

And each to the other embracing will say,

"Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven."

Thy last fading glance will illumine the way,

And a kiss be our passport to heaven!

THE RESEMBLANCE.

—— vo cercand' io,

Donna quant' e possibile in altrui

La desiata vostra forma vera.

PETRARC, Sonett. 14.

Yes, if 'twere any common love,

That led my pliant heart astray,

I grant, there's not a power above

Could wipe the faithless crime away.

But 'twas my doom to err with one

In every look so like to thee

That, underneath yon blessed sun

So fair there are but thou and she

Both born of beauty, at a birth,

She held with thine a kindred sway,

And wore the only shape on earth

That could have lured my soul to stray.

Then blame me not, if false I be,

'Twas love that waked the fond excess;

My heart had been more true to thee,

Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;

And every smile on my cheek should turn

To tears when thou art nigh.

But, between love, and wine, and sleep,

So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep

Is more than my heart can give.

Then bid me not to despair and pine,

Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,

Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,

Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;

But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,

If dimmed too often with sighs.

They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear;

And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beam clear.

Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,

Fanny, dearest—the hope is vain;

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,

I shall never attempt it with rain.

THE RING.

TO …. ….

No—Lady! Lady! keep the ring:

Oh! think, how many a future year,

Of placid smile and downy wing,

May sleep within its holy sphere.

Do not disturb their tranquil dream,

Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;

Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,

To bless the bond itself hath formed.

But then, that eye, that burning eye,—

Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,

If heaven can ever bless the tie

Where love inwreaths no genial flower?

Away, away, bewildering look,

Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;

Go—hie thee to the sage's book,

And learn from him to feel no more.

I cannot warn thee: every touch,

That brings my pulses close to thine,

Tells me I want thy aid as much—

Even more, alas, than thou dost mine.

Yet, stay,—one hope, one effort yet—

A moment turn those eyes a way,

And let me, if I can, forget

The light that leads my soul astray.

Thou sayest, that we were born to meet,

That our hearts bear one common seal;—

Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit

Can seem to sigh and feign to feel.

When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought,

Like daybeams through the morning air,

Hath gradual stole, and I have caught

The feeling ere it kindled there;

The sympathy I then betrayed,

Perhaps was but the child of art,

The guile of one, who long hath played

With all these wily nets of heart.

Oh! thine is not my earliest vow;

Though few the years I yet have told,

Canst thou believe I've lived till now,

With loveless heart or senses cold?

No—other nymphs to joy and pain

This wild and wandering heart hath moved;

With some it sported, wild and vain,

While some it dearly, truly, loved.

The cheek to thine I fondly lay,

To theirs hath been as fondly laid;

The words to thee I warmly say,

To them have been as warmly said.

Then, scorn at once a worthless heart,

Worthless alike, or fixt or free;

Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,

And—love not me, oh love not me.

Enough—now, turn thine eyes again;

What, still that look and still that sigh!

Dost thou not feel my counsel then?

Oh! no, beloved,—nor do I.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,

That you're not a true daughter of ether and light,

Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms

That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;

That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye

As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.

But I will not believe them—no, Science, to you

I have long bid a last and a careless adieu:

Still flying from Nature to study her laws,

And dulling delight by exploring its cause,

You forget how superior, for mortals below,

Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.

Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,

Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet;

How rays are confused, or how particles fly

Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh;

Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,

Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?

As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love,

You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove

By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines,

When the star of the west on his solitude shines,

And the magical fingers of fancy have hung

Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.

Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone

Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone;

Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,

His song to the world let him utter unseen,

And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,

Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.

Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love,

In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,

To have you thus ever invisibly nigh,

Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!

Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,

I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,

And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew,

To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.

Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine,

We shall hold in the air a communion divine,

As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell

In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.

And oft, at those lingering moments of night,

When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight,

You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,

Such as angel to angel might whisper above.

Sweet spirit!—and then, could you borrow the tone

Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known,

The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined

With her being for ever my heart and my mind,

Though lonely and far from the light of her smile,

An exile, and weary and hopeless the while,

Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear.

I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near;

That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,

And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek,

And tells me the night shall go rapidly by,

For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.

Fair spirit! if such be your magical power,

It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour;

And, let fortune's realities frown as they will,

Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.

THE RING[1]

A TALE

Annulus ille viri.

OVID. "Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15.

The happy day at length arrived

When Rupert was to wed

The fairest maid in Saxony,

And take her to his bed.

As soon as morn was in the sky,

The feast and sports began;

The men admired the happy maid,

The maids the happy man.

In many a sweet device of mirth

The day was past along;

And some the featly dance amused,

And some the dulcet song.

The younger maids with Isabel

Disported through the bowers,

And decked her robe, and crowned her head

With motley bridal flowers.

The matrons all in rich attire,

Within the castle walls,

Sat listening to the choral strains

That echoed, through the halls.

Young Rupert and his friends repaired

Unto a spacious court,

To strike the bounding tennis-ball

In feat and manly sport.

The bridegroom on his finger wore

The wedding-ring so bright,

Which was to grace the lily hand

Of Isabel that night.

And fearing he might break the gem,

Or lose it in the play,

Hie looked around the court, to see

Where he the ring might lay.

Now, in the court a statue stood,

Which there full long had been;

It might a Heathen goddess be,

Or else, a Heathen queen.

Upon its marble finger then

He tried the ring to fit;

And, thinking it was safest there,

Thereon he fastened it.

And now the tennis sports went on,

Till they were wearied all,

And messengers announced to them

Their dinner in the hall,

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring

Unto the statue went;

But, oh, how shocked was he to find

The marble finger bent!

The hand was closed upon the ring

With firm and mighty clasp;

In vain he tried and tried and tried,

He could not loose the grasp!

Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind—

As well his mind might be;

"I'll come," quoth he, "at night again,

"When none are here to see."

He went unto the feast, and much

He thought upon his ring;

And marvelled sorely what could mean

So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court

He hied without delay,

Resolved to break the marble hand

And force the ring away.

But, mark a stranger wonder still—

The ring was there no more

And yet the marble hand ungrasped,

And open as before!

He searched the base, and all the court,

But nothing could he find;

Then to the castle hied he back

With sore bewildered mind.

Within he found them all in mirth,

The night in dancing flew:

The youth another ring procured,

And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has joined their hands,

The hours of love advance:

Rupert almost forgets to think

Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel

In blushing sweetness lay,

Like flowers, half-opened by the

dawn,

And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side,

In youthful beauty glows,

Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast

His beams upon a rose.

And here my song would leave them both,

Nor let the rest be told,

If 'twere not for the horrid tale

It yet has to unfold.

Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him

A death cold carcass found;

He saw it not, but thought he felt

Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then returned,

But found the phantom still;

In vain he shrunk, it clipt him

round,

With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips

A kiss of horror gave;

'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults,

Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert!—wild and loud

Then cried he to his wife,

"Oh! save me from this horrid fiend,

"My Isabel! my life!"

But Isabel had nothing seen,

She looked around in vain;

And much she mourned the mad conceit

That racked her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible

These words to Rupert came:

(Oh God! while he did hear the words

What terrors shook his frame!)

"Husband, husband, I've the ring

"Thou gavest to-day to me;

"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,

"As I am wed to thee!"

And all the night the demon lay

Cold-chilling by his side,

And strained him with such deadly grasp,

He thought he should have died.

But when the dawn of day was near,

The horrid phantom fled,

And left the affrighted youth to weep

By Isabel in bed.

And all that day a gloomy cloud

Was seen on Rupert's brows;

Fair Isabel was likewise sad,

But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought

Of coming night with fear:

Alas, that he should dread to view

The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived,

Again their couch they prest;

Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,

And looked for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again

The fiend was at his side,

And, as it strained him in its grasp,

With howl exulting cried:—

"Husband, husband, I've the ring,

"The ring thou gavest to me;

"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,

"As I am wed to thee!",

In agony of wild despair,

He started from the bed;

And thus to his bewildered wife

The trembling Rupert said;

"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see

"A shape of horrors here,

"That strains me to its deadly kiss,

"And keeps me from my dear?"

"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I

"No shape of horrors see;

"And much I mourn the fantasy

"That keeps my dear from me."

This night, just like the night before,

In terrors past away.

Nor did the demon vanish thence

Before the dawn of day.

Said Rupert then, "My Isabel,

"Dear partner of my woe.

"To Father Austin's holy cave

"This instant will I go."

Now Austin was a reverend man,

Who acted wonders maint—

Whom all the country round believed

A devil or a saint!

To Father Austin's holy cave

Then Rupert straightway went;

And told him all, and asked him how

These horrors to prevent.

The father heard the youth, and then

Retired awhile to pray:

And, having prayed for half an hour

Thus to the youth did say:

"There is a place where four roads meet,

"Which I will tell to thee;

"Be there this eve, at fall of night,

"And list what thou shalt see.

"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass

"In strange disordered crowd,

"Travelling by torchlight through the roads,

"With noises strange and loud.

"And one that's high above the rest,

"Terrific towering o'er,

"Will make thee know him at a glance,

"So I need say no more.

"To him from me these tablets give,

"They'll quick be understood;

"Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,

"I've scrawled them with my blood!"

The night-fall came, and Rupert all

In pale amazement went

To where the cross-roads met, as he

Was by the Father sent.

And lo! a group of figures came

In strange disordered crowd.

Travelling by torchlight through the roads,

With noises strange and loud.

And, as the gloomy train advanced,

Rupert beheld from far

A female form of wanton mien

High seated on a car.

And Rupert, as he gazed upon

The loosely-vested dame,

Thought of the marble statue's look,

For hers was just the same.

Behind her walked a hideous form,

With eyeballs flashing death;

Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smoke

Came burning in his breath.

He seemed the first of all the crowd,

Terrific towering o'er;

"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he,

"And I need ask no more."

Then slow he went, and to this fiend

The tablets trembling gave,

Who looked and read them with a yell

That would disturb the grave.

And when he saw the blood-scrawled name,

His eyes with fury shine;

"I thought," cries he, "his time was out,

"But he must soon be mine!"

Then darting at the youth a look

Which rent his soul with fear,

He went unto the female fiend,

And whispered in her ear.

The female fiend no sooner heard

Than, with reluctant look,

The very ring that Rupert lost,

She from her finger took.

And, giving it unto the youth,

With eyes that breathed of hell,

She said, in that tremendous voice,

Which he remembered well:

"In Austin's name take back the ring,

"The ring thou gavest to me;

"And thou'rt to me no longer wed,

"Nor longer I to thee."

He took the ring, the rabble past.

He home returned again;

His wife was then the happiest fair,

The happiest he of men.

[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope—though the manner of it leads me to doubt—that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the "speciosa miracula" of true poetic imagination.

TO …. ….

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh!

Let weeping angels View it;

Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.

And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;

The shining pearls around it

Are tears, that fell from Virtue there,

The hour when Love unbound it.

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

Here is one leaf reserved for me,

From all thy sweet memorials free;

And here my simple song might tell

The feelings thou must guess so well.

But could I thus, within thy mind,

One little vacant corner find,

Where no impression yet is seen,

Where no memorial yet hath been,

Oh! it should be my sweetest care

To write my name for ever there!

TO MRS. BL——.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

They say that Love had once a book

(The urchin likes to copy you),

Where, all who came, the pencil took,

And wrote, like us, a line or two.

'Twas Innocence, the maid divine,

Who kept this volume bright and fair.

And saw that no unhallowed line

Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore,

And every leaf she turned was still

More bright than that she turned before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,

How light the magic pencil ran!

Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropt from Grief,

And Jealousy would, now and then,

Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,

Which Love had still to smooth again.

But, ah! there came a blooming boy,

Who often turned the pages o'er,

And wrote therein such words of joy,

That all who read them sighed for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look,

Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,

Would tremble for her spotless book.

For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,

With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright;

And much she feared lest, mantling o'er,

Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanced, one luckless night,

The urchin let that goblet fall

O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touched with shame, he tried

To wash those fatal stains away;

Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,

The leaves grew darker everyday.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,

And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced,

And Love himself now scarcely knew

What Love himself so lately traced.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?)

And Love, while many a tear he shed,

Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains.

Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure,

And though it bears some earthly stains,

Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,

And oft, by this memorial aided,

Brings back the pages now no more,

And thinks of lines that long have faded.

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated;

And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related.

TO CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

Concealed within the shady wood

A mother left her sleeping child,

And flew, to cull her rustic food,

The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise,

The mother roams, astray and weeping;

Far from the weak appealing cries

Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,

And gentler blows the night wind's breath;

Yet no—'tis gone—the storms are keen,

The infant may be chilled to death!

Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded,

His little eyes lie cold and still;—

And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded,

Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell,

When, fearful even thy hand to touch,

I mutely asked those eyes to tell

If parting pained thee half so much:

I thought,—and, oh! forgive the thought,

For none was e'er by love inspired

Whom fancy had not also taught

To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind,

Though yet to that sweet mind unknown,

I left one infant wish behind,

One feeling, which I called my own.

Oh blest! though but in fancy blest,

How did I ask of Pity's care,

To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,

The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure,

And many an hour of sorrow numbering,

I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,

I left within thy bosom slumbering.

Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it,

Haply, it yet a throb may give—

Yet, no—perhaps, a doubt has killed it;

Say, dearest—does the feeling live?

TO CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

When midnight came to close the year,

We sighed to think it thus should take

The hours it gave us—hours as dear

As sympathy and love could make

Their blessed moments,—every sun

Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh

Which came a new year's light to shed,

That smile we caught from eye to eye

Told us, those moments were not fled:

Oh, no,—we felt, some future sun

Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side,

From happy years to happier glide;

And still thus may the passing sigh

We give to hours, that vanish o'er us,

Be followed by the smiling eye,

That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!

TO ……., 1801.

To be the theme of every hour

The heart devotes to Fancy's power,

When her prompt magic fills the mind

With friends and joys we've left behind,

And joys return and friends are near,

And all are welcomed with a tear:—

In the mind's purest seat to dwell,

To be remembered oft and well

By one whose heart, though vain and wild,

By passion led, by youth beguiled,

Can proudly still aspire to be

All that may yet win smiles from thee:—

If thus to live in every part

Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart;

If thus to be its sole employ

Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,

Believe it. Mary,—oh! believe

A tongue that never can deceive,

Though, erring, it too oft betray

Even more than Love should dare to say,—

In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour,

In crowded hall or lonely bower,

The business of my life shall be,

For ever to remember thee.

And though that heart be dead to mine,

Since Love is life and wakes not thine,

I'll take thy image, as the form

Of one whom Love had failed to warm,

Which, though it yield no answering thrill,

Is not less dear, is worshipt still—

I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,

The bright, cold burden of my way.

To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,

My heart shall be its lasting tomb,

And Memory, with embalming care,

Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.

THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Ad harmoniam canere mundum.

CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.

There lies a shell beneath the waves,

In many a hollow winding wreathed,

Such as of old

Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;

This magic shell,

From the white bosom of a syren fell,

As once she wandered by the tide that laves

Sicilia's sands of gold.

It bears

Upon its shining side the mystic notes

Of those entrancing airs,[1]

The genii of the deep were wont to swell,

When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!

Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;

And, if the power

Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

Go, bring the bright shell to my bower,

And I will fold thee in such downy dreams

As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere,

When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear![2]

And thou shalt own,

That, through the circle of creation's zone,

Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams;

From the pellucid tides,[3] that whirl

The planets through their maze of song,

To the small rill, that weeps along

Murmuring o'er beds of pearl;

From the rich sigh

Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,[4]

To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields

On Afric's burning fields;[5]

Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine

Is mine!

That I respire in all and all in me,

One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony.

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell!

Many a star has ceased to burn,[6]

Many a tear has Saturn's urn

O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,

Since thy aerial spell

Hath in the waters slept.

Now blest I'll fly

With the bright treasure to my choral sky,

Where she, who waked its early swell,

The Syren of the heavenly choir.

Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre;

Or guides around the burning pole

The winged chariot of some blissful soul:

While thou—

Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee!

Beneath Hispania's sun,

Thou'll see a streamlet run,

Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7]

And there, when night-winds down the current die,

Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh:

A liquid chord is every wave that flows,

An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.

There, by that wondrous stream,

Go, lay thy languid brow,

And I will send thee such a godlike dream,

As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8]

Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre,

Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9]

And, looking to the orient dim,

Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount,

From which his soul had drunk its fire.

Oh think what visions, in that lonely hour,

Stole o'er his musing breast;

What pious ecstasy

Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power,

Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest

The various forms of bright divinity!

Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,

Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10]

Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?

When, free

From every earthly chain,

From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain,

His spirit flew through fields above,

Drank at the source of nature's fontal number,

And saw, in mystic choir, around him move

The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy!

Such dreams, so heavenly bright,

I swear

By the great diadem that twines my hair,

And by the seven gems that sparkle there,

Mingling their beams

In a soft iris of harmonious light,

Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.

* * * * *

I found her not—the chamber seemed

Like some divinely haunted place

Where fairy forms had lately beamed,

And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt as if her lips had shed

A sigh around her, ere she fled,

Which hung, as on a melting lute,

When all the silver chords are mute,

There lingers still a trembling breath

After the note's luxurious death,

A shade of song, a spirit air

Of melodies which had been there.

I saw the veil, which, all the day,

Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;

I saw the couch, where late she lay

In languor of divine repose;

And I could trace the hallowed print

Her limbs had left, as pure and warm,

As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,

And Love himself had stamped the form.

Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?

In pity fly not thus from me;

Thou art my life, my essence now,

And my soul dies of wanting thee.

[1] In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curaçoa, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts.

[2] According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord.

[3] Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes.

[4] Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.

[5] In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches, when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds.

[6] Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.

[7] This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius.

[8] Orpheus.

[9] Eratosthenes, in mentioning the extreme veneration of Orpheus for Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pangaean mountain at daybreak, and there wait the rising of the sun, that he might be the first to hail its beams.

[10] Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his philosophy.

TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON READING HER "PSYCHE."

Tell me the witching tale again,

For never has my heart or ear

Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,

So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.

Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame,

When the high heaven itself was thine;

When piety confest the flame,

And even thy errors were divine;

Did ever Muse's hand, so fair,

A glory round thy temple spread?

Did ever lip's ambrosial air

Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed?

One maid there was, who round her lyre

The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;—

But all her sighs were sighs of fire,

The myrtle withered as she breathed.

Oh! you that love's celestial dream,

In all its purity, would know,

Let not the senses' ardent beam

Too strongly through the vision glow.

Love safest lies, concealed in night,

The night where heaven has bid him lie;

Oh! shed not there unhallowed light,

Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly.

Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour,

Through many a wild and magic waste,

To the fair fount and blissful bower

Have I, in dreams, thy light foot traced!

Where'er thy joys are numbered now,

Beneath whatever shades of rest,

The Genius of the starry brow

Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast;

Whether above the horizon dim,

Along whose verge our spirits stray,—

Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim,

Half brightened by the upper ray,[1]—

Thou dwellest in a world, all light,

Or, lingering here, doth love to be,

To other souls, the guardian bright

That Love was, through this gloom, to thee;

Still be the song to Psyche dear,

The song, whose gentle voice was given

To be, on earth, to mortal ear,

An echo of her own, in heaven.

[1] By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul between sensible and intellectual existence.

FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.[1]

Cum digno digna…..

SULPICIA.

"Who is the maid, with golden hair,

"With eye of fire, and foot of air,

"Whose harp around my altar swells,

"The sweetest of a thousand shells?"

'Twas thus the deity, who treads

The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds

Day from his eyelids—thus he spoke,

As through my cell his glories broke.

Aphelia is the Delphic fair[2]

With eyes of fire and golden hair,

Aphelia's are the airy feet.

And hers the harp divinely sweet;

For foot so light has never trod

The laurelled caverns of the god.

Nor harp so soft hath ever given

A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.

"Then tell the virgin to unfold,

"In looser pomp, her locks of gold,

"And bid those eyes more fondly shine

"To welcome down a Spouse Divine;

"Since He, who lights the path of years—

"Even from the fount of morning's tears

"To where his setting splendors burn

"Upon the western sea-maid's urn—

"Doth not, in all his course, behold

"Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold.

"Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride,

"His lip yet sparkling with the tide

"That mantles in Olympian bowls,—

"The nectar of eternal souls!

"For her, for her he quits the skies,

"And to her kiss from nectar flies.

"Oh, he would quit his star-throned height,

"And leave the world to pine for light,

"Might he but pass the hours of shade,

"Beside his peerless Delphic maid,

"She, more than earthly woman blest,

"He, more than god on woman's breast!"

There is a cave beneath the steep,[3]

Where living rills of crystal weep

O'er herbage of the loveliest hue

That ever spring begemmed with dew:

There oft the greensward's glossy tint

Is brightened by the recent print

Of many a faun and naiad's feet,—

Scarce touching earth, their step so fleet,—

That there, by moonlight's ray, had trod,

In light dance, o'er the verdant sod.

"There, there," the god, impassioned, said,

"Soon as the twilight tinge is fled,

"And the dim orb of lunar souls

"Along its shadowy pathway rolls—

"There shall we meet,—and not even He,

"The God who reigns immortally,

"Where Babel's turrets paint their pride

"Upon the Euphrates' shining tide,[4]—

"Not even when to his midnight loves

"In mystic majesty he moves,

"Lighted by many an odorous fire,

"And hymned by all Chaldaea's choir,—

"E'er yet, o'er mortal brow, let shine

"Such effluence of Love Divine,

"As shall to-night, blest maid, o'er thine."

Happy the maid, whom heaven allows

To break for heaven her virgin vows!

Happy the maid!—her robe of shame

Is whitened by a heavenly flame,

Whose glory, with a lingering trace,

Shines through and deifies her race!

[1] This poem, as well as a few others in the following volume, formed part of a work which I had early projected, and even announced to the public, but which, luckily, perhaps, for myself, had been interrupted by my visit to America in the year 1803.

[2] In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner, requires of Chiron some information respecting the fair Cyrene, the Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologizes for telling the God what his omniscience must know so perfectly already.

[3] The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The inhabitants of Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian nymphs, who were children of the river Plistus.

[4] The temple of Jupiter Belus, at Babylon; in one of whose towers there was a large chapel set apart for these celestial assignations. "No man is allowed to sleep here," says Herodotus; "but the apartment is appropriated to a female, whom, if we believe the Chaldaean priests, the deity selects from the women of the country, as his favorite."

FRAGMENT.

Pity me, love! I'll pity thee,

If thou indeed hast felt like me.

All, all my bosom's peace is o'er!

At night, which was my hour of calm,

When from the page of classic lore,

From the pure fount of ancient lay

My soul has drawn the placid balm,

Which charmed its every grief away,

Ah! there I find that balm no more.

Those spells, which make us oft forget

The fleeting troubles of the day,

In deeper sorrows only whet

The stings they cannot tear away.

When to my pillow racked I fly,

With weary sense and wakeful eye.

While my brain maddens, where, oh, where

Is that serene consoling prayer,

Which once has harbingered my rest,

When the still soothing voice of Heaven

Hath seemed to whisper in my breast,

"Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!"

No, though I still in semblance pray,

My thoughts are wandering far away,

And even the name of Deity

Is murmured out in sighs for thee.

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

How oft a cloud, with envious veil,

Obscures yon bashful light,

Which seems so modestly to steal

Along the waste of night!

'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs

Obscure with malice keen

Some timid heart, which only longs

To live and die unseen.

THE KISS.

Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,

On which my soul's beloved swore

That there should come a time of bliss,

When she would mock my hopes no more.

And fancy shall thy glow renew,

In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,

And none shall steal thy holy dew

Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite.

Sweet hours that are to make me blest,

Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal,

And let my love, my more than soul,

Come blushing to this ardent breast.

Then, while in every glance I drink

The rich overflowing of her mind,

Oh! let her all enamored sink

In sweet abandonment resigned,

Blushing for all our struggles past,

And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"

SONG.

Think on that look whose melting ray

For one sweet moment mixt with mine,

And for that moment seemed to say,

"I dare not, or I would be thine!"

Think on thy every smile and glance,

On all thou hast to charm and move;

And then forgive my bosom's trance,

Nor tell me it is sin to love.

Oh, not to love thee were the sin;

For sure, if Fate's decrees be done,

Thou, thou art destined still to win,

As I am destined to be won!

THE CATALOGUE.

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist,

One day she reclined on my breast;

"Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list

"Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."—

Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved,

My heart at the moment was free;

But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved,

And the number shall finish with thee.

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild

She taught me the way to be blest;

She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,

But Kitty could fancy the rest.

This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore

I have never forgot, I allow:

I have had it by rote very often before,

But never by heart until now.

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,

But my head was so full of romance

That I fancied her into some chivalry dame,

And I was her knight of the lance.

But Martha was not of this fanciful school,

And she laughed at her poor little knight;

While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool,

And I'll swear she was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks,

Again I was tempted to rove;

But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books

That she gave me more logic than love.

So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly

To those sweeter logicians in bliss,

Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,

And convince us at once with a kiss.

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,

But Susan was piously given;

And the worst of it was, we could never agree

On the road that was shortest to Heaven.

"Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth,

"What's devotion to thee or to me?

"I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,

"And believe that that heaven's in thee!"

IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

TO HIMSELF.

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.

Cease the sighing fool to play;

Cease to trifle life away;

Nor vainly think those joys thine own,

Which all, alas, have falsely flown.

What hours, Catullus, once were thine.

How fairly seemed thy day to shine,

When lightly thou didst fly to meet

The girl whose smile was then so sweet—

The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain

Than e'er thy heart can feel again.

Ye met—your souls seemed all in one,

Like tapers that commingling shone;

Thy heart was warm enough for both,

And hers, in truth, was nothing loath.

Such were the hours that once were thine;

But, ah! those hours no longer shine.

For now the nymph delights no more

In what she loved so much before;

And all Catullus now can do,

Is to be proud and frigid too;

Nor follow where the wanton flies,

Nor sue the bliss that she denies.

False maid! he bids farewell to thee,

To love, and all love's misery;

The heyday of his heart is o'er,

Nor will he court one favor more.

Fly, perjured girl!—but whither fly?

Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?

Who now will drink the syren tone,

Which tells him thou art all his own?

Oh, none:—and he who loved before

Can never, never love thee more.

* * * * *

"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!"

—ST. JOHN, chap. viii.

Oh woman, if through sinful wile

Thy soul hath strayed from honor's track,

'Tis mercy only can beguile,

By gentle ways, the wanderer back.

The stain that on thy virtue lies,

Washed by those tears, not long will stay;

As clouds that sully morning skies

May all be wept in showers away.

Go, go, be innocent,—and live;

The tongues of men may wound thee sore;

But Heaven in pity can forgive,

And bids thee "go, and sin no more!"

NONSENSE.

Good reader! if you e'er have seen,

When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,

The mermaids, with their tresses green,

Dancing upon the western billow:

If you have seen, at twilight dim,

When the lone spirit's vesper hymn

Floats wild along the winding shore,

If you have seen, through mist of eve,

The fairy train their ringlets weave,

Glancing along the spangled green:—

If you have seen all this, and more,

God bless me, what a deal you've seen!

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH.

"I never gave a kiss (says Prue),

"To naughty man, for I abhor it."

She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;

She'll take one though, and thank you for it.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no one Muse does she her glance confine,

But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine!

TO …. ….

Maria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per esser un Angelo.[1]

Die when you will, you need not wear

At Heaven's Court a form more fair

Than Beauty here on earth has given;

Keep but the lovely looks we see—

The voice we hear—and you will be

An angel ready-made for Heaven!

[1] The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun at Murano.—See his Life.

TO ROSA.

A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti.

"Past. Fid."

And are you then a thing of art,

Seducing all, and loving none;

And have I strove to gain a heart

Which every coxcomb thinks his own?

Tell me at once if this be true,

And I will calm my jealous breast;

Will learn to join the dangling crew,

And share your simpers with the rest.

But if your heart be not so free,—

Oh! if another share that heart,

Tell not the hateful tale to me,

But mingle mercy with your art.

I'd rather think you "false as hell,"

Than find you to be all divine,—

Than know that heart could love so well,

Yet know that heart would not be mine!

TO PHILLIS.

Phillis, you little rosy rake,

That heart of yours I long to rifle;

Come, give it me, and do not make

So much ado about a trifle!

TO A LADY.

ON HER SINGING.

Thy song has taught my heart to feel

Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love,

Which o'er the sainted spirits steal

When listening to the spheres above!

When, tired of life and misery,

I wish to sigh my latest breath,

Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee,

And thou shalt sing me into death.

And if along thy lip and cheek

That smile of heavenly softness play,

Which,—ah! forgive a mind that's weak,—

So oft has stolen my mind away.

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,

That comes to charm me into bliss:

I'll gaze and die—Who would not die,

If death were half so sweet as this?

SONG.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. ——.

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799.

Of all my happiest hours of joy,

And even I have had my measure,

When hearts were full, and every eye

Hath kindled with the light of pleasure,

An hour like this I ne'er was given,

So full of friendship's purest blisses;

Young Love himself looks down from heaven,

To smile on such a day as this is.

Then come, my friends, this hour improve,

Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever;

And may the birth of her we love

Be thus with joy remembered ever!

Oh! banish every thought to-night,

Which could disturb our soul's communion;

Abandoned thus to dear delight,

We'll even for once forget the Union!

On that let statesmen try their powers,

And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for;

The union of the soul be ours,

And every union else we sigh for.

Then come, my friends, etc.

In every eye around I mark

The feelings of the heart o'er-flowing;

From every soul I catch the spark

Of sympathy, in friendship glowing.

Oh! could such moments ever fly;

Oh! that we ne'er were doomed to lose 'em;

And all as bright as Charlotte's eye,

And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom.

Then come, my friends, etc.

For me, whate'er my span of years,

Whatever sun may light my roving;

Whether I waste my life in tears,

Or live, as now, for mirth and loving;

This day shall come with aspect kind,

Wherever fate may cast your rover;

He'll think of those he left behind,

And drink a health to bliss that's over!

Then come, my friends, etc.

SONG.[1]

Mary, I believed thee true,

And I was blest in thus believing

But now I mourn that e'er I knew

A girl so fair and so deceiving.

Fare thee well.

Few have ever loved like me,—

Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely!

And few have e'er deceived like thee.—

Alas! deceived me too severely.

Fare thee well!—yet think awhile

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee:

Who now would rather trust that smile,

And die with thee than live without thee.

Fare thee well! I'll think of thee.

Thou leavest me many a bitter token;

For see, distracting woman, see,

My peace is gone, my heart is broken!—

Fare thee well!

[1] These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water."

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A.

Though long at school and college dozing.

O'er books of verse and books of prosing,

And copying from their moral pages

Fine recipes for making sages;

Though long with' those divines at school,

Who think to make us good by rule;

Who, in methodic forms advancing,

Teaching morality like dancing,

Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake.

What steps we are through life to take:

Though thus, my friend, so long employed,

With so much midnight oil destroyed,

I must confess my searches past,

I've only learned to doubt at last

I find the doctors and the sages

Have differed in all climes and ages,

And two in fifty scarce agree

On what is pure morality.

'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone,

And every vision makes its own.

The doctors of the Porch advise,

As modes of being great and wise,

That we should cease to own or know

The luxuries that from feeling flow;

"Reason alone must claim direction,

"And Apathy's the soul's perfection.

"Like a dull lake the heart must lie;

"Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh,

"Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied,

"Must curl the wave or swell the tide!"

Such was the rigid Zeno's plan

To form his philosophic man;

Such were the modes he taught mankind

To weed the garden of the mind;

They tore from thence some weeds, 'tis true,

But all the flowers were ravaged too!

Now listen to the wily strains,

Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains,

When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone,

Usurped the philosophic throne,—

Hear what the courtly sage's[1] tongue

To his surrounding pupils sung:—

"Pleasure's the only noble end

"To which all human powers should tend,

"And Virtue gives her heavenly lore,

"But to make Pleasure please us more.

"Wisdom and she were both designed

"To make the senses more refined,

"That man might revel, free from cloying,

"Then most a sage when most enjoying!"

Is this morality?—Oh, no!

Even I a wiser path could show.

The flower within this vase confined,

The pure, the unfading flower of mind,

Must not throw all its sweets away

Upon a mortal mould of clay;

No, no,—its richest breath should rise

In virtue's incense to the skies.

But thus it is, all sects we see

Have watchwords of morality:

Some cry out Venus, others Jove;

Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love.

But while they thus so widely wander,

While mystics dream and doctors ponder:

And some, in dialectics firm,

Seek virtue in a middle term;

While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,

To chain morality with science;

The plain good man, whose action teach

More virtue than a sect can preach

Pursues his course, unsagely blest

His tutor whispering in his breast;

Nor could he act a purer part,

Though he had Tully all by heart.

And when he drops the tear on woe,

He little knows or cares to know

That Epictetus blamed that tear,

By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam

Floating within the dimpled stream;

While Nature, wakening from the night,

Has just put on her robes of light,

Have I, with cold optician's gaze,

Explored the doctrine of those rays?

No, pedants, I have left to you

Nicely to separate hue from hue.

Go, give that moment up to art,

When Heaven and nature claim the heart;

And, dull to all their best attraction,

Go—measure angles of refraction.

While I, in feeling's sweet romance,

Look on each daybeam as a glance

From the great eye of Him above,

Wakening his world with looks of love!

[1] Aristippus.

THE TELL-TALE LYRE.

I've heard, there was in ancient days

A Lyre of most melodious spell;

'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays,

If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs,

And to their breath it breathed again

In such entrancing melodies

As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch

So stilly could the notes prolong;

They were not heavenly song so much

As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murmuring air

Along the chords in languor stole,

The numbers it awakened there

Were eloquence from pity's soul.

Or if the sigh, serene and light,

Was but the breath of fancied woes,

The string, that felt its airy flight,

Soon whispered it to kind repose.

And when young lovers talked alone,

If, mid their bliss, that Lyre was near,

It made their accents all its own,

And sent forth notes that heaven might hear.

There was a nymph, who long had loved,

But dared not tell the world how well:

The shades, where she at evening roved,

Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole,

When the first star announced the night,—

With him who claimed her inmost soul,

To wander by that soothing light.

It chanced that, in the fairy bower

Where blest they wooed each other's smile,

This Lyre, of strange and magic power,

Hung whispering o'er their head the while.

And as, with eyes commingling fire,

They listened to each other's vow,

The youth full oft would make the Lyre

A pillow for the maiden's brow!

And, while the melting words she breathed

Were by its echoes wafted round,

Her locks had with the chords so wreathed,

One knew not which gave forth the sound.

Alas, their hearts but little thought,

While thus they talked the hours away,

That every sound the Lyre was taught

Would linger long, and long betray.

So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all the tender murmurs grown,

That other sighs unanswered stole,

Nor words it breathed but theirs alone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung

To every breeze that wandered by;

The secrets of thy gentle tongue

Were breathed in song to earth and sky.

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand

Hung high amid the whispering groves,

To every gale by which 'twas fanned,

Proclaimed the mystery of your loves.

Nor long thus rudely was thy name

To earth's derisive echoes given;

Some pitying spirit downward came.

And took the Lyre and thee to heaven.

There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs,

Both happy in Love's home shall be;

Thou, uttering naught but seraph songs,

And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee!

PEACE AND GLORY.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.

Where is now the smile, that lightened

Every hero's couch of rest?

Where is now the hope, that brightened

Honor's eye and Pity's breast?

Have we lost the wreath we braided

For our weary warrior men?

Is the faithless olive faded?

Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,

Lovely, in your light awhile,

Peace and Glory, wed together,

Wandered through our blessed isle.

And the eyes of Peace would glisten,

Dewy as a morning sun,

When the timid maid would listen

To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?

Must the maiden's trembling feet

Waft her from her warlike lover

To the desert's still retreat?

Fare you well! with sighs we banish

Nymph so fair and guests so bright;

Yet the smile, with which you vanish,

Leaves behind a soothing light;—

Soothing light, that long shall sparkle

O'er your warrior's sanguined way,

Through the field where horrors darkle,

Shedding hope's consoling ray.

Long the smile his heart will cherish,

To its absent idol true;

While around him myriads perish,

Glory still will sigh for you!

SONG.

Take back the sigh, thy lips of art

In passion's moment breathed to me;

Yet, no—it must not, will not part,

'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,

And has become too pure for thee.

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh

With all the warmth of truth imprest;

Yet, no—the fatal kiss may lie,

Upon thy lip its sweets would die,

Or bloom to make a rival blest.

Take back the vows that, night and day,

My heart received, I thought, from thine;

Yet, no—allow them still to stay,

They might some other heart betray,

As sweetly as they've ruined mine.

LOVE AND REASON.

Quand l'homme commence à raissonner, il cesse de sentir.—J. J. ROUSSEAU.

'Twas in the summer time so sweet,

When hearts and flowers are both in season,

That—who, of all the world, should meet,

One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,

While Reason talked about the weather;

The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,

And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,

While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,

And from her portly figure threw

A lengthened shadow, as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they past,

Should find that sunny morning chill,

For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain he tried his wings to warm.

Or find a pathway not so dim

For still the maid's gigantic form

Would stalk between the sun and him.

"This must not be," said little Love—

"The sun was made for more than you."

So, turning through a myrtle grove,

He bid the portly nymph adieu.

Now gayly roves the laughing boy

O'er many a mead, by many a stream;

In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He culled the many sweets they shaded,

And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers,

Till taste was gone and odor faded.

But now the sun, in pomp of noon,

Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains;

Alas! the boy grew languid soon,

And fever thrilled through all his veins.

The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with healthy bloom he smiled—

Oh! where was tranquil Reason now,

To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot at length for shelter turning,

He saw the nymph reclining calm,

With brow as cool as his was burning.

"Oh! take me to that bosom cold,"

In murmurs at her feet he said;

And Reason oped her garment's fold,

And flung it round his fevered head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lulled his pulse to rest;

For, ah! the chill was quite too much,

And Love expired on Reason's breast!

* * * * *

Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear;

While in these arms you lie.

This world hath not a wish, a fear,

That ought to cost that eye a tear.

That heart, one single sigh.

The world!—ah, Fanny, Love must shun

The paths where many rove;

One bosom to recline upon,

One heart to be his only—one,

Are quite enough for Love.

What can we wish, that is not here

Between your arms and mine?

Is there, on earth, a space so dear

As that within the happy sphere

Two loving arms entwine?

For me, there's not a lock of jet

Adown your temples curled,

Within whose glossy, tangling net,

My soul doth not, at once, forget

All, all this worthless world.

'Tis in those eyes, so full of love,

My only worlds I see;

Let but their orbs in sunshine move,

And earth below and skies above

May frown or smile for me.

ASPASIA.

'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower,

That Love and Learning, many an hour,

In dalliance met; and Learning smiled

With pleasure on the playful child,

Who often stole, to find a nest

Within the folds of Learning's vest.

There, as the listening statesman hung

In transport on Aspasia's tongue,

The destinies of Athens took

Their color from Aspasia's look.

Oh happy time, when laws of state

When all that ruled the country's fate,

Its glory, quiet, or alarms,

Was planned between two snow-white arms!

Blest times! they could not always last—

And yet, even now, they are not past,

Though we have lost the giant mould.

In which their men were cast of old,

Woman, dear woman, still the same,

While beauty breathes through soul or frame,

While man possesses heart or eyes,

Woman's bright empire never dies!

No, Fanny, love, they ne'er shall say,

That beauty's charm hath past away;

Give but the universe a soul

Attuned to woman's soft control,

And Fanny hath the charm, the skill,

To wield a universe at will.

THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.[1]

TO HER LOVER.

Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,

That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?

Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night

Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright,

That, while I yet can vividly recall

Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all.

Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam,

Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream,

Descending from above, at that still hour,

And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower.

Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day.

In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay,

But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill,

To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

At once I knew their mission:—'twas to bear

My spirit upward, through the paths of air,

To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams

So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams.

Swift at their touch dissolved the ties, that clung

All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung;

While, heavenward guides, the little genii flew

Thro' paths of light, refreshed by heaven's own dew,

And fanned by airs still fragrant with the breath

Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death.

Thou knowest, that, far beyond our nether sky,

And shown but dimly to man's erring eye,

A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls,[2]

Gemmed with bright islands, where the chosen souls,

Who've past in lore and love their earthly hours,

Repose for ever in unfading bowers.

That very moon, whose solitary light

So often guides thee to my bower at night,

Is no chill planet, but an isle of love,

Floating in splendor through those seas above,

And peopled with bright forms, aerial grown,

Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone.

Thither, I thought, we winged our airy way:—

Mild o'er its valleys streamed a silvery day,

While, all around, on lily beds of rest,

Reclined the spirits of the immortal Blest.

Oh! there I met those few congenial maids,

Whom love hath warmed, in philosophic shades;

There still Leontium,[3] on her sage's breast,

Found lore and love, was tutored and carest;

And there the clasp of Pythia's[4]gentle arms

Repaid the zeal which deified her charms.

The Attic Master,[5] in Aspasia's eyes,

Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties;

While fair Theano,[6] innocently fair,

Wreathed playfully her Samian's flowing hair,

Whose soul now fixt, its transmigrations past,

Found in those arms a resting-place, at last;

And smiling owned, whate'er his dreamy thought

In mystic numbers long had vainly sought,

The One that's formed of Two whom love hath bound,

Is the best number gods or men e'er found.

But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrilled,

When near a fount, which through the valley rilled,

My fancy's eye beheld a form recline,

Of lunar race, but so resembling thine

That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me,

To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee.

No aid of words the unbodied soul requires,

To waft a wish or embassy desires;

But by a power, to spirits only given,

A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven,

Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies,

From soul to soul the glanced idea flies.

Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet

Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet!

Like him, the river-god,[7]whose waters flow,

With love their only light, through caves below,

Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,

And festal rings, with which Olympic maids

Have decked his current, as an offering meet

To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.

Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride,

What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!

Each lost in each, till, mingling into one,

Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,

A type of true love, to the deep they run.

'Twas thus—

But, Theon, 'tis an endless theme,

And thou growest weary of my half-told dream.

Oh would, my love, we were together now.

And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow,

And make thee smile at all the magic tales

Of starlight bowers and planetary vales,

Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love,

In slumber's loom hath fancifully wove.

But no; no more—soon as tomorrow's ray

O'er soft Ilissus shall have died away,

I'll come, and, while love's planet in the west

Shines o'er our meeting, tell thee all the rest.

[1] It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside.

[2] This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the firmament," was one of the many physical errors In which the early fathers bewildered themselves.

[3] The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his "dear little Leontium" as appears by a fragment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium was a woman of talent; "she had the impudence (says Cicero) to write against Theophrastus;" and Cicero, at the same time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable.

[4] Pythia was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom after her death he paid divine honors, solemnizing her memory by the same sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres.

[5] Socrates, who used to console himself in the society of Aspasia for those "less endearing ties" which he found at home with Xantippe.

[6] There are some sensible letters extant under the name of this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the education of children, the treatment of servants, etc.

[7] The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa.

TO CLOE.

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.

I could resign that eye of blue.

How e'er its splendor used to thrill me;

And even that cheek of roseate hue,—

To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss,

However much I've raved about it;

And sweetly as that lip can kiss,

I think I could exist without it.

In short, so well I've learned to fast,

That, sooth my love, I know not whether

I might not bring myself at last,

To—do without you altogether.

THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.

I bring thee, love, a golden chain,

I bring thee too a flowery wreath;

The gold shall never wear a stain,

The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe.

Come, tell me which the tie shall be,

To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The Chain is formed of golden threads,

Bright as Minerva's yellow hair,

When the last beam of evening sheds

Its calm and sober lustre there.

The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove,

With sunlit drops of bliss among it,

And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love,

To heal his lip when bees have stung it.

Come, tell me which the tie shall be,

To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,

Which answers when the tongue is loath,

Thou likest the form of either tie,

And spreadest thy playful hands for both.

Ah!—if there were not something wrong,

The world would see them blended oft;

The Chain would make the Wreath so strong!

The Wreath would make the Chain so soft!

Then might the gold, the flowerets be

Sweet fetters for my love and me.

But, Fanny, so unblest they twine,

That (heaven alone can tell the reason)

When mingled thus they cease to shine,

Or shine but for a transient season.

Whether the Chain may press too much,

Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,

Let but the gold the flowerets touch,

And all their bloom, their glow is faded!

Oh! better to be always free.

Than thus to bind my love to me.

* * * * *

The timid girl now hung her head,

And, as she turned an upward glance,

I saw a doubt its twilight spread

Across her brow's divine expanse

Just then, the garland's brightest rose

Gave one of its love-breathing sighs—

Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose,

That ever looked in Fanny's eyes!

"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be

"The tie to bind my soul to thee."

TO …. ….

And hast thou marked the pensive shade,

That many a time obscures my brow,

Midst all the joys, beloved maid.

Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget

The bright looks that before me shine;

For never throbbed a bosom yet

Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,

And blushing to have felt so blest,

Thou dost but lift thy languid lid

Again to close it on my breast;—

Yes,—these are minutes all thine own,

Thine own to give, and mine to feel;

Yet even in them, my heart has known

The sigh to rise, the tear to steal.

For I have thought of former hours,

When he who first thy soul possest,

Like me awaked its witching powers,

Like me was loved, like me was blest.

Upon his name thy murmuring tongue

Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt;

Upon his words thine ear hath hung,

With transport all as purely felt.

For him—yet why the past recall,

To damp and wither present bliss?

Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all,

And heaven could grant no more than this!

Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive;

I would be first, be sole to thee,

Thou shouldst have but begun to live,

The hour that gave thy heart to me.

Thy book of life till then effaced,

Love should have kept that leaf alone

On which he first so brightly traced

That thou wert, soul and all, my own.

TO …….'S PICTURE.

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art,

No more will let thee soothe my pain;

Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart

Some pangs, to give thee back again.

Tell her, the smile was not so dear,

With which she made the semblance mine,

As bitter is the burning tear,

With which I now the gift resign.

Yet go—and could she still restore,

As some exchange for taking thee.

The tranquil look which first I wore,

When her eyes found me calm and free;

Could she give back the careless flow,

The spirit that my heart then knew—

Yet, no, 'tis vain—go, picture, go—

Smile at me once, and then—adieu!

FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1]

Blest infant of eternity!

Before the day-star learned to move,

In pomp of fire, along his grand career,

Glancing the beamy shafts of light

From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,

Thou wert alone, oh Love!

Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,

Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.

No form of beauty soothed thine eye,

As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;

No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,

As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,

That latent in his heart was sleeping,—

Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour

Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.

But look, what glory through the darkness beams!

Celestial airs along the water glide:—

What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide

So beautiful? oh, not of earth,

But, in that glowing hour, the birth

Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams.

'Tis she!

Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air.

To thee, oh Love, she turns,

On thee her eyebeam burns:

Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be!

They meet—

The blooming god—the spirit fair

Meet in communion sweet.

Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine;

All Nature feels the thrill divine,

The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,

And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!

[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World.

TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.

Donington Park, 1802

To catch the thought, by painting's spell,

Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,

And o'er the kindling canvas tell

The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye,

And fix, by mimic light and shade,

Her morning tinges ere they fly,

Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,

The gift, by which her art divine

Above all others proudly towers,—

And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,

In almost living truth exprest,

This bright memorial of a face

On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene,

The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,

The cheek, that blushes to be seen.

The eye that tells the bosom's truth;

While o'er each line, so brightly true,

Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove,

Blessing the touch whose various hue

Thus brings to mind the form we love;

We feel the magic of thy art,

And own it with a zest, a zeal,

A pleasure, nearer to the heart

Than critic taste can ever feel.

THE FALL OF HEBE.

A DITHYRAMBIC ODE.

'Twas on a day

When the immortals at their banquet lay;

The bowl

Sparkled with starry dew,

The weeping of those myriad urns of light,

Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power,

At nature's dawning hour,

Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul.

Around,

Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight

From eastern isles

(Where they have bathed them in the orient ray,

And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled).

In circles flew, and, melting as they flew,

A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled.

All, all was luxury!

All must be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles.

His locks divine

Were crowned

With a bright meteor-braid,

Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine,

Shot into brilliant leafy shapes,

And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils played:

While mid the foliage hung,

Like lucid grapes,

A thousand clustering buds of light,

Culled from the garden of the galaxy.

Upon his bosom Cytherea's head

Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung

Her beauty's dawn,

And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn,

Revealed her sleeping in its azure bed.

The captive deity

Hung lingering on her eyes and lip,

With looks of ecstasy.

Now, on his arm,

In blushes she reposed,

And, while he gazed on each bright charm,

To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole.

And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip

The nectared wave

Lyaeus gave,

And from her eyelids, half-way closed,

Sent forth a melting gleam,

Which fell like sun-dew in the bowl:

While her bright hair, in mazy flow

Of gold descending

Adown her cheek's luxurious glow,

Hung o'er the goblet's side,

And was reflected in its crystal tide,

Like a bright crocus flower,

Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour

With roses of Cyrene blending,[1]

Hang o'er the mirror of some silvery stream.

The Olympian cup

Shone in the hands

Of dimpled Hebe, as she winged her feet

Up

The empyreal mount,

To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount;[2]

And still

As the resplendent rill

Gushed forth into the cup with mantling heat,

Her watchful care

Was still to cool its liquid fire

With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air

The children of the Pole respire,

In those enchanted lands.[3]

Where life is all a spring, and

north winds never blow.

But oh!

Bright Hebe, what a tear,

And what a blush were thine,

When, as the breath of every Grace

Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere,

With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink,

Some star, that shone beneath thy tread,

Raising its amorous head

To kiss those matchless feet,

Checked thy career too fleet,

And all heaven's host of eyes

Entranced, but fearful all,

Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall

Upon the bright floor of the azure skies;

Where, mid its stars, thy beauty lay,

As blossom, shaken from the spray

Of a spring thorn,

Lies mid the liquid sparkles of the morn.

Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade,

The worshippers of Beauty's queen behold

An image of their rosy idol, laid

Upon a diamond shrine.

The wanton wind,

Which had pursued the flying fair,

And sported mid the tresses unconfined

Of her bright hair,

Now, as she fell,—oh wanton breeze!

Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow

Hung o'er those limbs of unsunned snow,

Purely as the Eleusinian veil

Hangs o'er the Mysteries!

The brow of Juno flushed—

Love blest the breeze!

The Muses blushed;

And every cheek was hid behind a lyre,

While every eye looked laughing through the strings.

But the bright cup? the nectared draught

Which Jove himself was to have quaffed?

Alas, alas, upturned it lay

By the fallen Hebe's side;

While, in slow lingering drops, the ethereal tide,

As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away.

Who was the Spirit that remembered Man,

In that blest hour,

And, with a wing of love,

Brushed off the goblet's scattered tears,

As, trembling near the edge of heaven they ran,

And sent them floating to our orb below?

Essence of immortality!

The shower

Fell glowing through the spheres;

While all around new tints of bliss,

New odors and new light,

Enriched its radiant flow.

Now, with a liquid kiss,

It stole along the thrilling wire

Of Heaven's luminous Lyre,

Stealing the soul of music in its flight:

And now, amid the breezes bland,

That whisper from the planets as they roll,

The bright libation, softly fanned

By all their sighs, meandering stole.

They who, from Atlas' height,

Beheld this rosy flame

Descending through the waste of night,

Thought 'twas some planet, whose empyreal frame

Had kindled, as it rapidly revolved

Around its fervid axle, and dissolved

Into a flood so bright!

The youthful Day,

Within his twilight bower,

Lay sweetly sleeping

On the flushed bosom of a lotos-flower;[4]

When round him, in profusion weeping,

Dropt the celestial shower,

Steeping

The rosy clouds, that curled

About his infant head,

Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed.

But, when the waking boy

Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky,

O morn of joy!

The tide divine,

All glorious with the vermil dye

It drank beneath his orient eye,

Distilled, in dews, upon the world,

And every drop was wine, was heavenly WINE!

Blest be the sod, and blest the flower

On which descended first that shower,

All fresh from Jove's nectareous springs;—

Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod,

O'er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings

The magic mantle of her solar God![5]

[1] We learn from Theopbrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly fragrant.

[2] Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar essence.

[3] The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived longer than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and dancing, etc.

[4] The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a lotos. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sunrise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating this flower to Osiris, or the sun.

[5] The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated.

RINGS AND SEALS.

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid,

"The charm is broken!—once betrayed,

"Never can this wronged heart rely

"On word or look, on oath or sigh.

"Take back the gifts, so fondly given,

"With promised faith and vows to heaven;

"That little ring which, night and morn,

"With wedded truth my hand hath worn;

"That seal which oft, in moments blest,

"Thou hast upon my lip imprest,

"And sworn its sacred spring should be

"A fountain sealed[1] for only thee:

"Take, take them back, the gift and vow,

"All sullied, lost and hateful now!"

I took the ring—the seal I took,

While, oh, her every tear and look

Were such as angels look and shed,

When man is by the world misled.

Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear!

"Not half thy lover's gifts are here:

"Say, where are all the kisses given,

"From morn to noon, from noon to even,—

"Those signets of true love, worth more

"Than Solomon's own seal of yore,—

"Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many?

"Come, dearest,—give back all, if any."

While thus I whispered, trembling too,

Lest all the nymph had sworn was true,

I saw a smile relenting rise

Mid the moist azure of her eyes,

Like daylight o'er a sea of blue,

While yet in mid-air hangs the dew

She let her cheek repose on mine,

She let my arms around her twine;

One kiss was half allowed, and then—

The ring and seal were hers again.

[1] "There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solomon, in the neighborhood of Bethlehem. The friars show a fountain, which, they say, is the sealed fountain, to which the holy spouse in the Canticles is compared; and they pretend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs and put his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own drinking."—Maundrell's Travels.

TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD.[1]

ON HER SINGING.

I more than once have heard at night

A song like those thy lip hath given,

And it was sung by shapes of light,

Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven.

But this was all a dream of sleep.

And I have said when morning shone:—

"Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep

"These wonders for herself alone?"

I knew not then that fate had lent

Such tones to one of mortal birth;

I knew not then that Heaven had sent

A voice, a form like thine on earth.

And yet, in all that flowery maze

Through which my path of life has led,

When I have heard the sweetest lays

From lips of rosiest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word

From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying

With music's own melodious bird;

When on the rose's bosom lying

Though form and song at once combined

Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill,

My heart hath sighed, my ear hath pined

For something lovelier, softer still:—

Oh, I have found it all, at last,

In thee, thou sweetest living lyre,

Through which the soul of song e'er past,

Or feeling breathed its sacred fire.

All that I e'er, in wildest flight

Of fancy's dreams could hear or see

Of music's sigh or beauty's light

Is realized, at once, in thee!

[1] Afterward Duchess of Hamilton.

IMPROMPTU,

ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS.

o dulces comitum valete coetus!

CATULLUS.

No, never shall my soul forget

The friends I found so cordial-hearted;

Dear shall be the day we met,

And dear shall be the night we parted.

If fond regrets, however sweet,

Must with the lapse of time decay,

Yet stall, when thus in mirth you meet,

Fill high to him that's far away!

Long be the light of memory found

Alive within your social glass;

Let that be still the magic round.

O'er which Oblivion, dare not pass.

A WARNING.

TO …….

Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light!

Did nature mould thee all so bright.

That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep

O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep,

O'er shame extinguished, honor fled,

Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead?

No, no! a star was born with thee,

Which sheds eternal purity.

Thou hast, within those sainted eyes,

So fair a transcript of the skies,

In lines of light such heavenly lore

That men should read them and adore.

Yet have I known a gentle maid

Whose mind and form were both arrayed

In nature's purest light, like thine;—

Who wore that clear, celestial sign

Which seems to mark the brow that's fair

For destiny's peculiar care;

Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own,

Was guarded by a sacred zone,

Where the bright gem of virtue shone;

Whose eyes had in their light a charm

Against all wrong and guile and harm.

Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour

These spells have lost their guardian power;

The gem has been beguiled away;

Her eyes have lost their chastening ray;

The modest pride, the guiltless shame,

The smiles that from reflection came,

All, all have fled and left her mind

A faded monument behind;

The ruins of a once pure shrine,

No longer fit for guest divine,

Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see—

Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee!

TO …….

'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,

While yet my soul is something free;

While yet those dangerous eyes allow

One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer;

Every chance that brings me nigh thee

Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,—

I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,

Doom me not thus so soon to fall

Duties, fame, and hopes await me,—

But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold

As ever yet allured and swayed,

And couldst, without a sigh, behold

The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,—could I think that, truly fond,

That eye but once would smile on me,

Even as thou art, how far beyond

Fame, duty, wealth, that smile would be!

Oh! but to win it, night and day,

Inglorious at thy feet reclined,

I'd sigh my dreams of fame away,

The world for thee forgot, resigned.

But no, 'tis o'er, and—thus we part,

Never to meet again—no, never,

False woman, what a mind and heart

Thy treachery has undone forever.

WOMAN.

Away, away—you're all the same,

A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng;

And, wise too late, I burn with shame,

To think I've been your slave so long.

Slow to be won, and quick to rove,

From folly kind, from cunning loath,

Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,

Yet feigning all that's best in both;

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,—

More joy it gives to woman's breast

To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,

Than one true, manly lover blest.

Away, away—your smile's a curse—

Oh! blot me from the race of men,

Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse,

If e'er I love such things again.

TO …….

Come, take thy harp—'tis vain to muse

Upon the gathering ills we see;

Oh! take thy harp and let me lose

All thoughts of ill in hearing thee.

Sing to me, love!—Though death were near,

Thy song could make my soul forget—

Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear,

All may be well, be happy yet.

Let me but see that snowy arm

Once more upon the dear harp lie,

And I will cease to dream of harm,

Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh.

Give me that strain of mournful touch

We used to love long, long ago,

Before our hearts had known as much

As now, alas! they bleed to know.

Sweet notes! they tell of former peace,

Of all that looked so smiling then,

Now vanished, lost—oh, pray thee cease,

I cannot bear those sounds again.

Art thou, too, wretched? Yes, thou art;

I see thy tears flow fast with mine—

Come, come to this devoted heart,

'Tis breaking, but it still is thine!

A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY.

'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met

The venerable man;[1] a healthy bloom

Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought

That towered upon his brow; and when he spoke

'Twas language sweetened into song—such holy sounds

As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear,

Prelusive to the harmony of heaven,

When death is nigh; and still, as he unclosed[2]

His sacred lips, an odor, all as bland

As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers

That blossom in Elysium, breathed around,

With silent awe we listened, while he told

Of the dark veil which many an age had hung

O'er Nature's form, till, long explored by man,

The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous,

And glimpses of that heavenly form shone through:—

Of magic wonders, that were known and taught

By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named)

Who mused amid the mighty cataclysm,

O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore;

And gathering round him, in the sacred ark,

The mighty secrets of that former globe,

Let not the living star of science sink

Beneath the waters, which ingulfed a world!—

Of visions, by Calliope revealed

To him,[3]who traced upon his typic lyre

The diapason of man's mingled frame,

And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven.

With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane,

Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night,

Told to the young and bright-haired visitant

Of Carmel's sacred mount.—Then, in a flow

Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on

Through many a Maze of Garden and of Porch,

Through many a system, where the scattered light

Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam

From the pure sun, which, though refracted all

Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,[4]

And bright through every change!—he spoke of Him,

The lone, eternal One, who dwells above,

And of the soul's untraceable descent

From that high fount of spirit, through the grades

Of intellectual being, till it mix

With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark;

Nor yet even then, though sunk in earthly dross,

Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch

Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still.

As some bright river, which has rolled along

Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold,

When poured at length into the dusky deep,

Disdains to take at once its briny taint,

Or balmy freshness, of the scenes it left.

But keeps unchanged awhile the lustrous tinge,

And here the old man ceased—a winged train

Of nymphs and genii bore him from our eyes.

The fair illusion fled! and, as I waked,

'Twas clear that my rapt soul had roamed, the while,

To that bright realm of dreams, that spirit-world,

Which mortals know by its long track of light

O'er midnight's sky, and call the Galaxy.[5]

[1] In Plutarch's Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, Cleombrotus, one of the interlocutors, describes an extraordinary man whom he had met with, after long research, upon the banks of the Red Sea. Once in every year this supernatural personage appeared to mortals and conversed with them; the rest of his time he passed among the Genii and the Nymphs.

[2] The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, imagined that he heard a strain of music in the air.

[3] Orpheus.—Paulinus, in his "Hebdomades, cap. 2, lib. iii, has endeavored to show, after the Platonists, that man is a diapason, or octave, made up of a diatesseron, which is his soul, and a dispente, which is his body. Those frequent allusions to music, by which the ancient philosophers illustrated their sublime theories, must have tended very much to elevate the character of the art, and to enrich it with associations of the grandest and most interesting nature.

[4] Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may be found dispersed through the ancient philosophical sects, and that any one who would collect these scattered fragments of orthodoxy might form a code in no respect differing from that of the Christian.

[5] According to Pythagoras, the people of Dreams are souls collected together in the Galaxy.

TO MRS. …….

To see thee every day that came,

And find thee still each day the same;

In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear

To me still ever kind and dear;—

To meet thee early, leave thee late,

Has been so long my bliss, my fate,

That life, without this cheering ray,

Which came, like sunshine, every day,

And all my pain, my sorrow chased,

Is now a lone, a loveless waste.

Where are the chords she used to touch?

The airs, the songs she loved so much?

Those songs are hushed, those chords are still,

And so, perhaps, will every thrill

Of feeling soon be lulled to rest,

Which late I waked in Anna's breast.

Yet, no—the simple notes I played

From memory's tablet soon may fade;

The songs, which Anna loved to hear,

May vanish from her heart and ear;

But friendship's voice shall ever find

An echo in that gentle mind,

Nor memory lose nor time impair

The sympathies that tremble there.

TO LADY HEATHCOTE,

ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.

"Tunnebridge est à la même distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie," etc. —See Memoires de Grammont, Second Part, chap. iii.

Tunbridge Wells.

When Grammont graced these happy springs,

And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,

The merriest wight of all the kings

That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles;

Like us, by day, they rode, they walked,

At eve they did as we may do,

And Grammont just like Spencer talked,

And lovely Stewart smiled like you.

The only different trait is this,

That woman then, if man beset her,

Was rather given to saying "yes,"

Because,—as yet, she knew no better.

Each night they held a coterie,

Where, every fear to slumber charmed,

Lovers were all they ought to be,

And husbands not the least alarmed.

Then called they up their school-day pranks,

Nor thought it much their sense beneath

To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,

And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth.

As—"Why are husbands like the mint?"

Because, forsooth, a husband's duty

Is but to set the name and print

That give a currency to beauty.

"Why is a rose in nettles hid

Like a young widow, fresh and fair?"

Because 'tis sighing to be rid

Of weeds, that "have no business there!"

And thus they missed and thus they hit,

And now they struck and now they parried;

And some lay in of full grown wit.

While others of a pun miscarried,

'Twas one of those facetious nights

That Grammont gave this forfeit ring

For breaking grave conundrumrites,

Or punning ill, or—some such thing;—

From whence it can be fairly traced,

Through many a branch and many a bough,

From twig to twig, until it graced

The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then, to you

Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,

I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue

To dedicate the important chronicle.

Long may your ancient inmates give

Their mantles to your modern lodgers,

And Charles's loves in Heathcote live,

And Charles's bards revive in Rogers.

Let no pedantic fools be there;

For ever be those fops abolished,

With heads as wooden as thy ware,

And, heaven knows! not half so polished.

But still receive the young, the gay.

The few who know the rare delight

Of reading Grammont every day,

And acting Grammont every night.

THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS,

A FRAGMENT.

* * * * *

But, whither have these gentle ones,

These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns,

With all of Cupid's wild romancing,

Led by truant brains a-dancing?

Instead of studying tomes scholastic,

Ecclesiastic, or monastic,

Off I fly, careering far

In chase of Pollys, prettier far

Than any of their namesakes are,—

The Polymaths and Polyhistors,

Polyglots and all their sisters.

So have I known a hopeful youth

Sit down in quest of lore and truth,

With tomes sufficient to confound him,

Like Tohu Bohu, heapt around him,—

Mamurra[1] stuck to Theophrastus,

And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.[2]

When lo! while all that's learned and wise

Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes,

And through the window of his study

Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy,

With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as

The angel's[3] were on Hieronymus.

Quick fly the folios, widely scattered,

Old Homer's laureled brow is battered,

And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in

The reverend eye of St. Augustin.

Raptured he quits each dozing sage,

Oh woman, for thy lovelier page:

Sweet book!—unlike the books of art,—

Whose errors are thy fairest part;

In whom the dear errata column

Is the best page in all the volume![4]

But to begin my subject rhyme—

'Twas just about this devilish time,

When scarce there happened any frolics

That were not done by Diabolics,

A cold and loveless son of Lucifer,

Who woman scorned, nor saw the use of her,

A branch of Dagon's family,

(Which Dagon, whether He or She,

Is a dispute that vastly better is

Referred to Scaliger[5] et coeteris,)

Finding that, in this cage of fools,

The wisest sots adorn the schools,

Took it at once his head Satanic in,

To grow a great scholastic manikin,—

A doctor, quite as learned and fine as

Scotus John or Tom Aquinas,

Lully, Hales Irrefragabilis,

Or any doctor of the rabble is.

In languages, the Polyglots,

Compared to him, were Babelsots:

He chattered more than ever Jew did;—

Sanhedrim and Priest included,

Priest and holy Sanhedrim

Were one-and-seventy fools to him.

But chief the learned demon felt a

Zeal so strong for gamma, delta,

That, all for Greek and learning's glory,[6]

He nightly tippled "Graeco more,"

And never paid a bill or balance

Except upon the Grecian Kalends:—

From whence your scholars, when they want tick,

Say, to be Attic's to be on tick.

In logics, he was quite Ho Panu;

Knew as much as ever man knew.

He fought the combat syllogistic

With so much skill and art eristic,

That though you were the learned Stagyrite,

At once upon the hip he had you right.

In music, though he had no ears

Except for that amongst the spheres,

(Which most of all, as he averred it,

He dearly loved, 'cause no one heard it,)

Yet aptly he, at sight, could read

Each tuneful diagram in Bede,

And find, by Euclid's corollaria,

The ratios of a jig or aria.

But, as for all your warbling Delias,

Orpheuses and Saint Cecilias,

He owned he thought them much surpast

By that redoubted Hyaloclast[7]

Who still contrived by dint of throttle,

Where'er he went to crack a bottle.

Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he,

On things unknown in physiology,

Wrote many a chapter to divert us,

(Like that great little man Albertus,)

Wherein he showed the reason why,

When children first are heard to cry,

If boy the baby chance to be.

He cries O A!—if girl, O E!—

Which are, quoth he, exceeding fair hints

Respecting their first sinful parents;

"Oh Eve!" exclaimeth little madam,

While little master cries "Oh Adam!"

But, 'twas in Optics and Dioptrics,

Our daemon played his first and top tricks.

He held that sunshine passes quicker

Through wine than any other liquor;

And though he saw no great objection

To steady light and clear reflection,

He thought the aberrating rays,

Which play about a bumper's blaze,

Were by the Doctors looked, in common, on,

As a more rare and rich phenomenon.

He wisely said that the sensorium

Is for the eyes a great emporium,

To which these noted picture-stealers

Send all they can and meet with dealers.

In many an optical proceeding

The brain, he said, showed great good breeding;

For instance, when we ogle women

(A trick which Barbara tutored him in),

Although the dears are apt to get in a

Strange position on the retina,

Yet instantly the modest brain

Doth set them on their legs again!

Our doctor thus, with "stuft sufficiency"

Of all omnigenous omnisciency,

Began (as who would not begin

That had, like him, so much within?)

To let it out in books of all sorts,

Folios, quartos, large and small sorts;

Poems, so very deep and sensible

That they were quite incomprehensible

Prose, which had been at learning's Fair,

And bought up all the trumpery there,

The tattered rags of every vest,

In which the Greeks and Romans drest,

And o'er her figure swollen and antic

Scattered them all with airs so frantic,

That those, who saw what fits she had,

Declared unhappy Prose was mad!

Epics he wrote and scores of rebuses,

All as neat as old Turnebus's;

Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias,

Grammars, prayer-books—oh! 'twere tedious,

Did I but tell thee half, to follow me:

Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy,

No—nor the hoary Trismegistus,

(Whose writings all, thank heaven! have missed us,)

E'er filled with lumber such a wareroom

As this great "porcus literarum!"

[1] Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about anything, except who was his father.

[2] Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and quack Paracelsus. He used to fight the devil every night with a broadsword, to the no small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded the circumstance.

[3] The angel, who scolded St. Jerome for reading Cicero, as Gratian tells the story in his "concordantia discordantium Canonum," and says, that for this reason bishops were not allowed to read the Classics.

[4] The idea of the Rabbins, respecting the origin of woman, is not a little singular. They think that man was originally formed with a tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appendage, and made woman of it.

[5] Scaliger.—Dagon was thought by others to be a certain sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians husbandry.

[6] It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all his talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to laugh at Camerarius for writing to him in Greek, "Master Joachim (says he) has sent me some dates and some raisins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As soon as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too may have the pleasure of reading what he does not understand."

[7] Or Glass-breaker—Morhofius has given an account of this extraordinary man, in a work, published 1682.

* * * * *

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA

TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA.

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC.

MY LORD,

It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to present.

I am, my Lord,

With every feeling of attachment and respect,

Your Lordship's very devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

37 Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1806.

PREFACE.[1]

The principal poems in the following collection were written during an absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants.

The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city of Washington and Lake Erie.[2] How far I was right in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler language, truth, I think, would have justified severer.

I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavorable, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed In my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression; as, in short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, "intentata nites." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that "freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature;" and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance; the Democrats consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate.

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and greatness of America.

I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit.

With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them.

[1] This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled "Odes and Epistles," of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have formed a part.

[2] Epistles VI., VII., and VIII.

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA.

TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT.

Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1]

By any spell my hand could dare

To make thy disk its ample page,

And write my thoughts, my wishes there;

How many a friend, whose careless eye

Now wanders o'er that starry sky,

Should smile, upon thy orb to meet

The recollection, kind and sweet,

The reveries of fond regret,

The promise, never to forget,

And all my heart and soul would send

To many a dear-loved, distant friend.

How little, when we parted last,

I thought those pleasant times were past,

For ever past, when brilliant joy

Was all my vacant heart's employ:

When, fresh from mirth to mirth again,

We thought the rapid hours too few;

Our only use for knowledge then

To gather bliss from all we knew.

Delicious days of whim and soul!

When, mingling lore and laugh together,

We leaned the book on Pleasure's bowl,

And turned the leaf with Folly's feather.

Little I thought that all were fled,

That, ere that summer's bloom was shed,

My eye should see the sail unfurled

That wafts me to the western world.

And yet, 'twas time;—in youth's sweet days,

To cool that season's glowing rays,

The heart awhile, with wanton wing,

May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring;

But, if it wait for winter's breeze,

The spring will chill, the heart will freeze.

And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,—

Oh! she awaked such happy dreams,

And gave my soul such tempting scope

For all its dearest, fondest schemes,

That not Verona's child of song,

When flying from the Phrygian shore,

With lighter heart could bound along,

Or pant to be a wanderer more!

Even now delusive hope will steal

Amid the dark regrets I feel,

Soothing, as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep,

And lights them with consoling gleam,

And smiles them into tranquil sleep.

Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near,

How we should feel, and gaze with bliss

Upon the moon-bright scenery here!

The sea is like a silvery lake,

And, o'er its calm the vessel glides

Gently, as if it feared to wake

The slumber of the silent tides.

The only envious cloud that lowers

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,[2]

Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,

And scowling at this heaven of light,

Exults to see the infant storm

Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles,

Invisible, at this soft hour,

And see the looks, the beaming smiles,

That brighten many an orange bower;

And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shades,—

Oh! I should have full many a tale,

To tell of young Azorian maids.[3]

Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps,

Some lover (not too idly blest,

Like those, who in their ladies' laps

May cradle every wish to rest,)

Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,

Those madrigals, of breath divine,

Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole

And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.[4]

Oh! could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone,

Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy

Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark!—the boatswain's pipings tell

'Tis time to bid my dream farewell:

Eight bells:—the middle watch is set;

Good night, my Strangford!—ne'er forget

That far beyond the western sea

Is one whose heart remembers thee.

[1] Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon by the means of a magic mirror.—See Boyle, art. Pythag.

[2] A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Teneriffe.

[3] I believe it is Gutherie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Gutherie may be credited.

[4] These islands belong to the Portuguese.

STANZAS.

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more;

And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.

Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead;

And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone

My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;

When the saddest emotion my bosom had known,

Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire

The pearl of the soul may be melted away;

How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire

We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay;

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame,

That Pleasure no more might its purity dim;

So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same,

I might give back the boon I had borrowed from Him.

How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven

Had already an opening to Paradise shown;

As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven,

My heart then began to be purely its own.

I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more:

"Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye

"Shed light on the soul that was darkened before."

TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1]

When I have seen thy snow-white wing

From the blue wave at evening spring,

And show those scales of silvery white,

So gayly to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were formed to rise,

And live amid the glorious skies;

Oh! it has made me proudly feel,

How like thy wing's impatient zeal

Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent

Within this world's gross element,

But takes the wing that God has given,

And rises into light and heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,

Grow languid with a moment's flight,

Attempt the paths of air in vain,

And sink into the waves again;

Alas! the flattering pride is o'er;

Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,

But erring man must blush to think,

Like thee, again, the soul may sink.

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,

Let not my spirit's flight be weak;

Let me not, like this feeble thing,

With brine still dropping from its wing,

Just sparkle in the solar glow

And plunge again to depths below;

But, when I leave the grosser throng

With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,

Let me, in that aspiring day,

Cast every lingering stain away,

And, panting for thy purer air,

Fly up at once and fix me there.

[1] It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them. With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.

TO MISS MOORE.

FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803.

In days, my Kate, when life was new,

When, lulled with innocence and you,

I heard, in home's beloved shade,

The din the world at distance made;

When, every night my weary head

Sunk on its own unthorned bed,

And, mild as evening's matron hour,

Looks on the faintly shutting flower,

A mother saw our eyelids close,

And blest them into pure repose;

Then, haply if a week, a day,

I lingered from that home away,

How long the little absence seemed!

How bright the look of welcome beamed,

As mute you heard, with eager smile,

My tales of all that past the while!

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea

Bolls wide between that home and me;

The moon may thrice be born and die,

Ere even that seal can reach mine eye.

Which used so oft, so quick to come,

Still breathing all the breath of home,—

As if, still fresh, the cordial air

From lips beloved were lingering there.

But now, alas,—far different fate!

It comes o'er ocean, slow and late,

When the dear hand that filled its fold

With words of sweetness may lie cold.

But hence that gloomy thought! at last,

Beloved Kate, the waves are past;

I tread on earth securely now,

And the green cedar's living bough

Breathes more refreshment to my eyes

Than could a Claude's divinest dyes.

At length I touch the happy sphere

To liberty and virtue dear,

Where man looks up, and, proud to claim

His rank within the social frame,

Sees a grand system round him roll,

Himself its centre, sun, and soul!

Far from the shocks of Europe—far

From every wild, elliptic star

That, shooting with a devious fire,

Kindled by heaven's avenging ire,

So oft hath into chaos hurled

The systems of the ancient world.

The warrior here, in arms no more

Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er,

And glorying in the freedom won

For hearth and shrine, for sire and son,

Smiles on the dusky webs that hide

His sleeping sword's remembered pride.

While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil,

Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil,

Effacing with her splendid share

The drops that war had sprinkled there.

Thrice happy land! where he who flies

From the dark ills of other skies,

From scorn, or want's unnerving woes.

May shelter him in proud repose;

Hope sings along the yellow sand

His welcome to a patriot land:

The mighty wood, with pomp, receives

The stranger in its world of leaves,

Which soon their barren glory yield

To the warm shed and cultured field;

And he, who came, of all bereft,

To whom malignant fate had left

Nor hope nor friends nor country dear,

Finds home and friends and country here.

Such is the picture, warmly such,

That Fancy long, with florid touch.

Had painted to my sanguine eye

Of man's new world of liberty.

Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet

Her seal on Fancy's promise set;

If even a glimpse my eyes behold

Of that imagined age of gold;—

Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1]

Never did youth, who loved a face

As sketched by some fond pencil's skill,

And made by fancy lovelier still,

Shrink back with more of sad surprise,

When the live model met his eyes,

Than I have felt, in sorrow felt,

To find a dream on which I've dwelt

From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee

At touch of stern reality!

But, courage, yet, my wavering heart!

Blame not the temple's meanest part,[2]

Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;—

As yet, we have beheld no more

Than just the porch to Freedom's fame;

And, though a sable spot may stain

The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin

To doubt the godhead reigns within!

So here I pause—and now, my Kate,

To you, and those dear friends, whose fate

Touches more near this home-sick soul

Than all the Powers from pole to pole,

One word at parting,—in the tone

Most sweet to you, and most my own,

The simple strain I send you here,

Wild though it be, would charm your ear,

Did you but know the trance of thought

In which my mind its numbers caught.

'Twas one of those half-waking dreams,

That haunt me oft, when music seems

To bear my soul in sound along,

And turn its feelings all to song.

I thought of home, the according lays

Came full of dreams of other days;

Freshly in each succeeding note

I found some young remembrance float,

Till following, as a clue, that strain

I wandered back to home, again.

Oh! love the song, and let it oft

Live on your lip, in accents soft.

Say that it tells you, simply well,

All I have bid its wild notes tell,—

Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet

Glow with the light of joy that's set,

And all the fond heart keeps in store

Of friends and scenes beheld no more.

And now, adieu!—this artless air,

With a few rhymes, in transcript fair,

Are all the gifts I yet can boast

To send you from Columbia's coast;

But when the sun, with warmer smile.

Shall light me to my destined isle.[3]

You shall have many a cowslip-bell,

Where Ariel slept, and many a shell,

In which that gentle spirit drew

From honey flowers the morning dew.

[1] Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio.

[2] Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odor that assailed us in the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation.

[3] Bermuda.

A BALLAD.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.

"They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."—Anon.

"La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."

D'ALEMBERT.

"They made her a grave, too cold and damp

"For a soul so warm and true;

"And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1]

"Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp,

"She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,

"And her paddle I soon shall hear;

"Long and loving our life shall be,

"And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,

"When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds—

His path was rugged and sore,

Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,

And man never trod before.

And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep

If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep

Its venomous tear and nightly steep

The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,

And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,

"Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,

"And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface played—

"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"

And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,

The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,

Which carried him off from shore;

Far, far he followed the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark,

And the boat returned no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp

This lover and maid so true

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp

To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp,

And paddle their white canoe!

[1] The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land

Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;

Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads,

Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;[1]

Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep,

At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;

Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,

Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,[2]

Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains

Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;

Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,

Turn from the canvas that creative eye,

And let its splendor, like the morning ray

Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay.

Yet, Lady, no—for song so rude as mine,

Chase not the wonders of your art divine;

Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell;

Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell;

And, while I sing the animated smiles

Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles,

Oh, might the song awake some bright design,

Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line,

Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought

On painting's mirror so divinely caught;

While wondering Genius, as he leaned to trace

The faint conception kindling into grace,

Might love my numbers for the spark they threw,

And bless the lay that lent a charm to you.

Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, strayed

To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade,

Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed

For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste?

There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came

Brought echoes of their own undying fame,

In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song,

They charmed their lapse of nightless hours along:—

Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit,

For every spirit was itself a lute,

Where Virtue wakened, with elysian breeze,

Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies.

Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland

Floated our bark to this enchanted land,—

These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown,

Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone,—

Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave

To blessed arbors o'er the western wave,

Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime,

Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime.

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,

When the first perfume of a cedar hill

Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms,

The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arms.[3]

Gently we stole, before the whispering wind,

Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twined

And kist on either side the wanton sails,

Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;

While, far reflected o'er the wave serene,

Each wooded island shed so soft a green

That the enamored keel, with whispering play,

Through liquid herbage seemed to steal its way.

Never did weary bark more gladly glide,

Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!

Along the margin, many a shining dome,

White as the palace of a Lapland gnome,

Brightened the wave;—in every myrtle grove

Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love,

Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade;

And, while the foliage interposing played,

Lending the scene an ever-changing grace,

Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace

The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,[4]

And dream of temples, till her kindling torch

Lighted me back to all the glorious days

Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze

On marble, from the rich Pentelio mount,

Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.

Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all

The spirit race that come at poet's call,

Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours,

Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers,

In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie,

And win with music every rose's sigh.

Though weak the magic of my humble strain

To charm your spirit from its orb again,

Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I sing,

For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing

Were dimmed or ruffled by a wintry sky.

Could smooth its feather and relume its dye.)

Descend a moment from your starry sphere,

And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear,

The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill,

The sparkling grotto can delight you still,

Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light,

Weave all these spells into one dream of night,

And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies,

Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes;

Take for the task her own creative spells,

And brightly show what song but faintly tells.

[1] Lady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened.

[2] The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne.

[3] Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George's. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed altogether as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can be imagined.

[4] This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple again.

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!—

High mountain waves and foamy showers,

And battling winds whose savage blast

But ill agrees with one whose hours

Have past in old Anacreon's bowers,

Yet think not poesy's bright charm

Forsook me in this rude alarm;[1]—

When close they reefed the timid sail,

When, every plank complaining loud,

We labored in the midnight gale;

And even our haughty mainmast bowed,

Even then, in that unlovely hour,

The Muse still brought her soothing power,

And, midst the war of waves and wind,

In song's Elysium lapt my mind.

Nay, when no numbers of my own

Responded to her wakening tone,

She opened, with her golden key,

The casket where my memory lays

Those gems of classic poesy,

Which time has saved from ancient days.

Take one of these, to Lais sung,—

I wrote it while my hammock swung,

As one might write a dissertation

Upon "Suspended Animation!"

Sweet is your kiss, my Lais dear,

But, with that kiss I feel a tear

Gush from your eyelids, such as start

When those who've dearly loved must part.

Sadly you lean your head to mine,

And mute those arms around me twine,

Your hair adown my bosom spread,

All glittering with the tears you shed.

In vain I've kist those lids of snow,

For still, like ceaseless founts they flow,

Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet.

Why is it thus? Do, tell me, sweet!

Ah, Lais! are my bodings right?

Am I to lose you? Is to-night

Our last—go, false to heaven and me!

Your very tears are treachery.

Such, while in air I floating hung,

Such was the strain, Morgante mio!

The muse and I together sung,

With Boreas to make out the trio.

But, bless the little fairy isle!

How sweetly after all our ills.

We saw the sunny morning smile

Serenely o'er its fragrant hills;

And felt the pure, delicious flow

Of airs that round this Eden blow

Freshly as even the gales that come

O'er our own healthy hills at home.

Could you but view the scenery fair,

That now beneath my window lies,

You'd think, that nature lavished there

Her purest wave, her softest skies,

To make a heaven for love to sigh in,

For bards to live and saints to die in.

Close to my wooded bank below,

In grassy calm the waters sleep,

And to the sunbeam proudly show

The coral rocks they love to steep.[2]

The fainting breeze of morning fails;

The drowsy boat moves slowly past,

And I can almost touch its sails

As loose they flap around the mast.

The noontide sun a splendor pours

That lights up all these leafy shores;

While his own heaven, its clouds

and beams,

So pictured in the waters lie,

That each small bark, in passing, seems

To float along a burning sky.

Oh for the pinnace lent to thee,[3]

Blest dreamer, who in vision bright,

Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea

And touch at all its isles of light.

Sweet Venus, what a clime he found

Within thy orb's ambrosial round—

There spring the breezes, rich and warm,

That sigh around thy vesper car;

And angels dwell, so pure of form

That each appears a living star.

These are the sprites, celestial queen!

Thou sendest nightly to the bed

Of her I love, with touch unseen

Thy planet's brightening tints to shed;

To lend that eye a light still clearer,

To give that cheek one rose-blush more.

And bid that blushing lip be dearer,

Which had been all too dear before.

But, whither means the muse to roam?

'Tis time to call the wanderer home.

Who could have thought the nymph would perch her

Up in the clouds with Father Kircher?

So, health and love to all your mansion!

Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in,

The flow of heart, the soul's expansion,

Mirth and song, your board illumine.

At all your feasts, remember too,

When cups are sparkling to the brim,

That here is one who drinks to you,

And, oh! as warmly drink to him.

[1] We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lily in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lily to remain in the service: so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her.

[2] The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, they appeared to us so near the surface that it seemed impossible we should not strike on them. There is no necessity, of course, for having the lead; and the negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, takes her through this difficult navigation, with a skill and confidence which seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors.

[3] In Kircher's "Ecstatic Journey to Heaven." Cosmel, the genius of the world, gives Theodidacticus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into the regions of the sun.

LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

That sky of clouds is not the sky

To light a lover to the pillow

Of her he loves—

The swell of yonder foaming billow

Resembles not the happy sigh

That rapture moves.

Yet do I feel more tranquil far

Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,

In this dark hour,

Than when, in passion's young emotion,

I've stolen, beneath the evening star,

To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound

In awe like this, that ne'er was given

To pleasure's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,

And the soul, listening to the sound,

Lies mute and still.

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,

Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow

In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow

No more shall wake the heart or eye,

But all must sleep.

Well!—there are some, thou stormy bed,

To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;

Oh! most to him,

Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,

Nor left one honey drop to shed

Round sorrow's brim.

Yes—he can smile serene at death:

Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping

Of friends who love him;

Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping

Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath

No more shall move him.

ODES TO NEA;

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA.

[Greek: NEA turannei]

EURPID. "Medea," v. 967.

Nay, tempt me not to love again,

There was a time when love was sweet;

Dear Nea! had I known thee then,

Our souls had not been slow to meet.

But, oh, this weary heart hath run,

So many a time, the rounds of pain,

Not even for thee, thou lovely one,

Would I endure such pangs again.

If there be climes, where never yet

The print of beauty's foot was set,

Where man may pass his loveless nights,

Unfevered by her false delights,

Thither my wounded soul would fly,

Where rosy cheek or radiant eye

Should bring no more their bliss, or pain,

Nor fetter me to earth again.

Dear absent girl! whose eyes of light,

Though little prized when all my own,

Now float before me, soft and bright

As when they first enamoring shone,—

What hours and days have I seen glide,

While fit, enchanted, by thy side,

Unmindful of the fleeting day,

I've let life's dream dissolve away.

O bloom of youth profusely shed!

O moments I simply, vainly sped,

Yet sweetly too—or Love perfumed

The flame which thus my life consumed;

And brilliant was the chain of flowers,

In which he led my victim-hours.

Say, Nea, say, couldst thou, like her,

When warm to feel and quick to err,

Of loving fond, of roving fonder,

This thoughtless soul might wish to wander,—

Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim,

Endearing still, reproaching never,

Till even this heart should burn with shame,

And be thy own more fixt than ever,

No, no—on earth there's only one

Could bind such faithless folly fast;

And sure on earth but one alone

Could make such virtue false at last!

Nea, the heart which she forsook,

For thee were but a worthless shrine—

Go, lovely girl, that angel look

Must thrill a soul more pure than mine.

Oh! thou shalt be all else to me,

That heart can feel or tongue can feign;

I'll praise, admire, and worship thee,

But must not, dare not, love again.

* * * * *

—tale iter omne cave.

PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 8.

I pray you, let us roam no more

Along that wild and lonely shore,

Where late we thoughtless strayed;

'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends

To be no more than simple friends,

Such lonely walks were made.

That little Bay, where turning in

From ocean's rude and angry din,

As lovers steal to bliss,

The billows kiss the shore, and then

Flow back into the deep again,

As though they did not kiss.

Remember, o'er its circling flood

In what a dangerous dream we stood—

The silent sea before us,

Around us, all the gloom of grove,

That ever lent its shade to love,

No eye but heaven's o'er us!

I saw you blush, you felt me tremble,

In vain would formal art dissemble

All we then looked and thought;

'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal,

'Twas every thing that young hearts feel,

By Love and Nature taught.

I stopped to cull, with faltering hand,

A shell that, on the golden sand,

Before us faintly gleamed;

I trembling raised it, and when you

Had kist the shell, I kist it too—

How sweet, how wrong it seemed!

Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour,

The worst that e'er the tempter's power

Could tangle me or you in;

Sweet Nea, let us roam no more

Along that wild and lonely shore.

Such walks may be our ruin.

* * * * *

You read it in these spell-bound eyes,

And there alone should love be read;

You hear me say it all in sighs,

And thus alone should love be said.

Then dread no more; I will not speak;

Although my heart to anguish thrill,

I'll spare the burning of your cheek,

And look it all in silence still.

Heard you the wish I dared to name,

To murmur on that luckless night,

When passion broke the bonds of shame,

And love grew madness in your sight?

Divinely through the graceful dance,

You seemed to float in silent song,

Bending to earth that sunny glance,

As if to light your steps along.

Oh! how could others dare to touch

That hallowed form with hand so free,

When but to look was bliss too much,

Too rare for all but Love and me!

With smiling eyes, that little thought,

How fatal were the beams they threw,

My trembling hands you lightly caught,

And round me, like a spirit, flew.

Heedless of all, but you alone,—

And you, at least, should not condemn.

If, when such eyes before me shone,

My soul forgot all eyes but them,—

I dared to whisper passion's vow,—

For love had even of thought bereft me,—

Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow,

But, with a bound, you blushing left me.

Forget, forget that night's offence,

Forgive it, if, alas! you can;

'Twas love, 'twas passion—soul and sense—

'Twas all that's best and worst in man.

That moment, did the assembled eyes

Of heaven and earth my madness view,

I should have seen, thro' earth and skies,

But you alone—but only you.

Did not a frown from you reprove.

Myriads of eyes to me were none;

Enough for me to win your love,

And die upon the spot, when won.

A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY.

I just had turned the classic page.

And traced that happy period over,

When blest alike were youth and age,

And love inspired the wisest sage,

And wisdom graced the tenderest lover.

Before I laid me down to sleep

Awhile I from the lattice gazed

Upon that still and moonlight deep,

With isles like floating gardens raised,

For Ariel there his sports to keep;

While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores

The lone night-fisher plied his oars.

I felt,—so strongly fancy's power

Came o'er me in that witching hour,—

As if the whole bright scenery there

Were lighted by a Grecian sky,

And I then breathed the blissful air

That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh.

Thus, waking, dreamt I,—and when Sleep

Came o'er my sense, the dream went on;

Nor, through her curtain dim and deep,

Hath ever lovelier vision shone.

I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed

Through that serene, luxurious shade,

Where Epicurus taught the Loves

To polish virtue's native brightness,—

As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves

Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1]

'Twas one of those delicious nights

So common in the climes of Greece,

When day withdraws but half its lights,

And all is moonshine, balm, and peace.

And thou wert there, my own beloved,

And by thy side I fondly roved

Through many a temple's reverend gloom,

And many a bower's seductive bloom,

Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught.

And sages sighed and lovers thought;

Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern,

But all was formed to soothe or move,

To make the dullest love to learn,

To make the coldest learn to love.

And now the fairy pathway seemed

To lead us through enchanted ground,

Where all that bard has ever dreamed

Of love or luxury bloomed around.

Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene—

Along the alley's deepening green

Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers,

And scented and illumed the bowers,

Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves,

Amid the lone Hercynian groves,

Appear those countless birds of light,

That sparkle in the leaves at night,

And from their wings diffuse a ray

Along the traveller's weary way.

'Twas light of that mysterious kind.

Through which the soul perchance may roam,

When it has left this world behind,

And gone to seek its heavenly home.

And, Nea, thou wert by my side,

Through all this heavenward path my guide.

But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged

That upward path, the vision changed;

And now, methought, we stole along

Through halls of more voluptuous glory

Than ever lived in Teian song,

Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2]

And nymphs were there, whose very eyes

Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs;

Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed,

A mute appeal to passion breathed.

Some flew, with amber cups, around,

Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;

And, as they passed with youthful bound,

The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3]

While others, waving arms of snow

Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4]

And showing charms, as loth to show,

Through many a thin, Tarentian fold,

Glided among the festal throng

Bearing rich urns of flowers along

Where roses lay, in languor breathing,

And the young beegrape, round them wreathing,

Hung on their blushes warm and meek,

Like curls upon a rosy cheek.

Oh, Nea! why did morning break

The spell that thus divinely bound me?

Why did I wake? how could I wake

With thee my own and heaven around me!

* * * * *

Well—peace to thy heart, though another's it be,

And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me!

To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,

Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves,

And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet

Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget.

Farewell to Bermuda,[5] and long may the bloom

Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume;

May spring to eternity hallow the shade,

Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed.

And thou—when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam

Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home,

Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done,

And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun,

I have led thee along, and have told by the way

What my heart all the night had been burning to say—

Oh! think of the past—give a sigh to those times,

And a blessing for me to that alley of limes.

* * * * *

If I were yonder wave, my dear,

And thou the isle it clasps around,

I would not let a foot come near

My land of bliss, my fairy ground.

If I were yonder couch of gold,

And thou the pearl within it placed,

I would not let an eye behold

The sacred gem my arms embraced.

If I were yonder orange-tree,

And thou the blossom blooming there,

I would not yield a breath of thee

To scent the most imploring air.

Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,

Give not the wave that odorous sigh,

Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye.

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,

So pictured in the waters seem,

That I could gladly plunge to seek

Thy image in the glassy stream.

Blest fate! at once my chilly grave

And nuptial bed that stream might be;

I'll wed thee in its mimic wave.

And die upon the shade of thee.

Behold the leafy mangrove, bending

O'er the waters blue and bright,

Like Nea's silky lashes, lending

Shadow to her eyes of light.

Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn,

Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes:

In every star thy glances burn;

Thy blush on every floweret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught

Of bright or beautiful or rare,

Sweet to the sense of pure to thought,

But thou art found reflected there.

[1] This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus.

[2] The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these licentious fictions.

[3] It appears that in very splendid mansions the floor or pavement was frequently of onyx.

[4] Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among the women of antiquity.

[5] The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered.—Travels of the Jesuits, vol. i.

THE SNOW SPIRIT.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep

An island of lovelier charms;

It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.

The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,

And their melody balm to the ear;

But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,

And the Snow Spirit never comes here.

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl

That shines through thy lips when they part,

And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,

As a murmur of thine on the heart.

Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,

As he cradles the birth of the year;

Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale,

And brightening the bosom of morn,

He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn.

Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts

Is the veil of a vestal severe;

No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,

Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.

But fly to his region—lay open thy zone,

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,

To think that a bosom, as white as his own,

Should not melt in the daybeam like him.

Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet

O'er his luminous path will appear—

Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet,

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

* * * * *

I stole along the flowery bank,

While many a bending seagrape[1] drank

The sprinkle of the feathery oar

That winged me round this fairy shore.

'Twas noon; and every orange bud

Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,

Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes

When love-thoughts in her bosom rise.

Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower,

To shade me in that glowing hour!

A little dove, of milky hue,

Before me from a plantain flew,

And, light along the water's brim,

I steered my gentle bark by him;

For fancy told me, Love had sent

This gentle bird with kind intent

To lead my steps, where I should meet—

I knew not what, but something sweet.

And—bless the little pilot dove!

He had indeed been sent by Love,

To guide me to a scene so dear

As fate allows but seldom here;

One of those rare and brilliant hours.

That, like the aloe's lingering flowers,

May blossom to the eye of man

But once in all his weary span.

Just where the margin's opening shade

A vista from the waters made,

My bird reposed his silver plume

Upon a rich banana's bloom.

Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!

What spell, what magic raised her there?

'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild,

And bloomy as the dimpled child,

Whose spirit in elysium keeps

Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps.

The broad banana's green embrace

Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace;

One little beam alone could win

The leaves to let it wander in.

And, stealing over all her charms,

From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,

New lustre to each beauty lent,—

Itself all trembling as it went!

Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe

Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge

Mixt with its shade, like evening's light

Just touching on the verge of night.

Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid,

Seemed glowing through the ivory lid,

And, as I thought, a lustre threw

Upon her lip's reflecting dew,—

Such as a night-lamp, left to shine

Alone on some secluded shrine,

May shed upon the votive wreath,

Which pious hands have hung beneath.

Was ever vision half so sweet!

Think, think how quick my heart-pulse beat,

As o'er the rustling bank I stole;—

Oh! ye, that know the lover's soul,

It is for you alone to guess,

That moment's trembling happiness.

[1] The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies.

A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE.

Behold, my love, the curious gem

Within this simple ring of gold;

'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them

Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,

Upon her hand this gem displayed,

Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse

Should see it grace a lovelier maid.

Look, dearest, what a sweet design!

The more we gaze, it charms the more;

Come—closer bring that cheek to mine,

And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou seest, it is a simple youth

By some enamored nymph embraced—

Look, as she leans, and say in sooth

Is not that hand most fondly placed?

Upon his curled head behind

It seems in careless play to lie,

Yet presses gently, half inclined

To bring the truant's lip more nigh.

Oh happy maid! Too happy boy!

The one so fond and little loath,

The other yielding slow to joy—

Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both.

Imagine, love, that I am he,

And just as warm as he is chilling;

Imagine, too, that thou art she,

But quite as coy as she is willing:

So may we try the graceful way

In which their gentle arms are twined,

And thus, like her, my hand I lay

Upon thy wreathed locks behind:

And thus I feel thee breathing sweet,

As slow to mine thy head I move;

And thus our lips together meet,

And thus,—and thus,—I kiss thee, love.

* * * * *

There's not a look, a word of thine,

My soul hath e'er forgot;

Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,

Nor given thy locks one graceful twine

Which I remember not.

There never yet a murmur fell

From that beguiling tongue,

Which did not, with a lingering spell,

Upon thy charmed senses dwell,

Like songs from Eden sung.

Ah! that I could, at once, forget

All, all that haunts me so—

And yet, thou witching girl,—and yet,

To die were sweeter than to let

The loved remembrance go.

No; if this slighted heart must see

Its faithful pulse decay,

Oh let it die, remembering thee,

And, like the burnt aroma, be

Consumed in sweets away.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

FROM BERMUDA.[1]

"The daylight is gone—but, before we depart,

"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,

"The kindest, the dearest—oh! judge by the tear

"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,

With a few, who could feel and remember like me,

The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw

Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,

When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,

Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,

In blossoms of thought ever springing and new—

Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim

Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him

Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair,

And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there!

Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree,

When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,

The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day

Set the magical springs of my fancy in play,

And oh,—such a vision as haunted me then

I would slumber for ages to witness again.

The many I like, and the few I adore,

The friends who were dear and beloved before.

But never till now so beloved and dear,

At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here;

And soon,—oh, at once, did the light of their smiles

To a paradise brighten this region of isles;

More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed,

And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed.

Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills

Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2]

Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild,

Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,)

Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave

As the magic of love to this paradise gave.

Oh magic of love! unembellished by you,

Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue?

Or shines there a vista in nature or art,

Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart?

Alas, that a vision so happy should fade!

That, when morning around me in brilliancy played,

The rose and the stream I had thought of at night

Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;

While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream,

And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream.

But look, where, all ready, in sailing array,

The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3]

Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind,

And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind.

What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,

Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!

Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be,

And the roar of those gales would be music to me.

Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,

Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew,

Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam

Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.

[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;" but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those islands.

[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.

[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.

THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.[1]

When freshly blows the northern gale,

And under courses snug we fly;

Or when light breezes swell the sail,

And royals proudly sweep the sky;

'Longside the wheel, unwearied still

I stand, and, as my watchful eye

Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,

I think of her I love, and cry,

Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow

Right from the point we wish to steer;

When by the wind close-hauled we go.

And strive in vain the port to near;

I think 'tis thus the fates defer

My bliss with one that's far away,

And while remembrance springs to her,

I watch the sails and sighing say,

Thus, my boy! thus.

But see the wind draws kindly aft,

All hands are up the yards to square,

And now the floating stu'n-sails waft

Our stately ship thro' waves and air.

Oh! then I think that yet for me

Some breeze of fortune thus may spring,

Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee—

And in that hope I smiling sing,

Steady, boy! so.

[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Admiral Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to New York.

TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]

At morning, when the earth and sky

Are glowing with the light of spring,

We see thee not, thou humble fly!

Nor think upon thy gleaming wing.

But when the skies have lost their hue,

And sunny lights no longer play,

Oh then we see and bless thee too

For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Thus let me hope, when lost to me

The lights that now my life illume,

Some milder joys may come, like thee,

To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom!

[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment.

TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON.

If former times had never left a trace

Of human frailty in their onward race,

Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran,

One dark memorial of the crimes of man;

If every age, in new unconscious prime,

Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time,

To wing its way unguided and alone,

The future smiling and the past unknown;

Then ardent man would to himself be new,

Earth at his foot and heaven within his view:

Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme

Of full perfection prompt his daring dream,

Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore,

Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before.

But, tracing as we do, through age and clime,

The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime,

The thinking follies and the reasoning rage

Of man, at once the idiot and the sage;

When still we see, through every varying frame

Of arts and polity, his course the same,

And know that ancient fools but died, to make

A space on earth for modern fools to take;

'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget;

That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet,

Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth

Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth!

Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given,

Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven;

O'er dross without to shed the light within,

And dream of virtue while we see but sin.

Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream,

Might sages still pursue the flattering theme

Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate,

Rise o'er the level of his mortal state,

Belie the monuments of frailty past,

And plant perfection in this world at last!

"Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign

"Evince that patriots have not bled in vain.

"Here godlike liberty's herculean youth,

"Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth

"To full maturity of nerve and mind,

"Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind.

"Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught

"In form no more from cups of state be quaft,

"But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect,

"Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect.

"Around the columns of the public shrine

"Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine,

"Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid,

"Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade,

"No longer here shall Justice bound her view,

"Or wrong the many, while she rights the few;

"But take her range through all the social frame,

"Pure and pervading as that vital flame

"Which warms at once our best and meanest part,

"And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!"

Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan

The bright disk rather than the dark of man,

That owns the good, while smarting with the ill,

And loves the world with all its frailty still,—

What ardent bosom does not spring to meet

The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat,

Which makes the soul unwilling to resign

The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine!

Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think

The chain of ages yet may boast a link

Of purer texture than the world has known,

And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne.

But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream

Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam,

Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope,

As shock not reason, while they nourish hope?

No, no, believe me, 'tis not so—even now,

While yet upon Columbia's rising brow

The showy smile of young presumption plays,

Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays.

Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath

Burns with the taint of empires near their death;

And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime,

She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1]

Already has the child of Gallia's school

The foul Philosophy that sins by rule,

With all her train of reasoning, damning arts,

Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts,

Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood,

The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,—

Already has she poured her poison here

O'er every charm that makes existence dear;

Already blighted, with her blackening trace,

The opening bloom of every social grace,

And all those courtesies, that love to shoot

Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit.

And, were these errors but the wanton tide

Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride;

The fervid follies and the faults of such

As wrongly feel, because they feel too much;

Then might experience make the fever less,

Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess.

But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill,

All youth's transgression with all age's chill;

The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice,

A slow and cold stagnation into vice.

Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage,

And latest folly of man's sinking age,

Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,

While nobler passions wage their heated strife,

Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear,

And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,—

Long has it palsied every grasping hand

And greedy spirit through this bartering land;

Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold

So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold,

And conscience, truth, and honesty are made

To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.

Already in this free, this virtuous state,

Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate,

To show the world, what high perfection springs

From rabble senators, and merchant kings,—

Even here already patriots learn to steal

Their private perquisites from public weal,

And, guardians of the country's sacred fire,

Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire.

Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose

From England's debtors to be England's foes,

Who could their monarch in their purse forget,

And break allegiance, but to cancel debt,

Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue,

Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2]

Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant!

Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant

Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all

From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul,

Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base,

As the rank jargon of that factious race,

Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words,

Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords,

Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts,

And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts.

Who can, with patience, for a moment see

The medley mass of pride and misery,

Of whips and charters, manacles and rights,

Of slaving blacks and democratic whites,

And all the piebald polity that reigns

In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains?

To think that man, thou just and gentle God!

Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod

O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee,

Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty;

Away, away—I'd rather hold my neck

By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck,

In climes, where liberty has scarce been named,

Nor any right but that of ruling claimed,

Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves

Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves;

Where—motley laws admitting no degree

Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free—

Alike the bondage and the license suit

The brute made ruler and the man made brute.

But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song,

So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong,

The ills, the vices of the land, where first

Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst,

Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved,

And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served—

Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of classic thought,

By bards illumined and by sages taught,

Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene,

That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been.

Why should I wake thee? why severely chase

The lovely forms of virtue and of grace,

That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread

By Spartan matrons round the genial bed,

Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art

Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart.

Forgive me, Forbes—and should the song destroy

One generous hope, one throb of social joy,

One high pulsation of the zeal for man,

Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,—

Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes

Thy talents open and thy virtues rise,

Forget where nature has been dark or dim,

And proudly study all her lights in him.

Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget,

And feel that man may reach perfection yet.

[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of American patriotism.

[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has related and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves.

TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.

'Tis evening now; beneath the western star

Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar,

And fills the ears of some consenting she

With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.

The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come,

Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home;

Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms,

And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.

In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom,

Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1]

Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow,

And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]—

This embryo capital, where Fancy sees

Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees;

Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn

With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn,

Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see,

Where streets should run and sages ought to be.

And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave,

The dying sun prepares his golden grave.

Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade!

Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made,

While still, in all the exuberance of prime,

She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime,

Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care,

From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;—

Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods,

Your rich savannas and majestic woods,

Where bards should meditate and heroes rove,

And woman charm, and man deserve her love,—

Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace

Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4]

Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast,

Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest?

Were none but brutes to call that soil their home,

Where none but demigods should dare to roam?

Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse,

Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse

The motley dregs of every distant clime,

Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime

Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere,

In full malignity to rankle here?

But hold,—observe yon little mount of pines,

Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines.

There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief,

The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5]

Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name,

And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame;

Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train

Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign.

How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?

Thou more than soldier and just less than sage!

Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part,

Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art,

Nature designed thee for a hero's mould,

But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold.

While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate,

Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great.

Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds

Her brightest halo round the weakest heads,

Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before,

Proud to be useful, scorning to be more;

Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim,

Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim;

All that thou wert reflects less fame on thee,

Far less, than all thou didst forbear to be.

Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,—

For, thine's a name all nations claim their own;

And every shore, where breathed the good and brave,

Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave.

Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls

On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,—

If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate,

Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great,

If thou canst loathe and execrate with me

The poisoning drug of French philosophy,

That nauseous slaver of these frantic times,

With which false liberty dilutes her crimes,

If thou has got, within thy free-born breast,

One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest,

With honest scorn for that inglorious soul,

Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control,

Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod,

And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god,

There, in those walls—but, burning tongue forbear!

Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there:

So here I pause—and now, dear Hume, we part:

But oft again, in frank exchange of heart,

Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear

By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here.

O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs,

'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs,

Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes

With me shall wonder, and with me despise.

While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove,

With thee conversing, through that land I love,

Where, like the air that fans her fields of green,

Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene;

And sovereign man can condescend to see

The throne and laws more sovereign still than he.

[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."—Weld's Travels, letter iv.

[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- Creek.

[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circumstance."—Weld, letter iv.

The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it.

[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) belittles her productions in the western world.

[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue of General Washington.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,

And bright were its flowery banks to his eye;

But far, very far were the friends that he loved,

And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays,

O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown,

Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays

In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.

Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain

Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet;

Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again,

Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear,

And they loved what they knew of so humble a name;

And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear,

That they found in his heart something better than fame.

Nor did woman—oh woman! Whose form and whose soul

Are the spell and the life of each path we pursue;

Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole,

If woman be there, there is happiness too:—

Nor did she her enamoring magic deny,—

That magic his heart had relinquished so long,—

Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye,

Like them did it soften and weep at his song.

Oh, blest be the tear, and in memory oft

May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream;

Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft,

As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam!

The stranger is gone—but he will not forget,

When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known,

To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met,

As he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1]

Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo

Dell' acqua. DANTE.

From rise of morn till set of sun

I've seen the mighty Mohawk run;

And as I markt the woods of pine

Along his mirror darkly shine,

Like tall and gloomy forms that pass

Before the wizard's midnight glass:

And as I viewed the hurrying pace

With which he ran his turbid race,

Rushing, alike untried and wild,

Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled,

Flying by every green recess

That wooed him to its calm caress,

Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,

As if to leave one look behind,—

Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed,

How like to thee, thou restless tide,

May be the lot, the life of him

Who roams along thy water's brim;

Through what alternate wastes of woe

And flowers of joy my path may go;

How many a sheltered, calm retreat

May woo the while my weary feet,

While still pursuing, still unblest,

I wander on, nor dare to rest;

But, urgent as the doom that calls

Thy water to its destined falls,

I feel the world's bewildering force

Hurry my heart's devoted course

From lapse to lapse, till life be done,

And the spent current cease to run.

One only prayer I dare to make,

As onward thus my course I take;—

Oh, be my falls as bright as thine!

May heaven's relenting rainbow shine

Upon the mist that circles me,

As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

[1] There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene than the cultivated lands in the neighborhood of Niagara.

SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.[1]

qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla

OVID Metam. lib iii. v. 227.

Now the vapor, hot and damp,

Shed by day's expiring lamp,

Through the misty ether spreads

Every ill the white man dreads;

Fiery fever's thirsty thrill,

Fitful ague's shivering chill!

Hark! I hear the traveller's song,

As he winds the woods along;—

Christian, 'tis the song of fear;

Wolves are round thee, night is near,

And the wild thou dar'st to roam—

Think, 'twas once the Indian's home![2]

Hither, sprites, who love to harm,

Wheresoe'er you work your charm,

By the creeks, or by the brakes,

Where the pale witch feeds her snakes,

And the cayman[3] loves to creep,

Torpid, to his wintry sleep:

Where the bird of carrion flits,

And the shuddering murderer sits,[4]

Lone beneath a roof of blood;

While upon his poisoned food,

From the corpse of him he slew

Drops the chill and gory dew.

Hither bend ye, turn ye hither,

Eyes that blast and wings that wither

Cross the wandering Christian's way,

Lead him, ere the glimpse of day,

Many a mile of maddening error

Through the maze of night and terror,

Till the morn behold him lying

On the damp earth, pale and dying.

Mock him, when his eager sight

Seeks the cordial cottage-light;

Gleam then, like the lightning-bug,

Tempt him to the den that's dug

For the foul and famished brood

Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood;

Or, unto the dangerous pass

O'er the deep and dark morass,

Where the trembling Indian brings

Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings,

Tributes, to be hung in air,

To the Fiend presiding there![5]

Then, when night's long labor past,

Wildered, faint, he falls at last,

Sinking where the causeway's edge

Moulders in the slimy sedge,

There let every noxious thing

Trail its filth and fix its sting;

Let the bull-toad taint him over,

Round him let mosquitoes hover,

In his ears and eyeballs tingling,

With his blood their poison mingling,

Till, beneath the solar fires,

Rankling all, the wretch expires!

[1] The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to Niagara.

[2] "The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the banks of the Susquehannah and the adjacent country, until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had encamped."— Morse's American Geography.

[3] The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time.

[4] This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Charlevoix tells us) among the Hurons. "They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of a cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain several days together, and to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on himself but on his food."

[5] "We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins, etc., by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, on rocks, or by the side of the falls; and these are so many offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places."—See Charlevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada.

Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also says, "We took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Anthony of Padua upon the river Mississippi."—See Hennepin's Voyage into North America.

TO THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER.

FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE.

nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas.

OVID. ex Ponto, lib. 1. ep. 5.

Thou oft hast told me of the happy hours

Enjoyed by thee in fair Italia's bowers,

Where, lingering yet, the ghost of ancient wit

Midst modern monks profanely dares to flit.

And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid,

Haunt every stream and sing through every shade.

There still the bard who (if his numbers be

His tongue's light echo) must have talked like thee,—

The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught

Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought,

In which the spirit baskingly reclines,

Bright without effort, resting while it shines,—

There still he roves, and laughing loves to see

How modern priests with ancient rakes agree:

How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines,

And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines.

There still, too, roam those other souls of song,

With whom thy spirit hath communed so long,

That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought,

By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought.

But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake,

As, far from such bright haunts my course I take,

No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays,

No classic dream, no star of other days

Hath left that visionary light behind,

That lingering radiance of immortal mind,

Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene,

The humblest shed, where Genius once has been!

All that creation's varying mass assumes

Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms;

Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,

Bright lakes expand, and conquering[1] rivers flow;

But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray,

This world's a wilderness and man but clay,

Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose,

Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows.

Take Christians, Mohawks, democrats, and all

From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall,

From man the savage, whether slaved or free,

To man the civilized, less tame than he,—

'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife

Betwixt half-polished and half-barbarous life;

Where every ill the ancient world could brew

Is mixt with every grossness of the new;

Where all corrupts, though little can entice,

And naught is known of luxury but its vice!

Is this the region then, is this the clime

For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime,

Which all their miracles of light reveal

To heads that meditate and hearts that feel?

Alas! not so—the Muse of Nature lights

Her glories round; she scales the mountain heights,

And roams the forests; every wondrous spot

Burns with her step, yet man regards it not.

She whispers round, her words are in the air,

But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,[2]

Without one breath of soul, divinely strong,

One ray of mind to thaw them into song.

Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few,

Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew;

Whom, known and loved through many a social eve,

'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave.[3]

Not with more joy the lonely exile scanned

The writing traced upon the desert's sand,

Where his lone heart but little hoped to find

One trace of life, one stamp of human kind,

Than did I hail the pure, the enlightened zeal,

The strength to reason and the warmth to feel,

The manly polish and the illumined taste,

Which,—mid the melancholy, heartless waste

My foot has traversed,—oh you sacred few!

I found by Delaware's green banks with you.

Long may you loathe the Gallic dross that runs

Through your fair country and corrupts its sons;

Long love the arts, the glories which adorn

Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born.

Oh! if America can yet be great,

If neither chained by choice, nor doomed by fate

To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now,

She yet can raise the crowned, yet civic brow

Of single majesty,—can add the grace

Of Rank's rich capital to Freedom's base,

Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove

For the fair ornament that flowers above;—

If yet released from all that pedant throng,

So vain of error and so pledged to wrong,

Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide

Weakness in vaunt and barrenness in pride,

She yet can rise, can wreathe the Attic charms

Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms,

And see her poets flash the fires of song,

To light her warriors' thunderbolts along;—

It is to you, to souls that favoring heaven

Has made like yours, the glorious task is given:—

Oh! but for such, Columbia's days were done;

Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun,

Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,

Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er.

Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours

Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers,

Though few the days, the happy evenings few;

So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew,

That my charmed soul forgot its wish to roam,

And rested there, as in a dream of home.

And looks I met, like looks I'd loved before,

And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er

The chord of memory, found full many a tone

Of kindness there in concord with their own.

Yes,—we had nights of that communion free,

That flow of heart, which I have known with thee

So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind,

Of whims that taught, and follies that refined.

When shall we both renew them? when, restored

To the gay feast and intellectual board,

Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine

Those whims that teach, those follies that refine?

Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore,

I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar,

I sigh for home,—alas! these weary feet

Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.

[1] This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi.

[2] Alluding to the fanciful notion of "words congealed in northern air."

[3] In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this cultivated little circle that love for good literature and sound politics which he feels so zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in learning from them what Americans can be, I but see with the more indignation what Americans are.

BALLAD STANZAS.

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near.

And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,

"A heart that was humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,

"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,

"Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips

"In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,

"And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips,

"Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1]

et remigem cantus hortatur.

QUINTILIAN.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Soon as the woods on shore look dim,

We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.[2]

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,

The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl,

But, when the wind blows off the shore,

Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,

The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.

Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,

Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,

The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

[1] I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.

[2] "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers."—Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade.

TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Not many months have now been dreamed away

Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray

Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores,

Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours,

And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze,

Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;—

Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves,

Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves,

And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief,

Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf.

There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung

My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung

On every tuneful accent! proud to feel.

That notes like mine should have the fate to steal,

As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along.

Such breath of passion and such soul of song.

Yes,—I have wondered, like some peasant boy

Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy,

And when he hears the wild, untutored note

Back to his ear on softening echoes float,

Believes it still some answering spirit's tone,

And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!

I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year

Had filled its circle, I should wander here

In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world,

See all its store of inland waters hurled

In one vast volume down Niagara's steep,

Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep,

Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed

Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed;

Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide

Down the white rapids of his lordly tide

Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair,

And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair

For consolation might have weeping trod,

When banished from the garden of their God,

Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man,

Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span,

Can scarcely dream of,—which his eye must see

To know how wonderful this world can be!

But lo,—the last tints of the west decline,

And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine.

Among the reeds, in which our idle boat

Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note

Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes;

Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,

And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1]

Down the steep current, till he fades afar

Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light.

Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night.

Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray,

And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way,

Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form,

Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm,

Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze

Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:—

From the land beyond the sea,

Whither happy spirits flee;

Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3]

Many a blessed Indian roves

Through the air on wing, as white

As those wondrous stones of light,[4]

Which the eye of morning counts

On the Apalachian mounts,—

Hither oft my flight I take

Over Huron's lucid lake,

Where the wave, as clear as dew,

Sleeps beneath the light canoe,

Which, reflected, floating there,

Looks as if it hung in air.

Then, when I have strayed a while

Through the Manataulin isle,[5]

Breathing all its holy bloom,

Swift I mount me on the plume

Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly

Where, beneath a burning sky,

O'er the bed of Erie's lake

Slumbers many a water-snake,

Wrapt within the web of leaves,

Which the water-lily weaves.[7]

Next I chase the floweret-king

Through his rosy realm of spring;

See him now, while diamond hues

Soft his neck and wings suffuse,

In the leafy chalice sink,

Thirsting for his balmy drink;

Now behold him all on fire,

Lovely in his looks of ire,

Breaking every infant stem,

Scattering every velvet gem,

Where his little tyrant lip

Had not found enough to sip.

Then my playful hand I steep

Where the gold-thread loves to creep,

Cull from thence a tangled wreath,

Words of magic round it breathe,

And the sunny chaplet spread

O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head,

Till, with dreams of honey blest,

Haunted, in his downy nest,

By the garden's fairest spells,

Dewy buds and fragrant bells,

Fancy all his soul embowers

In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.

Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes

Melt along the ruffled lakes,

When the gray moose sheds his horns,

When the track, at evening, warns

Weary hunters of the way

To the wigwam's cheering ray,

Then, aloft through freezing air,

With the snow-bird soft and fair

As the fleece that heaven flings

O'er his little pearly wings,

Light above the rocks I play,

Where Niagara's starry spray,

Frozen on the cliff, appears

Like a giant's starting tears.

There, amid the island-sedge,

Just upon the cataract's edge,

Where the foot of living man

Never trod since time began,

Lone I sit, at close of day,

While, beneath the golden ray,

Icy columns gleam below,

Feathered round with falling snow,

And an arch of glory springs,

Sparkling as the chain of rings

Round the neck of virgins hung,—

Virgins, who have wandered young

O'er the waters of the west

To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay,

The lonely moments of the night away;

And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams!

Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams,

Our boat flies light along the leafy shore,

Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar

Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark

The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark,

Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,

While on its deck a pilot angel stood,

And, with his wings of living light unfurled,

Coasted the dim shores of another world!

Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze

Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays

From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue

Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,—

I never feel a joy so pure and still

So inly felt, as when some brook or hill,

Or veteran oak, like those remembered well,

Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell,

(For, who can say by what small fairy ties

The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?)

Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream

I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream;

Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights

On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er

When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore,

With him, the polished warrior, by thy side,

A sister's idol and a nation's pride!

When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high

In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye

Turn to the living hero, while it read,

For pure and brightening comments on the dead;—

Or whether memory to my mind recalls

The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,

When guests have met around the sparkling board,

And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured;

When the bright future Star of England's throne,

With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone,

Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,

But tempering greatness, like an evening sun

Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,

Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;—

Whatever hue my recollections take,

Even the regret, the very pain they wake

Is mixt with happiness;—but, ah! no more—

Lady! adieu—my heart has lingered o'er

Those vanished times, till all that round me lies,

Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,—Vol. i. p. 29.

[2] The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.

[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove."—Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada.

[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones."—Mackenzie's Journal.

[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit."—Morse.

[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.

IMPROMPTU.

AFTER A VISIT TO MRS. ——, OF MONTREAL.

'Twas but for a moment—and yet in that time

She crowded the impressions of many an hour:

Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,

Which waked every feeling at once into flower.

Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day,

To renew such impressions again and again,

The things we should look and imagine and say

Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.

What we had not the leisure or language to speak,

We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing,

And, between us, should feel just as much in a week

As others would take a millennium in feeling.

WRITTEN

ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND, IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE,[1] LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.

See you, beneath yon cloud so dark,

Fast gliding along a gloomy bark?

Her sails are full,—though the wind is still,

And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear?

The silent calm of the grave is there,

Save now and again a death-knell rung,

And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore

Of cold and pitiless Labrador;

Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,

Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,

And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,

Doth play on as pale and livid a crew,

As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast,

To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast;

By skeleton shapes her sails are furled,

And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on,

Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone,

Nor let morning look on so foul a sight

As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

[1] This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who called this ghost-ship, I think, "The Flying Dutchman."

TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,[1]

OCTOBER, 1804.

With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail

The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,

For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,

To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,

And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand

Is the last I shall tread of American land.

Well—peace to the land! may her sons know, at length,

That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength,

That though man be as free as the fetterless wind,

As the wantonest air that the north can unbind,

Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast,

If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past,

Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,—

Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret:

May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget;

The delight of those evenings,—too brief a delight!

When in converse and song we have stolen on the night;

When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien,

Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen,

Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored,

Whose name had oft hallowed the wine-cup they poured;

And still as, with sympathy humble but true,

I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew,

They have listened, and sighed that the powerful stream

Of America's empire should pass like a dream,

Without leaving one relic of genius, to say,

How sublime was the tide which had vanished away!

Farewell to the few—though we never may meet

On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet

To think that, whenever my song or my name

Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same

I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest,

Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow deprest.

But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind

The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind,

I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye

As it follows the rack flitting over the sky,

That the faint coming breeze would be fair for our flight,

And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night.

Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side,

With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide,

There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas,

Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze,

Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore,

That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore!

Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now,

When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow,

And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind

Takes me nearer the home where my heart is inshrined;

Where the smile of a father shall meet me again,

And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain;

Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart,

And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part?—

But see!—the bent top sails are ready to swell—

To the boat—I am with thee—Columbia, farewell!

[1] Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses.

IRISH MELODIES

DEDICATION

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.

It is now many years since, in, a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,

With perfect Sincerity,

Your Ladyship's ever attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

PREFACE.

Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "animae dimidium" in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.

IRISH MELODIES

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee,

But while fame elates thee,

Oh! still remember me.

When the praise thou meetest

To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! then remember me.

Other arms may press thee,

Dearer friends caress thee,

All the joys that bless thee,

Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest,

And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest

By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me.

Think, when home returning,

Bright we've seen it burning,

Oh! thus remember me.

Oft as summer closes,

When thine eye reposes

On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,

Think of her who wove them,

Her who made thee love them,

Oh! then, remember me.

When, around thee dying,

Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.

And, at night, when gazing

On the gay hearth blazing,

Oh! still remember me.

Then should music, stealing

All the soul of feeling,

To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;

Then let memory bring thee

Strains I used to sing thee,—

Oh! then remember me.

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.[1]

Remember the glories of Brien the brave,

Tho' the days of the hero are o'er;

Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,[2]

He returns to Kinkora no more.[3]

That star of the field, which so often hath poured

Its beam on the battle, is set;

But enough of its glory remains on each sword,

To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint

Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,

Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print

The footstep of slavery there?

No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,

That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,

Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood[4]

In the day of distress by our side;

While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,

They stirred not, but conquered and died.

That sun which now blesses our arms with his light,

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain;—

Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,

To find that they fell there in vain.

[1] Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

[2] Munster.

[3] The palace of Brien.

[4] This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest,—"Let stakes[they said] be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us to be tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hundred men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops;—never was such another sight exhibited."—"History of Ireland," book xii. chap i.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes,

Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!

Shining through sorrow's stream,

Saddening through pleasure's beam,

Thy suns with doubtful gleam,

Weep while they rise.

Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,

Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form in heaven's sight

One arch of peace!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,

Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid:

Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,

As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame

Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;

Every thought of my reason was thine;

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live

The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS.

The harp that once thro' Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls.

As if that soul were fled.—

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throbs she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks.

To show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,

When pleasure, like the midnight flower

That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon.

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade

That beauty and the moon were made;

'Tis then their soft attractions glowing

Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,—Oh! stay,—

Joy so seldom weaves a chain

Like this to-night, and oh, 'tis pain

To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that played

In times of old through Ammon's shade,

Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near.

And thus, should woman's heart and looks,

At noon be cold as winter brooks,

Nor kindle till the night, returning,

Brings their genial hour for burning.

Oh! stay,—Oh! stay,—

When did morning ever break,

And find such beaming eyes awake

As those that sparkle here?

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang as they seem to you now;

Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night

Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow.

No!—life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,

Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.

But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile—

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,

Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined:

And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind.

But they who have loved the fondest, the purest.

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed;

And the heart that has slumbered in friendship, securest,

Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.

But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,—

That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,

And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,

Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;

In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,

And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,

Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,

I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind

Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes;

And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;

Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear

One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.[1]

[1] "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII, an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired."—"Walker's "Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards," p. 184. Mr. Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.[1]

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear, to stray,

"So lone and lovely through this bleak way?

"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,

"As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,

"No son of Erin will offer me harm:—

"For though they love woman and golden store,

"Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more!"

On she went and her maiden smile

In safety lighted her round the green isle;

And blest for ever is she who relied

Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride.

[1] This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:—"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."—Warner's "History of Ireland," vol i, book x.

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow

While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,

So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,

Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws

Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes.

To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring

For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting—

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,

Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;

The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain,

It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1]

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2]

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,

Oh! no,—it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,

When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

[1] "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.

[2] The rivers Avon and Avoca.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

Take back the virgin page,

White and unwritten still;

Some hand, more calm and sage,

The leaf must fill.

Thoughts come, as pure as light

Pure as even you require:

But, oh! each word I write

Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book:

Oft shall my heart renew,

When on its leaves I look,

Dear thoughts of you.

Like you, 'tis fair and bright;

Like you, too bright and fair

To let wild passion write

One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes

Far, far away I roam.

Should calmer thoughts arise

Towards you and home;

Fancy may trace some line,

Worthy those eyes to meet,

Thoughts that not burn, but shine,

Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as, o'er ocean, far,

Seamen their records keep,

Led by some hidden star

Thro' the cold deep;

So may the words I write

Tell thro' what storms I stray—

You still the unseen light,

Guiding my way.

THE LEGACY.

When in death I shall calmly recline,

O bear my heart to my mistress dear;

Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here.

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;

But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,

To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall;

Hang it up at that friendly door,

Where weary travellers love to call.[1]

Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,

Revive its soft note in passing along,

Oh! let one thought of its master waken

Your warmest smile for the child of song.

Keep this cup, which is now o'er-flowing,

To grace your revel, when I'm at rest;

Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty has seldom blest.

But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim,

Then, then my spirit around shall hover,

And hallow each drop that foams for him.

[1] "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music."—O'Halloran.

HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Banshee cried,

How oft has death untied

Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwined by Love!

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;

Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;

Long may the fair and brave

Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fallen upon gloomy days![1]

Star after star decays,

Every bright name, that shed

Light o'er the land, is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth

Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;

But brightly flows the tear,

Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quenched are our beacon lights—

Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2]

Thou, on whose burning tongue

Truth, peace, and freedom hung!

Both mute,—but long as valor shineth,

Or Mercy's soul at war repineth,

So long shall Erin's pride

Tell how they lived and died.

[1] I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

[2] This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. "Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories."

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast,

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;

And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,

We may order our wings and be off to the west;

But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,

We never need leave our own green isle,

For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery placed within call;

But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,

That the garden's but carelessly watched after all.

Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence,

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells;

Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,

Nor charms us least when it most repels.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,

Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by.

While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,

Thro' billows of woe, and beams of joy,

The same as he looked when he left the shore.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

Oh! weep for the hour,

When to Eveleen's bower

The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night.

And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds past soon

From the chaste cold moon,

And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame:

But none will see the day,

When the clouds shall pass away,

Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

The white snow lay

On the narrow path-way,

When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint

Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray

Soon melted away

Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;

But there's a light above,

Which alone can remove

That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

Let Erin remember the days of old.

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her;

When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1]

Which he won from her proud invader.

When her kings, with standard of green unfurled,

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;[2]

Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,

When the clear cold eve's declining,

He sees the round towers of other days

In the wave beneath him shining:

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;

Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time

For the long-faded glories they cover.[3]

[1] "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."—Warner's "History of Ireland," vol. i. book ix.

[2] "Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier."—O'Halloran's Introduction, etc., part 1, chap. 5.

[3] It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1]

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages away;

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing,

Warm our isle with peace and love?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above?

[1] To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release,—I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief

To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and brief,

To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools.

Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl,

The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,

If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?

No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try

Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke,

And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke

Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.

Oh, Liberty! let not this Spirit have rest,

Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west—

Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,

Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot

While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,

Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,

Then, ye men of Iberia; our cause is the same!

And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,

Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,

Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,

For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned

The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find

That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain,

Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,

May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright,

And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,

Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause

Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause!—oh, it cannot but thrive,

While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive.

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;

Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die!

The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;

While, far from the footstep of coward or slave.

The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave

Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly today,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art.

Let thy loveliness fade as it will.

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,

To which time will but make thee more dear;

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turned when he rose.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1]

And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,

Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,

Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.

Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears

Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,

Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;

And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,

The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.

Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,

Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,

The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,

Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.

Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,

And the hope that lived thro' it shall blossom at last.

[1] The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions.

DRINK TO HER.

Drink to her, who long,

Hath waked the poet's sigh.

The girl, who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

Oh! woman's heart was made

For minstrel hands alone;

By other fingers played,

It yields not half the tone.

Then here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,

The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,

When Wealth and Wit once stood,

They asked her 'which might pass?"

She answered, "he, who could."

With golden key Wealth thought

To pass—but 'twould not do:

While Wit a diamond brought,

Which cut his bright way through.

So here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,

The girl, who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home

Where wealth or grandeur shines,

Is like the gloomy gnome,

That dwells in dark gold mines.

But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere;

Its native home's above,

Tho' woman keeps it here.

Then drink to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,

The girl, who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1]

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,

Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;

He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul might have burned with a holier flame.

The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2]

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!—her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;

O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.

Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;

Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires;

And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,

Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,

He should try to forget, what he never can heal:

Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam

Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down

Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored;

While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,

Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,

Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;

Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay,

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.

The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,

Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

[1] We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

[2] It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." Lloyd's "State Worthies," art. The Lord Grandison.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

While gazing on the moon's light,

A moment from her smile I turned,

To look at orbs, that, more bright,

In lone and distant glory burned.

But too far

Each proud star,

For me to feel its warming flame;

Much more dear

That mild sphere.

Which near our planet smiling came;

Thus, Mary, be but thou my own;

While brighter eyes unheeded play,

I'll love those moonlight looks alone,

That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meet.

Illumined all the pale flowers,

Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.

I said (while

The moon's smile

Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)

"The moon looks

"On many brooks,

"The brook can see no moon but this;"[1]

And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

For many a lover looks to thee,

While oh! I feel there is but one,

One Mary in the world for me.

[1] This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night flower sees but one moon."

ILL OMENS.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,

And stars in the heavens still lingering shone.

Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,

The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,

Had promised to link the last tie before noon;

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen

The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses.

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,

A butterfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses.

Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.

Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brushed him—he fell, alas; never to rise:

"Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces,

"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew;

And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing,

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:

But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,

Her zone flew in two, and the

heart's-ease was lost:

"Ah! this means," said the girl

(and she sighed at its meaning),

"That love is scarce worth the

repose it will cost!"

[1] An emblem of the soul.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing,

Herald of to-morrow's strife;

By that sun, whose light is bringing

Chains or freedom, death or life—

Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him, who lives not free!

Like the day-star in the wave,

Sinks a hero in his grave,

Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine

And light him down the steep of years:—

But oh, how blest they sink to rest,

Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,

When his heart that field remembers,

Where we tamed his tyrant might.

Never let him bind again

A chain; like that we broke from then.

Hark! the horn of combat calls—

Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1]

Many a heart that now beats high,

In slumber cold at night shall lie,

Nor waken even at victory's sound—

But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,

O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

[1] "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."—Walker.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night closed around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings showed the distant hill,

Where those who lost that dreadful day,

Stood few and faint, but fearless still.

The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimmed, for ever crost—

Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valor's task, moved slowly by,

While mute they watcht, till morning's beam

Should rise and give them light to die.

There's yet a world, where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;—

If death that world's bright opening be,

Oh! who would live a slave in this?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear.

And that, when we're far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips, we are near.

The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,

Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,

But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,

And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;

And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.

Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,

And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,

And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1]

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way,

Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned,

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned;

Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,

And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned;

She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,

Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;

Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,

Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail—

Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale.

They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains—

Oh! foul is the slander,—no chain could that soul subdue—

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too![2]

[1] Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

[2] "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"—St. Paul's Corinthians ii., l7.

ON MUSIC.

When thro' life unblest we rove,

Losing all that made life dear,

Should some notes we used to love,

In days of boyhood, meet our ear,

Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!

Wakening thoughts that long have slept;

Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours;

Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,

Tho' the flowers have sunk in death;

So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,

That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,

'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;

'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,

For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how we lived but to love them.

And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume

Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom

From the image he left there in dying!

[1] These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,

Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved,

To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,

And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;

Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm,

And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair—still her cheeks smiled the same—

While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;

And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,

Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay

To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night,

Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream;

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past;

Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before,

To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blushed to hear

The one lov'd name.

No,—that hallowed form is ne'er forgot

Which first love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste.

'Twas odor fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's winged dream;

'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream:

Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1]

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,

And smile thro' our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:

There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,

More formed to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,

And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,

There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink—

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;

But, tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls,

We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!

Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;

And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,

Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen,—

Oh, my life on your faith! were you summoned this minute,

You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,

And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,

When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded

In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget;

And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded,

And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray:

Each fragment will cast

A light, to the last,—

And thus, Erin, my country tho' broken thou art,

There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay;

A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part,

And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

[1] This song was written for a fête in honor of the Prince of Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;

Your dreams of pride are o'er;

The fatal chain is round you cast,

And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;—

Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,

It never lights again.

Weep on—perhaps in after days,

They'll learn to love your name;

When many a deed may wake in praise

That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruined isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,

They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile

Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate

"Your web of discord wove;

"And while your tyrants joined in hate,

"You never joined in love.

"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,

"And man profaned what God had given;

"Till some were heard to curse the shrine,

"Where others knelt to heaven!"

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

Like unexpected light, surprises!

Oh, My Nora Creina, dear,

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,

Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, My Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it,

Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature placed it.

Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear.

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,

Nature's dress

Is loveliness—

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But, when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillowed on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes—

Bed of peace! whose roughest part

Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh! my Nora Creina dear,

My mild, my artless Nora Creina,

Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light,

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay

Would steal before the steps of Time,

And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light,

Which fleets not with the breath;

And life ne'er looked more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veiled beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,

And that, which charmed all other eyes,

Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;

Or could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!

Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet,

Than to remember thee, Mary!

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.[1]

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore

Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2]

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Young St. Kevin stole to sleep.

"Here, at least," he calmly said,

"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."

Ah! the good Saint little knew

What that wily sex can do."

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,—

Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had loved him well and long

Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong.

Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,

Still he heard her light foot nigh;

East or west, where'er he turned,

Still her eyes before him burned.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,

Tranquil now, he sleeps at last;

Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er

Woman's smile can haunt him there.

But nor earth nor heaven is free,

From her power, if fond she be:

Even now, while calm he sleeps,

Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked his feet

To this rocky, wild retreat;

And when morning met his view,

Her mild glances met it, too.

Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!

Sternly from his bed he starts,

And with rude, repulsive shock,

Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave

Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!

Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)

Felt her love, and mourned her fate.

When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!"

Round the Lake light music stole;

And her ghost was seen to glide,

Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

[1] This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

[2] There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing:

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking;—

Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him;

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,

From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret;

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns

Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl,

Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me;

Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower,

Had two blush-roses of birth divine;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower,

But bathed the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods

Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed

All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!

Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me;

Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1]

On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed!

For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,[2]

When Ulad's[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore—

By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore—

We swear to revenge them!—no joy shall be tasted,

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,

Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,

Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections,

Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;

Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

[1] The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman.

[2] "Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."—Deirdri's Song.

[3] Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

HE.

What the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey-dew,

Thro' the leaves that close embower it,

That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing,

Is to waves that wander near,

Whispering kisses, while they're going,

That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly, when sweets are gone;

And, when once the kiss is over,

Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,

If sunny banks will wear away,

Tis but right that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers,

"Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;

"Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers

"To heaven in mingled odor ascend.

"Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

"So like is thy form to the cherubs above,

"It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

Love stood near the Novice and listened,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint;

His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened;

His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint.

"Who would have thought," the urchin cries,

"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise

"His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,

Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.

He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,

He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.

Love is the Saint enshrined in thy breast,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest,

If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes,

That chase one another like waves of the deep,—

Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed.

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.

But pledge me the cup—if existence would cloy,

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,

Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play,

Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.

Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,

Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine.

But pledge me the goblet;—while Idleness weaves

These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see

One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

Thro' Erin's Isle,

To sport awhile,

As Love and Valor wandered,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

A thousand arrows squandered.

Where'er they pass,

A triple grass[1]

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming.

As softly green

As emeralds seen

Thro' purest crystal gleaming.

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf.

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valor, "See,

"They spring for me,

"Those leafy gems of morning!"—

Says Love, "No, no,

"For me they grow,

"My fragrant path adorning."

But Wit perceives

The triple leaves,

And cries, "Oh! do not sever

"A type, that blends

"Three godlike friends,

"Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!"

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond

May last the bond,

They wove that morn together,

And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall

On Wit's celestial feather.

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine.

Of thorny falsehood weed 'em;

May Valor ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

[1] It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly

To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,

And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear

When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear;

And, as Echo far off thro' the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,[1]

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

[1] "There are countries." says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and there it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo."

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

One bumper at parting!—tho' many

Have circled the board since we met,

The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crowned by us yet.

The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,

Is always so slow to come forth,

That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth.

But come,—may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up;

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant

To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,

That mid the dull wilderness smile!

But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours—

Ah, never doth Time travel faster,

Than when his way lies among flowers.

But come—may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up;

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun looked in sinking,

The waters beneath him how bright;

And now, let our farewell of drinking

Resemble that farewell of light.

You saw how he finished, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim—

So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,

In full liquid glory, like him.

And oh! may our life's happy measure

Of moments like this be made up,

'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,

It dies mid the tears of the cup.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping.

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love,

The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,

'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on.

And his wild harp slung behind him.

"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

"Tho' all the world betrays thee,

"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

"One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

"Thou soul of love and bravery!

"Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

"They shall never sound in slavery."

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.[1]

The valley lay smiling before me,

Where lately I left her behind;

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,

That saddened the joy of my mind.

I looked for the lamp which, she told me,

Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned;

But, tho' darkness began to infold me,

No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber—'twas lonely,

As if the loved tenant lay dead;—

Ah, would it were death, and death only!

But no, the young false one had fled.

And there hung the lute that could soften

My very worst pains into bliss;

While the hand, that had waked it so often,

Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,

When Breffni's good sword would have sought

That man, thro' a million of foe-men,

Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!

While now—oh degenerate daughter

Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!

And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter,

Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already, the curse is upon her,

And strangers her valleys profane;

They come to divide, to dishonor,

And tyrants they long will remain.

But onward!—the green banner rearing,

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;

On our side is Virtue and Erin,

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.

[1] These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran:—"The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark, intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."— The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMurchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation) "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,

In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,

Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,

And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers;

Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,

That the night only draws

A thin veil o'er the day;

Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,

Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,

We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;

The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,

Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.

With affection as free

From decline as the bowers,

And, with hope, like the bee,

Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,

And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.

FAREWELL!—BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the hour.

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.

His griefs may return, not a hope may remain

Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain.

But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw

Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,

My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles—

Too blest, if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer

Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,

And bring back the features that joy used to wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!

Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled—

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

Oh! doubt me not—the season

Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,

And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall watch the fire awaked by love.

Altho' this heart was early blown,

And fairest hands disturbed the tree,

They only shook some blossoms down,

Its fruit has all been kept for thee.

Then doubt me not—the season

Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,

And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

And tho' my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent spell,

Yet, trust me, all the stronger

I feel the bliss I do not tell.

The bee thro' many a garden roves,

And hums his lay of courtship o'er,

But when he finds the flower he loves,

He settles there, and hums no more.

Then doubt me not—the season

Is o'er, when Folly kept me free,

And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,

How meekly she blest her humble lot,

When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,

And love was the light of their lowly cot.

Together they toiled through winds and rains,

Till William, at length, in sadness said,

"We must seek our fortune on other plains;"—

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roamed a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,

When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees.

"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there;

"The wind blows cold, the hour is late:"

So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,

And the Porter bowed, as they past the gate.

"Now, welcome, Lady," exclaimed the youth,—

"This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!"

She believed him crazed, but his words were truth,

For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!

And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger wooed and wed;

And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,

Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,

If thy smiles had left me too;

I'd weep when friends deceive me,

If thou wert, like them, untrue.

But while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me;

'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shared with thee.

One minute's dream about thee

Were worth a long, an endless year

Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!

And tho' the hope be gone, love,

That long sparkled o'er our way,

Oh! we shall journey on, love,

More safely, without its ray.

Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I've yet to roam:—

The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller at first goes out,

He feels awhile benighted.

And looks round in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless starlight on he treads,

And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds.

COME O'ER THE SEA.

Come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;

'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Come wherever the wild wind blows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea

Made for the Free,

Land for courts and chains alone?

Here we are slaves,

But, on the waves,

Love and Liberty's all our own.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,

All earth forgot, and all heaven around us—

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet?

Too fast have those young days faded,

That, even in sorrow, were sweet?

Does Time with his cold wing wither

Each feeling that once was dear?—

Then, child of misfortune, come hither,

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,

Been like our Lagenian mine,[1]

Where sparkles of golden splendor

All over the surface shine—

But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,

Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,

Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,[2]

That flitted from tree to tree

With the talisman's glittering glory—

Has Hope been that bird to thee?

On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display,

And, when nearest and most inviting.

Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,

When sorrow itself looked bright;

If thus the fair hope hath cheated,

That led thee along so light;

If thus the cold world now wither

Each feeling that once was dear:—

Come, child of misfortune, come hither,

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

[1] Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.

[2] "The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," etc.—"Arabian Nights."

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,

When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,—

Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.

This heart long had sleeping lain,

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing

Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell—

Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of my soul echoed to its spell.

'Twas whispered balm—'twas sunshine spoken!—

I'd live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign, blessed sounds again.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

When first I met thee, warm and young,

There shone such truth about thee.

And on thy lip such promise hung,

I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw the change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,

And thought, tho' false to all beside,

From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! go,

The heart, whose hopes could make it

Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,

I fled the unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blamed,

Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;

The heart that now thy falsehood rends,

Would then have bled to right thee,

But go, deceiver! go,—

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken

From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee:

The few, who loved thee once, have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,

Has rank cold hearts beneath it.

Go—go—tho' worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendor!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,

When even those ties shall sever;

When thou wilt call, with vain regret,

On her thou'st lost for ever;

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still received thee,

And gladly died to prove thee all

Her fancy first believed thee.

Go—go—'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;

Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,

Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.

But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,

When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,

She saw History write,

With a pencil of light

That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling

With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies—

"Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

"I've watched for some glory like thine to arise.

"For, tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot,

"And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;—

"But oh! there is not

"One dishonoring blot

"On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

"The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;

"Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

"Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.

"At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,

"Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,

"And, bright o'er the flood

"Of her tears and her blood,

"Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light, that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorned the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,

I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the Sprite,[1]

Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me,

But while her eyes were on me,

If once their ray

Was turned away,

O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?

And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?

No, vain, alas! the endeavor

From bonds so sweet to sever;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

[1] This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed, and in your power;—but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan, (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.

WHERE IS THE SLAVE.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly,

Condemned to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?

What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,

Would wait till time decayed it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin.—farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,

Alive, untouched and blowing,

Than that, whose braid

Is plucked to shade

The brows with victory glowing

We tread the land that bore us,

Her green flag glitters o'er us,

The friends we've tried

Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,—farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same

Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,—

Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,

Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead—

When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled.

'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning

But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,

That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,

And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting

Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;

When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,

At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.[1]

Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!

Then, then—had one Hymn of Deliverance blended

The tongues of all nations—how sweet had ascended

The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee!

But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!

And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,

Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing

The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood.

Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision,

Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,

Shall long be remembered, pure, bright, and elysian,

As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.

[1] "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,

A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;

I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,

The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;

Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us,

And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;—

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,

When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame,

And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning,

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.

FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes,

As when thro' the frame

It shoots from brimming glasses.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions,

And bring down its ray

From the starred dominions:—

So we, Sages, sit,

And, mid bumpers brightening,

From the Heaven of Wit

Draw down all its lightning.

Wouldst thou know what first

Made our souls inherit

This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit?

It chanced upon that day,

When, as bards inform us,

Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us:

The careless Youth, when up

To Glory's fount aspiring,

Took nor urn nor cup

To hide the pilfered fire in.—

But oh his joy, when, round

The halls of Heaven spying,

Among the stars he found

A bowl of Bacchus lying!

Some drops were in the bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure,

With which the Sparks of Soul

Mixt their burning treasure.

Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us;

Hence its mighty power

O'er that flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1]

When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;

But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!

Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;

I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,

And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

[1] The chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of "a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks."

MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle harp, once more I waken

The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;

In tears our last farewell was taken,

And now in tears we meet again.

No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,

But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill

Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,

Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,

An hour of peace and triumph came,

And many an ardent bosom bounded

With hopes—that now art turned to shame.

Yet even then, while Peace was singing

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,

Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,

She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,

My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?

Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

As ill would suit the swan's decline!

Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,

Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,

When even the wreaths in which I dress thee,

Are sadly mixt—half flowers, half chains?

But come—if yet thy frame can borrow

One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,

And show the world, in chains and sorrow,

How sweet thy music still can be;

How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding,

Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill—

Like Memnon's broken image sounding,

Mid desolation tuneful still!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,

When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,

And the light that surrounds us is all from within;

Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;—

Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,

But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;

When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;

Then, then is the time when affection holds sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;

Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they,

But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid the flowers,

Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth;

'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers,

That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.

So it is not mid splendor, prosperity, mirth,

That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;

To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

As slow our ship her foamy track

Against the wind was cleaving,

Her trembling pennant still looked back

To that dear isle 'twas leaving.

So loathe we part from all we love.

From all the links that bind us;

So turn our hearts as on we rove,

To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years

We talk, with joyous seeming,—

With smiles that might as well be tears,

So faint, so sad their beaming;

While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,

Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle, or vale enchanting,

Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,

And naught but love is wanting;

We think how great had been our bliss,

If heaven had but assigned us

To live and die in scenes like this,

With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve,

When eastward darkly going,

To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing,—

So, when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consigned us,

We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH.

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,

Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;

Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.

And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far

From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam,

Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star

That arose on his darkness and guided him home.

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came

The revealings, that taught him true love to adore,

To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before.

O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,

Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea;

And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled

On his evening horizon, the light was from thee.

And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise,

And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray,

He but turned to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,

And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanished away.

As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,

At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair,

So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,

He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there.

REMEMBER THEE.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,

It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;

More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,

Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,

First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,

I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,

But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,

But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—

Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,

Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

WREATH THE BOWL.

Wreath the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid,

That joy, the enchanter, brings us,

No danger fear,

While wine is near,

We'll drown him if he stings us,

Then, wreath the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, 'tis said,

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;

And man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt's as follows:

Take wine like this,

Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended,

Then bring wit's beam

To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar, splendid!

So wreath the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Say, why did Time

His glass sublime

Fill up with sands unsightly,

When wine, he knew,

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?

Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

The glass in two we'll sever,

Make pleasure glide

In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!

Then wreath the bowl

With flowers of soul

The brightest wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,

So full of hope, and joy, and light,

As if no cloud could ever rise,

To dim a heaven so purely bright—

I sigh to think how soon that brow

In grief may lose its every ray,

And that light heart, so joyous now,

Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,

The ruined hope, the friend unkind,

And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,

A chilled or burning heart behind:—

While youth, that now like snow appears,

Ere sullied by the darkening rain,

When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears

Can ever shine so bright again.

IF THOU'LT BE MINE.

If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air,

Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;

Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,

Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet,

Shall be ours—if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,

A voice divine shall talk in each stream;

The stars shall look like worlds of love,

And this earth be all one beautiful dream

In our eyes—if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,

Like streams, that come from heavenward hills,

Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie

To be bathed by those eternal rills,

Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

All this and more the Spirit of Love

Can breathe o'er them, who feel his spells;

That heaven, which forms his home above,

He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,

As thou'lt own.—if thou wilt be mine, love!

TO LADIES' EYES.

To Ladies' eyes around, boy,

We can't refuse, we can't refuse,

Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy,

'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose.

For thick as stars that lighten

Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers,

The countless eyes that brighten

This earth of ours, this earth of ours.

But fill the cup—where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,

We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy,

They seem but given, they seem but given,

As shining beacons, solely,

To light to heaven, to light to heaven.

While some—oh! ne'er believe them—

With tempting ray, with tempting ray,

Would lead us (God forgive them!)

The other way, the other way.

But fill the cup—where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,

We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

In some, as in a mirror,

Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed,

But shun the flattering error,

'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade.

Himself has fixt his dwelling

In eyes we know, in eyes we know,

And lips—but this is telling—

So here they go! so here they go!

Fill up, fill up—where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,

We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

Forget not the field where they perished,

The truest, the last of the brave,

All gone—and the bright hope we cherished

Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover

Those hearts as they bounded before,

In the face of high heaven to fight over

That combat for freedom once more;—

Could the chain for an instant be riven

Which Tyranny flung round us then,

No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,

To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past—and, tho' blazoned in story

The name of our Victor may be,

Accurst is the march of that glory

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison,

Illumed by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all, who have risen

On Liberty's ruins to fame.

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

They may rail at this life—from the hour I began it,

I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;

And, until they can show me some happier planet,

More social and bright, I'll content me with this.

As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,

As before me this moment enraptured I see,

They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,

Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,

They've none, even there, more enamored than I.

And as long as this harp can be wakened to love,

And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,

They may talk as they will of their Edens above,

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor,

At twilight so often we've roamed thro' the dew,

There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,

And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.

But tho' they were even more bright than the queen

Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,

As I never those fair young celestials have seen,

Why—this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,

Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare,

Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,

If the haters of peace, of affection and glee,

Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

Oh for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,

When armed for Right, they stood sublime,

And tyrants crouched before them:

When free yet, ere courts began

With honors to enslave him,

The best honors worn by Man

Were those which Virtue gave him.

Oh for the swords, etc.

Oh for the kings who flourished then!

Oh for the pomp that crowned them,

When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them.

When, safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre,

Round which Love a circle drew,

That Treason durst not enter.

Oh for the kings who flourished then!

Oh for the pomp that crowned them,

When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them!

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.[1]

"Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle,

Unholy bark, ere morning smile;

For on thy deck, though dark it be,

A female form I see;

And I have sworn this sainted sod

Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."

THE LADY.

"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark,

Thro' wintry winds and billows dark:

I come with humble heart to share

Thy morn and evening prayer;

Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,

The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned;

The winds blew fresh, the bark returned;

But legends hint, that had the maid

Till morning's light delayed,

And given the saint one rosy smile,

She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

[1] In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the "Acta Sanctorum Hiberniae," we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Ne'er ask the hour—what is it to us

How Time deals out his treasures?

The golden moments lent us thus,

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,

I'd number each glorious second:

But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,

Too quick and sweet to be reckoned.

Then fill the cup—what is it to us

How time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one summer's morning,

Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on,

And how fast that light was going.

So fill the cup—what is it to us

How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark—

Wherever blows the welcome wind,

It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind.

Each wave that passes seems to say,

"Tho' death beneath our smile may be,

Less cold we are, less false than they,

Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee."

Sail on, sail on,—thro' endless space—

Thro' calm—thro' tempest—stop no more:

The stormiest sea's a resting place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore.

Or—if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men

Profaned a world, that else were sweet,—

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling,

In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart—

If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"

Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken,

And fallen from her head is the once royal crown;

In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,

And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning,

Die far from the home it were life to behold;

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,

Remember the bright things that blest them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3]

Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves;

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,

Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance—yet came there the morrow,

That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,

When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,

Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4]

Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips;

And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,

The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,

And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5]

The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.

[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."—Jer. xv. 9.

[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."—Isaiah, lxii. 4.

[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"— Isaiah, xiv. 4.

[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover thee."—Isaiah, xiv. 11.

[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."—Isaiah, xlvil. 5.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

Drink of this cup;—you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Would you forget the dark world we are in,

Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;

But would you rise above earth, till akin

To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;

Send round the cup—for oh there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;

Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,

A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.

There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,

This wonderful juice from its core was distilled

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.

Then drink of the cup—you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And tho' perhaps—but breathe it to no one—

Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,

This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,

Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.

And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame,

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden—

Fill up—there's a fire in some hearts I could name,

Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.

So drink of the cup—for oh there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,

And I'll tell you your fortune truly

As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,

To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,

Lest haply the stars should deceive me;

Such secrets between you and me and the sky

Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,

My science shall call up before you

A male apparition,—the image of him

Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,

So fondly around you he'll hover,

You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find

'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,

He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion—

An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite

You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,

As in destiny's book I've not seen them,

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes

To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves,

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot where all

Those eyes that wept your fall,

And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;

And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;

But still thus even in death,

So sweet the living breath

Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That ere, condemned, we go

To freeze mid Hecla's snow,

We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun

In light-linked dance their circles run,

Sweet May, shine thou for me;

For still, when thy earliest beams arise,

That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,

Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves

Its lingering smile on golden eyes,

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;

For when the last April sun grows dim,

Thy Naïads prepare his steed[1] for him

Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore

Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,

White Steed, most joy to thee;

Who still, with the first young glance of spring,

From under that glorious lake dost bring

My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,

When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls,

Fair Steed, as white and free;

And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,

Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,

Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,

Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet that death will be,

Which, under the next May evening's light,

When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

Dear love, I'll die for thee.

[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,

Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then,—

The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,

Where Youth resorts, but come to me:

For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.

And there we shall have our feast of tears,

And many a cup in silence pour;

Our guests, the shades of former years,

Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs

Their lifeless leaves around us shed,

We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.

Or, while some blighted laurel waves

Its branches o'er the dreary spot,

We'll drink to those neglected graves,

Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,

The night's long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crowned,

And smiles are near, that once enchanted,

Unreached by all that sunshine round,

My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken

My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurries, resting never,

Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,

I know not, heed not, hastening ever

To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,

And pain itself seems sweet when springing

From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells, that naught on earth can break,

Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,

This heart, howe'er the world may wake

Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave

To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?

Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,

Where the first—where the last of her Patriots lies?

No—faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,

Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,

Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;—[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers

By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,

Was embraced in that spirit—whose centre was ours,

While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,

Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime—

Like a pyramid raised in the desert—where he

And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom

And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,

A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,

And for one sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him—hath drank at the source

Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,

In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,

And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave

Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro',

As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,

With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,

In a home full of love, he delighted to tread

'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,

As if each brought a new civic crown for his head—

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life

But at distance observed him—thro' glory, thro' blame,

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,—

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns

Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined—

O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns

Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing,

O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!

When hearts are all high beating,

And the trumpet's voice repeating

That song, whose breath

May lead to death,

But never to retreating.

Oh the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather—

For ask yon despot, whether

His plumed bands

Could bring such hands

And hearts as ours together.

Leave pomps to those who need 'em—

Give man but heart and freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.

The sword may pierce the beaver,

Stone walls in time may sever,

'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,

That keeps men free for ever.

Oh that sight entrancing,

When the morning's beam is glancing,

O'er files arrayed

With helm and blade,

And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine!

How fair thou art let others tell,—

To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

In memory's dream that sunny smile,

Which o'er thee on that evening fell,

When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,

Who had to turn to paths of care—

Through crowded haunts again to run,

And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,

But, on the world's rude ocean tost,

Dream of thee sometimes, as a home

Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours

To part from thee, as I do now,

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,

Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace,

Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,

But thus in shadow, seem'st a place

Where erring man might hope to rest—

Might hope to rest, and find in thee

A gloom like Eden's on the day

He left its shade, when every tree,

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

And all the lovelier for thy tears—

For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,

'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,

But, when indeed they come divine—

The brightest light the sun e'er threw

Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought,

Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought—

When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,

And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those

He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,

And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er

From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.

He listened—while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,

The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;

And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir,

As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here,

Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,

Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain

They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath

Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death,

He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,

"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away,

'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,

And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,

Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

Fairest! put on awhile

These pinions of light I bring thee,

And o'er thy own green isle

In fancy let me wing thee.

Never did Ariel's plume,

At golden sunset hover

O'er scenes so full of bloom,

As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays

And fearlessly meets the ardor

Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With only her tears to guard her.

Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs

In grace majestic frowning;

Like some bold warrior's brows

That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,

That never hath bird come nigh them,

But from his course thro' air

He hath been won down by them;—[1]

Types, sweet maid, of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting,

Never did Love yet see

From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2]

And caves, where the gem is sleeping,

Bright as the tears thy lid

Lets fall in lonely weeping.

Glens,[3] where Ocean comes,

To 'scape the wild wind's rancor,

And harbors, worthiest homes

Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,

So beautiful, shine before thee,

Pride for thy own dear land

Should haply be stealing o'er thee,

Oh, let grief come first,

O'er pride itself victorious—

Thinking how man hath curst

What Heaven had made so glorious!

[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock."

[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."—O'Halloran.

[3] Glengariff.

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

Quick! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may;

For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,

And we must away, away!

Grasp the pleasure that's flying,

For oh, not Orpheus' strain

Could keep sweet hours from dying,

Or charm them to life again.

Then, quick! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup while you may;

For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,

And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes.

Like some young Hebe's lip,

And half meets thine, and blushes

That thou shouldst delay to sip.

Shame, oh shame unto thee,

If ever thou see'st that day,

When a cup or lip shall woo thee,

And turn untouched away!

Then, quick! we have but a second,

Fill round, fill round, while you may;

For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,

And we must away, away!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,

For all the long years I've been wandering away—

To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

As smiling and kind as in that happy day?

Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,

The snow-fall of time may be stealing—what then?

Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!

The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,

As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,

So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,

The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,

Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,

The wreck of full many a hope shining thro';

Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore,

Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;

And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.

Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,

To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,

For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,

Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,

The more we should welcome and bless them the more;

They're ours, when we meet,—they are lost when we part,

Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.

Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,

Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,

That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,

Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,

He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er

The golden sands of that island shore,

A foot-print sparkled before his sight—

'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

As bending over the stream he lay,

There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light,

And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird,

That spirit fled!—and the youth but heard

Sweet music, such as marks the flight

Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look,

The boy, bewildered, his pencil took,

And, guided only by memory's light,

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried

A voice, low whispering by his side,

"Now turn and see,"—here the youth's delight

Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"

Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee,

"And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light

"In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

As vanquished Erin wept beside

The Boyne's ill-fated river,

She saw where Discord, in the tide,

Had dropt his loaded quiver.

"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts,

"Where mortal eye may shun you;

"Lie hid—the stain of manly hearts,

"That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,—

As Time too well hath taught her—

Each year the Fiend returns again,

And dives into that water;

And brings, triumphant, from beneath

His shafts of desolation,

And sends them, winged with worse than death,

Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,

Even now, beside that river—

Unwearied still the Fiend returns,

And stored is still his quiver.

"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"

She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,

The Demon answer, "Never!"

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

By the Feal's wave benighted,

No star in the skies,

To thy door by Love lighted,

I first saw those eyes.

Some voice whispered o'er me,

As the threshold I crost,

There was ruin before me,

If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow

Too soon in his train;

Yet so sweet, that to-morrow

'Twere welcome again.

Though misery's full measure

My portion should be,

I would drain it with pleasure,

If poured out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor

To bow to this flame,

If you've eyes, look but on her,

And blush while you blame.

Hath the pearl less whiteness

Because of its birth?

Hath the violet less brightness

For growing near earth?

No—Man for his glory

To ancestry flies;

But Woman's bright story

Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces

Thro' mortals his line,

Beauty, born of the Graces,

Banks next to Divine!

[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."—Leland, vol. ii.

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be

One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;

Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,

As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,

I could harm what I love,—as the sun's wanton ray

But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No—beaming with light as those young features are,

There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:

It is not that cheek—'tis the soul dawning clear

Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:

As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair,

Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1]

Where sinful souls their farewell take

Of this vain world, and half-way lie

In death's cold shadow, ere they die.

There, there, far from thee,

Deceitful world, my home should be;

Where, come what might of gloom and pain,

False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound

Of unseen waters falling round;

The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,

Like man, unquiet even when dead!

These, ay, these shall wean

My soul from life's deluding scene,

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,

Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night

Would win repose, first quench the light,

So must the hopes, that keep this breast

Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.

Cold, cold, this heart must grow,

Unmoved by either joy or woe,

Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown

Within their current turns to stone.

[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre

The rosy rays of evening fell,

As if to feed with their soft fire

The soul within that trembling shell.

The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,

And played around those lips that sung

And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,

If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned,

Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;

And, when to gaze again I turned,

The minstrel's form seemed fading too.

As if her light and heaven's were one,

The glory all had left that frame;

And from her glimmering lips the tone,

As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought

That he and all he loved must part?

Filled with this fear, I flew and caught

The fading image to my heart—

And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?

"Oh light of youth's resplendent day!

"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

"And thus, like sunshine, die away?"

SING—SING—MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

Sing—sing—Music was given,

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,

But Love from the lips his true archery wings;

And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,

At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.

Then sing—sing—Music was given,

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,

Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,

"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other

"Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."

Dreaming of music he slumbered the while

Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,

And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,

While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.

Then sing—sing—Music was given,

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,

Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:

Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,

And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling

Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,

Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,

Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion

Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;

Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,

Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,

And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,

The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet

Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,—if a board so untempting hath power

To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;

And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,

Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

SING, SWEET HARP.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me

Some song of ancient days,

Whose sounds, in this sad memory,

Long buried dreams shall raise;—

Some lay that tells of vanished fame,

Whose light once round us shone;

Of noble pride, now turned to shame,

And hopes for ever gone.—

Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;

Alike our doom is cast,

Both lost to all but memory,

We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air

Among thy chords doth sigh,

As if it sought some echo there

Of voices long gone by;—

Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed

The foremost then in fame;

Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,

Now sleep without a name.—

In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air

Among thy chords doth sigh;

In vain it seeks an echo there

Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round.

Who once, in bower and hall,

Sat listening to thy magic sound,

Now mute and mouldering all;—

But, no; they would but wake to weep

Their children's slavery;

Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,

The dead, at least, are free!—

Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,

That knell of Freedom's day;

Or, listening to its death-like moan,

Let me, too, die away.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME—THE NINTH CENTURY.

To-morrow, comrade, we

On the battle-plain must be,

There to conquer, or both lie low!

The morning star is up,—

But there's wine still in the cup,

And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;

We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes

A passing tear will rise,

When we think of the friends we leave lone;

But what can wailing do?

See, our goblet's weeping too!

With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;

With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;—

The last that o'er us shone

Saw our children around us play;

The next—ah! where shall we

And those rosy urchins be?

But—no matter—grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;

No matter—grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain

Of Saxon or of Dane,

Ignobly by their firesides stay;

One sigh to home be given,

One heartfelt prayer to heaven,

Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!

Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

THE WANDERING BARD.

What life like that of the bard can be—

The wandering bard, who roams as free

As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,

And, like that lark, a music brings

Within him, where'er he comes or goes,—

A fount that for ever flows!

The world's to him like some playground,

Where fairies dance their moonlight round;—

If dimmed the turf where late they trod,

The elves but seek some greener sod;

So, when less bright his scene of glee,

To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,

Without a bard to fix her bloom?

They tell us, in the moon's bright round,

Things lost in this dark world are found;

So charms, on earth long past and gone,

In the poet's lay live on.—

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?

You've only to give them all to him.

Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,

Can lend them life, this life beyond,

And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,—

Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,—

For, tho' he hath countless airy homes,

To which his wing excursive roves,

Yet still, from time to time, he loves

To light upon earth and find such cheer

As brightens our banquet here.

No matter how far, how fleet he flies,

You've only to light up kind young eyes,

Such signal-fires as here are given,—

And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,

The minute such call to love or mirth

Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

Alone in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone

Which voices dear and eyes beloved

Shed round us once, where'er we roved—

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've loved, and lived to see

The few bright things they thought would stay

For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,

Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone

Round those the fond heart calls its own.

Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice—where are they now?

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,

If all her art can not call forth

One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

No, no,—her spell is vain,—

As soon could she bring back again

Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,—

Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:

I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;

Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;

Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,

When stars can be heard in ocean dip,

Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:

Like him, the boy,[1] who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,

Sits ever thus,—his only song

To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

They came from a land beyond the sea,

And now o'er the western main

Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,

From the sunny land of Spain.

"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,

Our destined home or grave?"[1]

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,

They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines

A sparkle of radiant green,

As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,

Whose light thro' the wave was seen.

"'Tis Innisfail[2]—'tis Innisfail!"

Rings o'er the echoing sea;

While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail

That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,

Where now their Day-God's eye

A look of such sunny-omen gave

As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,

Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,

When first on their Isle of Destiny

Our great forefathers trod.

[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.—Keating.

[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,

And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,

Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,

Obey the mute call and heave into motion.

Then, sound notes—the gayest, the lightest,

That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!

Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

In that City of Statues described by romancers,

So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,

And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,—

While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,

And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?

Again, that strain!—to hear it thus sounding

Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding—

Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,

Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,

Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,

And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,

And lamps from every casement shown;

While voices blithe within are singing,

That seem to say "Come," in every tone.

Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,

My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;

Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason

Should I the syren call obey.

And, see—the lamps still livelier glitter,

The syren lips more fondly sound;

No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter

To sink in your rosy bondage bound.

Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms

Could bend to tyranny's rude control,

Thus quail at sight of woman's charms

And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

The nymphs their fetters around him cast,

And,—their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,—

Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.

For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,

Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]

Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,

But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.

OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,

How oft I dream of thee,

And of those days when, by thy shore,

I wandered young and free.

Full many a path I've tried, since then,

Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,

But ne'er could find the bliss again

I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,

At sunny morn I've stood,

With heart as bounding as the skiffs

That danced along thy flood;

Or, when the western wave grew bright

With daylight's parting wing,

Have sought that Eden in its light,

Which dreaming poets sing;[1]—

That Eden where the immortal brave

Dwell in a land serene,—

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,

At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah dream too full of saddening truth!

Those mansions o'er the main

Are like the hopes I built in youth,—

As sunny and as vain!

[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories",—Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland."

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

Lay his sword by his side,[1]—it hath served him too well

Not to rest near his pillow below;

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,

Its point was still turned to a flying foe.

Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,—

That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,

And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause—for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,

As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;—

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,

Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"

And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,

"Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,

"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,—

"It hath victory's life in it yet!"

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,

"Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,

"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed,

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.

But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use

Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,—

Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,

Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours

As thou dost with thy garden bowers,

Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,

What a heaven on earth we'd make it!

So bright a dwelling should be our own,

So warranted free from sigh or frown,

That angels soon would be coming down,

By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,

And in themselves a lustre bear,

A stock of light, still ready there,

Whenever they wish to use it;

So, in this world I'd make for thee,

Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,

And the flash of wit or poesy

Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere

Hath still some shadow hovering near,

In this new world of ours, my dear,

Such shadows will all be omitted:—

Unless they're like that graceful one,

Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.

Still near thee, leaves a charm upon

Each spot where it hath flitted.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]

And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,

Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,

Where his sword hangs idly shining.

When, hark! that shout

From the vale without,—

"Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"

Every Chief starts up

From his foaming cup,

And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,

And they sing such thrilling numbers,

'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,

Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!

Spear to buckler rang,

As the minstrels sang,

And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide;

While remembering the yoke

Which their father's broke,

"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,

O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;

While onward moved, in the light of its fame,

That banner of Erin, towering.

With the mingling shock

Rung cliff and rock,

While, rank on rank, the invaders die:

And the shout, that last,

O'er the dying past,

Was "victory! victory!"—the Finian's cry.

[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er,

Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore;

And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,

That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;

And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned,

Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,

With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread!

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain

Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

From this hour the pledge is given,

From this hour my soul is thine:

Come what will, from earth or heaven,

Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.

When the proud and great stood by thee,

None dared thy rights to spurn;

And if now they're false and fly thee,

Shall I, too, basely turn?

No;—whate'er the fires that try thee,

In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,

Offers now no friendly shore,

Light may come where all looks darkest,

Hope hath life when life seems o'er.

And, of those past ages dreaming,

When glory decked thy brow,

Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming

So fallen and clouded now,

Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,—

None so bright, so blest as thou!

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

Silence is in our festal halls,—

Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;

In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

Her minstrel's voice responds no more;—

All silent as the Eolian shell

Sleeps at the close of some bright day,

When the sweet breeze that waked its swell

At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long

Awakened by music's spell shall rise;

For, name so linked with deathless song

Partakes its charm and never dies:

And even within the holy fane

When music wafts the soul to heaven,

One thought to him whose earliest strain

Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.

The social night when by thy side

He who now weaves this parting lay

His skilless voice with thine allied;

And sung those songs whose every tone,

When bard and minstrel long have past,

Shall still in sweetness all their own

Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,—

Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,

From thee the borrowed glory came,

And at thy feet is now laid down.

Enough, if Freedom still inspire

His latest song and still there be.

As evening closes round his lyre,

One ray upon its chords from thee.

[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

NATIONAL AIRS

ADVERTISEMENT.

It is Cicero, I believe, who says "naturâ, ad modes ducimur;" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none,—or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers,—it is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.

T.M.

NATIONAL AIRS

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)

"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted,

"I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!"

Her temple was built and she now only wanted

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.

She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;

But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer

Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining

"An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;—

"But yon little god, upon roses reclining,

"We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him."

So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden

She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:

"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden

"Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Flow on, thou shining river;

But ere thou reach the sea

Seek Ella's bower and give her

The wreaths I fling o'er thee

And tell her thus, if she'll be mine

The current of our lives shall be,

With joys along their course to shine,

Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if in wandering thither

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,

Then leave those wreaths to wither

Upon the cold bank there;

And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,

Her lone and loveless Charms shall be

Thrown by upon life's weedy shore.

Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

(INDIAN AIR.)

All that's bright must fade,—

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest.

Stars that shine and fall;—

The flower that drops in springing;—

These, alas! are types of all

To which our hearts are clinging.

All that's bright must fade,—

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize

Delights that end in aching?

Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking?

Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,

Than to be blest with light and see

That light for ever flying.

All that's bright must fade,—

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!

SO WARMLY WE MET.

(HUNGARIAN AIR.)

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,

That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,—

That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,

Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell.

To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,—

Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss;

Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other

In smiles and in tears than that moment to this.

The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,—

The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;

The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,

More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.

Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrow

To think that such happiness could not remain;

While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrow

Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(AIR.—THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells!

How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth and home and that sweet time

When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away:

And many a heart, that then was gay.

Within the tomb now darkly dwells,

And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone:

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

While other bards shall walk these dells,

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,

Which now so sweetly thy heart employ:

Should the cold world come to wake thee

From all thy visions of youth and joy;

Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish

Him who once thought thy young heart his own,

All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,

And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;—

Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted

Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er;

Then the truant, lost and blighted,

Would to his bosom be taken once more.

Like that dear bird we both can remember,

Who left us while summer shone round,

But, when chilled by bleak December,

On our threshold a welcome still found.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say,

Went on a party of pleasure one day:

Folly played

Around the maid,

The bells of his cap rung merrily out;

While Reason took

To his sermon-book—

Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt,

Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage.

Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page,

Till Folly said,

"Look here, sweet maid!"—

The sight of his cap brought her back to herself;

While Reason read

His leaves of lead,

With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

No,—no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap;

Had he that on, he her heart might entrap—

"There it is,"

Quoth Folly, "old quiz!"

(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,)

"Under the sun

There's no such fun,

As Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

"Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,

That Beauty now liked him still less than before;

While Folly took

Old Reason's book,

And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton,

That Beauty vowed

(Tho' not aloud),

She liked him still better in that than his own,

Yes,—liked him still better in that than his own.

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Fare thee well, thou lovely one!

Lovely still, but dear no more;

Once his soul of truth is gone,

Love's sweet life is o'er.

Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell,

Could scarce have thus deceived;

But eyes that acted truth so well

Were sure to be believed.

Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!

Lovely still, but dear no more;

Once his soul of truth is gone,

Love's sweet life is o'er.

Yet those eyes look constant still,

True as stars they keep their light;

Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil

Of blushing always bright.

'Tis only on thy changeful heart

The blame of falsehood lies;

Love lives in every other part,

But there, alas! he dies.

Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!

Lovely still, but dear no more;

Once his soul of truth is gone,

Love's sweet life is o'er.

DOST THOU REMEMBER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Dost thou remember that place so lonely,

A place for lovers and lovers only,

Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?

When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er thee

Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee,

And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes?

Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart,

Love bound us—never, never more to part!

And when I called thee by names the dearest[1]

That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,—

"My life, my only life!" among the rest;

In those sweet accents that still enthral me,

Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me?

"Thy soul, thy soul's the name I love best;

"For life soon passes,—but how blest to be

"That Soul which never, never parts from thee!"

[1] The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words.

OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Oh, come to me when daylight sets;

Sweet! then come to me,

When smoothly go our gondolets

O'er the moonlight sea.

When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,

Beneath that glancing ray,

With sound of lutes and mandolins,

To steal young hearts away.

Then, come to me when daylight sets;

Sweet! then come to me,

When smoothly go our gondolets

O'er the moonlight sea.

Oh, then's the hour for those who love,

Sweet, like thee and me;

When all's so calm below, above,

In Heaven and o'er the sea.

When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles,

And Echo sings again

So sweet, that all with ears and souls

Should love and listen then.

So, come to me when daylight sets;

Sweet! then come to me,

When smoothly go our gondolets

O'er the moonlight sea.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one,

Who treads alone,

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING.

(RUSSIAN AIR.)

Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing

O'er the waters soft and clear;

Nearer yet and nearer pealing,

And now bursts upon the ear:

Jubilate, Amen.

Farther now, now farther stealing

Soft it fades upon the ear:

Jubilate, Amen.

Now, like moonlight waves retreating

To the shore it dies along;

Now, like angry surges meeting,

Breaks the mingled tide of song

Jubilate, Amen.

Hush! again, like waves, retreating

To the shore, it dies along:

Jubilate, Amen.

LOVE AND HOPE.

(SWISS AIR.)

At morn, beside yon summer sea,

Young Hope and Love reclined;

But scarce had noon-tide come, when he

Into his bark leapt smilingly,

And left poor Hope behind.

"I go," said Love, "to sail awhile

"Across this sunny main;"

And then so sweet, his parting smile,

That Hope, who never dreamt of guile,

Believed he'd come again.

She lingered there till evening's beam

Along the waters lay;

And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream,

Oft traced his name, which still the stream

As often washed away.

At length a sail appears in sight,

And toward the maiden moves!

'Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright,

His golden bark reflects the light,

But ah! it is not Love's.

Another sail—'twas Friendship showed

Her night-lamp o'er the sea;

And calm the light that lamp bestowed;

But Love had lights that warmer glowed,

And where, alas! was he?

Now fast around the sea and shore

Night threw her darkling chain;

The sunny sails were seen no more,

Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er—

Love never came again!

THERE COMES A TIME.

(GERMAN AIR.)

There comes a time, a dreary time,

To him whose heart hath flown

O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,

And made each flow its own.

'Tis when his soul must first renounce

Those dreams so bright, so fond;

Oh! then's the time to die at once.

For life has naught beyond.

When sets the sun on Afric's shore,

That instant all is night;

And so should life at once be o'er.

When Love withdraws his light;—

Nor, like our northern day, gleam on

Thro' twilight's dim delay,

The cold remains of lustre gone,

Of fire long past away.

MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

(SWEDISH AIR.)

My harp has one unchanging theme,

One strain that still comes o'er

Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream

Of joy that's now no more.

In vain I try, with livelier air,

To wake the breathing string;

That voice of other times is there,

And saddens all I sing.

Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain,

Henceforth be all my own;

Tho' thou art oft so full of pain

Few hearts can bear thy tone.

Yet oft thou'rt sweet, as if the sigh,

The breath that Pleasure's wings

Gave out, when last they wantoned by.

Were still upon thy strings.

OH, NO—NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

(CASHMERIAN AIR.)

Oh, no—not even when first we loved,

Wert thou as dear as now thou art;

Thy beauty then my senses moved,

But now thy virtues bind my heart.

What was but Passion's sigh before,

Has since been turned to Reason's vow;

And, though I then might love thee more,

Trust me, I love thee better now.

Altho' my heart in earlier youth

Might kindle with more wild desire,

Believe me, it has gained in truth

Much more than it has lost in fire.

The flame now warms my inmost core,

That then but sparkled o'er my brow,

And, though I seemed to love thee more,

Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st;

May life be for thee one summer's day,

And all that thou wishest and all that thou lov'st

Come smiling around thy sunny way!

If sorrow e'er this calm should break,

May even thy tears pass off so lightly,

Like spring-showers, they'll only make

The smiles, that follow shine more brightly.

May Time who sheds his blight o'er all

And daily dooms some joy to death

O'er thee let years so gently fall,

They shall not crush one flower beneath.

As half in shade and half in sun

This world along its path advances.

May that side the sun's upon

Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS.

(FRENCH AIR.)

While I touch the string,

Wreathe my brows with laurel,

For the tale I sing

Has, for once, a moral.

Common Sense, one night,

Tho' not used to gambols,

Went out by moonlight,

With Genius, on his rambles.

While I touch the string, etc.

Common Sense went on,

Many wise things saying;

While the light that shone

Soon set Genius straying.

One his eye ne'er raised

From the path before him;

T'other idly gazed

On each night-cloud o'er him.

While I touch the string, etc.

So they came, at last,

To a shady river;

Common Sense soon past,

Safe, as he doth ever;

While the boy, whose look

Was in Heaven that minute.

Never saw the brook,

But tumbled headlong in it!

While I touch the string, etc.

How the Wise One smiled,

When safe o'er the torrent,

At that youth, so wild,

Dripping from the current!

Sense went home to bed;

Genius, left to shiver

On the bank, 'tis said,

Died of that cold river!

While I touch the string, etc.

THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

(OLD ENGLISH AIR.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,

This world has now for us

No greater grief, no pain above

The pain of parting thus,

Dear love!

The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,

Some few short hours of bliss,

We might, in numbering them, forget

The deep, deep pain of this,

Dear love!

The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen

One glimpse of pleasure's ray,

But still there came some cloud between,

And chased it all away,

Dear love!

And chased it all away.

Yet, even could those sad moments last,

Far dearer to my heart

Were hours of grief, together past,

Than years of mirth apart,

Dear love!

Than years of mirth apart.

Farewell! our hope was born in fears,

And nurst mid vain regrets:

Like winter suns, it rose in tears,

Like them in tears it sets,

Dear love!

Like them in tears it sets.

GAYLY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

(MALTESE AIR.)

Gayly sounds the castanet,

Beating time to bounding feet,

When, after daylight's golden set,

Maids and youths by moonlight meet.

Oh, then, how sweet to move

Thro' all that maze of mirth,

Led by light from eyes we love

Beyond all eyes on earth.

Then, the joyous banquet spread

On the cool and fragrant ground,

With heaven's bright sparklers overhead,

And still brighter sparkling round.

Oh, then, how sweet to say

Into some loved one's ear,

Thoughts reserved thro' many a day

To be thus whispered here.

When the dance and feast are done,

Arm in arm as home we stray,

How sweet to see the dawning sun

O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!

Then, too, the farewell kiss—

The words, whose parting tone

Lingers still in dreams of bliss,

That haunt young hearts alone.

LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.

(LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.)

Love is a hunter-boy,

Who, makes young hearts his prey,

And in his nets of joy

Ensnares them night and day.

In vain concealed they lie—

Love tracks them every where;

In vain aloft they fly—

Love shoots them flying there.

But 'tis his joy most sweet,

At early dawn to trace

The print of Beauty's feet,

And give the trembler chase.

And if, thro' virgin snow,

He tracks her footsteps fair,

How sweet for Love to know

None went before him there.

COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Come, chase that starting tear away,

Ere mine to meet it springs;

To-night, at least, to-night be gay,

Whate'er to-morrow brings.

Like sunset gleams, that linger late

When all is darkening fast,

Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—

The brightest, and the last.

Then, chase that starting tear, etc.

To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven

But one bright hour allow,

Oh, think that one bright hour is given,

In all its splendor, now.

Let's live it out—then sink in night,

Like waves that from the shore

One minute swell, are touched with light,

Then lost for evermore!

Come, chase that starting tear, etc.

JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids,

To whom the night-stars guide us;

Stolen walks thro' moonlight shades,

With those we love beside us,

Hearts beating,

At meeting;

Tears starting,

At parting;

Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades!

Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!

Wanderings far away from home,

With life all new before us;

Greetings warm, when home we come,

From hearts whose prayers watched o'er us.

Tears starting,

At parting;

Hearts beating,

At meeting;

Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some!

To some, how bright and fleeting!

HEAR ME BUT ONCE.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Hear me but once, while o'er the grave,

In which our Love lies cold and dead,

I count each flattering hope he gave

Of joys now lost and charms now fled.

Who could have thought the smile he wore

When first we met would fade away?

Or that a chill would e'er come o'er

Those eyes so bright thro' many a day?

Hear me but once, etc.

WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD

(SWEDISH AIR.)

When Love was a child, and went idling round,

'Mong flowers the whole summer's day,

One morn in the valley a bower he found,

So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath;—

'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there;

Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.

But Love didn't know—and, at his weak years,

What urchin was likely to know?—

That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears

The fountain that murmured below.

He caught at the wreath—but with too much haste,

As boys when impatient will do—

It fell in those waters of briny taste,

And the flowers were all wet through.

This garland he now wears night and day;

And, tho' it all sunny appears

With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say,

Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.

SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Say, what shall be our sport today?

There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,

Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay

For spirits like mine to dare!

'Tis like the returning bloom

Of those days, alas, gone by,

When I loved, each hour—I scarce knew whom—

And was blest—I scarce knew why.

Ay—those were days when life had wings,

And flew, oh, flew so wild a height

That, like the lark which sunward springs,

'Twas giddy with too much light.

And, tho' of some plumes bereft,

With that sun, too, nearly set,

I've enough of light and wing still left

For a few gay soarings yet.

BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.

(WELSH AIR.)

Bright be thy dreams—may all thy weeping

Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping.

May those by death or seas removed,

The friends, who in thy springtime knew thee,

All thou hast ever prized or loved,

In dreams come smiling to thee!

There may the child, whose love lay deepest,

Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest;

Still as she was—no charm forgot—

No lustre lost that life had given;

Or, if changed, but changed to what

Thou'lt find her yet in Heaven!

GO, THEN—'TIS VAIN.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, then—'tis vain to hover

Thus round a hope that's dead;

At length my dream is over;

'Twas sweet—'twas false—'tis fled!

Farewell! since naught it moves thee,

Such truth as mine to see—

Some one, who far less loves thee,

Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness

New life around me shed;

Farewell, false heart, whose lightness

Now leaves me death instead.

Go, now, those charms surrender

To some new lover's sigh—

One who, tho' far less tender,

May be more blest than I.

THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.

(SWISS AIR.)

O'er mountains bright

With snow and light,

We Crystal-Hunters speed along;

While rocks and caves,

And icy wares,

Each instant echo to our song;

And, when we meet with store of gems,

We grudge not kings their diadems.

O'er mountains bright

With snow and light,

We Crystal-Hunters speed along;

While grots and caves,

And icy waves,

Each instant echo to our song.

Not half so oft the lover dreams

Of sparkles from his lady's eyes,

As we of those refreshing gleams

That tell where deep the crystal lies;

Tho', next to crystal, we too grant,

That ladies' eyes may most enchant.

O'er mountains bright, etc.

Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose

The golden sunset leaves its ray,

So like a gem the floweret glows,

We hither bend our headlong way;

And, tho' we find no treasure there,

We bless the rose that shines so fair.

O'er mountains bright

With snow and light,

We Crystal-Hunters speed along;

While rocks and caves,

And icy waves,

Each instant echo to our song,

ROW GENTLY HERE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Row gently here,

My gondolier,

So softly wake the tide,

That not an ear.

On earth, may hear,

But hers to whom we glide.

Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well

As starry eyes to see,

Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell

Of wandering youths like me!

Now rest thee here.

My gondolier;

Hush, hush, for up I go,

To climb yon light

Balcony's height,

While thou keep'st watch below.

Ah! did we take for Heaven above

But half such pains as we

Take, day and night, for woman's love,

What' Angels we should be.

OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,

Why thus for ever haunt my view?

When in the grave your light lay shrouded,

Why did not Memory die there too?

Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me,

Telling of joys that yet remain—

No, never more can this life bring me

One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.

Dim lies the way to death before me,

Cold winds of Time blow round my brow;

Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me,

Where is your warmth, your glory now?

'Tis not that then no pain could sting me;

'Tis not that now no joys remain;

Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me

One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight,

Oh what a vision then came o'er me!

Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,

Seemed in that smile to pass before me.

Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,

Of golden fruit and harvests springing,

With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,

And of the joy their light was bringing.

Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?

Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness—

Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers,

Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.

Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,

Should be each vow of Love's repeating;

Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray—

Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!

(CATALONIAN AIR.)

Peace to the slumberers!

They lie on the battle-plain.

With no shroud to cover them;

The dew and the summer rain

Are all that weep over them.

Peace to the slumberers!

Vain was their bravery!—

The fallen oak lies where it lay,

Across the wintry river;

But brave hearts, once swept away,

Are gone, alas! forever.

Vain was their bravery!

Woe to the conqueror!

Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs

Of whom his sword bereft us.

Ere we forget the deep arrears

Of vengeance they have left us!

Woe to the conqueror!

WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

When thou shalt wander by that sweet light

We used to gaze on so many an eve,

When love was new and hope was bright,

Ere I could doubt or thou deceive—

Oh, then, remembering how swift went by

Those hours of transport, even thou may'st sigh.

Yes, proud one! even thy heart may own

That love like ours was far too sweet

To be, like summer garments thrown

Aside, when past the summer's heat;

And wish in vain to know again

Such days, such nights, as blest thee then.

WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Hymen, late, his love-knots selling,

Called at many a maiden's dwelling:

None could doubt, who saw or knew them,

Hymen's call was welcome to them.

"Who'll buy my love-knots?

"Who'll buy my love-knots?"

Soon as that sweet cry resounded

How his baskets were surrounded!

Maids, who now first dreamt of trying

These gay knots of Hymen's tying;

Dames, who long had sat to watch him

Passing by, but ne'er could catch him;—

"Who'll buy my love-knots?

"Who'll buy my love-knots?"—

All at that sweet cry assembled;

Some laughed, some blushed, and some trembled.

"Here are knots," said Hymen, taking

Some loose flowers, "of Love's own making;

"Here are gold ones—you may trust 'em"—

(These, of course, found ready custom).

"Come, buy my love-knots!

"Come, buy my love-knots!

"Some are labelled 'Knots to tie men—

"Love the maker—Bought of Hymen.'"

Scarce their bargains were completed,

When the nymphs all cried, "We're cheated!

"See these flowers—they're drooping sadly;

"This gold-knot, too, ties but badly—

"Who'd buy such love-knots?

"Who'd buy such love-knots?

"Even this tie, with Love's name round it—

"All a sham—He never bound it."

Love, who saw the whole proceeding,

Would have laughed, but for good breeding;

While Old Hymen, who was used to

Cries like that these dames gave loose to—

"Take back our love-knots!

"Take back our love-knots!"

Coolly said, "There's no returning

"Wares on Hymen's hands—Good morning!"

SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

(TO AN AIR SUNG AT ROME, ON CHRISTMAS EVE.)

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking

O'er our sight,

And Earth from sin awaking,

Hails the light!

See those groups of angels, winging

From the realms above,

On their brows, from Eden, bringing

Wreaths of Hope and Love.

Hark, their hymns of glory pealing

Thro' the air,

To mortal ears revealing

Who lies there!

In that dwelling, dark and lowly,

Sleeps the Heavenly Son,

He, whose home's above,—the Holy,

Ever Holy One!

NETS AND CAGES.[1]

(SWEDISH AIR.)

Come, listen to my story, while

Your needle task you ply:

At what I sing some maids will smile,

While some, perhaps, may sigh.

Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames

Such florid songs as ours,

Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,

Can speak her thoughts by flowers.

Then listen, maids, come listen, while

Your needle's task you ply;

At what I sing there's some may smile,

While some, perhaps, will sigh.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,

Such nets had learned to frame,

That none, in all our vales and groves,

E'er caught so much small game:

But gentle Sue, less given to roam,

While Cloe's nets were taking

Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,

One little Love-cage making.

Come, listen, maids, etc.

Much Cloe laughed at Susan's task;

But mark how things went on:

These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask

Their name and age, were gone!

So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,

That, tho' she charm'd into them

New game each hour, the youngest Love

Was able to break thro' them.

Come, listen, maids, etc.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought

Of bars too strong to sever,

One Love with golden pinions caught.

And caged him there for ever;

Instructing, thereby, all coquettes,

Whate'er their looks or ages,

That, tho 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,

'Tis wiser to make Cages.

Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile

The task your fingers ply.—

May all who hear like Susan smile,

And not, like Cloe, sigh!

[1] Suggested by the following remark of Swift's;—"The reason why so few marriages are happy, is, because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages."

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

When thro' the Piazzetta

Night breathes her cool air,

Then, dearest Ninetta,

I'll come to thee there.

Beneath thy mask shrouded,

I'll know thee afar,

As Love knows tho' clouded

His own Evening Star.

In garb, then, resembling

Some gay gondolier,

I'll whisper thee, trembling,

"Our bark, love, is near:

"Now, now, while there hover

"Those clouds o'er the moon,

"'Twill waft thee safe over

"Yon silent Lagoon."

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber—

Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number.

Of Pain's bitter draught the flavor ne'er flies,

While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies.

Go, then, and dream, etc.

That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid,

Often will shine again, bright as she then did—

But, never more will the beam she saw burn

In those happy eyes, at your meeting, return.

Go, then, and dream, etc.

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

Take hence the bowl;—tho' beaming

Brightly as bowl e'er shone,

Oh, it but sets me dreaming

Of happy days now gone.

There, in its clear reflection,

As in a wizard's glass,

Lost hopes and dead affection,

Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither

Some scene of bliss gone by;—

Bright lips too bright to wither,

Warm hearts too warm to die.

Till, as the dream comes o'er me

Of those long vanished years,

Alas, the wine before me

Seems turning all to tears!

FAREWELL, THERESA!

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over

Heaven's pale night-star gathering we see,

Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover

Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee,

Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow;

With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;

Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!

But here I free thee: like one awaking

From fearful slumber, thou break'st the spell;

'Tis over—the moon, too, her bondage is breaking—

Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!

HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

(SAVOYARD AIR.)

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,

And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,

To hear a flute through yonder vale

I from my casement lean.

"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say,

"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!"

Never to mortal ear

Could words, tho' warm they be,

Speak Passion's language half so clear

As do those notes to me!

Then quick my own light lute I seek,

And strike the chords with loudest swell;

And, tho' they naught to others speak,

He knows their language well.

"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say,

"I come, my love!—thine, thine till break of day."

Oh, weak the power of words,

The hues of painting dim

Compared to what those simple chords

Then say and paint to him!

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

(GERMAN AIR.)

When the first summer bee

O'er the young rose shall hover,

Then, like that gay rover,

I'll come to thee.

He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim—

What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him!

When the first summer bee, etc.

Then, to every bright tree

In the garden he'll wander;

While I, oh, much fonder,

Will stay with thee.

In search of new sweetness thro' thousands he'll run,

While I find the sweetness of thousands in one.

Then, to every bright tree, etc.

THO' 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best,

And still, when happiest, soonest o'er,

Yet, even in a dream, to be blest

Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.

The bosom that opes

With earliest hopes,

The soonest finds those hopes untrue:

As flowers that first

In spring-time burst

The earliest wither too!

Ay—'tis all but a dream, etc.

Tho' by friendship we oft are deceived,

And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast,

Yet friendship will still be believed.

And love trusted on to the last.

The web 'mong the leaves

The spider weaves

Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men;

Tho' often she sees

'Tis broke by the breeze,

She spins the bright tissue again.

Ay—'tis all but a dream, etc.

WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

When the wine-cup is smiling before us,

And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true,

Then the sky of this life opens o'er us,

And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.

Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,

We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus;

For him but two bright eyes were shining—

See, what numbers are sparkling for us!

When on one side the grape-juice is dancing,

While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams,

'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing,

To disturb even a saint from his dreams.

Yet, tho' life like a river is flowing,

I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on,

So the grape on its bank is still growing,

And Love lights the waves as they run.

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

Where shall we bury our shame?

Where, in what desolate place,

Hide the last wreck of a name

Broken and stained by disgrace?

Death may dissever the chain,

Oppression will cease when we're gone;

But the dishonor, the stain,

Die as we may, will live on.

Was it for this we sent out

Liberty's cry from our shore?

Was it for this that her shout

Thrilled to the world's very core?

Thus to live cowards and slaves!—

Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead,

Do you not, even in your graves,

Shudder, as o'er you we tread?

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.

(MAHRATTA AIR.)

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools;

Give me the sage who's able

To draw his moral thoughts and rules

From the study of the table;—

Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass

This world and all that's in it.

From the bumper that but crowns his glass,

And is gone again next minute!

The diamond sleeps within the mine,

The pearl beneath the water;

While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine.

The grape's own rosy daughter.

And none can prize her charms like him,

Oh, none like him obtain her,

Who thus can, like Leander, swim

Thro' sparkling floods to gain her!

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.

(HIGHLAND AIR.)

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well

All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell;

Whether its music rolled like torrents near.

Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.

Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now

The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;—

That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;

That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!

DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

Do not say that life is waning,

Or that hope's sweet day is set;

While I've thee and love remaining,

Life is in the horizon yet.

Do not think those charms are flying,

Tho' thy roses fade and fall;

Beauty hath a grace undying,

Which in thee survives them all.

Not for charms, the newest, brightest,

That on other cheeks may shine,

Would I change the least, the slightest.

That is lingering now o'er thine.

THE GAZELLE.

Dost thou not hear the silver bell,

Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing?

'Tis my lady's light gazelle;

To me her love thoughts bringing,—

All the while that silver bell

Around his dark neck ringing.

See, in his mouth he bears a wreath,

My love hath kist in tying;

Oh, what tender thoughts beneath

Those silent flowers are lying,—

Hid within the mystic wreath,

My love hath kist in trying!

Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,

And joy to her, the fairest.

Who thus hath breathed her soul to me.

In every leaf thou bearest;

Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,

And joy to her the fairest!

Hail ye living, speaking flowers,

That breathe of her who bound ye;

Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers;

'Twas on her lips, she found ye;—

Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers,

'Twas on her lips she found ye.

NO—LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.

No—leave my heart to rest, if rest it may,

When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.

Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled,

To some poor leaf that's fallen and dead,

Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed?

No—leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,

When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.

Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright,

Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light;

But now thou comest like sunny skies,

Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes,

When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies!

No—leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,

Since youth, and love, and hope have past away.

WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.

"Where are the visions that round me once hovered,

"Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone;

"Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered,

"And voices that Music might take for her own?"

Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o'er me,

Heard me say, "Where are those visions, oh where?"

And pointing his wand to the sunset before me,

Said, with a voice like the hollow wind, "There."

Fondly I looked, when the wizard had spoken,

And there, mid the dim-shining ruins of day,

Saw, by their light, like a talisman broken,

The last golden fragments of hope melt away.

WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy,

And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs;

Hunting is the hero's joy,

Till war his nobler game supplies.

Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet,

While hunters shout and the, woods repeat,

Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

Wind again thy cheerful horn,

Till echo, faint with answering, dies:

Burn, bright torches, burn till morn,

And lead us where the wild boar lies.

Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found,"

While hill and valley our shouts resound.

Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.

Oh, guard our affection, nor e'er let it feel

The blight that this world o'er the warmest will steal:

While the faith of all round us is fading or past,

Let ours, ever green, keep its bloom to the last.

Far safer for Love 'tis to wake and to weep,

As he used in his prime, than go smiling to sleep;

For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast,

White the love that is wakeful lives on to the last.

And tho', as Time gathers his clouds o'er our head,

A shade somewhat darker o'er life they may spread,

Transparent, at least, be the shadow they cast,

So that Love's softened light may shine thro' to the last.

SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st

"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."

Thus sung I to a maiden,

Who slept one summer's day,

And, like a flower overladen

With too much sunshine, lay.

Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;

"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."

Thus sing I, while, awaking,

She murmurs words that seem

As if her lips were taking

Farewell of some sweet dream.

Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.

Bring the bright garlands hither,

Ere yet a leaf is dying;

If so soon they must wither.

Ours be their last sweet sighing.

Hark, that low dismal chime!

'Tis the dreary voice of Time.

Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,

Bring all that yet is ours;

Let life's day, as it closes,

Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,

Drink of it now or never;

Now, while Beauty is shining,

Love, or she's lost for ever.

Hark! again that dull chime,

'Tis the dreary voice of Time.

Oh, if life be a torrent,

Down to oblivion going,

Like this cup be its current,

Bright to the last drop flowing!

IF IN LOVING, SINGING.

If in loving, singing, night and day

We could trifle merrily life away,

Like atoms dancing in the beam,

Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream,

Or summer blossoms, born to sigh

Their sweetness out, and die—

How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side,

Thou and I could make our minutes glide!

No atoms ever glanced so bright,

No day-flies ever danced so light,

Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh,

So close, as thou and I!

THOU LOVEST NO MORE.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken

Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;

Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,

Thou lovest no more—thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,

The smile is gone, which once they wore;

Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,

'Tis not the same—thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,

I've thought thee all thou wert before;

But now—alas! there's no deceiving,

'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,

As lost affection's life restore,

Give peace to her that is forsaken,

Or bring back him who loves no more.

WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

When abroad in the world thou appearest.

And the young and the lovely are there,

To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest.

To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.

They pass, one by one,

Like waves of the sea,

That say to the Sun,

"See, how fair we can be."

But where's the light like thine,

In sun or shade to shine?

No—no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,

Nothing like thee.

Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,

Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;

Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,

And post down to earth in disguise;

But, no matter what shroud

Around her might be,

Men peeped through the cloud,

And whispered, "'Tis She."

So thou, where thousands are,

Shinest forth the only star,—

Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,

Nothing like thee.

KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

Keep those eyes still purely mine,

Tho' far off I be:

When on others most they shine,

Then think they're turned on me.

Should those lips as now respond

To sweet minstrelsy,

When their accents seem most fond,

Then think they're breathed for me.

Make what hearts thou wilt thy own,

If when all on thee

Fix their charmed thoughts alone,

Thou think'st the while on me.

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,

Once more she sings me her flattering strain;

But hush, gentle syren—for, ah, there's less danger

In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,

Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:

And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining

O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;

Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest

Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me.

But, ah—in forgetting how once I was blest.

O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

O say, thou best and brightest,

My first love and my last.

When he, whom now thou slightest,

From life's dark scene hath past,

Will kinder thoughts then move thee?

Will pity wake one thrill

For him who lived to love thee,

And dying loved thee still?

If when, that hour recalling

From which he dates his woes,

Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling,

Ah, blush not while it flows;

But, all the past forgiving,

Bend gently o'er his shrine,

And say, "This heart, when living,

"With all its faults, was mine."

WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

When night brings the hour

Of starlight and joy,

There comes to my bower

A fairy-winged boy;

With eyes so bright,

So full of wild arts,

Like nets of light,

To tangle young hearts;

With lips, in whose keeping

Love's secret may dwell,

Like Zephyr asleep in

Some rosy sea-shell.

Guess who he is,

Name but his name,

And his best kiss

For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground

He prints his light feet.

The flowers there are found

Most shining and sweet:

His looks, as soft

As lightning in May,

Tho' dangerous oft,

Ne'er wound but in play:

And oh, when his wings

Have brushed o'er my lyre,

You'd fancy its strings

Were turning to fire.

Guess who he is,

Name but his name,

And his best kiss

For reward you may claim.

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED.

Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas

His weary path to measure,

When home at length, with favoring breeze,

He brings the far-sought treasure;

His ship, in sight of shore, goes down,

That shore to which he hasted;

And all the wealth he thought his own

Is o'er the waters wasted!

Like him, this heart, thro' many a track

Of toil and sorrow straying,

One hope alone brought fondly back,

Its toil and grief repaying.

Like him, alas, I see that ray

Of hope before me perish,

And one dark minute sweep away

What years were given to cherish.

FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

Fear not that, while around thee

Life's varied blessings pour,

One sigh of hers shall wound thee,

Whose smile thou seek'st no more.

No, dead and cold for ever

Let our past love remain;

Once gone, its spirit never

Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee

Far sweeter, happier prove,

Nor e'er of me remind thee,

But by their truth and love.

Think how, asleep or waking,

Thy image haunts me yet;

But, how this heart is breaking

For thy own peace forget.

WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

When Love is kind,

Cheerful and free,

Love's sure to find

Welcome from me.

But when Love brings

Heartache or pang,

Tears, and such things—

Love may go hang!

If Love can sigh

For one alone,

Well pleased am I

To be that one,

But should I see

Love given to rove

To two or three,

Then—good by Love!

Love must, in short,

Keep fond and true,

Thro' good report,

And evil too.

Else, here I swear,

Young Love may go.

For aught I care—

To Jericho.

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers

Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;

Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,

But bears some remembrance of those happy days.

The roses were gathered by that garden gate,

Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;

Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon,

Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.

The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,

Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed,

And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power

To bind in his chain even one happy hour.

HOW SHALL I WOO?

If I speak to thee in friendship's name,

Thou think'st I speak too coldly;

If I mention Love's devoted flame,

Thou say'st I speak too boldly.

Between these two unequal fires,

Why doom me thus to hover?

I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires,

If more thou seek'st, a lover.

Which shall it be? How shall I woo?

Fair one, choose between the two.

Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play,

When first he comes to woo thee,

There's a chance that he may fly away,

As fast as he flies to thee.

While Friendship, tho' on foot she come,

No flights of fancy trying,

Will, therefore, oft be found at home,

When Love abroad is flying.

Which shall it be? How shall I woo?

Dear one, choose between the two.

If neither feeling suits thy heart

Let's see, to please thee, whether

We may not learn some precious art

To mix their charms together;

One feeling, still more sweet, to form

From two so sweet already—

A friendship that like love is warm,

A love like friendship steady.

Thus let it be, thus let me woo,

Dearest, thus we'll join the two.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

Every season hath its pleasures;

Spring may boast her flowery prime,

Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures

Brighten Autumn's soberer time.

So Life's year begins and closes;

Days tho' shortening still can shine;

What tho' youth gave love and roses,

Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me,

All the Spring looked coy and shy,

Yet herself in Autumn sought me,

When the flowers were all gone by.

Ah, too late;—she found her lover

Calm and free beneath his vine,

Drinking to the Spring-time over,

In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying,

To their flight our pleasures suit,

Nor regret the blossoms dying,

While we still may taste the fruit,

Oh, while days like this are ours,

Where's the lip that dares repine?

Spring may take our loves and flowers,

So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

LOVE ALONE.

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes,

First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:

Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,

Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,

Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?

Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,

Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,

Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year:

Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone,

Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone.

SACRED SONGS

TO

EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ.

THE FIRST NUMBER

OF

SACRED SONGS

IS INSCRIBED,

BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, May, 1816

SACRED SONGS

THOU ART, O GOD.

(Air.—Unknown.)[1]

"The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the

light and the sun.

"Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and

winter."

—Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

Thou art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;

Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee.

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays

Among the opening clouds of Even,

And we can almost think we gaze

Thro' golden vistas into Heaven—

Those hues, that make the Sun's decline

So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

When Night, with wings of starry gloom,

O'ershadows all the earth and skies,

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes—

That sacred gloom, those fires divine,

So grand, so countless, LORD! are Thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;

And every flower the Summer wreaths

Is born beneath that kindling eye.

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are Thine.

[1] I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair."

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

(AIR.—BEETHOVEN.)

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,[1]

When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam.

But high she shoots thro' air and light,

Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,

Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, GOD, from every care

And stain of passion free,

Aloft, thro' Virtue's purer air,

To hold my course to Thee!

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay

My Soul, as home she springs;—

Thy Sunshine on her joyful way,

Thy Freedom in her wings!

[1] The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

(AIR.—MARTINI.)

Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel!

Silence is o'er thy plains;

Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

Thy children weep in chains.

Where are the dews that fed thee

On Etham's barren shore?

That fire from Heaven which led thee,

Now lights thy path no more.

LORD! thou didst love Jerusalem—

Once she was all thy own;

Her love thy fairest heritage,[1]

Her power thy glory's throne.[2]

Till evil came, and blighted

Thy long-loved olive-tree;[3]—

And Salem's shrines were lighted

For other gods than Thee.

Then sunk the star of Solyma—

Then past her glory's day,

Like heath that, in the wilderness,[4]

The wild wind whirls away.

Silent and waste her bowers,

Where once the mighty trod,

And sunk those guilty towers,

While Baal reign'd as God.

"Go"—said the LORD—"Ye Conquerors!

"Steep in her blood your swords,

"And raze to earth her battlements,[5]

"For they are not the LORD'S.

"Till Zion's mournful daughter

"O'er kindred bones shall tread,

"And Hinnom's vale of slaughter[6]

"Shall hide but half her dead!"

[1] "I have left mine heritage; I have given the clearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies."—Jeremiah, xii. 7.

[2] "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."—Jer. xiv. 21.

[3] "The LORD called by name a green olive-tree; fair, and of goodly fruit," etc.—Jer. xi. 16.

[4] "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."—Jer. xvii, 6.

[5] "Take away her battlements; for they are not the LORD'S."—Jer. v. 10.

[6] "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley or Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place."— Jer. vii. 32.

WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR.—BEETHOVEN.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,

Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?

Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is hers an eye of this world's light?

No—wan and sunk with midnight prayer

Are the pale looks of her I love;

Or if at times a light be there,

Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,

From those who seek their Maker's shrine

In gems and garlands proudly decked,

As if themselves were things divine.

No—Heaven but faintly warms the breast

That beats beneath a broidered veil;

And she who comes in glittering vest

To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone;

The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on.

And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,

So touching as that form's decay,

Which, like the altar's trembling light,

In holy lustre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,

Deceitful shine, deceitful flow—

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,

As fading hues of even;

And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,

Are blossoms gathered for the tomb—

There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,

And fancy's flash and reason's ray

Serve but to light the troubled way—

There's nothing calm but Heaven!

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

"He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"

—Psalm. cxlvii. 3.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,

How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to Thee.

The friends who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes, are flown;

And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw

Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And even the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears

Is dimmed and vanished too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,

Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above?

Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light

We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR.—AVISON.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,

Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;

'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,

And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,

To water that Eden where first was its source.

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,

Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,[1]

Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,

Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,

And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.

Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown—

And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,

Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.

Weep not for her—in her springtime she flew

To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurled;

And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,

Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

[1] This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 81, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;

My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;

My censer's breath the mountain airs,

And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,

When murmuring homeward to their caves,

Or when the stillness of the sea,

Even more than music dreams of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,

All light and silence, like thy Throne;

And the pale stars shall be, at night,

The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,

Shall be my pure and shining book,

Where I shall read, in words of flame,

The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;

Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking thro'.

There's nothing bright, above, below,

From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,

But in its light my soul can see

Some feature of thy Deity:

There's nothing dark, below, above,

But in its gloom I trace thy Love,

And meekly wait that moment, when

Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

(AlR.—AVISON.)[1]

"And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in

her band; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with

dances."

—Exod. xv. 20.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!

JEHOVAH has triumphed—his people are free.

Sing—for the pride of the Tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave—

How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea;

JEHOVAH has triumphed—his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD!

His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword—

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?

For the LORD hath looked out from his pillar of glory,[2]

And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,

JEHOVAH has triumphed—his people are free!

[1] I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognized.

[2] "And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch the LORD looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians."—Exod. xiv. 24.

GO, LET ME WEEP.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Go, let me weep—there's bliss in tears,

When he who sheds them inly feels

Some lingering stain of early years

Effaced by every drop that steals.

The fruitless showers of worldly woe

Fall dark to earth and never rise;

While tears that from repentance flow,

In bright exhalement reach the skies.

Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew

More idly than the summer's wind,

And, while they past, a fragrance threw,

But left no trace of sweets behind.—

The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves

Is cold, is faint to those that swell

The heart where pure repentance grieves

O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.

Leave me to sigh.

COME NOT, OH LORD.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor

Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire;

Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,

Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire!

LORD, thou rememberest the night, when thy Nation[1]

Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream;

O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation,

While Israel basked all the night in its beam.

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee,

From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove;

While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,

Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love!

[1] "And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these"—Exod. xiv. 20.

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Were not the sinful Mary's tears

An offering worthy Heaven,

When, o'er the faults of former years,

She wept—and was forgiven?

When, bringing every balmy sweet

Her day of luxury stored,

She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet

The precious odors poured;—

And wiped them with that golden hair,

Where once the diamond shone;

Tho' now those gems of grief were there

Which shine for GOD alone!

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed—

That hair—those weeping eyes—

And the sunk heart, that inly bled—

Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,

Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven,

Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,

"Love much" and be forgiven![1]

[1] "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."—St. Luke, vii.47.

AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean,

Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,

So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,

Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,

My God! silent to Thee—

Pure, warm, silent, to Thee,

As still to the star of its worship, tho' clouded,

The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,

So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,

The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,

My GOD! trembling to Thee—

True, fond, trembling, to Thee.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

But who shall see the glorious day

When, throned on Zion's brow,

The LORD shall rend that veil away

Which hides the nations now?[1]

When earth no more beneath the fear

Of this rebuke shall lie;[2]

When pain shall cease, and every tear

Be wiped from every eye.[3]

Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn

Beneath the heathen's chain;

Thy days of splendor shall return,

And all be new again.[4]

The Fount of Life shall then be quaft

In peace, by all who come;[5]

And every wind that blows shall waft

Some long-lost exile home.

[1] "And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations."—Isaiah, xxv. 7.

[2] "The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth."—Isaiah, xxv. 8.

[3] "And GOD shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither shall there be any more pain."—Rev. xxi:4.

[4] "And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new."—Rev. xxi. 5.

[5] "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."—Rev. xxii. 17.

ALMIGHTY GOD!

CHORUS OF PRIESTS.

(AIR.—MOZART.)

Almighty GOD! when round thy shrine

The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,[1]

(Emblem of Life's eternal ray,

And Love that "fadeth not away,")

We bless the flowers, expanded all,[2]

We bless the leaves that never fall,

And trembling say,—"In Eden thus

"The Tree of Life may flower for us!"

When round thy Cherubs—smiling calm,

Without their flames—we wreathe the Palm.

Oh God! we feel the emblem true—

Thy Mercy is eternal too,

Those Cherubs, with their smiling eyes,

That crown of Palm which never dies,

Are but the types of Thee above—

Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love!

[1] "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and Immortality which were brought to light by the Gospel."—"Observations on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem," by W. Tighe.

[2] "And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubim, and palm-trees, and open flowers."—1 Kings, VI. 29.

OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.

(AIR.—MOORE)

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove

That flies alone to some sunny grove,

And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,

All vestal white, in the limpid spring.

There, if the hovering hawk be near,

That limpid spring in its mirror clear

Reflects him ere he reach his prey

And warns the timorous bird away,

Be thou this dove;

Fairest, purest, be thou this dove,

The sacred pages of God's own book

Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,

In whose holy mirror, night and day,

Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;—

And should the foes of virtue dare,

With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,

Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie

Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!

Be thou that dove;

Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

(AIR.—HANDEL)

Angel of Charity, who, from above,

Comest to dwell a pilgrim here,

Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,

And Pity's soul is in thy tear.

When on the shrine of God were laid

First-fruits of all most good and fair,

That ever bloomed in Eden's shade,

Thine was the holiest offering there.

Hope and her sister, Faith, were given

But as our guides to yonder sky;

Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,

There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.

But, long as Love, Almighty Love,

Shall on his throne of thrones abide,

Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above,

Smiling for ever by His side!

BEHOLD THE SUN.

(AIR.—LORD MORNINGTON.)

Behold the Sun, how bright

From yonder East he springs,

As if the soul of life and light

Were breathing from his wings.

So bright the Gospel broke

Upon the souls of men;

So fresh the dreaming world awoke

In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose,

Stars clustered thro' the sky—

But oh how dim, how pale were those,

To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray,

To bless the Pagan's night—

But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they

To Thy One glorious Light!

LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

(AIR.—DR. BOYCE.)

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid,

When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er

This sinful world with hand to heaven extended,

And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?[1]

When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray—

Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded—

"Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!"

And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded,

The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head;[2]

While Earth and Heaven before Him pass away[3]—

Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When, with a glance, the Eternal Judge shall sever

Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright,

And say to those, "Depart from me for ever!"

To these, "Come, dwell with me in endless light!"[4]

When each and all in silence take their way—

Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

[1] And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven, and swear by Him that liveth for ever and ever…that there should be time no longer."—Rev. x. 5, 6.

[2] "They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven—and all the angels with him."—Matt. xxiv. 90, and xxv. 80.

[3] "From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away."—Rev. xx. ii.

[4] "And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate them one from another.

"Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you, etc.

"Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, etc.

"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal."

—Matt xxv. 32, et seq.

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,

Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart

Shall all other passions disown;

Like some pure temple that shines apart,

Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame,

Thus still let me, living and dying the same,

In Thy service bloom and decay—

Like some lone altar whose votive flame

In holiness wasteth away.

Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth

To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,

On Thee let my spirit rely—

Like some rude dial, that, fixt on earth,

Still looks for its light from the sky.

WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Weep, weep for him, the Man of God—[1]

In yonder vale he sunk to rest;

But none of earth can point the sod[2]

That flowers above his sacred breast.

Weep, children of Israel, weep!

His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain.[3]

His words refreshed like Heaven's dew—

Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again

A Chief, to GOD and her so true.

Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Remember ye his parting gaze,

His farewell song by Jordan's tide,

When, full of glory and of days,

He saw the promised land—and died.[4]

Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Yet died he not as men who sink,

Before our eyes, to soulless clay;

But, changed to spirit, like a wink

Of summer lightning, past away.[5]

Weep, children of Israel, weep!

[1] "And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab."— Deut. xxxiv, 8.

[2] "And, he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab…but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."—Ibid. ver. 6.

[3] "My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew."—Moses' Song.

[4] "I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither."—Deut. xxxiv. 4.

[5] "As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should venture to say that, because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to GOD."—Josephus, book iv. chap. viii.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

Like morning, when her early breeze

Breaks up the surface of the seas,

That, in those furrows, dark with night,

Her hand may sow the seeds of light—

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er

The Spirit, dark and lost before,

And, freshening all its depths, prepare

For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.

In silence lay the unbreathing wire;

But when he swept its chords along,

Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,

Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord—

Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise

In music, worthy of the skies!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.—GERMAN.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,

Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish—

Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,

Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,

Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying—

"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us

What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,

Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us—

"Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal."

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1]

The nations, that before outshone thee,

Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb—

The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise—the Gentiles to thy ray,

From every nook of earth shall cluster;

And kings and princes haste to pay

Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see

O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,

Thy exiled sons return to thee,

To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents,

Shall lay their treasures down before thee;

And Saba bring her gold and scents,

To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5]

Are gathering from all earth's dominions,

Like doves, long absent, when allowed

Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.

Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6]

The ships of Tarshish round will hover,

To bring thy sons across the sea,

And waft their gold and silver over.

And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]—

The fir, the pine, the palm victorious

Shall beautify our Holy Place,

And make the ground I tread on glorious.

No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8]

Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;

But thou shalt call thy portal Praise,

And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.

The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9]

Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;

But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,

And flash eternal glory thro' thee.

Thy sun shall never more go down;

A ray from heaven itself descended

Shall light thy everlasting crown—

Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]

My own, elect, and righteous Land!

The Branch, for ever green and vernal,

Which I have planted with this hand—

Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]

[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee."—Isaiah, xl.

[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising."—Isaiah, xl.

[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side."—Isaiah, lx.

[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense."—Ib.

[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their windows?"—Ib.

[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them."—Ib.

[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."—Ib.

[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.—Isaiah, lx.

[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."—Ib.

[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down…for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."—Ib.

[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."—Ib.

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.—CRESCENTINI.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary

Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary—

What may that Desert be?

'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come

Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes

The water he pants for but sparkles and flies—

Who may that Pilgrim be?

'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on

By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing

To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing—

What may that Fountain be?

'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,

By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell

To point where those waters in secrecy dwell—

Who may that Spirit be?

'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er

Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.—NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart,

Like new life dawning o'er me,

Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,

All light and love before me.

Naught else I feel, or hear or see—

All bonds of earth I sever—

Thee, O God, and only Thee

I live for, now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropt away

When light shone o'er his prison,[1]

My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray,

Hath from her chains arisen.

And shall a soul Thou bidst be free,

Return to bondage?—never!

Thee, O God, and only Thee

I live for, now and ever.

[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison…and his chains fell off from his hands."—Acts, xii. 7.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.—ROUSSEAU.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling;

Earth's weary children to repose;

While, round the couch of Nature falling,

Gently the night's soft curtains close.

Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,

Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark,

Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining

From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,

Thou who in silence throned above,

Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest

Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.

Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,

Our souls awhile from life withdrawn

May in their darkness stilly, purely,

Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.—HASSE.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?

Thro' what Elysium more bright

Than fancy or hope ever painted,

Walk ye in glory and light?

Who the same kingdom inherits?

Breathes there a soul that may dare

Look to that world of Spirits,

Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring

Nature thro' all her bright ways,

Went like the Seraphs adoring,

And veiled your eyes in the blaze—

Martyrs! who left for our reaping

Truths you had sown in your blood—

Sinners! whom, long years of weeping

Chastened from evil to good—

Maidens! who like the young Crescent,

Turning away your pale brows

From earth and the light of the Present,

Looked to your Heavenly Spouse—

Say, thro' what region enchanted

Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air?

Say, to what spirits 'tis granted,

Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR—ANONYMOUS.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,

Whose theme is in the skies—

Like morning larks that sweeter sing

The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune,

Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes,

Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,

Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute,

Round which Devotion ties

Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,

And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be.,

Most welcome to the hero's ears,

Alas, his chords of victory

Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run,

Who hymn like Saints above,

No victor but the Eternal One,

No trophies but of Love!

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1]

And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come!

From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,

Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth,

In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale—

Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!

Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,

And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!

Bring myrtle and palm—bring the boughs of each tree

That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4]

From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone

With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide,

Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]—

Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride!

Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,

And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! etc.—Neh. viii. 15.

[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."— Ib. 17.

[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."—Josh. x. 12.

[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."

—Neh. viii. 15.

[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."—Josh. iii. 17.

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,

When the Spirit leaves this sphere.

Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her

To those she long hath mourned for here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to sever.

Eyes this world can ne'er restore,

There, as warm, as bright as ever,

Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking

Of earth and heaven, where are they,

Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,

Blest and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger

Pointing to the eternal Home,

Upon whose portal yet they linger,

Looking back for us to come.

Alas, alas—doth Hope deceive us?

Shall friendship—love—shall all those ties

That bind a moment, and then leave us,

Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh, if no other boon were given,

To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,

Who would not try to win a Heaven

Where all we love shall live again?

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

(AIR.—NOVELLO.)

"War against Babylon!" shout we around,

Be our banners through earth unfurled;

Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound—

"War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world!

Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1]

Thy day of pride is ended now;

And the dark curse of Israel's daughters

Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow!

War, war, war against Babylon!

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2]

Set the standard of God on high;

Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields.

"Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry!

Woe! woe!—the time of thy visitation[3]

Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast—

And the black surge of desolation

Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last!

War, war, war against Babylon!

[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters…thine end is come."—Jer. li. 13.

[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields…set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon"—Jer. li. 11, 12.

[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!"—Jer. l. 27.

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, monopoly." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.

MELOLOGUE

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

There breathes a language known and felt

Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;

Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,

That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,

Where oft, of old, on some high tower

The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains,

And called his distant love with such sweet power,

That, when she heard the lonely lay,

Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1]

To the bleak climes of polar night,

Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,

The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,

And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,

Gayly as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow;

Oh Music! thy celestial claim

Is still resistless, still the same;

And, faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,

The spell-bound tides

Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"—"Garcilasso de la Véga," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.

GREEK AIR

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,

While, from Ilissus' silvery springs,

She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;

And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving,

Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,

Dreams of bright days that never can return;

When Athens nurst her olive bough

With hands by tyrant power unchained;

And braided for the muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.

When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter;

When every arm was Freedom's shield,

And every heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms

The war-steed's wakening ears!—

Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;

And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,

Is proud to feel his young pulse bound

With valor's fever at the sound.

See, from his native hills afar

The rude Helvetian flies to war;

Careless for what, for whom he fights,

For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:

A conqueror oft—a hero never—

Yet lavish of his life-blood still,

As if 'twere like his mountain rill,

And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here,

Amid this thoughtless, vague career,

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.—

There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks

Of his own loved land, at evening hour,

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,

Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind

With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees

The rosy children whom he left behind,

And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why

He wandered from his hut for scenes like these.

Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;

Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears;

And the stern eyes that looked for blood before

Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.—"RANZ DES VACHES."

But wake, the trumpet's blast again,

And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!

Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,

And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm,

'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form,

And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys.

Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere,

Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear

Of Him who made all harmony,

Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,

And the first hymn that man awaking

From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,

Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,

Like morning's music on the air;

And seems in every note to swear

By Saragossa's ruined streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,

That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,

That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR.—"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light

Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal

Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right—

What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,

Of buried hopes, remembered well

Of ardor quenched, and honor faded?

What muse shall mourn the breathless brave,

In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?

What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?

Oh Erin, Thine!

SET OF GLEES,

MUSIC BY MOORE.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

When o'er the silent seas alone,

For days and nights we've cheerless gone,

Oh they who've felt it know how sweet,

Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye,

"Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry;

While answering back the sounds we hear,

"Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what…cheer?

Then sails are backed, we nearer come,

Kind words are said of friends and home;

And soon, too soon, we part with pain,

To sail o'er silent seas again.

HIP, HIP, HURRA!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,

He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;

Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,

Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.

Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine

Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;

Here's "the friends of our youth—tho' of some we're bereft,

May the links that are lost but endear what are left!"

Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper—ne'er talk of the hour;

On hearts thus united old Time has no power.

May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night,

They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.

Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run

Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one;

Here's the poet who sings—here's the warrior who fights—

Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights!

Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!—then drink as you please,

Tho', who could fill half-way to toast such as these?

Here's our next joyous meeting—and oh when we meet,

May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet!

Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

HUSH, HUSH!

"Hush, hush!"—how well

That sweet word sounds,

When Love, the little sentinel,

Walks his night-rounds;

Then, if a foot but dare

One rose-leaf crush,

Myriads of voices in the air

Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!"

The night elves cry,

And hush their fairy harmony,

While he steals by;

But if his silvery feet

One dew-drop brush,

Voices are heard in chorus sweet,

Whispering, "Hush, hush!"

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed,

To conquer or be slaves:

This sun shall see our nation free,

Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love,

May heaven thy guardian be,

And send bright angels from above

To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field,

Where freedom's standard waves,

This sun shall see our tyrant yield,

Or shine upon our graves.

THE WATCHMAN.

A TRIO.

WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock—past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest—

How fast the moments fly!

'Tis time to part, thou hearest

That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock—past one.

Yet stay a moment longer—

Alas! why is it so,

The wish to stay grows stronger,

The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock—past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee—

The hours must sure go wrong,

For when they're past without thee,

They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock—past three.

Again that dreadful warning!

Had ever time such flight?

And see the sky, 'tis morning—

So now, indeed, good night.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock—past three.

Goodnight, good night.

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

Say, what shall we dance?

Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,

To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?

Say, what shall we dance?

Shall we, like those who rove

Thro' bright Grenada's grove,

To the light Bolero's measures move?

Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,

And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords,

Let us hear each strain from every shore

That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.

Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,

The Polish lady, by her lover led,

Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread,

Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks

Whose shadows serve to hide

The blush that's raised by who talks

Of love the while by her side,

Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound

Like dreams we go gliding around,

Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

THE EVENING GUN.

Remember'st thou that setting sun,

The last I saw with thee,

When loud we heard the evening gun

Peal o'er the twilight sea?

Boom!—the sounds appeared to sweep

Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep,

They seemed to die away.

Oft, when the toils of day are done,

In pensive dreams of thee,

I sit to hear that evening gun,

Peal o'er the stormy sea.

Boom!—and while, o'er billows curled.

The distant sounds decay,

I weep and wish, from this rough world

Like them to die away.

LEGENDARY BALLADS.

TO

THE MISS FEILDINGS,

THIS VOLUME

IS INSCRIBED

BY

THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,

THOMAS MOORE.

LEGENDARY BALLADS

THE VOICE.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days,

When love, only love was the light of her ways;

And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,

It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat!

"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet;

"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep.

"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow—but no, 'twas in vain

To chase the illusion, that Voice came again!

She flew to the casement—but, husht as the grave,

In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said,

"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!"

And sleep came around her—but, starting, she woke,

For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may,

"On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;"

Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast

And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone;

And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on;

But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore,

None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,—but the watchman who stood,

That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood,

Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray,

A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened

Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;—

Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened,

And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth,

"Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies;

"And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth,

"Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing,

When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light;

And saw—such a vision!—no image, appearing

To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning,

While round him still lingered its innocent ray;

Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning

Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it,

While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine,

His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it

Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing,

What late was but love is idolatry now;

But, ah—in her tremor the fatal lamp raising—

A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All's lost—with a start from his rosy sleep waking;

The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire;

Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking,

Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

"Farewell—what a dream thy suspicion hath broken!

"Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost;

"Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken,

"And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"

HERO AND LEANDER.

"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh,

"There gleameth no moon in the misty sky

"No star over Helle's sea;

"Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light,

"One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night,

"To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream,

Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam

No eye but a lover's could see;

And still, as the surge swept over his head,

"To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead,

"Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"

But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed;

Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need,

Where, where could thy Spirit be?

He struggles—he sinks—while the hurricane's breath

Bears rudely away his last farewell in death—

"Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"

THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,

"So may the stars obey thee

"So may each airy

"Moon-elf and fairy

"Nightly their homage pay thee!

"Say, by what spell, above, below,

"In stars that wink or flowers that blow,

"I may discover,

"Ere night is over,

"Whether my love loves me, or no,

"Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee

"Hath charms no gold could buy thee;

"Its stem enchanted.

"By moon-elves planted,

"Will all thou seek'st supply thee.

"Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,

"Bring thence their fairest leaf below;

"And thou'lt discover,

"Ere night is over,

"Whether thy love loves thee or no,

"Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going,

"With blossoms round me blowing,

"From thence, oh Father,

"This leaf I gather,

"Fairest that there is growing.

"Say, by what sign I now shall know

"If in this leaf lie bliss or woe

"And thus discover

"Ere night is over,

"Whether my love loves me or no,

"Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling

"Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling,

"Dip in its water

"That leaf, oh Daughter,

"And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1]

"Watch thou if pale or bright it glow,

"List thou, the while, that fountain's flow,

"And thou'lt discover

"Whether thy lover,

"Loved as he is, loves thee or no,

"Loved as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted,

To seek that fount benighted;

But, scarce a minute

The leaf lay in it,

When, lo, its bloom was blighted!

And as she asked, with voice of woe—

Listening, the while, that fountain's flow—

"Shall I recover

"My truant lover?"

The fountain seemed to answer, "No;"

The fountain answered, "No."

[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

A hunter once in that grove reclined,

To shun the noon's bright eye,

And oft he wooed the wandering wind,

To cool his brow with its sigh,

While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,

Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,

His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?"

While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!

What meaneth that rustling spray?

"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries,

"I have sought since break of day."

Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,

The arrow flies from his sounding bow,

"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings,

While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe

He saw in the rustling grove,

But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,

Of his own young wedded love.

And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,

For pale at his feet he sees her lie;—

"I die, I die," was all she said,

While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"

YOUTH AND AGE.

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day,

To drooping Age, who crest his way.—

"It is a sunny hour of play,

"For which repentance dear doth pay;

"Repentance! Repentance!

"And this is Love, as wise men say."

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,

Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.—

"Soft as a passing summer's wind,

"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?

"Repentance! Repentance!

"And this is Love—when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again,

Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.

"Sweet as a May tree's scented air—

"Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,

"Repentance! Repentance!

"This, this is Love—sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by,

And cast on Youth a smiling eye;

Who could resist that glance's ray?

In vain did Age his warning say,

"Repentance! Repentance!"

Youth laughing went with Love away.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A wounded Chieftain, lying

By the Danube's leafy side,

Thus faintly said, in dying,

"Oh! bear, thou foaming tide.

"This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver,

He flung the scarf he wore

Into the foaming river,

Which, ah too quickly, bore

That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,

The Chieftain's lady stood,

To watch her love returning

In triumph down the flood,

From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated!

The lady saw, instead

Of the bark whose speed she waited,

Her hero's scarf, all red

With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek—and all was over—

Her life-pulse ceased to beat;

The gloomy waves now cover

That bridal-flower so sweet.

And the scarf is her winding sheet!

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power

"To call up forms we sigh to see;

"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,

"Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright,

Where lone and pale in her bower she lay;

"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,

"She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,

Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;

"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy,

"Who used to guide me to my dear."

The Lady now, from her favorite tree,

Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower:

"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she

"Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,

With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!"

"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes,

"By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."

But the page returns, and—oh, what a sight,

For trusting lover's eyes to see!—

Leads to that bower another Knight,

As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!"

Then, darting forth, with furious bound,

Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove,

And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass,

Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;

The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,

And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

THE PILGRIM.

Still thus, when twilight gleamed,

Far off his Castle seemed,

Traced on the sky;

And still, as fancy bore him.

To those dim towers before him,

He gazed, with wishful eye;

And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said,

"How long, with weary tread,

"Must I toil on?

"Each eve, as thus I wander,

"Thy towers seem rising yonder,

"But, scarce hath daylight shone,

"When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still,

Down dale and over hill,

Day after day;

That glimpse of home, so cheering,

At twilight still appearing,

But still, with morning's ray,

Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now?

Here, by this cypress bough,

Closed his career;

That dream, of fancy's weaving,

No more his steps deceiving,

Alike past hope and fear,

The Pilgrim's home is here.

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her,

Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;

Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,

But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,

"That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;

"He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:—

"None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her

On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;

Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,

And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,

With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;

His visor was down—but, with voice that thrilled thro her,

He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,

"In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;

"Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,

"And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her,

Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;

And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her

In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me?

"Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;

"Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?"

With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"—

Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;

But she sunk on the ground—'twas a skeleton's features

And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark,

The seaman's bark,

Swift o'er the waters bore him,

When, thro' the night,

He spied a light

Shoot o'er the wave before him.

"A sail! a sail!" he cries;

"She comes from the Indian shore

"And to-night shall be our prize,

"With her freight of golden ore;

"Sail on! sail on!"

When morning shone

He saw the gold still clearer;

But, though so fast

The waves he past

That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came,

And still the same

Rich bark before him floated;

While on the prize

His wishful eyes

Like any young lover's doted:

"More sail! more sail!" he cries,

While the waves overtop the mast;

And his bounding galley flies,

Like an arrow before the blast.

Thus on, and on,

Till day was gone,

And the moon thro' heaven did hie her,

He swept the main,

But all in vain,

That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day

To night gave way,

And many a morn succeeded:

While still his flight,

Thro day and night,

That restless mariner speeded.

Who knows—who knows what seas

He is now careering o'er?

Behind, the eternal breeze,

And that mocking bark, before!

For, oh, till sky

And earth shall die,

And their death leave none to rue it,

That boat must flee

O'er the boundless sea,

And that ship in vain pursue it.

THE STRANGER.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger

Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;

Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger

Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,

Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand;

But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,

Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,

A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;

So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,

Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;—

But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,

With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,

All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,

For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,

Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,

And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung—oh, but once to have seen them—

Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;

While her looks and her voice made a language between them,

That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her—

Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;

She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her.

That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing—

Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;

For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,

The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.

BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

To-day, dearest! is ours;

Why should Love carelessly lose it?

This life shines or lowers

Just as we, weak mortals, use it.

'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,

To think of the thorns of Sorrow

And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,

May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long

Let the sweet moments fly over?

Tho' now, blooming and young

Thou hast me devoutly thy lover;

Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,

Some treasure may steal or borrow;

Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,

Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

When on the lip the sigh delays,

As if 'twould linger there for ever;

When eyes would give the world to gaze,

Yet still look down and venture never;

When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,

There's one we dream of more than any—

If all this is not real love,

'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,

On all we've got to say at meeting;

And yet when near, with heart to heart,

Sit mute and listen to their beating:

To see but one bright object move,

The only moon, where stars are many—

If all this is not downright love,

I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best,

Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons;

When Passion drives us to the west,

Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons;

When all turns round, below, above,

And our own heads the most of any—

If this is not stark, staring love,

Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

Here, take my heart—'twill be safe in thy keeping,

While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;

Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,

What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,

They who have light hearts the happiest be,

Then happier still must be they who have none, love.

And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,

I care not how many bright eyes I may see;

Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,

I'd tell her I couldn't—my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder—

For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,

Why, let her go—I've a treasure beyond her,

As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Oh, call it by some better name,

For Friendship sounds too cold,

While Love is now a worldly flame,

Whose shrine must be of gold:

And Passion, like the sun at noon,

That burns o'er all he sees,

Awhile as warm will set as soon—

Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay

Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,

Yet human, still as they:

And if thy lip, for love like this,

No mortal word can frame,

Go, ask of angels what it is,

And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART

Poor wounded heart, farewell!

Thy hour of rest is come;

Thou soon wilt reach thy home,

Poor wounded heart, farewell!

The pain thou'lt feel in breaking

Less bitter far will be,

Than that long, deadly aching,

This life has been to thee.

There—broken heart, farewell!

The pang is o'er—

The parting pang is o'er;

Thou now wilt bleed no more.

Poor broken heart, farewell!

No rest for thee but dying—

Like waves whose strife is past,

On death's cold shore thus lying,

Thou sleepst in peace at last—

Poor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers,

Thy sweetly-scented thorn,

Thy cooling evening showers,

The fragrant breath at morn:

When, May-flies haunt the willow,

When May-buds tempt the bee,

Then o'er the shining billow

My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging

Thro' watery wilds her way,

And on her cheek is bringing

The bright sun's orient ray:

Oh, come and court her hither,

Ye breezes mild and warm—

One winter's gale would wither

So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying

Are blest with endless light,

With zephyrs always playing

Thro' gardens always bright.

Then now, sweet May! be sweeter

Than e'er, thou'st been before;

Let sighs from roses meet her

When she comes near our shore.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?

Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath—

In vain the sunbeams seek

To warm that faded cheek;

The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;

Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,—

Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;

In vain the smiles of all

Like sunbeams round her fall:

The only smile that could from death awaken her,

That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love,

I flew to the grove,

And chose me a tree of the fairest;

Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,

"Thou my mistress shall be,

"And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.

"For the hearts of this world are hollow,

"And fickle the smiles we follow;

"And 'tis sweet, when all

"Their witcheries pall

"To have a pure love to fly to:

"So, my pretty Rose-tree,

"Thou my mistress shalt be,

"And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue

Of thy cheek thro' the dew

Of morning is bashfully peeping,

"Sweet tears," I shall say

(As I brush them away),

"At least there's no art in this weeping"

Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;

'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;

And the thorns of thy stem

Are not like them

With which men wound each other;

So, my pretty Rose-tree,

Thou my mistress shalt be

And I'll never again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble

Round us every festal ray,

Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

All to grace this Eve of May.

Let the flower-beds all lie waking,

And the odors shut up there,

From their downy prisons breaking,

Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,

With our other joys to weave,

Oh what glory, what completeness,

Then would crown this bright May Eve!

Shine out, Stars! let night assemble

Round us every festal ray,

Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada,

Where, resting, at close of day,

We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Sit and sing the sunshine away;

So merry, that even the slumbers

That round us hung seem gone;

Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers

Again beguile them on.

Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana

In sleep still breathes the sigh,

The name of some black-eyed Tirana,

Escapes our lips as we lie.

Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,

Again we're up and gone—

While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle

Beguiles the rough way on.

Oh the joys of our merry posada,

Where, resting at close of day,

We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying

Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;

And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,

But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,

Beside the green arbor she playfully set,

As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,

And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,

The maiden is wandering, still let her be

As true as the lute that no sighing can waken

And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

Nights of music, nights of loving,

Lost too soon, remembered long.

When we went by moonlight roving,

Hearts all love and lips all song.

When this faithful lute recorded

All my spirit felt to thee;

And that smile the song rewarded—

Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,

Filled with joys too sweet to last—

Joys that, like the star-light, tender,

While they shore no shadow cast.

Tho' all other happy hours

From my fading memory fly,

Of, that starlight, of those bowers,

Not a beam, a leaf may die!

OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

Our first young love resembles

That short but brilliant ray,

Which smiles and weeps and trembles

Thro' April's earliest day.

And not all life before us,

Howe'er its lights may play,

Can shed a lustre o'er us

Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander

A blaze serener, grander;

Our autumn beam

May, like a dream

Of heaven, die calm away;

But no—let life before us

Bring all the light it may,

'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us

Like that first youthful ray.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

The brilliant black eye

May in triumph let fly

All its darts without Caring who feels 'em;

But the soft eye of blue,

Tho' it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em—

Dear Fanny!

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say,

"Come and worship my ray—

"By adoring, perhaps you may move me!"

But the blue eye, half hid,

Says from under its lid,

"I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Yes, Fanny!

The blue eye, half hid,

Says, from under its lid,

"I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why

In that lovely blue eye

Not a charm of its tint I discover;

Oh why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?

Dear Fanny!

Oh, why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?

DEAR FANNY.

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;

"She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;"

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,

And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,

Dear Fanny.

'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;

"'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;"

Thus Love has advised me and who will deny

That Love reasons much better than Reason,

Dear Fanny?

Love reasons much better than Reason.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?

For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

Hark!—hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,

The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.

Our country lies bleeding—haste, haste to her aid;

One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains—

The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed

For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.

And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven,

Despair not—at least we shall find her in heaven.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch—

Oh, how that touch enchanted!

Roses now unheeded sigh;

Where's the hand to wreathe them?

Songs around neglected lie;

Where's the lip to breathe them?

Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved

Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;

Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now hath lost its fleetness.

Years were days, when here she strayed,

Days were moments near her;

Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,

Nor Pity wept a dearer!

Here's the bower, etc.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

A FINLAND LOVE SONG.

I saw the moon rise clear

O'er hills and vales of snow

Nor told my fleet reindeer

The track I wished to go.

Yet quick he bounded forth;

For well my reindeer knew

I've but one path on earth—

The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast,

How soon the heart forgets,

When summer brings, at last,

Her sun that never sets!

So dawned my love for you;

So, fixt thro' joy and pain,

Than summer sun more true,

'Twill never set again.

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade

Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played;

"Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love,

"Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move."

"I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun,

"So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade,

And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played.

There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye,

While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by.

"Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid

"That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er,

And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more.

Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds

Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds

That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,—

Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!

LOVE AND TIME.

'Tis said—but whether true or not

Let bards declare who've seen 'em—

That Love and Time have only got

One pair of wings between 'em.

In Courtship's first delicious hour,

The boy full oft can spare 'em;

So, loitering in his lady's bower,

He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.

Then is Time's hour of play;

Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright,

When he the wings can borrow;

If Time to-day has had his flight,

Love takes his turn to-morrow.

Ah! Time and Love, your change is then

The saddest and most trying,

When one begins to limp again,

And t'other takes to flying.

Then is Love's hour to stray;

Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel,

And bless the silken fetter,

Who knows, the dear one, how to deal

With Love and Time much better.

So well she checks their wanderings,

So peacefully she pairs 'em,

That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,

And Time for ever wears 'em.

This is Time's holiday;

Oh, how he flies, flies away!

LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us—

Youth may wither, but feeling will last;

All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us

Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast.

Oh, if to love thee more

Each hour I number o'er—

If this a passion be

Worthy of thee,

Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.

Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:

All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,

Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,

Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;

Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,

Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.

Oh, if there be a charm,

In love, to banish harm—

If pleasure's truest spell

Be to love well,

Then be happy, for thus I adore thee,

Charms may wither, but feeling shall last;

All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee.

Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.

Love, wandering through the golden maze

Of my beloved's hair,

Traced every lock with fond delays,

And, doting, lingered there.

And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;

His heart was close confined,

For, every ringlet was a tie—

A chain by beauty twined.

MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)

Merrily every bosom boundeth,

Merrily, oh!

Where the song of Freedom soundeth,

Merrily oh!

There the warrior's arms

Shed more splendor;

There the maiden's charm's

Shine more tender;

Every joy the land surroundeth,

Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth,

Wearily, oh!

Where the bond of slavery twineth

Wearily, oh

There the warrior's dart

Hath no fleetness;

There the maiden's heart

Hath no sweetness—

Every flower of life declineth,

Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley,

Cheerily, oh!

Like your native fountain sally,

Cheerily, oh!

If a glorious death,

Won by bravery,

Sweeter be than breath

Sighed in slavery,

Round the flag of Freedom rally,

Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!

REMEMBER THE TIME.

(THE CASTILIAN MAID.)

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades,

When our moments so blissfully flew;

When you called me the flower of Castilian maids,

And I blushed to be called so by you;

When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille.

And to dance to the light castanet;

Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will,

The delight of those moments forget.

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle,

Every hour a new passion can feel;

And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile.

You'll forget the poor maid of Castile.

But they know not how brave in battle you are,

Or they never could think you would rove;

For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war

That is fondest and truest in Love.

OH, SOON RETURN.

Our white sail caught the evening ray,

The wave beneath us seemed to burn,

When all the weeping maid could say,

Was, "Oh, soon return!"

Thro' many a clime our ship was driven

O'er many a billow rudely thrown;

Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,

Now sunned in summer's zone:

And still, where'er we bent our way,

When evening bid the west wave burn,

I fancied still I heard her say,

"Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found

Its thoughts one moment turned from thee,

'Twas when the combat raged around,

And brave men looked to me.

But tho' the war-field's wild alarm

For gentle love was all unmeet,

He lent to glory's brow the charm,

Which made even danger sweet.

And still, when victory's calm came o'er

The hearts where rage had ceased to burn,

Those parting words I heard once more,

"Oh, soon return!—Oh, soon return!"

LOVE THEE?

Love thee?—so well, so tenderly

Thou'rt loved, adored by me,

Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,

Were worthless without thee.

Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,

Life's cup before me lay,

Unless thy love were mingled there,

I'd spurn the draft away.

Love thee?—so well, so tenderly,

Thou'rt loved, adored by me,

Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,

Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot

To me were dark and lone,

While, with it, even the humblest cot

Were brighter than his throne.

Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs

For me would have no charms;

My only world thy gentle eyes—

My throne thy circling arms!

Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly

Thou'rt loved, adored by me,

Whole realms of light and liberty

Were worthless without thee.

ONE DEAR SMILE.

Couldst thou look as dear as when

First I sighed for thee;

Couldst thou make me feel again

Every wish I breathed thee then,

Oh, how blissful life would be!

Hopes that now beguiling leave me,

Joys that lie in slumber cold—

All would wake, couldst thou but give me

One dear smile like those of old.

No—there's nothing left us now,

But to mourn the past;

Vain was every ardent vow—

Never yet did Heaven allow

Love so warm, so wild, to last.

Not even hope could now deceive me—

Life itself looks dark and cold;

Oh, thou never more canst give me

One dear smile like those of old

YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er,

He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay;

And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore,

The charms that remain will be bright as before,

And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.

Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay,

That Friendship our last happy moments will crown:

Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away,

While Friendship, like those at the closing of day,

Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.

THE DAY OF LOVE.

The beam of morning trembling

Stole o'er the mountain brook,

With timid ray resembling

Affection's early look.

Thus love begins—sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended,

And o'er the valley's stream

Diffused a glow as splendid

As passion's riper dream.

Thus love expands—warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading

The glories of the sky,

Like faith and fondness fading

From passion's altered eye.

Thus love declines—cold eve of love!

LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,

Till not one hateful link remains

Of slavery's lingering chains;

Till not one tyrant tread our plains,

Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.

No! never till that glorious day

Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,

Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay

Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,

Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,

"Your cloud of foes hath past away,

"And Freedom comes with new-born ray

"To gild your vines and light your fountains."

Oh, never till that glorious day

Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,

Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay

Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

THE YOUNG ROSE.

The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright,

Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,

Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,

And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be

Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;

For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,

She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.

WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.

When midst the gay I meet

That gentle smile of thine,

Tho' still on me it turns most sweet,

I scarce can call it mine:

But when to me alone

Your secret tears you show,

Oh, then I feel those tears my own,

And claim them while they flow.

Then still with bright looks bless

The gay, the cold, the free;

Give smiles to those who love you less,

But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep

Can smile in many a beam,

Yet still in chains of coldness sleep.

How bright soe'er it seem.

But, when some deep-felt ray

Whose touch is fire appears,

Oh, then the smile is warmed away,

And, melting, turns to tears.

Then still with bright looks bless

The gay, the cold, the free;

Give smiles to those who love you less,

But keep your tears for me.

WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.

When twilight dews are falling soft

Upon the rosy sea, love,

I watch the star, whose beam so oft

Has lighted me to thee, love.

And thou too, on that orb so dear,

Dost often gaze at even,

And think, tho' lost for ever here,

Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

There's not a garden walk I tread,

There's not a flower I see, love,

But brings to mind some hope that's fled,

Some joy that's gone with thee, Love.

And still I wish that hour was near,

When, friends and foes forgiven,

The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here

May turn to smiles in heaven.

YOUNG JESSICA.

Young Jessica sat all the day,

With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;

Her needle bright beside her lay,

So active once!—now idly shining.

Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts

That love and mischief are most nimble;

The safest shield against the darts

Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays

Well knowing all its arts, so wily,

The tempter near a needle lays.

And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily."

The needle, having naught to do,

Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle;

Till closer, closer come the two,

And—off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye

To some gay reticule's construction,

It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie,

Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.

Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,

Your snowy fingers must be nimble;

The safest shield against the darts

Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

HOW HAPPY, ONCE.

How happy, once, tho' winged with sighs,

My moments flew along,

While looking on those smiling eyes,

And listening to thy magic song!

But vanished now, like summer dreams,

Those moments smile no more;

For me that eye no longer beams,

That song for me is o'er.

Mine the cold brow,

That speaks thy altered vow,

While others feel thy sunshine now.

Oh, could I change my love like thee,

One hope might yet be mine—

Some other eyes as bright to see,

And hear a voice as sweet as thine:

But never, never can this heart

Be waked to life again;

With thee it lost its vital part,

And withered then!

Cold its pulse lies,

And mute are even its sighs,

All other grief it now defies.

I LOVE BUT THEE.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,

And think this heart to other loves will stray,

If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;

By every dream I have when thou'rt away,

By every throb I feel when thou art near me,

I love but thee—I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,

Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,

And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,

Or grave or gay, a music of its own,

A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,

I love but thee—I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes,

As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow,

And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses

A hue too bright to bless this world below,

And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses,

I love but thee—I love but thee!

LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBERED NOW.

Let thy joys alone be remembered now,

Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile;

Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,

Let Love light it up with his smile,

For thus to meet, and thus to find,

That Time, whose touch can chill

Each flower of form, each grace of mind,

Hath left thee blooming still,

Oh, joy alone should be thought of now,

Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;

Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,

Let Love light it up with his smile.

When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade,

If but one bright leaf remain,

Of the many that once its glory made,

It is not for us to complain.

But thus to meet and thus to wake

In all Love's early bliss;

Oh, Time all other gifts may take,

So he but leaves us this!

Then let joy alone be remembered now,

Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;

Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow,

Let Love light it up with his smile!

LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE?

Love thee, dearest? love thee?

Yes, by yonder star I swear,

Which thro' tears above thee

Shines so sadly fair;

Tho' often dim,

With tears, like him,

Like him my truth will shine,

And—love thee, dearest? love thee?

Yes, till death I'm thine.

Leave thee, dearest? leave thee?

No, that star is not more true;

When my vows deceive thee,

He will wander too.

A cloud of night

May veil his light,

And death shall darken mine—

But—leave thee, dearest? leave thee?

No, till death I'm thine.

MY HEART AND LUTE.

I give thee all—I can no more—

Tho' poor the offering be;

My heart and lute are all the store

That I can bring to thee.

A lute whose gentle song reveals

The soul of love full well;

And, better far, a heart that feels

Much more than lute could tell.

Tho' love and song may fail, alas!

To keep life's clouds away,

At least 'twill make them lighter pass,

Or gild them if they stay.

And even if Care at moments flings

A discord o'er life's happy strain,

Let Love but gently touch the strings,

'Twill all be sweet again!

PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!

When I am dead.

Then lay my head

In some lone, distant dell,

Where voices ne'er

Shall stir the air,

Or break its silent spell.

If any sound

Be heard around,

Let the sweet bird alone,

That weeps in song,

Sing all night long,

"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"

Yet, oh, were mine

One sigh of thine,

One pitying word from thee,

Like gleams of heaven,

To sinners given,

Would be that word to me.

Howe'er unblest,

My shade would rest

While listening to that tone;—

Enough 'twould be

To hear from thee,

"Peace, peace, to him that gone."

ROSE OF THE DESERT

Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray,

Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away;

No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,—

In vestal silence left to live and die.—

Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be,

Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.

Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom!

Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom;

Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day;

A moment cherished, and then cast away;

Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,—

Worshipt while blooming—when she fades, forgot.

'TIS ALL FOR THEE.

If life for me hath joy or light,

'Tis all from thee,

My thoughts by day, my dreams by night,

Are but of thee, of only thee.

Whate'er of hope or peace I know,

My zest in joy, my balm in woe,

To those dear eyes of thine I owe,

'Tis all from thee.

My heart, even ere I saw those eyes,

Seemed doomed to thee;

Kept pure till then from other ties,

'Twas all for thee, for only thee.

Like plants that sleep till sunny May

Calls forth their life my spirit lay,

Till, touched by Love's awakening ray,

It lived for thee, it lived for thee.

When Fame would call me to her heights,

She speaks by thee;

And dim would shine her proudest lights,

Unshared by thee, unshared by thee.

Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine,

Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine,

And wish those wreaths of glory mine,

'Tis all for thee, for only thee.

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.

There's a song of the olden time,

Falling sad o'er the ear,

Like the dream of some village chime,

Which in youth we loved to hear.

And even amidst the grand and gay,

When Music tries her gentlest art

I never hear so sweet a lay,

Or one that hangs so round my heart,

As that song of the olden time,

Falling sad o'er the ear,

Like the dream of some village chime,

Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,—

Even the hope, lingering now,

Like the last of the leaves left on

Autumn's sere and faded bough,—

'Twill seem as still those friends were near,

Who loved me in youth's early day,

If in that parting hour I hear

The same sweet notes and die away,—

To that song of the olden time,

Breathed, like Hope's farewell strain,

To say, in some brighter clime,

Life and youth will shine again!

WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.

Wake thee, my dear—thy dreaming

Till darker hours will keep;

While such a moon is beaming,

'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,

Moments of pain and care,

Which to oblivious slumber

Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,—who'd think of dreaming

When Love his watch should keep?

While such a moon is beaming,

'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever

My life and hopes from thee, love,

The sleep that lasts for ever

Would then be sweet to me, love;

But now,—away with dreaming!

Till darker hours 'twill keep;

While such a moon is beaming,

'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

THE BOY OF THE ALPS.

Lightly, Alpine rover,

Tread the mountains over;

Rude is the path thou'st yet to go;

Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee,

Fields of ice before thee,

While the hid torrent moans below.

Hark, the deep thunder,

Thro' the vales yonder!

'Tis the huge avalanche downward cast;

From rock to rock

Rebounds the shock.

But courage, boy! the danger's past.

Onward, youthful rover,

Tread the glacier over,

Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last.

On, ere light forsake thee,

Soon will dusk o'ertake thee:

O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way!

Now, for the risk prepare thee;

Safe it yet may bear thee,

Tho' 'twill melt in morning's ray.

Hark, that dread howling!

'Tis the wolf prowling,—

Scent of thy track the foe hath got;

And cliff and shore

Resound his roar.

But courage, boy,—the danger's past!

Watching eyes have found thee,

Loving arms are round thee,

Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot.

FOR THEE ALONE.

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep,

Those eyes my light through every distant sea;

My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep,

The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee,

To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye

Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air,

When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly,

The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there,

Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore,

While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast,

Still whispering on that when some years are o'er,

One bright reward shall crown my toil at last,

Thy smile alone, thy smile alone,

Oh place beside the transport of that hour

All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright,

Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,—

Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light?

On thee alone, on thee alone.

HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING.

Her last words, at parting, how can I forget?

Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay;

Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet,

When its sounds from the ear have long melted away.

Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain;

Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,—

"Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain,

"There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie,

Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste,

He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply,

Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste.

So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain,

These words shall my well in the wilderness be,—

"Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain,

"There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE.

Let's take this world as some wide scene.

Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat,

With skies now dark and now serene,

Together thou and I must float;

Beholding oft on either shore

Bright spots where we should love to stay;

But Time plies swift his flying oar,

And away we speed, away, away.

Should chilling winds and rains come on,

We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower;

Sit closer till the storm is gone,

And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour.

And if that sunnier hour should shine,

We'll know its brightness cannot stay,

But happy while 'tis thine and mine,

Complain not when it fades away.

So shall we reach at last that Fall

Down which life's currents all must go,—

The dark, the brilliant, destined all

To sink into the void below.

Nor even that hour shall want its charms,

If, side by side, still fond we keep,

And calmly, in each other's arms

Together linked, go down the steep.

LOVE'S VICTORY.

Sing to Love—for, oh, 'twas he

Who won the glorious day;

Strew the wreaths of victory

Along the conqueror's way.

Yoke the Muses to his car,

Let them sing each trophy won;

While his mother's joyous star

Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,

Let spirits sing around;

While the hill, the dale, and grove,

With "mighty Love" resound;

Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal

Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er,

'Twill but teach the god to feel

His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst

Of sunny Ind their hue;

Bright as when, by Psyche kist,

They trembled thro' and thro'.

Flowers spring beneath his feet;

Angel forms beside him run;

While unnumbered lips repeat

"Love's victory is won!"

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,

etc,

SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.[1]

"I've been, oh, sweet daughter,

"To fountain and sea,

"To seek in their water

"Some bright gem for thee.

"Where diamonds were sleeping,

"Their sparkle I sought,

"Where crystal was weeping,

"Its tears I have caught.

"The sea-nymph I've courted

"In rich coral halls;

"With Naiads have sported

"By bright waterfalls.

"But sportive or tender,

"Still sought I around

"That gem, with whose splendor

"Thou yet shalt be crowned.

"And see, while I'm speaking,

"Yon soft light afar;—

"The pearl I've been seeking

"There floats like a star!

"In the deep Indian Ocean

"I see the gem shine,

"And quick as light's motion

"Its wealth shall be thine."

Then eastward, like lightning,

The hero-god flew,

His sunny looks brightening

The air he went thro'.

And sweet was the duty,

And hallowed the hour,

Which saw thus young Beauty

Embellished by Power.

[1] Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandaea.

THE DREAM OF HOME.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet

The dream of home, the dream of home,

Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet,

When far o'er sea or land we roam?

Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall,

To greener shores our bark may come;

But far more bright, more dear than all,

That dream of home, that dream of home.

Ask the sailor youth when far

His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam,

What charms him most, when evening's star

Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home.

Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves

At that sweet hour around him come;

His heart's best joy where'er he roves,

That dream of home, that dream of home.

THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVORED GUEST.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest

Of every fair and brilliant throng;

No wit like thine to wake the jest,

No voice like thine to breathe the song;

And none could guess, so gay thou art,

That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows

With thee and me the time away!

Not that I wish thee sad—heaven knows—

Still if thou canst, be light and gay;

I only know, that without thee

The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,

Among the proud and gay to shine?

Or deck my hair with gem and flower,

To flatter other eyes than thine?

Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past

Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

There came a nymph dancing

Gracefully, gracefully,

Her eye a light glancing

Like the blue sea;

And while all this gladness

Around her steps hung,

Such sweet notes of sadness

Her gentle lips sung,

That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade

The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

Her zone of bells ringing

Cheerily, cheerily,

Chimed to her singing

Light echoes of glee;

But in vain did she borrow

Of mirth the gay tone,

Her voice spoke of sorrow,

And sorrow alone.

Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade

The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still my heart: I hear them come:

Those sounds announce my lover near:

The march that brings our warriors home

Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread,

O'er the mountain's head,

While hills and dales repeat the sound;

And the forest deer

Stand still to hear,

As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come,

Those sounds that speak my soldier near;

Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.—

Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,

And now they wind to distant glades;

Not here their home,—alas, they go

To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream,

The footsteps seem,

As down the hills they die away;

And the march, whose song

So pealed along,

Now fades like a funeral lay.

'Tis past, 'tis o'er,—hush, heart, thy pain!

And tho' not here, alas, they come,

Rejoice for those, to whom that strain

Brings sons and lovers home.

WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.

Wake up, sweet melody!

Now is the hour

When young and loving hearts

Feel most thy power,

One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray—

Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.

Then wake up, sweet melody!

Now is the hour

When young and loving hearts

Feel most thy power.

Ask the fond nightingale,

When his sweet flower

Loves most to hear his song,

In her green bower?

Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long,

Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.

Then wake up, sweet melody!

Now is the hour

When young and loving hearts

Feel most thy power.

CALM BE THY SLEEP.

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers!

Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams!

May every joy this bright world numbers

Shed o'er thee their mingled beams!

Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided,

There ever must some pang remain,

Still be thy lot with me divided,—

Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!

Day and night my thoughts shall hover

Round thy steps where'er they stray;

As, even when clouds his idol cover,

Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.

If this be wrong, if Heaven offended

By worship to its creature be,

Then let my vows to both be blended,

Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.

THE EXILE.

Night waneth fast, the morning star

Saddens with light the glimmering sea,

Whose waves shall soon to realms afar

Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.

Coldly the beam from yonder sky

Looks o'er the waves that onward stray;

But colder still the stranger's eye

To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak,

Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast;

But of the lost one think and speak,

When summer suns sink calm to rest.

So, as I wander, Fancy's dream

Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas,

Thy look in every melting beam,

Thy whisper in each dying breeze.

THE FANCY FAIR.

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell

All wondrous things of earth and air;

Whatever wild romancers tell,

Or poets sing, or lovers swear,

You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here eyes are made like stars to shine,

And kept for years in such repair,

That even when turned of thirty-nine,

They'll hardly look the worse for wear,

If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower,

And hearts that such ill usage bear,

That, tho' they're broken every hour,

They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear,

If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fashions change in every thing,

We've goods to suit each season's air,

Eternal friendships for the spring,

And endless loves for summer wear,—

All sold at this our Fancy Fair.

We've reputations white as snow,

That long will last if used with care,

Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go,

If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"—

Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.

IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play,

As once I played and sung,

First take this time-worn lute away,

And bring one freshly strung.

Call back the time when pleasure's sigh

First breathed among the strings;

And Time himself, in flitting by.

Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute,

And shining fresh the chords,

Beneath this hand they slumber mute,

Or speak but dreamy words.

In vain I seek the soul that dwelt

Within that once sweet shell,

Which told so warmly what it felt,

And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay,

From lyre so coldly strung;

With this I ne'er can sing or play,

As once I played and sung.

No, bring that long-loved lute again,—

Tho' chilled by years it be,

If thou wilt call the slumbering strain,

'Twill wake again for thee.

Tho' time have frozen the tuneful stream

Of thoughts that gushed along,

One look from thee, like summer's beam,

Will thaw them into song.

Then give, oh give, that wakening ray,

And once more blithe and young,

Thy bard again will sing and play,

As once he played and sung.

STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.

Still when daylight o'er the wave

Bright and soft its farewell gave,

I used to hear, while light was falling,

O'er the wave a sweet voice calling,

Mournfully at distance calling.

Ah! once how blest that maid would come,

To meet her sea-boy hastening home;

And thro' the night those sounds repeating,

Hail his bark with joyous greeting,

Joyously his light bark greeting.

But, one sad night, when winds were high,

Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry.

She saw his boat come tossing over

Midnight's wave,—but not her lover!

No, never more her lover.

And still that sad dream loath to leave,

She comes with wandering mind at eve,

And oft we hear, when night is falling,

Faint her voice thro' twilight calling,

Mournfully at twilight calling.

THE SUMMER WEBS.

The summer webs that float and shine,

The summer dews that fall,

Tho' light they be, this heart of mine

Is lighter still than all.

It tells me every cloud is past

Which lately seemed to lour;

That Hope hath wed young Joy at last,

And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above,

With naught to wake one sigh,

Except the wish that all we love

Were at this moment nigh,—

It seems as if life's brilliant sun

Had stopt in full career,

To make this hour its brightest one,

And rest in radiance here.

MIND NOT THO' DAYLIGHT.

Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,—

Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking?

Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not,

Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot.

See young Aurora up heaven's hill advancing,

Tho' fresh from her pillow, even she too is dancing:

While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea.

Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?

Who'll say that moments we use thus are wasted?

Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted;

While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune,

The fault is all morning's for coming so soon.

THEY MET BUT ONCE.

They met but once, in youth's sweet hour,

And never since that day

Hath absence, time, or grief had power

To chase that dream away.

They've seen the suns of other skies,

On other shores have sought delight;

But never more to bless their eyes

Can come a dream so bright!

They met but once,—a day was all

Of Love's young hopes they knew;

And still their hearts that day recall

As fresh as then it flew.

Sweet dream of youth! oh, ne'er again

Let either meet the brow

They left so smooth and smiling then,

Or see what it is now.

For, Youth, the spell was only thine,

From thee alone the enchantment flows,

That makes the world around thee shine

With light thyself bestows.

They met but once,—oh, ne'er again

Let either meet the brow

They left so smooth and smiling then,

Or see what it is now.

WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.

With moonlight beaming

Thus o'er the deep,

Who'd linger dreaming

In idle sleep?

Leave joyless souls to live by day,—

Our life begins with yonder ray;

And while thus brightly

The moments flee,

Our barks skim lightly

The shining sea.

To halls of splendor

Let great ones hie;

Thro' light more tender

Our pathways lie.

While round, from banks of brook or lake,

Our company blithe echoes make;

And as we lend 'em

Sweet word or strain,

Still back they send 'em

More sweet again.

CHILD'S SONG.

FROM A MASQUE.

I have a garden of my own,

Shining with flowers of every hue;

I loved it dearly while alone,

But I shall love it more with you:

And there the golden bees shall come,

In summer-time at break of morn,

And wake us with their busy hum

Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land,

On leafy buds and berries nurst;

And you shall feed him from your hand,

Though he may start with fear at first.

And I will lead you where he lies

For shelter in the noontide heat;

And you may touch his sleeping eyes,

And feel his little silvery feet.

THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean,

The sea-lark skims the brine;

This bright world's all in motion,

No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places,

With heart all cold the while;

To look in smiling faces,

When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven

Around thee shine with bliss,

To thee no light is given,—

Oh, what a doom is this!

THE WORLD WAS HUSHT.

The world was husht, the moon above

Sailed thro' ether slowly,

When near the casement of my love,

Thus I whispered lowly,—

"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?

"The field I seek to-morrow

"Is one where man hath fame to reap,

"And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may.

Thus spoke a voice replying,

"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,

"Will sit here idly sighing.

"No—woman's soul, if not for fame,

"For love can brave all danger!

Then forth from out the casement came

A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid,

Herself before me beaming,

With casque arrayed and falchion blade

Beneath her girdle gleaming!

Close side by side, in freedom's fight,

That blessed morning found us;

In Victory's light we stood ere night,

And Love the morrow crowned us!

THE TWO LOVES.

There are two Loves, the poet sings,

Both born of Beauty at a birth:

The one, akin to heaven, hath wings,

The other, earthly, walks on earth.

With this thro' bowers below we play,

With that thro' clouds above we soar;

With both, perchance, may lose our way:—

Then, tell me which,

Tell me which shall we adore?

The one, when tempted down from air,

At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip,

Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare

His wing within the wave to dip.

While plunging deep and long beneath,

The other bathes him o'er and o'er

In that sweet current, even to death:—

Then, tell me which,

Tell me which shall we adore?

The boy of heaven, even while he lies

In Beauty's lap, recalls his home;

And when most happy, inly sighs

For something happier still to come.

While he of earth, too fully blest

With this bright world to dream of more,

Sees all his heaven on Beauty's breast:—

Then, tell me which,

Tell me which shall we adore?

The maid who heard the poet sing

These twin-desires of earth and sky,

And saw while one inspired his string,

The other glistened in his eye,—

To name the earthlier boy ashamed,

To chose the other fondly loath,

At length all blushing she exclaimed,—

"Ask not which,

"Oh, ask not which—we'll worship both.

"The extremes of each thus taught to shun,

"With hearts and souls between them given,

"When weary of this earth with one,

"We'll with the other wing to heaven."

Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss;

And while one Love wrote down the oath,

The other sealed it with a kiss;

And Heaven looked on,

Heaven looked on and hallowed both.

THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight,

Are played by me, the merry little Sprite,

Who wing thro' air from the camp to the court,

From king to clown, and of all make sport;

Singing, I am the Sprite

Of the merry midnight,

Who laugh at weak mortals and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept

And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept;

Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang,

And he waked to catch—but away I sprang,

Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

I saw thro' the leaves, in a damsel's bower,

She was waiting her love at that starlight hour:

"Hist—hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh,

And she flew to the door, but away flew I,

Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love,

Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above,

And he swooned—for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man!

Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran,

Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

BEAUTY AND SONG.

Down in yon summer vale,

Where the rill flows.

Thus said a Nightingale

To his loved Rose:—

"Tho' rich the pleasures

"Of song's sweet measures,

"Vain were its melody,

"Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess

Of her night-bower,

Beaming with bashfulness,

Spoke the bright flower:—

"Tho' morn should lend her

"Its sunniest splendor,

"What would the Rose be,

"Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend

Woman's bright way;

Thus still let woman lend

Light to the lay.

Like stars thro' heaven's sea

Floating in harmony

Beauty should glide along

Circled by Song.

WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

When thou art nigh, it seems

A new creation round;

The sun hath fairer beams,

The lute a softer sound.

Tho' thee alone I see,

And hear alone thy sigh,

'Tis light, 'tis song to me,

Tis all—when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought

Of grief comes o'er my heart;

I only think—could aught

But joy be where thou art?

Life seems a waste of breath,

When far from thee I sigh;

And death—ay, even death

Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.

SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I come from a land in the sun bright deep,

Where golden gardens grow;

Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep,

Their conch-shells never blow.[1]

Haste to that holy Isle with me,

Haste—haste!

So near the track of the stars are we,

That oft on night's pale beams

The distant sounds of their harmony

Come to our ear, like dreams.

Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.

The Moon too brings her world so nigh,

That when the night-seer looks

To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,

He can number its hills and brooks.

Then, haste, etc.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2]

By day, by night, belong;

And the breath we draw from his living fires,

We give him back in song.

Then, haste, etc.

From us descends the maid who brings

To Delos gifts divine;

And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings

To glitter on Delphi's shrine.

Then haste to that holy Isle with me,

Haste—haste!

[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in the hands of Boreas.—See Stuart's Antiquities. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.

THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee

In other days ere joy had left this brow;

But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,

How different feels the heart that breathes them now!

The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same

We saw this morning on its stem so gay;

But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came

Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,

How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,—

The joy, a light too precious long to shine,—

The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.

And tho' that lay would like the voice of home

Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh—

Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,

But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.

CUPID ARMED.

Place the helm on thy brow,

In thy hand take the spear;—

Thou art armed, Cupid, now,

And thy battle-hour is near.

March on! march on! thy shaft and bow

Were weak against such charms;

March on! march on! so proud a foe

Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes,

Tipt with scorn, how they shine!

Every shaft, as it flies,

Mocking proudly at thine.

March on! march on! thy feathered darts

Soft bosoms soon might move;

But ruder arms to ruder hearts

Must teach what 'tis to love.

Place the helm on thy brow;

In thy hand take the spear,—

Thou art armed, Cupid, now,

And thy battle-hour is near.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night,

While with it also round go we;

And in the flight of one day's light

An image of all life's course we see.

Round, round, while thus we go round,

The best thing a man can do,

Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round,

By—sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when

Youth in its dawn salutes the eye—

Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then

Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky?

But, round, round, both boy and girl

Are whisked thro' that sky of blue;

And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl,

If—their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon,

Thinking all life a life of light;

But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon,

And ere we can say, "How short!"—'tis night.

Round, round, still all goes round,

Even while I'm thus singing to you;

And the best way to make it a merry-go-round,

Is to—chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest,

For still there comes a fear,

When brow like thine looks happiest,

That grief is then most near.

There lurks a dread in all delight,

A shadow near each ray,

That warns us then to fear their flight,

When most we wish their stay.

Then look not thou so bright and blest,

For ah! there comes a fear,

When brow like thine looks happiest,

That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things

The soonest fleet and die?—

That when most light is on their wings,

They're then but spread to fly!

And, sadder still, the pain will stay—

The bliss no more appears;

As rainbows take their light away,

And leave us but the tears!

Then look not thou so bright and blest,

For ah! there comes a fear,

When brow like thine looks happiest,

That grief is then most near.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes,

"Within this box, by magic hid,

"A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies,

"Who sings to me whene'er he's bid.

"Tho' roving once his voice and wing,

"He'll now lie still the whole day long;

"Till thus I touch the magic spring—

"Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!"

(A symphony.)

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay

"Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become;

"Thro' earth and air his song may stray,

"If all the while his heart's at home.

"And tho' in freedom's air he dwell,

"Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows,

"Touch but the spring thou knowst so well,

"And—hark, how sweet the love-song flows!"

(A symphony.)

Thus pleaded I for freedom's right;

But when young Beauty takes the field,

And wise men seek defence in flight,

The doom of poets is to yield.

No more my heart the enchantress braves,

I'm now in Beauty's prison hid;

The Sprite and I are fellow slaves,

And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

When to sad Music silent you listen,

And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew,

Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten

A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew.

But when some lively strain resounding

Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow,

Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding

Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest.

A lustre so pure thy features then wear,

That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest,

We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there.

But when the word for the gay dance is given,

So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth,

Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven,

"But linger still here, to make heaven of earth."

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,

To her who now lies waking,

To hear thy silver bell

The midnight silence breaking.

And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,

Beneath her lattice springing,

Ah, well she'll know how sweet

The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no—not words, for they

But half can tell love's feeling;

Sweet flowers alone can say

What passion fears revealing.

A once bright rose's withered leaf,

A towering lily broken,—

Oh these may paint a grief

No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,

The wreath thou speedest over

Yon moonlight dale, to tell

My lady how I love her.

And, what to her will sweeter be

Than gems the richest, rarest,—

From Truth's immortal tree[1]

One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.

THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

The dawn is breaking o'er us,

See, heaven hath caught its hue!

We've day's long light before us,

What sport shall we pursue?

The hunt o'er hill and lea?

The sail o'er summer sea?

Oh let not hour so sweet

Unwinged by pleasure fleet.

The dawn is breaking o'er us,

See, heaven hath caught its hue!

We've days long light before us,

What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding,

What morning sport to play,

The dial's hand is gliding,

And morn hath past away!

Ah, who'd have thought that noon

Would o'er us steal so soon,—

That morn's sweet hour of prime

Would last so short a time?

But come, we've day before us,

Still heaven looks bright and blue;

Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us,

What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying?

We're now at evening's hour;

Its farewell beam is playing

O'er hill and wave and bower.

That light we thought would last,

Behold, even now 'tis past;

And all our morning dreams

Have vanisht with its beams

But come! 'twere vain to borrow

Sad lessons from this lay,

For man will be to-morrow—

Just what he's been to-day.

UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ETC.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love,

Too plain these eyes have told thee;

Too well their tears must prove

How near and dear I hold thee.

If, where the brightest shine,

To see no form but thine,

To feel that earth can show

No bliss above thee,—

If this be love, then know

That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour

That thou canst know affection's power.

No, try its strength in grief or pain;

Attempt as now its bonds to sever,

Thou'lt find true love's a chain

That binds forever!

DEAR? YES.

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more,

Even this but makes thee dearer;

And love, since hope is o'er,

But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me,

The same thy charm must be;

New loves may come to weave

Their witchery o'er thee,

Yet still, tho' false, believe

That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee.

Think'st thou that aught but death could end

A tie not falsehood's self can rend?

No, when alone, far off I die,

No more to see, no more cares thee,

Even then, my life's last sigh

Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.

UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love,

From those dark ties unbind thee;

Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove,

Too long its links have twined thee.

Away from earth!—thy wings were made

In yon mid-sky to hover,

With earth beneath their dove-like shade,

And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,

Too long thy soul is sleeping;

And thou mayst from this minute's joy

Wake to eternal weeping.

Oh, think, this world is not for thee;

Tho' hard its links to sever;

Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be,

Break or thou'rt lost for ever.

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

A BUFFALO SONG.

There's something strange, I know not what,

Come o'er me,

Some phantom I've for ever got

Before me.

I look on high and in the sky

'Tis shining;

On earth, its light with all things bright

Seems twining.

In vain I try this goblin's spells

To sever;

Go where I will, it round me dwells

For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night

It plays me;

In every shape the wicked sprite

Waylays me.

Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue

'Tis glancing;

Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat,

Comes dancing.

By whispers round of every sort

I'm taunted.

Never was mortal man, in short,

So haunted.

NOT FROM THEE.

Not from thee the wound should come,

No, not from thee.

Care not what or whence my doom,

So not from thee!

Cold triumph! first to make

This heart thy own;

And then the mirror break

Where fixt thou shin'st alone.

Not from thee the wound should come,

Oh, not from thee.

I care not what, or whence, my doom,

So not from thee.

Yet no—my lips that wish recall;

From thee, from thee—

If ruin o'er this head must fall,

'Twill welcome be.

Here to the blade I bare

This faithful heart;

Wound deep—thou'lt find that there,

In every pulse thou art.

Yes from thee I'll bear it all:

If ruin be

The doom that o'er this heart must fall,

'Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I love a maid, a mystic maid,

Whose form no eyes but mine can see;

She comes in light, she comes in shade,

And beautiful in both is she.

Her shape in dreams I oft behold,

And oft she whispers in my ear

Such words as when to others told,

Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;

Then guess, guess, who she,

The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,

Come o'er me in my darkest ways;

And feel as if her voice, even now,

Were echoing far off my lays.

There is no scene of joy or woe

But she doth gild with influence bright;

And shed o'er all so rich a glow

As makes even tears seem full of light:

Then guess, guess, who she,

The lady of my love, may be.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er

Has rosy mother's isles of light,

Was cruising off the Paphian shore,

A sail at sunset hove in sight.

"A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung,

And, swarming up the mast like bees,

The snow-white sails expanding flung,

Like broad magnolias to the breeze.

"Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er—the bark was caught,

The winged crew her freight explored;

And found 'twas just as Love had thought,

For all was contraband aboard.

"A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

Safe stowed in many a package there,

And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass,"

Were lots of all the illegal ware,

Love's Custom-House forbids to pass.

"O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all,"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue,

With rosy blushes ready made;

And teeth of ivory, good as new,

For veterans in the smiling trade.

"Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all,"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,—kept in bags for use,

Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,—

Lay ready here to be let loose,

When wanted, in young spinsters' ears.

"Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all,"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found,

Sham invoices of flames and darts,

Professedly for Paphos bound,

But meant for Hymen's golden marts.

"For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake,

Those pirates all Love's signals knew,

And hoisted oft his flag, to make

Rich wards and heiresses bring-to.[1]

"A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims,

"In vain I rule the Paphian seas,

"If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names

"Are lent to cover frauds like these.

"Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!"

Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match—

A broadside struck the smuggling foe,

And swept the whole unhallowed batch

Of Falsehood to the depths below.

"Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!"

Said Love the little Admiral.

[1] "To Bring-to, to check the course of a ship."—Falconer.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,

Lovely phantom,—all in vain;

Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,

Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.

Such doom, of old, that youth betided,

Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,

But found a cloud that from him glided,—

As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"

Ere thy light hath vanished by;

And 'tis when thou look'st divinest

Thou art still most sure to fly.

Even as the lightning, that, dividing

The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"

Then flits again, its splendor hiding.—

Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,

Did Painting learn her fairy skill,

And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,

To picture woman lovelier still.

For vain was every radiant hue,

Till Passion lent a soul to art,

And taught the painter, ere he drew,

To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,

Till, lo, one touch his art defies;

The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,

But who could dare to paint those eyes?

'Twas all in vain the painter strove;

So turning to that boy divine,

"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,

"No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me

Of past joys, now turned to pain;

Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,

But whose burning marks remain.

In each tone, some echo falleth

On my ear of joys gone by;

Every note some dream recalleth

Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,

Once more let thy numbers thrill;

Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,

I must woo its anguish still.

Since no time can e'er recover

Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,—

Better to weep such pleasures over,

Than smile o'er any left us yet.

BRIGHT MOON.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,

All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night

Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!—

By all the bliss thy beam discovers,

By all those visions far too bright for day,

Which dreaming bards and waking lovers

Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,—

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,

Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,

Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given

Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.

Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,

Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;

Let Love but in this bower be lighted,

Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

Long years have past, old friend, since we

First met in life's young day;

And friends long loved by thee and me,

Since then have dropt away;—

But enough remain to cheer us on,

And sweeten, when thus we're met,

The glass we fill to the many gone,

And the few who're left us yet.

Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,

And some hang white and chill;

While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow,

Retain youth's color still.

And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one,

Youth's sunny hopes have set,

Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,—

We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long

May thou and I thus meet,

To brighten still with wine and song

This short life, ere it fleet.

And still as death comes stealing on,

Let's never, old friend, forget,

Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone,

How many are left us yet.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,

Life to the last, pursues its flight;

Day hath its visions fairly beaming,

But false as those of night.

The one illusion, the other real,

But both the same brief dreams at last;

And when we grasp the bliss ideal,

Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,

Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom

Flit o'er its face till night is closing—

Emblem of life's short doom!

But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,

'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,

Whose light returns not, once declining,

Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,

Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,

Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells

How near such April joy to weeping dwells.

'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal

Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;

And music never half so sweet appears,

As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay—

It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,

Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath

Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.

The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears

Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,—

And passion's power can never lend the glow

Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows

Speed we to my lady's bower;

Swift our sledge as lightning goes,

Nor shall stop till morning's hour.

Bright, my steed, the northern star

Lights us from yon jewelled skies;

But to greet us, brighter far,

Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.

Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,

Sleeping out their dream of time,

Know not half the bliss that's ours,

In this snowy, icy clime.

Like yon star that livelier gleams

From the frosty heavens around,

Love himself the keener beams

When with snows of coyness crowned.

Fleet then on, my merry steed,

Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;—

What can match a lover's speed?

See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!

Brightly hath the northern star

Lit us from yon radiant Skies;

But, behold, how brighter far

Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way,

When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing,

Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,

To whose sound thro' life we stray;

The beams that flash on the oar awhile,

As we row along thro' the waves so clear,

Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile

That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees

With an eye that feeling gave;—

For him there's a story in every breeze,

And a picture in every wave.

Then sing to lighten the languid way;

When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing,

'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,

To whose sound thro' life we stray.

* * * * *

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping,

Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by;

No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping,

No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.

Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,

To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn.

Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean

The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber

Around us like summer-barks idly have played,

When storms are abroad we may find in the number

One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

* * * * *

When Lelia touched the lute,

Not then alone 'twas felt,

But when the sounds were mute,

In memory still they dwelt.

Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers

Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole

Such breath from simple wire,

Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre?

Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;

Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales

Her lute so sweetly told?

In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold.

Rich lute! we see thee glisten,

But, alas! no more we listen!

* * * * *

Young Love lived once in a humble shed,

Where roses breathing

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,

As wild and sweet as the life he led.

His garden flourisht,

For young Hope nourisht.

The infant buds with beams and showers;

But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,

And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die,

And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning.

Ere Love had warning,

And raised the latch, where the young god lay;

"Oh ho!" said Love—"is it you? good-by;"

So he oped the window and flew away!

* * * * *

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine;

And 'tis the light of laughing eyes

That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to sorrow known;

But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,

That bliss may claim them for her own.

Then give me, give me, while I weep,

The sanguine hope that brightens woe,

And teaches even our tears to keep

The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night

Upon the spangled hedge at morn,

Attempts to catch the drops of light,

But wounds his finger with the thorn.

Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,

Are lost when touched, and turned to pain;

The flush they kindle leaves the cheek,

The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, etc.

* * * * *

To sigh, yet feel no pain.

To weep, yet scarce know why;

To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,

Then throw it idly by;

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine,

But those we just have won;

This is love, careless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Thro' life unchilled, unmoved,

To love in wintry age the same

As first in youth we loved;

To feel that we adore

To such refined excess.

That tho' the heart would break with more,

We could not live with less;

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.

* * * * *

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love,

When women like slaves were spurned,

A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,

To be teased by a fop, and returned!

But women grow wiser as men improve.

And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us,

Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem

As the heart to be played with or sullied by them;

No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal

What impression the heart will take;

If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel

What a poor impression 'twill make!

Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal

Of the fondling fop who pursues me,

Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule,

Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool;

No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

* * * * *

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved,

We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting,

But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved,

Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting.

And oft at night when the tempest rolled

He sung as he paced the dark deck over—

"Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,

Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;

And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,

Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!

And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued

He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her—

"Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death,

The close he long wished to his cheerless roving,

For Victory shone on his latest breath,

And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.

But still he remembered his sorrow,—and still

He sung till the vision of life was over—

"Come, death, come! thou art not so chill

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

* * * * *

When life looks lone and dreary,

What light can dispel the gloom?

When Time's swift wing grows weary,

What charm can refresh his plume?

'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth

O'er all that we feel or see;

And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,

'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,

O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory,

Too dearly the meed they gain;

Let patriots live in story—

Too often they die in vain;

Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,

This world can offer to me

No throne like Beauty's bosom,

No freedom like serving thee,

O woman!

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery,

In Cupid's court there used to be;

Two roguish eyes

The highest prize

In Cupid's scheming Lottery;

And kisses, too,

As good as new,

Which weren't very hard to win,

For he who won

The eyes of fun

Was sure to have the kisses in

A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery,

In Cupid's court went merrily,

And Cupid played

A Jewish trade

In this his scheming Lottery;

For hearts, we're told,

In shares he sold

To many a fond believing drone,

And cut the hearts

In sixteen parts

So well, each thought the whole his own.

Chor.—A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

* * * * *

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth,

And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,

Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,

And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.

O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,

But diest in languor in luxury's dome,

Our vision when absent—our glory, when present—

Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!

In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!

Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,

And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.

But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion.

Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!

With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,

Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

* * * * *

Oh think, when a hero is sighing,

What danger in such an adorer!

What woman can dream' of denying

The hand that lays laurels before her?

No heart is so guarded around,

But the smile of the victor will take it;

No bosom can slumber so sound,

But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,

And woe to the heart that allows him;

For oh, neither smiling nor weeping

Has power at those moments to rouse him.

But tho' he was sleeping so fast,

That the life almost seemed to forsake him,

Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast

From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

* * * * *

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!

In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,

For one was B alt, and the rest G below.

Oh! oh, Orator Puff!

One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns,

So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,

That a wag once on hearing the orator say,

"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?"

Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin,

And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,

He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,

"Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down.

Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,

"Help me out! help me out—I have broken my bones!"

"Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother!

Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?"

Oh I oh! etc.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,

For the ninth time—oh accents of delight

To the poor author's ear, when three times three

With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy!

When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,

He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,

And sees his play-bill circulate—alas,

The only bill on which his name will pass!

Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame

Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name,

While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,

And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends

To help my night, and he, ye know, has friends.

Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,

Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,

There's nothing like him! wits, at his request.

Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;

Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make,

And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake;

For him even lawyers talk without a fee,

For him (oh friendship) I act tragedy!

In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks

Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

With such a manager we can't but please,

Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2]

Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,

Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;

You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners,

Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:

And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt—

In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;

And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,

Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,

At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last;

And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods,

Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

* * * * *

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour,

There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;

And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds

Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,

When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1]

Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!

There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,

And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain,

Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.

But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,

As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;

Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails—

As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why—but time, methinks, hath past

More fleet than usual since we parted last.

It seems but like a dream of yesternight.

Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;

And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue

Of former joy, we come to kindle new.

Thus ever may the flying moments haste

With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,

But deeply print and lingeringly move,

When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.

Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,

Let this be still the solstice of the year,

Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,

And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported

Her figure thro' the fields of air,

By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.

And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch

A pair so sorted could not show,

But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,

The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,

Are told, betimes, they must consider

Love as an auctioneer of features,

Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine—

A Palace paved with diamonds all—

And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,

Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The lower world of course was there,

And all the best; but of the upper

The sprinkling was but shy and rare,—

A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp

Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin,

And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp

Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light

By many strange but safe devices;

Large fire-flies, such as shine at night

Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—

Musical flint-mills—swiftly played

By elfin hands—that, flashing round,

Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,

Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun;

And water from that Indian sea,

Whose waves at night like wildfire run—

Corked up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes

Like little light-houses, were set up;

And pretty phosphorescent fishes

That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came

That wicked Sylph whom Love we call—

My Lady knew him but by name,

My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised

That he was coming, and, no doubt

Alarmed about his torch, advised

He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan,

And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted,

Thought Love too much a gentleman

In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, there he was—and dancing

With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;

They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing

At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well,

But for that plaguy torch whose light,

Though not yet kindled—who could tell

How soon, how devilishly, it might?

And so it chanced—which, in those dark

And fireless halls was quite amazing;

Did we not know how small a spark

Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled

In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,

Or from the lucciole, that spangled

Her locks of jet—is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl

Did drop a spark at some odd turning,

Which by the waltz's windy whirl

Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze,

That curtain of protecting wire,

Which DAVY delicately draws

Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,

(Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)

Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair

May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,—

A sign, they say, that no good boded—

Then quick the gas became unruly.

And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together,

With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,

Like butterflies in stormy weather,

Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch,

The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part—

Found lying with a livid scorch

As if from lightning o'er her heart!

* * * * *

"Well done"—a laughing Goblin said—

Escaping from this gaseous strife—

"'Tis not the first time Love has made

"A blow-up in connubial life!"

REMONSTRANCE.

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.

What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name—

Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to run

The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same

As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal,

Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;

With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal

Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,

From the mighty arena, where all that is grand

And devoted and pure and adorning in life,

'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair

Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,

Never think for an instant thy country can spare

Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those

Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm;

Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth

It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;

Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth

Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height,

Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er;

But a current that works out its way into light

Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;

If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,

And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,

Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree

Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,

So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree

Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"—what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears!

And how, each time the day comes round,

Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told,

It seems like pastime to grow old;

And as Youth counts the shining links

That Time around him binds so fast,

Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last.

Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said—"were he ordained to run

"His long career of life again,

"He would do all that he had done."—

Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells

In sober birth-days speaks to me;

Far otherwise—of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely, carelessly:

Of counsel mockt; of talents made

Haply for high and pure designs,

But oft, like Israel's incense, laid

Upon unholy, earthly shrines;

Of nursing many a wrong desire,

Of wandering after Love too far,

And taking every meteor fire

That crost my pathway, for his star.—

All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again.

With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,

How little of the past would stay!

How quickly all should melt away—

All—but that Freedom of the Mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me;

Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,

And kept till now unchangingly,

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found,

Cheering within, when all grows dark

And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found,

That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,

Fancy commands within her own bright round

A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.

Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from Nature won,—

No more than rainbows in their pride can wear

A single tint unborrowed from the sun;

But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro',

That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;

As the same light that o'er the level lake

One dull monotony of lustre flings,

Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make

Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;

And every smile on my cheek should turn

To tears when thou art nigh.

But between love and wine and sleep,

So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep

Is more than my heart can give.

Then wish me not to despair and pine,

Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,

Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,

Fanny dearest, thy image lies;

But ah! the mirror would cease to shine,

If dimmed too often with sighs.

They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it thro' sorrow's tear;

And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beams clear.

Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—

Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,

I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

CARM. 70.

dicebas quondam, etc.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love,

That I had all that heart of thine;

That, even to share the couch of Jove,

Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then!

Not with the vague and vulgar fires

Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,—

But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;—

I know thee now—and tho' these eyes

Doat on thee wildly as before,

Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress—mad as it may seem—

With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,

That passion even outlives esteem.

And I at once adore—and scorn thee.

CARM. II.

pauca nunciate meae puellae.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er

The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,

Now speed ye home, and with you bear

These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run,

Where'er her vain caprice may call;

Of all her dupes not loving one,

But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget—what now is past—

Our once dear love, whose rain lies

Like a fair flower, the meadow's last.

Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!

CARM. 29.

peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye

Of all peninsulas and isles,

That in our lakes of silver lie,

Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles—

How gladly back to thee I fly!

Still doubting, asking—can it be

That I have left Bithynia's sky,

And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find

Our hearts at ease, our perils past;

When, anxious long, the lightened mind

Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep,

Again we tread the welcome floor

Of our own home, and sink to sleep

On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone

The ills of all life's former track.—

Shine out, my beautiful, my own

Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs

The light of heaven like Lydia's sea,

Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughs

Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc.,

Lib. iv. Carm. 13.

"Never shall woman's smile have power

"To win me from those gentle charms!"—

Thus swore I, in that happy hour,

When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight—

Still, tho' our city proudly shine

With forms and faces, fair and bright,

I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me,

And couldst no heart but mine allure!—

To all men else unpleasing be,

So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest

Of others' envy, others' praise;

But, in its silence safely blest,

Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power

All cares are husht, all ills subdued—

My light in even the darkest hour,

My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down

Some maid of more than heavenly charms,

With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,

Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam

Made mischief enough in their day:—

God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,

Depends not on us, the same way.

For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,

The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple,

Like Paris, at once give it to thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real;

That poets live among the stars so,

Their very dinners are ideal,—

(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—

For instance, that we have, instead

Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes,

First course—a Phoenix, at the head.

Done in its own celestial ashes;

At foot, a cygnet which kept singing

All the time its neck was wringing.

Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,

Or any such like learned fowl:

Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,

When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.

Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,

Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;

And nightingales, berhymed to death—

Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able

To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;

But as for me, who've long been taught

To eat and drink like other people;

And can put up with mutton, bought

Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple—

If Lansdowne will consent to share

My humble feast, tho' rude the fare,

Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings

From Attica's salinest springs,

'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,

Beneath his influence brightening up,

Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove,

Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!—even the pen,

So lately at that mind's command,

Carelessly lying, as if then

Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,

A little hour, seems to have past,

Since Life and Inspiration's power

Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now—like talisman

Found in some vanished wizard's halls,

Whose mighty charm with him began,

Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone

Around that pen's exploring track,

Be now, with its great master, gone,

Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes

Rest on the enchanter's broken wand,

Each earth-born spell it worked arise

Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;

The unshrinking truth that lets her light

Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall,

Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along,

O'er scenes which angels weep to see—

Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,

In pity of the Misery.

True bard!—and simple, as the race

Of true-born poets ever are,

When, stooping from their starry place,

They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall,

'Mong the few days I've known with thee,

One that, most buoyantly of all,

Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced,

In life, as in his perfect strain,

With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,

Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind,

Pregnant with genius tho' it be,

But half the treasures of a mind,

Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:—

Friend of long years! of friendship tried

Thro' many a bright and dark event;

In doubts, my judge—in taste, my guide—

In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day,

And all were guests of one whose hand

Hath shed a new and deathless ray

Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes—as in those shells

Where Ocean's voice of majesty

Seems still to sound—immortal dwells

Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then,

Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me,

Who would not grasp such hand again,

Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford

To let such mists a moment stay,

When thus one frank, atoning word,

Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day—tho' one

Unworthy brother there had place;

As 'mong the horses of the Sun,

One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, next to Genius is the power

Of feeling where true Genius lies;

And there was light around that hour

Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze,

Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,

Like all such dreams of vanisht days,

Brightly, indeed—but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr.

Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr.

Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with

Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light,

Such various forms, and all so bright,

I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,

I know not which to call most fair,

Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring

For ever round thee, which to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou art,

Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart—

The graceful child in Beauty's dawn

Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,

Or peeping out—like a young moon

Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.

Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,

As from thy own loved Abbey-tower

I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,

With smiles that to the hoary frown

Of centuries round thee lent a ray,

Chasing even Age's gloom away;—

Or in the world's resplendent throng,

As I have markt thee glide along,

Among the crowds of fair and great

A spirit, pure and separate,

To which even Admiration's eye

Was fearful to approach too nigh;—

A creature circled by a spell

Within which nothing wrong could dwell;

And fresh and clear as from the source.

Holding through life her limpid course,

Like Arethusa thro' the sea,

Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light!

As noble bride, still meekly bright

Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above

All earthly price, pure woman's love;

And showd'st what lustre Rank receives,

When with his proud Corinthian leaves

Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair,

To choose were more than bard can dare;

Wonder not if, while every scene

I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been,

The enamored muse should, in her quest

Of beauty, know not where to rest,

But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,

Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,

The best that I know for a lover of pelf,

Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,

And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky

May tempt its boughs to wander free,

And shoot and blossom wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth,

From which the life that, fills and warms

Its grateful being, first had birth.

'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,

And fed with fame (if fame it be)

This heart, my own dear mother, bends,

With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever—ne'er could close

His little eyes till day was breaking;

And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,

The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;—

One to whom all the world's a debtor—

So Doctor Hymen was called in,

And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet,

Tho' still some ugly fever latent;—

"Dose, as before"—a gentle opiate.

For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,

So fast the dose went on restoring,

That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,

Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

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

carbone notati.

Ay—down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,

From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,

That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,

Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,

Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er—

Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word—let men of all lands

Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands

Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,

Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think—as the Doomed often think of that heaven

They had once within reach—that they might have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat

Ever rose 'bove the zero of Castlereagh's heart.

That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,

And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope—when a spirit that breathed

The fresh air of the olden time whispered about;

And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,

But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,

FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,

And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life

Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled

One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world—

That then—oh! disgrace upon manhood—even then,

You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;

Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,

And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:—shout, Tyranny, shout

Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"—

If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,

And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,

Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;

Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,

Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed

Immortal Life into her soul,

Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,

One drop of Doubt into the bowl—

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,

To Psyche's lips—she knew not why—

Made even that blessed nectar seem

As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,

A chill came o'er her heart—a fear

That Death might, even yet, remove

Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed.

Twining them round her snowy fingers;

"That forehead, where a light unnamed,

"Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath

"Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever—

"Say, are they mine, beyond all death,

"My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not—I know that starry brow,

"Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,

"Will always shine, as they do now—

"But shall I live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes

"On all that sparkles round thee here—

"Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies,

"And in these arms—what canst thou fear?"

In vain—the fatal drop, that stole

Into that cup's immortal treasure,

Had lodged its bitter near her soul.

And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given

Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,

Here is the only face in heaven,

That wears a cloud amid its joy.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,

"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake—

"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"—

"Why, so it is, father—whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood

By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,

Is that remembrance which the wise and good

Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,

Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee—

So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm

Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife,

Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm,

Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?—

Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine,

When first the rosy drops come out,

How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus awhile they keep their tint,

So free from even a shade with some,

That they would smile, did you but hint,

That darker drops would ever come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,

Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,

Till life, like old and crusty port,

When near its close, requires a strainer.

This friendship can alone confer,

Alone can teach the drops to pass,

If not as bright as once they were,

At least unclouded, thro' the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.

Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,

Than thus, if life grow like old wine,

To have thy friendship for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last;

Long as he breathed the vital air,

Nothing throughout all Europe past

In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,

Whatever statesmen did or said,

If not exactly brought about,

'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war,

'Twas owing, under Providence,

To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar—

(Vide his pamphlet—price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo—

As all but Frenchmen think she was—

To Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news—no envoy's bag

E'er past so many secrets thro' it;

Scarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,

With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!

From Russia, shefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland, owskis by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed,

Turned out the last Whig ministry,

And men asked—who advised the deed?

Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King,

He sent such hints thro' Viscount This,

To Marquis That, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,

The Drama, Books, MS. and printed—

Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,

And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there infused some soul in't—

Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had—odd enough—an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,

Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,

Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned—trust him—had his finger.

* * * * *

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ——.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell

Of that bright hour, remembered well

As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray

Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head,

My name as by some spirit said,

And, looking up, saw two bright eyes

Above me from a casement shine,

Dazzling my mind with such surprise

As they, who sail beyond the Line,

Feel when new stars above them rise;—

And it was thine, the voice that spoke,

Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;

And thine the eye whose lustre broke—

Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave

A song of that sweet summer-eve,

(Summer, of which the sunniest part

Was that we, each, had in the heart,)

When thou and I, and one like thee,

In life and beauty, to the sound

Of our own breathless minstrelsy.

Danced till the sunlight faded round,

Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,

Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain

Of lute like mine, whose day is past,

To call up even a dream again

Of the fresh light those moments cast.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance—

(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,

Preferring a coquette from France,

That mincing thing, Mamselle quadrille)—

Having been chased from London down

To that most humble haunt of all

She used to grace—a Country Town—

Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven

"From London's gay and shining tracks—

"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven,

"I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's—

"Tho' not a London Miss alive

"Would now for her acquaintance own me;

"And spinsters, even, of forty-five,

"Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,

"And—spite of some few dandy Lancers.

"Who vainly try to preach Quadrille—

"See naught but true-blue Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,

"My throne, like Magna Charta, raise

"'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,

"That scorn the threatened chaine anglaise."

'Twas thus she said, as mid the din

Of footmen, and the town sedan,

She lighted at the King's Head Inn,

And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all,

With young Squirinas, just come out,

And my Lord's daughters from the Hall,

(Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)—

All these, as light she tript upstairs,

Were in the cloak-room seen assembling—

When, hark! some new outlandish airs,

From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops—she listens—can it be?

Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it—

It is "Di tanti palpiti"

As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however—in she goes,

With her best, sweeping country grace;

When, ah too true, her worst of foes,

Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore,

To sing the rage these nymphs were in,

Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face

(The beau-ideal of French beauty),

A band-box thing, all art and lace

Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine—

From Hippolyte, her rouge and hair—

Her poetry, from Lamartine—

Her morals, from—the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced—so slidingly,

So near the ground she plied her art,

You'd swear her mother-earth and she

Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate,

No signs of life or motion showing.

Like a bright pendule's dial-plate—

So still, you'd hardly think 'twas going.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance—

A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know

For English, at a single glance—

English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 'tis fair to own,

And rather given to skips and bounces;

Endangering thereby many a gown,

And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike Mamselle—who would prefer

(As morally a lesser ill)

A thousand flaws of character,

To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did She of Albion wear;

Let her but run that two-heat race

She calls a Set, not Dian e'er

Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't

Such anger now—whose eyes of blue

(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint,

Which English maids call "Waterloo")—

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk

Of a warm evening, flashing broke.

While—to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1]

Which struck up now—she proudly spoke—

"Heard you that strain—that joyous strain?

"'Twas such as England loved to hear,

"Ere thou and all thy frippery train,

"Corrupted both her foot and ear—

"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands,

"Presumed, in sight of all beholders,

"To lay his rude, licentious hands

"On virtuous English backs and shoulders—

"Ere times and morals both grew bad,

"And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads,

"Happy John Bull not only had,

"But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!—Oh, Londonderry,

"Where is the land could 'scape disasters,

"With such a Foreign Secretary,

"Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops!

"Rulers of day-books and of waves!

"Quadrilled, on one side, into fops,

"And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen,

"Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition,

"With elbows, à la crapaudine,

"And feet, in—God knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons,

"Inspectors of your airs and graces,

"Who intercept all whispered tones,

"And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored,

"In that grim cordon of Mammas,

"To interchange one tender word,

"Tho' whispered but in queue-de-chats.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged,

"Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle—

"What looks in setting were exchanged,

"What tender words in down the middle;

"How many a couple, like the wind,

"Which nothing in its course controls,

Left time and chaperons far behind,

"And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve—ere stopt

"By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting—

"How charmingly one's partner propt

"The important question in poussetteing.

"While now, alas—no sly advances—

"No marriage hints—all goes on badly—

"'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances,

"We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell)

"Declares not half so much is made

"By Licences—and he must know well—

"Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased—tears fell from every Miss—

She now had touched the true pathetic:—

One such authentic fact as this,

Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!"

And the maid saw with brightening face,

The Steward of the night advance,

And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased,

Now tuned again their summons sweet,

And, for one happy night, at least,

Old England's triumph was complete.

[1] An old English country dance.

GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh;

Already, in the unopened flowers

That sleep around us, Fancy's eye

Can see the blush of future bowers;

And joy it brings to thee and me,

My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way,

To feed the marble Founts of Kings,

Now, loosened by the vernal ray,

Upon its path exulting springs—

As doth this bounding heart to thee,

My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay;

Enough if they awhile remain,

Like Irem's bowers, that fade away.

From time to time, and come again.

And life shall all one Irem be

For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart,

Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,

That rends its inmost leaves apart

With passion for the nightingale;

So languishes this soul for thee,

My bright and blushing Maami!

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

If ever life was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthened flow

Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,

'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.

The simple heart above all worldly wiles;

Light wit that plays along the calm of life,

And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,

But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,

Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves

And brightens every gift by fortune given;

That, wander where it will with those it loves,

Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.—Oh, thou who read'st this stone,

When for thyself, thy children, to the sky

Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,

That ye like him may live, like him may die!

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur.

SENECA.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned,

As Nature meant, supreme alone;

With mind unchekt, and hands unchained,

His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave

With its own sceptre, could not last;

So Genius' self became the slave

Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate,

Was, ever after, doomed to wear it:

His nods, his struggles all too late—

"Qui semel jussit, semper paret."

To check young Genius' proud career,

The slaves who now his throne invaded,

Made Criticism his prime Vizir,

And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school,

Afraid of even his own ambition,

His very victories were by rule,

And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds—the same,

That dazzled, when spontaneous actions—

Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame,

And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air,

Instant, the Vizir's Council sat—

"Good Lord, your Highness can't go there—

"Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy

Rich jewels for his diadem,

"The taste was bad, the price was high—

"A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers—

"What trifling, what unmeaning things!

"Fit for a woman's toilet hours,

"But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere,

He played no more the rambling comet—

"A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear,

"But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans,

For realms more worthy to enthrone him?—

"Saint Aristotle, what wild notions!

"Serve a 'ne exeat regno' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do,

They round him placed a guard of watchmen,

Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue

Turned up with yellow—chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about

Like those in Longwood's prison grounds,

Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,

For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power,

Some Ultra spirit, to set free,

As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour,

The thunders of his Royalty!—

To vindicate his ancient line,

The first, the true, the only one,

Of Right eternal and divine,

That rules beneath the blessed sun.

TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Oh albums, albums, how I dread

Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!

How often wish that from the dead

Old Omar would pop forth his head,

And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,

The blushless blues, who, day and night,

Like duns in doorways, take their stand,

To waylay bards, with book in hand,

Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain,

That o'er me at this instant come,

When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,

Knocks at the portal of my brain,

And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

November, 1828.

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low,

From Byron down to ***** and me,

Should seek the fame which all bestow

On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes,

At once all errors are forgiven;

As even old Sternhold still we prize,

Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.

AT NIGHT.[1]

At night, when all is still around.

How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light!

What pleasure in the anxious beat,

With which the bosom flies to meet

That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say

"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,

Tho' still the western clouds are bright;

Oh! happy, too, the silent press,

The eloquence of mute caress.

With those we love exchanged at night!

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

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,

To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;

Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,

This relic lights up on her generous eye,

Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay

A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

Paris, July, 1821

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,

Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that,

And wondering much what little knavish sprite

Had put it first in women's heads to write:—

Sudden I saw—as in some witching dream—

A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,

From whose quick-opening folds of azure light

Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright

As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,

Some sunny morning from a violet bed.

"Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"—

"A small he-devil, Ma'am—my name BAS BLEU—

"A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;

"'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,

"The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,

"The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,

"And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain

"With metaphysics twirl it back again!"

I viewed him, as he spoke—his hose were blue,

His wings—the covers of the last Review—

Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue,

And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear,

Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair.

"Inspired by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy)—

"That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,

"Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,

"Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.

"For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,

"And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;

"For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,

"Looks wise—the pretty soul!—and thinks she's thinking.

"By my advice Miss Indigo attends

"Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,

"''Pon honor!—(mimics)—nothing can surpass the plan

"'Of that professor—(trying to recollect)—psha! that memory-man—

"'That—what's his name?—him I attended lately—

"''Pon honor, he improved my memory greatly.'"

Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite,

What share he had in this our play to-night.

'Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite—

"What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time

"When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme;

"When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild,

"Blushed without art, and without culture smiled—

"Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone,

"Ere Science called their brilliant world her own,

"Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders,

"And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!—

"No, no—your gentle Inas will not do—

"To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,

"I'll come—(pointing downwards)—you understand—till then adieu!"

And has the sprite been here! No—jests apart—

Howe'er man rules in science and in art,

The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.

And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true

The wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too—

Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun,

Trembles, if touched in the remotest one;

Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown,

When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne:

If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,

Dire as they are, of Critics and—Blue Devils.

THE DAY-DREAM.[1]

They both were husht, the voice, the chords,—

I heard but once that witching lay;

And few the notes, and few the words.

My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there,

Like echoes of some broken strain;—

Links of a sweetness lost in air,

That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;

And, tho' the charm still lingered on,

That o'er each sense her song had shed,

The song itself was faded, gone;—

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,

On summer days, ere youth had set;

Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,

Tho' what they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains

I wooed this truant air to come—

As birds are taught on eastern plains

To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:—the song that Sappho gave,

In dying, to the mournful sea,

Not muter slept beneath the wave

Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay

In that half-waking mood when dreams

Unwillingly at last gave way

To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face—the very face, methought,

From which had breathed, as from a shrine

Of song and soul, the notes I sought—

Came with its music close to mine;

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,—

Each note and word, with every tone

And look, that lent it life before,—

All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest

They meet again, each widowed sound

Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest

Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor even in waking did the clew,

Thus strangely caught, escape again;

For never lark its matins knew

So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft when memory's wondrous spell

Is talked of in our tranquil bower,

I sing this lady's song, and tell

The vision of that morning hour.

[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.

SONG.

Where is the heart that would not give

Years of drowsy days and nights,

One little hour, like this, to live—

Full, to the brim, of life's delights?

Look, look around,

This fairy ground,

With love-lights glittering o'er;

While cups that shine

With freight divine

Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours,

Memory lives in those gone by;

Neither can see the moment's flowers

Springing up fresh beneath the eye,

Wouldst thou, or thou,

Forego what's now,

For all that Hope may say?

No—Joy's reply,

From every eye,

Is, "Live we while we may,"

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

haud curat Hippoclides.

ERASM. Adag.

To those we love we've drank tonight;

But now attend and stare not,

While I the ampler list recite

Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,

If on their fronts they bear not

That noblest gem that decks a crown,

The People's Love—WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath

A despot yoke, yet dare not

Pronounce the will whose very breath

Would rend its links—WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway

And wealth, tho' they declare not;

Who point, like finger-posts, the way

They never go—WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword,

Howe'er it conquers, wear not

The pledges of a soldier's word,

Redeemed and pure—WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong.

And, tho' to lies they swear not,

Are hardly better than the throng

Of those who do—WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon

The land, like grubs, and spare not

The smallest leaf where they can sun

Their crawling limbs—WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines

In darkness hid, and share not

The paltry ore with him who pines

In honest want—WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power

Of Love aloof, and bare not

Their hearts in any guardless hour

To Beauty's shaft—WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea,

In camp or court, who are not,

Who never were, or e'er will be

Good men and true—WE CARE NOT.

ANNE BOLEYN.

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL

"Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."

"S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante,

Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,

Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos

En les lenant quelquefoys en repos;

Aucune foys envoyant en message

Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage."

Much as her form seduced the sight,

Her eyes could even more surely woo;

And when and how to shoot their light

Into men's hearts full well she knew.

For sometimes in repose she hid

Their rays beneath a downcast lid;

And then again, with wakening air,

Would send their sunny glances out,

Like heralds of delight, to bear

Her heart's sweet messages about.

THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente

Prima raggio nel monte Citerea,

Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente,

Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea

Donna vedere andar per una landa

Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;—

Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda,

Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno

Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda—

Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno;

Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga

Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno.

Ell' è de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga,

Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani;

Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga.

DANTE, Purg. Canto xxvii.

'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above.

The star of beauty beamed,

While lulled by light so full of love,

In slumber thus I dreamed—

Methought, at that sweet hour,

A nymph came o'er the lea,

Who, gathering many a flower,

Thus said and sung to me:—

"Should any ask what Leila loves,

"Say thou, To wreathe her hair

"With flowerets culled from glens and groves,

"Is Leila's only care.

"While thus in quest of flowers rare,

"O'er hill and dale I roam,

"My sister, Rachel, far more fair,

"Sits lone and mute at home.

"Before her glass untiring,

"With thoughts that never stray,

"Her own bright eyes admiring,

"She sits the live-long day;

"While I!—oh, seldom even a look

"Of self salutes my eye;

"My only glass, the limpid brook,

"That shines and passes by."

SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams

That fairy scene went on;

Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams

Tho' day itself is gone.

And gracefully to music's sound,

The same bright nymphs were gliding round;

While thou, the Queen of all, wert there—

The Fairest still, where all were fair.

The dream then changed—in halls of state,

I saw thee high enthroned;

While, ranged around, the wise, the great,

In thee their mistress owned;

And still the same, thy gentle sway

O'er willing subjects won its way—

Till all confest the Right Divine

To rule o'er man was only thine!

But, lo, the scene now changed again—

And borne on plumed steed,

I saw thee o'er the battle-plain

Our land's defenders lead:

And stronger in thy beauty's charms,

Than man, with countless hosts in arms,

Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free,

Thy very smile was victory!

Nor reign such queens on thrones alone—

In cot and court the same,

Wherever woman's smile is known,

Victoria's still her name.

For tho' she almost blush to reign,

Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain,

Disguise our bondage as we will,

'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.

Come, play me that simple air again,

I used so to love, in life's young day,

And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then

Were wakened by that sweet lay

The tender gloom its strain

Shed o'er the heart and brow

Grief's shadow without its pain—

Say where, where is it now?

But play me the well-known air once more,

For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain

Like dreams of some far, fairy shore

We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back

Some sunny hope, some daydream bright,

That, shining o'er life's early track,

Filled even its tears with light.

The new-found life that came

With love's first echoed vow;—

The fear, the bliss, the shame—

Ah—where, where are they now?

But, still the same loved notes prolong,

For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,

In dreams of youth and love and song,

To breathe life's hour away.

POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN

(1827.)

THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.

Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear

And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere,

Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes

And high-built temples, fit to be the homes

Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour

Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make

One theatre of this vast peopled lake,

Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives

Of life and motion, ever moves and lives,

Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave

Ascending, in procession slow and grave,

Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands

And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands:

While there, rich barks—fresh from those sunny tracts

Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts—

Glide with their precious lading to the sea,

Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory,

Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains

Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay

Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way

To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds

Of lotos flowers that close above their heads,

Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour,

While haply, not far off, beneath a bank

Of blossoming acacias, many a prank

Is played in the cool current by a train

Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain

Around two conquerors of the world was cast;

But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.

FIRST CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup—Osiris sips

The same in his halls below;

And the same he gives, to cool the lips

Of the dead, who downward go.

Drink of this cup—the water within

Is fresh from Lethe's stream;

'Twill make the past, with all its sin,

And all its pain and sorrows, seem

Like a long forgotten dream;

The pleasure, whose charms

Are steeped in woe;

The knowledge, that harms

The soul to know;

The hope, that bright

As the lake of the waste,

Allures the sight

And mocks the taste;

The love, that binds

Its innocent wreath,

Where the serpent winds

In venom beneath!—

All that of evil or false, by thee

Hath ever been known or seen,

Shalt melt away in this cup, and be

Forgot as it never had been!

SECOND CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup—when Isis led

Her boy of old to the beaming sky,

She mingled a draught divine and said.—

"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

Thus do I say and sing to thee.

Heir of that boundless heaven on high,

Though frail and fallen and lost thou be,

"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

* * * * *

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come,

Dreams of a former, happier day,

When heaven was still the spirit's home,

And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot,

That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea,

What once hath been, what now is not.

But oh! what again shall brightly be!"

SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

O Abyssinian tree,

We pray, we pray to thee;

By the glow of thy golden fruit

And the violet hue of the flower,

And the greeting mute

Of thy boughs' salute

To the stranger who seeks thy bow.

O Abyssinian tree!

How the traveller blesses thee

When the light no moon allows,

And the sunset hour is near,

And thou bend'st thy boughs

To kiss his brows.

Saying, "Come, rest thee here."

O Abyssinian tree!

Thus bow thy head to me!

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening—of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments—I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful and happy jeu d'esprit on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

Sloperton Cottage,

November 1881

[1] Lord Francis Egerton.

THE SUMMER FÊTE

"Where are ye now, ye summer days,

"That once inspired the poet's lays?

"Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains,

"For lack of sunbeams, took to coals—

"Summers of light, undimmed by rains,

"Whose only mocking trace remains

"In watering-pots and parasols."

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,

As, on the morning of that Fête

Which bards unborn shall celebrate,

She backward drew her curtain's shade,

And, closing one half-dazzled eye,

Peeped with the other at the sky—

The important sky, whose light or gloom

Was to decide, this day, the doom

Of some few hundred beauties, wits,

Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.

Faint were her hopes; for June had now

Set in with all his usual rigor!

Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how

To nurse a bud, or fan a bough,

But Eurus in perpetual vigor;

And, such the biting summer air,

That she, the nymph now nestling there—

Snug as her own bright gems recline

At night within their cotton shrine—

Had more than once been caught of late

Kneeling before her blazing grate,

Like a young worshipper of fire,

With hands uplifted to the flame,

Whose glow as if to woo them nigher.

Thro' the white fingers flushing came.

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light,

That now illumed this morning's heaven!

Up sprung Iänthe at the sight,

Tho'—hark!—the clocks but strike eleven,

And rarely did the nymph surprise

Mankind so early with her eyes.

Who now will say that England's sun

(Like England's self, these spendthrift days)

His stock of wealth hath near outrun,

And must retrench his golden rays—

Pay for the pride of sunbeams past,

And to mere moonshine come at last?

"Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries,

While coming mirth lit up each glance,

And, prescient of the ball, her eyes

Already had begun to dance:

For brighter sun than that which now

Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers,

Had never bent from heaven his brow

To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.

What must it be—if thus so fair.

Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square—

What must it be where Thames is seen

Gliding between his banks of green,

While rival villas, on each side,

Peep from their bowers to woo his tide,

And, like a Turk between two rows

Of Harem beauties, on he goes—

A lover, loved for even the grace

With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes,

One, the most flowery, cool, and bright

Of all by which that river roams,

The Fête is to be held to-night—

That Fête already linked to fame,

Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight

(When looked for long, at last they came,)

Seemed circled with a fairy light;—

That Fête to which the cull, the flower

Of England's beauty, rank and power,

From the young spinster, just come out,

To the old Premier, too long in—

From legs of far descended gout,

To the last new-mustachioed chin—

All were convoked by Fashion's spells

To the small circle where she dwells,

Collecting nightly, to allure us,

Live atoms, which, together hurled,

She, like another Epicurus,

Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."

Behold how busy in those bowers

(Like May-flies in and out of flowers.)

The countless menials, swarming run,

To furnish forth ere set of sun

The banquet-table richly laid

Beneath yon awning's lengthened shade,

Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice,

And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call,

Breathe from her summer-throne of ice

A spirit of coolness over all.

And now the important hour drew nigh,

When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky,

The west-end "world" for mirth let loose,

And moved, as he of Syracuse[1]

Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force

Of four horse power, had all combined

Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course,

Leaving that portion of mankind,

Whom they call "Nobody," behind;

No star for London's feasts to-day,

No moon of beauty, new this May,

To lend the night her crescent ray;—

Nothing, in short, for ear or eye,

But veteran belles and wits gone by,

The relics of a past beau-monde,

A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned!

Even Parliament this evening nods

Beneath the harangues of minor Gods,

On half its usual opiate's share;

The great dispensers of repose,

The first-rate furnishers of prose

Being all called to—prose elsewhere.

Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square—

That last impregnable redoubt,

Where, guarded with Patrician care,

Primeval Error still holds out—

Where never gleam of gas must dare

'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt,

Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare

The dowagers one single jolt;—

Where, far too stately and sublime

To profit by the lights of time,

Let Intellect march how it will,

They stick to oil and watchman still:—

Soon as thro' that illustrious square

The first epistolary bell.

Sounding by fits upon the air,

Of parting pennies rung the knell;

Warned by that tell-tale of the hours,

And by the day-light's westering beam,

The young Iänthe, who, with flowers

Half crowned, had sat in idle dream

Before her glass, scarce knowing where

Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair,

While, all capriciously, she now

Dislodged some curl from her white brow,

And now again replaced it there:—

As tho' her task was meant to be

One endless change of ministry—

A routing-up of Loves and Graces,

But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile—what strain is that which floats

Thro' the small boudoir near—like notes

Of some young bird, its task repeating

For the next linnet music-meeting?

A voice it was, whose gentle sounds

Still kept a modest octave's bounds,

Nor yet had ventured to exalt

Its rash ambition to B alt,

That point towards which when ladies rise,

The wise man takes his hat and—flies.

Tones of a harp, too, gently played,

Came with this youthful voice communing;

Tones true, for once, without the aid

Of that inflictive process, tuning—

A process which must oft have given

Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound;

So pleased, among the joys of Heaven,

He specifies "harps ever tuned."

She who now sung this gentle strain

Was our young nymph's still younger sister—

Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train

In their light legions to enlist her,

But counted on, as sure to bring

Her force into the field next spring.

The song she thus, like Jubal's shell,

Gave forth "so sweetly and so well,"

Was one in Morning Post much famed,

From a divine collection, named,

"Songs of the Toilet"—every Lay

Taking for subject of its Muse,

Some branch of feminine array,

Some item, with full scope, to choose,

From diamonds down to dancing shoes;

From the last hat that Herbault's hands

Bequeathed to an admiring world,

Down to the latest flounce that stands

Like Jacob's Ladder—or expands

Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.

Speaking of one of these new Lays,

The Morning Post thus sweetly says:—

"Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre,

"That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives,

"Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire,

"This fine Cantata upon Sleeves.

"The very notes themselves reveal

"The cut of each new sleeve so well;

"A flat betrays the Imbécilles,[2]

"Light fugues the flying lappets tell;

"While rich cathedral chords awake

'Our homage for the Manches d'Évêque."

'Twas the first opening song the Lay

Of all least deep in toilet-lore,

That the young nymph, to while away

The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:—

SONG.

Array thee, love, array thee, love,

In all thy best array thee;

The sun's below—the moon's above—

And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on thee all that's bright and rare,

The zone, the wreath, the gem,

Not so much gracing charms so fair,

As borrowing grace from them.

Array thee, love, array thee, love,

In all that's bright array thee;

The sun's below—the moon's above—

And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on the plumes thy lover gave.

The plumes, that, proudly dancing,

Proclaim to all, where'er they wave,

Victorious eyes advancing.

Bring forth the robe whose hue of heaven

From thee derives such light,

That Iris would give all her seven

To boast but one so bright.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,

Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee.

And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,

Will beat when they come nigh thee.

Thy every word shall be a spell,

Thy every look a ray,

And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell

The glory of thy way!

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,

Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee,

And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,

Shall beat when they come nigh thee.

* * * * *

Now in his Palace of the West,

Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,

Like a tired monarch fanned to rest,

Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;

While round his couch's golden rim

The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept—

Struggling each other's light to dim,

And catch his last smile e'er he slept.

How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames

The golden eve its lustre poured,

Shone out the high-born knights and dames

Now grouped around that festal board;

A living mass of plumes and flowers.

As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers—

A peopled rainbow, swarming thro'

With habitants of every hue;

While, as the sparkling juice of France

High in the crystal brimmers flowed,

Each sunset ray that mixt by chance

With the wine's sparkles, showed

How sunbeams may be taught to dance.

If not in written form exprest,

'Twas known at least to every guest,

That, tho' not bidden to parade

Their scenic powers in masquerade,

(A pastime little found to thrive

In the bleak fog of England's skies,

Where wit's the thing we best contrive,

As masqueraders, to disguise,)

It yet was hoped-and well that hope

Was answered by the young and gay—

That in the toilet's task to-day

Fancy should take her wildest scope;—

That the rapt milliner should be

Let loose thro fields of poesy,

The tailor, in inventive trance,

Up to the heights of Epic clamber,

And all the regions of Romance

Be ransackt by the femme de chambre.

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas,

Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas—

Circassian slaves whom Love would pay

Half his maternal realms to ransom;—

Young nuns, whose chief religion lay

In looking most profanely handsome;—

Muses in muslin-pastoral maids

With hats from the Arcade-ian shades,

And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain,

As fortune-hunters formed their train.

With these and more such female groups,

Were mixt no less fantastic troops

Of male exhibitors—all willing

To look even more than usual killing;—

Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios,

And brigands, charmingly ferocious:—

M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then,

Who, last night, voted for the Greeks;

And Friars, stanch No-Popery men,

In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she—the nymph whom late

We left before her glass delaying

Like Eve, when by the lake she sate,

In the clear wave her charms surveying,

And saw in that first glassy mirror

The first fair face that lured to error.

"Where is she," ask'st thou?—watch all looks

As centring to one point they bear,

Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,

Turned to the sun—and she is there.

Even in disguise, oh never doubt

By her own light you'd track her out:

As when the moon, close shawled in fog,

Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven incog.,

Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray

At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night

Hath our young heroine veiled her light;—

For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.

His wedded bride, by holiest vow

Pledged in Olympus, and made known

To mortals by the type which now

Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,

That butterfly, mysterious trinket,

Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it),

And sparkling thus on brow so white,

Tells us we've Psyche here tonight!

But hark! some song hath caught her ears—

And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'er

Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres,

Her goddess-ship approves the air;

And to a mere terrestrial strain,

Inspired by naught but pink champagne,

Her butterfly as gayly nods

As tho' she sate with all her train

At some great Concert of the Gods,

With Phoebus, leader—Jove, director,

And half the audience drunk with nectar.

From the male group the carol came—

A few gay youths whom round the board

The last-tried flask's superior fame

Had lured to taste the tide it poured;

And one who from his youth and lyre

Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire,

Thus gayly sung, while, to his song,

Replied in chorus the gay throng:—

SONG.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine,

As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see;

But, as I'm not particular—wit, love, and wine,

Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me.

Nay—humble and strange as my tastes may appear—

If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven,

To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,

And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven.

So pledge me a bumper—your sages profound

May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan:

But as we are not sages, why—send the cup round—

We must only be happy the best way we can.

A reward by some king was once offered, we're told,

To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind;

But talk of new pleasures!—give me but the old,

And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find.

Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss,

Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day,

Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this,

And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!

In the mean time, a bumper—your Angels, on high,

May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span;

But, as we are not Angels, why—let the flask fly—

We must be happy all ways that we can.

* * * * *

Now nearly fled was sunset's light,

Leaving but so much of its beam

As gave to objects, late so blight,

The coloring of a shadowy dream;

And there was still where Day had set

A flush that spoke him loath to die—

A last link of his glory yet,

Binding together earth and sky.

Say, why is it that twilight best

Becomes even brows the loveliest?

That dimness with its softening Touch

Can bring out grace unfelt before,

And charms we ne'er can see too much,

When seen but half enchant the more?

Alas, it is that every joy

In fulness finds its worst alloy,

And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed,

Is sweeter than the whole possest;—

That Beauty, when least shone upon,

A creature most ideal grows;

And there's no light from moon or sun

Like that Imagination throws;—

It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks

Even from a bright reality,

And turning inly, feels and thinks

For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour

On the fair groups that, round and round,

From glade to grot, from bank to bower,

Now wandered thro' this fairy ground;

And thus did Fancy—and champagne—

Work on the sight their dazzling spells,

Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain,

Now brightened in the gloom to belles;

And the brief interval of time,

'Twixt after dinner and before,

To dowagers brought back their prime,

And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye,

The ear, the fancy, quick succeed;

And now along the waters fly

Light gondoles, of Venetian breed,

With knights and dames who, calm reclined,

Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide—

Astonishing old Thames to find

Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river,

With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver,

That many a group in turn were seen

Embarking on its wave serene;

And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay,

A band of mariners, from the isles

Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles,

As smooth they floated, to the play

Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:—

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy,

Our home is on the sea;

When Nature gave

The ocean-wave,

She markt it for the Free.

Whatever storms befall, boy,

Whatever storms befall,

The island bark

Is Freedom's ark,

And floats her safe thro' all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy,

Behold yon sea of isles,

Where every shore

Is sparkling o'er

With Beauty's richest smiles.

For us hath Freedom claimed, boy,

For us hath Freedom claimed

Those ocean-nests

Where Valor rests

His eagle wing untamed.

And shall the Moslem dare, boy,

And shall the Moslem dare,

While Grecian hand

Can wield a brand,

To plant his Crescent there?

No—by our fathers, no, boy,

No, by the Cross, we show—

From Maina's rills

To Thracia's hills

All Greece re-echoes "No!"

* * * * *

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind

A minute come and go again,

Even so by snatches in the wind,

Was caught and lost that choral strain,

Now full, now faint upon the ear,

As the bark floated far or near.

At length when, lost, the closing note

Had down the waters died along,

Forth from another fairy boat,

Freighted with music, came this song—

SONG.

Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales,

Gentle river, thy current runs,

Sheltered safe from winter gales,

Shaded cool from summer suns.

Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide.

Fenced with flowery shelter round;

No rude tempest wakes the tide,

All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come,

When, wooed by whispering groves in vain,

Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home,

To mingle with the stormy main.

And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass

Into the world's unsheltered sea,

Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas,

All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon,

Resplendent as a summer noon,

Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights,

A Zodiac of flowers and tapers—

(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds

Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)—

Quadrille performs her mazy rites,

And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;—

Working to death each opera strain,

As, with a foot that ne'er reposes,

She jigs thro' sacred and profane,

From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"—[3]

Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,

Till fagged Rossini scarce respires;

Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues,

And Weber at her feet expires.

And now the set hath ceased—the bows

Of fiddlers taste a brief repose,

While light along the painted floor,

Arm within arm, the couples stray,

Talking their stock of nothings o'er,

Till—nothing's left at last to say.

When lo!—most opportunely sent—

Two Exquisites, a he and she,

Just brought from Dandyland, and meant

For Fashion's grand Menagerie,

Entered the room—and scarce were there

When all flocked round them, glad to stare

At any monsters, any where.

Some thought them perfect, to their tastes;

While others hinted that the waists

(That in particular of the he thing)

Left far too ample room for breathing:

Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes,

The isthmus there should be so small,

That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,

Must manage not to breathe at all.

The female (these same critics said),

Tho' orthodox from toe to chin,

Yet lacked that spacious width of head

To hat of toadstool much akin—

That build of bonnet, whose extent

Should, like a doctrine of dissent,

Puzzle church-doors to let it in.

However—sad as 'twas, no doubt,

That nymph so smart should go about,

With head unconscious of the place

It ought to fill in Infinite Space—

Yet all allowed that, of her kind,

A prettier show 'twas hard to find;

While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men,"

The male was thought a first-rate specimen.

Such Savans, too, as wisht to trace

The manners, habits, of this race—

To know what rank (if rank at all)

'Mong reasoning things to them should fall—

What sort of notions heaven imparts

To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts

And how far Soul, which, Plato says,

Abhors restraint, can act in stays—

Might now, if gifted with discerning,

Find opportunities of learning:

As these two creatures—from their pout

And frown, 'twas plain—had just fallen out;

And all their little thoughts, of course.

Were stirring in full fret and force;—

Like mites, through microscope espied,

A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek,

The tempest of their souls to speak:

As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,

To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,

Even so this tender couple set

Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

WALTZ DUET.

HE.

Long as I waltzed with only thee,

Each blissful Wednesday that went by,

Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee

Adorned a youth so blest as I.

Oh! ah! ah! oh!

Those happy days are gone—heigho!

SHE.

Long as with thee I skimmed the ground,

Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane,

No blither nymph tetotumed round

To Collinet's immortal strain.

Oh! ah! etc.

Those happy days are gone—heigho!

HE.

With Lady Jane now whirled about,

I know no bounds of time or breath;

And, should the charmer's head hold out,

My heart and heels are hers till death.

Oh! ah! etc.

Still round and round thro' life we'll go.

SHE.

To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son,

A youth renowned for waistcoats smart,

I now have given (excuse the pun)

A vested interest in my heart.

Oh! ah! etc.

Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE.

What if by fond remembrance led

Again to wear our mutual chain.

For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle

dead,

And I levant from Lady Jane.

Oh! ah! etc.

Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE.

Tho' he the Noodle honors give,

And thine, dear youth, are not so high,

With thee in endless waltz I'd live,

With thee, to Weber's Stop—

Waltz, die!

Oh! ah! etc.

Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.

[Exeunt waltzing.

* * * * *

While thus, like motes that dance away

Existence in a summer ray,

These gay things, born but to quadrille,

The circle of their doom fulfil—

(That dancing doom whose law decrees

That they should live on the alert toe

A life of ups-and-downs, like keys

Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:—)

While thus the fiddle's spell, within,

Calls up its realm of restless sprites.

Without, as if some Mandarin

Were holding there his Feast of Lights,

Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers,

Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers,

Till, budding into light, each tree

Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er,

As tho' the Spirits of the Air

Had taken it in their heads to pour

A shower of summer meteors there;—

While here a lighted shrubbery led

To a small lake that sleeping lay,

Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head,

Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray;

While round its rim there burning stood

Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded,

That shrunk from such warm neighborhood,

And, looking bashful in the flood,

Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.

Hither, to this embowered retreat,

Fit but for nights so still and sweet;

Nights, such as Eden's calm recall

In its first lonely hour, when all

So silent is, below, on high,

That is a star falls down the sky,

You almost think you hear it fall—

Hither, to this recess, a few,

To shun the dancers' wildering noise,

And give an hour, ere night-time flew,

To music's more ethereal joys,

Came with their voices-ready all

As Echo waiting for a call—

In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,

To weave their mingling ministrelsy,

And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed—

Like her whom Art hath deathless made,

Bright Mona Lisa[4]—with that braid

Of hair across the brow, and one

Small gem that in the centre shone—

With face, too, in its form resembling

Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes,

Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling,

Now soft as if suffused with sighs—

Her lute that hung beside her took,

And, bending o'er it with shy look,

More beautiful, in shadow thus,

Than when with life most luminous,

Past her light finger o'er the chords,

And sung to them these mournful words:—

SONG.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying—

Here will I lay me and list to thy song;

Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,

Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,

Chase them away-they bring but pain,

And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute—day is fast going,

Soon will its light from thy chords die away;

One little gleam in the west is still glowing,

When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.

Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!

Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group that late in garb of Greeks

Sung their light chorus o'er the tide—

Forms, such as up the wooded creeks

Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,

Or nightly on her glistening sea,

Woo the bright waves with melody—

Now linked their triple league again

Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,

Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear

But caught it, on the fatal steep,

She would have paused, entranced, to hear,

And for that day deferred her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft

Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling,

Beneath my casement, low and soft,

I heard a Lesbian lover sing;

And, listening both with ear and thought,

These sounds upon the night breeze caught—

"Oh, happy as the gods is he,

"Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung,

In the first love-dreams of her lyre,

When words of passion from her tongue

Fell like a shower of living fire.

And still, at close of every strain,

I heard these burning words again—

"Oh, happy as the gods is he,

"Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turned

Each asking eye—nor turned in vain

Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned

Bright o'er her cheek and died again,

Showed with what inly shame and fear

Was uttered what all loved to hear.

Yet not to sorrow's languid lay

Did she her lute-song now devote;

But thus, with voice that like a ray

Of southern sunshine seemed to float—

So rich with climate was each note—

Called up in every heart a dream

Of Italy with this soft theme:—

SONG.

Oh, where art thou dreaming,

On land, or on sea?

In my lattice is gleaming

The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing

To welcome thee home,

And the night is fast going,

But thou art not come:

No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers

Should wake from their rest;

'Tis the hour of all hours,

When the lute singeth best,

But the flowers are half sleeping

Till thy glance they see;

And the husht lute is keeping

Its music for thee.

Yet, thou com'st not!

* * * * *

Scarce had the last word left her lip,

When a light, boyish form, with trip

Fantastic, up the green walk came,

Prankt in gay vest to which the flame

Of every lamp he past, or blue

Or green or crimson, lent its hue;

As tho' a live chameleon's skin

He had despoiled, to robe him in.

A zone he wore of clattering shells,

And from his lofty cap, where shone

A peacock's plume, there dangled bells

That rung as he came dancing on.

Close after him, a page—in dress

And shape, his miniature express—

An ample basket, filled with store

Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;

Till, having reached this verdant seat,

He laid it at his master's feet,

Who, half in speech and half in song,

Chanted this invoice to the throng:—

SONG.

Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?—

We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;

Besides our usual fools' supply,

We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.

For reasoners here's a juggler's cup

That fullest seems when nothing's in it;

And nine-pins set, like systems, up,

To be knocked down the following minute.

Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make.

For bards to wear in dog-day weather;

Or bards the bells alone may take,

And leave to wits the cap and feather,

Tetotums we've for patriots got,

Who court the mob with antics humble;

Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,

A glorious spin, and then—a tumble,

Who'll buy, etc.

Here, wealthy misers to inter,

We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;

While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver,

That, fast as they can wish, will caper.

For aldermen we've dials true,

That tell no hour but that of dinner;

For courtly parsons sermons new,

That suit alike both saint and sinner.

Who'll buy, etc.

No time we've now to name our terms,

But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,

This oldest of all mortal firms,

Folly and Co., will try to please you.

Or, should you wish a darker hue

Of goods than we can recommend you,

Why then (as we with lawyers do)

To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you.

Who'll buy, etc.

While thus the blissful moments rolled,

Moments of rare and fleeting light,

That show themselves, like grains of gold

In the mine's refuse, few and bright;

Behold where, opening far away,

The long Conservatory's range,

Stript of the flowers it wore all day,

But gaining lovelier in exchange,

Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,

A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!—blithe repast

Of other times, now dwindling fast,

Since Dinner far into the night

Advanced the march of appetite;

Deployed his never-ending forces

Of various vintage and three courses,

And, like those Goths who played the dickens

With Rome and all her sacred chickens,

Put Supper and her fowls so white,

Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.

Now waked once more by wine—whose tide

Is the true Hippocrene, where glide

The Muse's swans with happiest wing,

Dipping their bills before they sing—

The minstrels of the table greet

The listening ear with descant sweet:—

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE.

Call the Loves around,

Let the whispering sound

Of their wings be heard alone.

Till soft to rest

My Lady blest

At this bright hour hath gone,

Let Fancy's beams

Play o'er her dreams,

Till, touched with light all through.

Her spirit be

Like a summer sea,

Shining and slumbering too.

And, while thus husht she lies,

Let the whispered chorus rise—

"Good evening, good evening, to our

Lady's bright eyes."

But the day-beam breaks,

See, our Lady wakes!

Call the Loves around once more,

Like stars that wait

At Morning's gate,

Her first steps to adore.

Let the veil of night

From her dawning sight

All gently pass away,

Like mists that flee

From a summer sea,

Leaving it full of day.

And, while her last dream flies,

Let the whispered chorus rise—

"Good morning, good morning, to our

Lady's bright eyes."

SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee,

If to love thee be to prize

Naught of earth or heaven above thee,

Nor to live but for those eyes:

If such love to mortal given,

Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,

'Tis not for thee the fault to blame,

For from those eyes the madness came.

Forgive but thou the crime of loving

In this heart more pride 'twill raise

To be thus wrong with thee approving,

Than right with all a world to praise!

* * * * *

But say, while light these songs resound,

What means that buzz of whispering round,

From lip to lip—as if the Power

Of Mystery, in this gay hour,

Had thrown some secret (as we fling

Nuts among children) to that ring

Of rosy, restless lips, to be

Thus scrambled for so wantonly?

And, mark ye, still as each reveals

The mystic news, her hearer steals

A look towards yon enchanted chair,

Where, like the Lady of the Masque,

A nymph, as exquisitely fair

As Love himself for bride could ask,

Sits blushing deep, as if aware

Of the winged secret circling there.

Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,

What, in the name of all odd things

That woman's restless brain pursues,

What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale:—yon blushing maid,

Who sits in beauty's light arrayed,

While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,

(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is

Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)

Is the bright heroine of our song,—

The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long

We've missed among this mortal train,

We thought her winged to heaven again.

But no—earth still demands her smile;

Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.

And if, for maid of heavenly birth,

A young Duke's proffered heart and hand

Be things worth waiting for on earth,

Both are, this hour, at her command.

To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,

For love concerns expressly meant,

The fond proposal first was made,

And love and silence blusht consent

Parents and friends (all here, as Jews,

Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,)

Have heard, approved, and blest the tie;

And now, hadst thou a poet's eye,

Thou might'st behold, in the air, above

That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,

Holding, as if to drop it down

Gently upon her curls, a crown

Of Ducal shape—but, oh, such gems!

Pilfered from Peri diadems,

And set in gold like that which shines

To deck the Fairy of the Mines:

In short, a crown all glorious—such as

Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun

Up in the bright orient hath begun

To canter his immortal beam;

And, tho' not yet arrived in sight,

His leaders' nostrils send a steam

Of radiance forth, so rosy bright

As makes their onward path all light.

What's to be done? if Sol will be

So deuced early, so must we:

And when the day thus shines outright,

Even dearest friends must bid good night.

So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,

Now almost a by-gone tale;

Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,

Now, by daylight, dim and pale;

Harpers, yawning o'er your harps,

Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;

Mothers who, while bored you keep

Time by nodding, nod to sleep;

Heads of hair, that stood last night

Crépé, crispy, and upright,

But have now, alas, one sees, a

Leaning like the tower of Pisa;

Fare ye will—thus sinks away

All that's mighty, all that's bright:

Tyre and Sidon had their day,

And even a Ball—has but its night!

[1] Archimedes.

[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

[3] In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting,—Vasari, vol. vii.

EVENINGS IN GREECE

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."—Vol. vi. p. 174.

T.M.

EVENINGS IN GREECE.

FIRST EVENING.

"The sky is bright—the breeze is fair,

"And the mainsail flowing, full and free—

"Our farewell word is woman's prayer,

"And the hope before us—Liberty!

"Farewell, farewell.

"To Greece we give our shining blades,

"And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!

"The moon is in the heavens above,

"And the wind is on the foaming sea—

"Thus shines the star of woman's love

"On the glorious strife of Liberty!

"Farewell, farewell.

"To Greece we give our shining blades,

"And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"

Thus sung they from the bark, that now

Turned to the sea its gallant prow,

Bearing within its hearts as brave,

As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave;

And leaving on that islet's shore,

Where still the farewell beacons burn,

Friends that shall many a day look o'er

The long, dim sea for their return.

Virgin of Heaven! speed their way—

Oh, speed their way,—the chosen flower,

Of Zea's youth, the hope and stay

Of parents in their wintry hour,

The love of maidens and the pride

Of the young, happy, blushing bride,

Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died—

All, all are in that precious bark,

Which now, alas! no more is seen—

Tho' every eye still turns to mark

The moonlight spot where it had been.

Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,

And mothers, your beloved are gone!—

Now may you quench those signal fires,

Whose light they long looked back upon

From their dark deck—watching the flame

As fast it faded from their view,

With thoughts, that, but for manly shame,

Had made them droop and weep like you.

Home to your chambers! home, and pray

For the bright coming of that day,

When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep

The Crescent from the Aegean deep,

And your brave warriors, hastening back,

Will bring such glories in their track,

As shall, for many an age to come,

Shed light around their name and home.

There is a Fount on Zea's isle,

Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile

All the sweet flowers, of every kind,

On which the sun of Greece looks down,

Pleased as a lover on the crown

His mistress for her brow hath twined,

When he beholds each floweret there,

Himself had wisht her most to wear;

Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreath

Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines,

And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe

Their odor into Zante's wines:—

The splendid woodbine that, as eve,

To grace their floral diadems,

The lovely maids of Patmos weave:—[2]

And that fair plant whose tangled stems

Shine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread,

Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:—

All these bright children of the clime,

(Each at its own most genial time,

The summer, or the year's sweet prime,)

Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn

The Valley where that Fount is born;

While round, to grace its cradle green

Groups of Velani oaks are seen

Towering on every verdant height—

Tall, shadowy, in the evening light,

Like Genii set to watch the birth

Of some enchanted child of earth—

Fair oaks that over Zea's vales,

Stand with their leafy pride unfurled;

While Commerce from her thousand sails

Scatters their fruit throughout the world![4]

'Twas here—as soon as prayer and sleep

(Those truest friends to all who weep)

Had lightened every heart; and made

Even sorrow wear a softer shade—

'Twas here, in this secluded spot,

Amid whose breathings calm and sweet

Grief might be soothed if not forgot,

The Zean nymphs resolved to meet

Each evening now, by the same light

That saw their farewell tears that night:

And try if sound of lute and song,

If wandering mid the moonlight flowers

In various talk, could charm along

With lighter step, the lingering hours,

Till tidings of that Bark should come,

Or Victory waft their warriors home!

When first they met—the wonted smile

Of greeting having gleamed awhile—

'Twould touch even Moslem heart to see

The sadness that came suddenly

O'er their young brows, when they looked round

Upon that bright, enchanted ground;

And thought how many a time with those

Who now were gone to the rude wars

They there had met at evening's close,

And danced till morn outshone the stars!

But seldom long doth hang the eclipse

Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts—

The breath from her own blushing lips,

That on the maiden's mirror rests,

Not swifter, lighter from the glass,

Than sadness from her brow doth pass.

Soon did they now, as round the Well

They sat, beneath the rising moon—

And some with voice of awe would tell

Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell

In holy founts—while some would time

Their idle lutes that now had lain

For days without a single strain;—

And others, from the rest apart,

With laugh that told the lightened heart,

Sat whispering in each other's ear

Secrets that all in turn would hear;—

Soon did they find this thoughtless play

So swiftly steal their griefs away,

That many a nymph tho' pleased the while,

Reproached her own forgetful smile,

And sighed to think she could be gay.

Among these maidens there was one

Who to Leucadia[5] late had been—

Had stood beneath the evening sun

On its white towering cliffs and seen

The very spot where Sappho sung

Her swan-like music, ere she sprung

(Still holding, in that fearful leap,

By her loved lyre,) into the deep,

And dying quenched the fatal fire,

At once, of both her heart and lyre.

Mutely they listened all—and well

Did the young travelled maiden tell

Of the dread height to which that steep

Beetles above the eddying deep—[6]

Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round

The dizzy edge with mournful sound—

And of those scented lilies found

Still blooming on that fearful place—

As if called up by Love to grace

The immortal spot o'er which the last

Bright footsteps of his martyr past!

While fresh to every listener's thought

These legends of Leucadia brought

All that of Sappho's hapless flame

Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame—

The maiden, tuning her soft lute,

While all the rest stood round her, mute,

Thus sketched the languishment of soul,

That o'er the tender Lesbian stole;

And in a voice whose thrilling tone

Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own,

One of those fervid fragments gave,

Which still,—like sparkles of Greek Fire,

Undying, even beneath the wave,—

Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire.

SONG.

As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid

In love-sick languor hung her head,

Unknowing where her fingers strayed,

She weeping turned away, and said,

"Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—

"I cannot weave, as once I wove—

"So wildered is my heart and brain

"With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace,

But tears fell o'er each tangled thread;

While looking in her mother's face,

Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said,

"Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—

"I cannot weave, as once I wove—

"So wildered is my heart and brain

"With thinking of that youth I love!"

* * * * *

A silence followed this sweet air,

As each in tender musing stood,

Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer,

Of Sappho and that fearful flood:

While some who ne'er till now had known

How much their hearts resembled hers,

Felt as they made her griefs their own,

That they too were Love's worshippers.

At length a murmur, all but mute,

So faint it was, came from the lute

Of a young melancholy maid,

Whose fingers, all uncertain played

From chord to chord, as if in chase

Of some lost melody, some strain

Of other times, whose faded trace

She sought among those chords again.

Slowly the half-forgotten theme

(Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot)

Came to her memory—as a beam

Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;—

And while her lute's sad symphony

Filled up each sighing pause between;

And Love himself might weep to see

What ruin comes where he hath been—

As withered still the grass is found

Where fays have danced their merry round—

Thus simply to the listening throng

She breathed her melancholy song:—

SONG.

Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day,

Lonely and wearily life wears away.

Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night—

No rest in darkness, no joy in light!

Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread

Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead—

Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!

* * * * *

Of many a stanza, this alone

Had 'scaped oblivion—like the one

Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown

With the lost vessel's name ashore

Tells who they were that live no more.

When thus the heart is in a vein

Of tender thought, the simplest strain

Can touch it with peculiar power—

As when the air is warm, the scent

Of the most wild and rustic flower

Can fill the whole rich element—

And in such moods the homeliest tone

That's linked with feelings, once our own—

With friends or joy gone by—will be

Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!

But some there were among the group

Of damsels there too light of heart

To let their spirits longer droop,

Even under music's melting art;

And one upspringing with a bound

From a low bank of flowers, looked round

With eyes that tho' so full of light

Had still a trembling tear within;

And, while her fingers in swift flight

Flew o'er a fairy mandolin,

Thus sung the song her lover late

Had sung to her—the eve before

That joyous night, when as of yore

All Zea met to celebrate

The feast of May on the sea-shore.

SONG.

When the Balaika[7]

Is heard o'er the sea,

I'll dance the Romaika

By moonlight with thee.

If waves then advancing

Should steal on our play,

Thy white feet in dancing

Shall chase them away.[8]

When the Balaika

Is heard o'er the sea,

Thou'lt dance the Romaika

My own love, with me.

Then at the closing

Of each merry lay,

How sweet 'tis, reposing

Beneath the night ray!

Or if declining

The moon leave the skies,

We'll talk by the shining

Of each other's eyes.

Oh then how featly

The dance we'll renew,

Treading so fleetly

Its light mazes thro':[9]

Till stars, looking o'er us

From heaven's high bowers,

Would change their bright chorus

For one dance of ours!

When the Balaika

Is heard o'er the sea,

Thou'lt dance the Romaika,

My own love, with me.

* * * * *

How changingly for ever veers

The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears!

Even as in April the light vane

Now points to sunshine, now to rain.

Instant this lively lay dispelled

The shadow from each blooming brow,

And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held

Full empire o'er each fancy now.

But say—what shall the measure be?

"Shall we the old Romaika tread,"

(Some eager asked) "as anciently

"'Twas by the maids of Delos led,

"When slow at first, then circling fast,

"As the gay spirits rose—at last,

"With hand in hand like links enlocked,

"Thro' the light air they seemed to flit

"In labyrinthine maze, that mocked

"The dazzled eye that followed it?"

Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"—

While one young, dark-eyed Amazon,

Whose step was air-like and whose glance

Flashed, like a sabre in the sun,

Sportively said, "Shame on these soft

"And languid strains we hear so oft.

"Daughters of Freedom! have not we

"Learned from our lovers and our sires

"The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free—

"That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres,

"But sword and shield clash on the ear

"A music tyrants quake to hear?

"Heroines of Zea, arm with me

"And dance the dance of Victory!"

Thus saying, she, with playful grace,

Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face

(From Anatolia came the maid)

Hung shadowing each sunny charm;

And with a fair young armorer's aid,

Fixing it on her rounded arm,

A mimic shield with pride displayed;

Then, springing towards a grove that spread

Its canopy of foliage near,

Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said,

"To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head

She waved the light branch, as a spear.

Promptly the laughing maidens all

Obeyed their Chief's heroic call;—

Round the shield-arm of each was tied

Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be;

The grove, their verdant armory,

Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied;

And as their glossy locks, let free,

Fell down their shoulders carelessly,

You might have dreamed you saw a throng

Of youthful Thyads, by the beam

Of a May moon, bounding along

Peneus' silver-eddied stream!

And now they stept, with measured tread,

Martially o'er the shining field;

Now to the mimic combat led

(A heroine at each squadron's head),

Struck lance to lance and sword to shield:

While still, thro' every varying feat,

Their voices heard in contrast sweet

With some of deep but softened sound

From lips of aged sires around,

Who smiling watched their children's play—

Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:—

SONG.

"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—

"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"

Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy

Danced in those happy days when Greece was free;

When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy,

Thus trained their steps to war and victory.

"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—

"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"

Such was the Spartan warriors' dance.

"Grasp the falchion—gird the shield—

"Attack—defend—do all but yield."

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night,

Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea

That morning dawned by whose immortal light

They nobly died for thee and liberty![11]

"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—

"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"

Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

* * * * *

Scarce had they closed this martial lay

When, flinging their light spears away,

The combatants, in broken ranks.

All breathless from the war-field fly;

And down upon the velvet banks

And flowery slopes exhausted lie,

Like rosy huntresses of Thrace,

Resting at sunset from the chase.

"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said—

One who himself had fought and bled,

And now with feelings half delight,

Half sadness, watched their mimic fight—

"Fond maids! who thus with War can jest—

"Like Love in Mar's helmet drest,

"When, in his childish innocence,

"Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,

"He thinks not of the blood that thence

"Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.

"Ay—true it is, young patriot maids,

"If Honor's arm still won the fray,

"If luck but shone on righteous blades,

"War were a game for gods to play!

"But, no, alas!—hear one, who well

"Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave—

"Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell

"What glory waits the patriot's grave."

SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day,

A vanquished chief expiring lay.

Upon the sands, with broken sword,

He traced his farewell to the Free;

And, there, the last unfinished word

He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell

Of him who thus for Freedom fell;

The words he wrote, ere evening came,

Were covered by the sounding sea;—

So pass away the cause and name

Of him who dies for Liberty!

* * * * *

That tribute of subdued applause

A charmed but timid audience pays,

That murmur which a minstrel draws

From hearts that feel but fear to praise,

Followed this song, and left a pause

Of silence after it, that hung

Like a fixt spell on every tongue.

At length a low and tremulous sound

Was heard from midst a group that round

A bashful maiden stood to hide

Her blushes while the lute she tried—

Like roses gathering round to veil

The song of some young nightingale,

Whose trembling notes steal out between

The clustered leaves, herself unseen.

And while that voice in tones that more

Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred,

Came with a stronger sweetness o'er

The attentive ear, this strain was heard:—

SONG.

I saw from yonder silent cave,[12]

Two Fountains running side by side;

The one was Memory's limpid wave,

The other cold Oblivion's tide.

"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood,

As deep I drank of Lethe's stream,

"Be all my sorrows in this flood

"Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank

Where joy was lost as well as pain?

Quickly of Memory's fount I drank.

And brought the past all back again;

And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,

"Still let this soul to thee be true—

"Rather than have one bliss forgot,

"Be all my pains remembered too!"

* * * * *

The group that stood around to shade

The blushes of that bashful maid,

Had by degrees as came the lay

More strongly forth retired away,

Like a fair shell whose valves divide

To show the fairer pearl inside:

For such she was—a creature, bright

And delicate as those day-flowers,

Which while they last make up in light

And sweetness what they want in hours.

So rich upon the ear had grown

Her voice's melody—its tone

Gathering new courage as it found

An echo in each bosom round—

That, ere the nymph with downcast eye

Still on the chords, her lute laid by,

"Another song," all lips exclaimed,

And each some matchless favorite named;

while blushing as her fingers ran

O'er the sweet chords she thus began:—

SONG.

Oh, Memory, how coldly

Thou paintest joy gone by:

Like rainbows, thy pictures

But mournfully shine and die.

Or if some tints thou keepest

That former days recall,

As o'er each line thou weepest,

Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly

Thou paintest grief that's past;

Joy's colors are fleeting,

But those of Sorrow last.

And, while thou bringst before us

Dark pictures of past ill,

Life's evening closing o'er us

But makes them darker still.

* * * * *

So went the moonlight hours along,

In this sweet glade; and so with song

And witching sounds—not such as they,

The cymbalists of Ossa, played,

To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13]

But soft and holy—did each maid

Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile,

And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place,

On the sea-shore a ruin stood;—

A relic of the extinguisht race,

Who once o'er that foamy flood,

When fair Ioulis[14] by the light

Of golden sunset on the sight

Of mariners who sailed that sea,

Rose like a city of chrysolite

Called from the wave by witchery.

This ruin—now by barbarous hands

Debased into a motley shed,

Where the once splendid column stands

Inverted on its leafy head—

Formed, as they tell in times of old

The dwelling of that bard whose lay

Could melt to tears the stern and cold,

And sadden mid their mirth the gay—

Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years

And ages past still bright appears—

Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now—to catch a view

Of the white waters as they played

Silently in the light—a few

Of the more restless damsels strayed;

And some would linger mid the scent

Of hanging foliage that perfumed

The ruined walls; while others went

Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy space between,

Where gilded chambers once had been;

Or, turning sadly to the sea,

Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest

To some brave champion of the Free—

Thinking, alas, how cold might be

At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song

From the dark ruins—a faint strain,

As if some echo that among

Those minstrel halls had slumbered long

Were murmuring into life again.

But, no—the nymphs knew well the tone—

A maiden of their train, who loved

Like the night-bird to sing alone.

Had deep into those ruins roved,

And there, all other thoughts forgot,

Was warbling o'er, in lone delight,

A lay that, on that very spot,

Her lover sung one moonlight night:—

SONG.

Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours,

The voice of Song in these neglected bowers?

They are gone—all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone

That all who heard him wisht his pain their own—

He is gone—he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by

And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die—

She is gone—she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say

Of her who hears and him who sings this lay—

They are gone—they both are gone!

* * * * *

The moon was now, from heaven's steep,

Bending to dip her silvery urn

Into the bright and silent deep—

And the young nymphs, on their return

From those romantic ruins, found

Their other playmates ranged around

The sacred Spring, prepared to tune

Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon,

To that fair Fountain by whose stream

Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

Who has not read the tales that tell

Of old Eleusis' sacred Well,

Or heard what legend-songs recount

Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17]

Gushing at once from the hard rock

Into the laps of living flowers—

Where village maidens loved to flock,

On summer-nights and like the Hours

Linked in harmonious dance and song,

Charmed the unconscious night along;

While holy pilgrims on their way

To Delos' isle stood looking on,

Enchanted with a scene so gay,

Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade

And its fair inmates now displayed.

As round the Fount in linked ring

They went in cadence slow and light

And thus to that enchanted Spring

Warbled their Farewell for the night:—

SONG.

Here, while the moonlight dim

Falls on that mossy brim,

Sing we our Fountain Hymn,

Maidens of Zea!

Nothing but Music's strain,

When Lovers part in pain,

Soothes till they meet again,

Oh, Maids of Zea!

Bright Fount so clear and cold

Round which the nymphs of old

Stood with their locks of gold,

Fountain of Zea!

Not even Castaly,

Famed tho' its streamlet be,

Murmurs or shines like thee,

Oh, Fount of Zea!

Thou, while our hymn we sing,

Thy silver voice shalt bring,

Answering, answering,

Sweet Fount of Zea!

For of all rills that run

Sparkling by moon or sun

Thou art the fairest one,

Bright Fount of Zea!

Now, by those stars that glance

Over heaven's still expanse

Weave we our mirthful dance,

Daughters of Zea!

Such as in former days

Danced they by Dian's rays

Where the Eurotas strays,

Oh, Maids of Zea!

But when to merry feet

Hearts with no echo beat,

Say, can the dance be sweet?

Maidens of Zea!

No, naught but Music's strain,

When lovers part in pain,

Soothes till they meet again,

Oh, Maids of Zea!

SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

When evening shades are falling

O'er Ocean's sunny sleep,

To pilgrims' hearts recalling

Their home beyond the deep;

When rest o'er all descending

The shores with gladness smile,

And lutes their echoes blending

Are heard from isle to isle,

Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,

We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over,

Now Ocean toils no more,

And wings of halcyons hover

Where all was strife before.

Oh thus may life in closing

Its short tempestuous day

Beneath heaven's smile reposing

Shine all its storms away:

Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,

We pray, we pray, to thee!

On Helle's sea the light grew dim

As the last sounds of that sweet hymn

Floated along its azure tide—

Floated in light as if the lay

Had mixt with sunset's fading ray

And light and song together died.

So soft thro' evening's air had breathed

That choir of youthful voices wreathed

In many-linked harmony,

That boats then hurrying o'er the sea

Paused when they reached this fairy shore,

And lingered till the strain was o'er.

Of those young maids who've met to fleet

In song and dance this evening's hours,

Far happier now the bosoms beat

Than when they last adorned these bowers;

For tidings of glad sound had come,

At break of day from the far isles—

Tidings like breath of life to some—

That Zea's sons would soon wing home,

Crowded with the light of Victory's smiles

To meet that brightest of all meeds

That wait on high, heroic deeds.

When gentle eyes that scarce for tears

Could trace the warrior's parting track,

Shall like a misty morn that clears

When the long-absent sun appears

Shine out all bliss to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!—

More fond of change than a young moon,

No joy so new was e'er possest

But Youth would leave for newer soon.

These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spot

Where first they held their evening play

As ever fell to fairy's lot

To wanton o'er by midnight's ray,

Had now exchanged that sheltered scene

For a wide glade beside the sea—

A lawn whose soft expanse of green

Turned to the west sun smilingly

As tho' in conscious beauty bright

It joyed to give him light for light.

And ne'er did evening more serene

Look down from heaven on lovelier scene.

Calm lay the flood around while fleet

O'er the blue shining element

Light barks as if with fairy feet

That stirred not the husht waters went;

Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'er

The blushing wave, with mainsail free,

Had put forth from the Attic shore,

Or the near Isle of Ebony;—

Some, Hydriot barks that deep in caves

Beneath Colonna's pillared cliffs,

Had all day lurked and o'er the waves

Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs.

Woe to the craft however fleet

These sea-hawks in their course shall meet,

Laden with juice of Lesbian vines,

Or rich from Naxos' emery mines;

For not more sure, when owlets flee

O'er the dark crags of Pendelee,

Doth the night-falcon mark his prey,

Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade

Where these young island nymphs are met!

Full-orbed yet pure as if no shade

Had touched its virgin lustre yet;

And freshly bright as if just made

By Love's own hands of new-born light

Stolen from his mother's star tonight.

On a bold rock that o'er the flood

Jutted from that soft glade there stood

A Chapel, fronting towards the sea,—

Built in some by-gone century,—

Where nightly as the seaman's mark

When waves rose high or clouds were dark,

A lamp bequeathed by some kind Saint

Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint.

Waking in way-worn men a sigh

And prayer to heaven as they went by.

'Twas there, around that rock-built shrine

A group of maidens and their sires

Had stood to watch the day's decline,

And as the light fell o'er their lyres

Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea

That soft and holy melody.

But lighter thoughts and lighter song

Now woo the coming hours along.

For mark, where smooth the herbage lies,

Yon gay pavilion curtained deep

With silken folds thro' which bright eyes

From time to time are seen to peep;

While twinkling lights that to and fro

Beneath those veils like meteors go,

Tell of some spells at work and keep

Young fancies chained in mute suspense,

Watching what next may shine from thence,

Nor long the pause ere hands unseen

That mystic curtain backward drew,

And all that late but shone between

In half-caught gleams now burst to view.

A picture 'twas of the early days

Of glorious Greece ere yet those rays

Of rich, immortal Mind were hers

That made mankind her worshippers;

While yet unsung her landscapes shone

With glory lent by heaven alone;

Nor temples crowned her nameless hills,

Nor Muse immortalized her rills;

Nor aught but the mute poesy

Of sun and stars and shining sea

Illumed that land of bards to be.

While prescient of the gifted race

That yet would realm so blest adorn,

Nature took pains to deck the place

Where glorious Art was to be born.

Such was the scene that mimic stage

Of Athens and her hills portrayed

Athens in her first, youthful age,

Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18]

Which then adorned her had shone down

The glory of earth's loftiest crown.

While yet undreamed, her seeds of Art

Lay sleeping in the marble mine—

Sleeping till Genius bade them start

To all but life in shapes divine;

Till deified the quarry shone

And all Olympus stood in stone!

There in the foreground of that scene,

On a soft bank of living green

Sate a young nymph with her lap full

Of the newly gathered flowers, o'er which

She graceful leaned intent to cull

All that was there of hue most rich,

To form a wreath such as the eye

Of her young lover who stood by,

With pallet mingled fresh might choose

To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was formed; the maiden raised

Her speaking eyes to his, while he—

Oh not upon the flowers now gazed,

But on that bright look's witchery.

While, quick as if but then the thought

Like light had reached his soul, he caught

His pencil up and warm and true

As life itself that love-look drew:

And, as his raptured task went on,

And forth each kindling feature shone,

Sweet voices thro' the moonlight air

From lips as moonlight fresh and pure

Thus hailed the bright dream passing there,

And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19]

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bowers,

There stood a youth with eyes of love

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers.

The youth was skilled in Painting's art,

But ne'er had studied woman's brow,

Nor knew what magic hues the heart

Can shed o'er Nature's charms till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe

All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose

And sketched the rays that light the brook;

But what were these or what were those

To woman's blush, to woman's look?

"Oh, if such magic power there be,

"This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer,

"To paint that living light I see

"And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard;

His pallet touched by Love grew warm,

And Painting saw her hues transferred

From lifeless flowers to woman's form.

Still as from tint to tint he stole,

The fair design shone out the more,

And there was now a life, a soul,

Where only colors glowed before.

Then first carnations learned to speak

And lilies into life were brought;

While mantling on the maiden's cheek

Young roses kindled into thought.

Then hyacinths their darkest dyes

Upon the locks of Beauty threw;

And violets transformed to eyes

Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe,

All that's fair and bright below.

Song was cold and Painting dim

Till Song and Painting learned from him.

* * * * *

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer

Of gentle voices old and young

Rose from the groups that stood to hear

This tale of yore so aptly sung;

And while some nymphs in haste to tell

The workers of that fairy spell

How crowned with praise their task had been

Stole in behind the curtained scene,

The rest in happy converse strayed—

Talking that ancient love-tale o'er—

Some to the groves that skirt the glade,

Some to the chapel by the shore,

To look what lights were on the sea.

And think of the absent silently.

But soon that summons known so well

Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands,

Whose sound more sure than gong or bell

Lovers and slaves alike commands,—

The clapping of young female hands,

Calls back the groups from rock and field

To see some new-formed scene revealed;—

And fleet and eager down the slopes

Of the green glades like antelopes

When in their thirst they hear the sound

Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene—a waste

Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray;

An ancient well, whereon were traced

The warning words, for such as stray

Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20]

While near it from the night-ray screened,

And like his bells in husht repose,

A camel slept—young as if weaned

When last the star Canopus rose.[21]

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;—

While nearer lay fast slumbering too

In a rude tent with brow serene

A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue

And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale

That he had been to Mecca's Vale:

Haply in pleasant dreams, even now

Thinking the long wished hour is come

When o'er the well-known porch at home

His hand shall hang the aloe bough—

Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]

But brief his dream—for now the call

Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van,

"Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all

The widely slumbering caravan;

And thus meanwhile to greet the ear

Of the young pilgrim as he wakes,

The song of one who lingering near

Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound

Wakes the slumbering camp around;

Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,

Armed sleeper, up, and on!

Long and weary is our way

O'er the burning sands to-day;

But to pilgrim's homeward feet

Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night,

Looking up to heaven's light,

Hearing but the watchmans tone

Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24]

Oh what thoughts then o'er us come

Of our distant village home,

Where that chant when evening sets

Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!—soon shall signal lights,

Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights,

Kindling quick from man to man,

Hail our coming caravan:[25]

Think what bliss that hour will be!

Looks of home again to see,

And our names again to hear

Murmured out by voices dear.

* * * * *

So past the desert dream away,

Fleeting as his who heard this lay,

Nor long the pause between, nor moved

The spell-bound audience from that spot;

While still as usual Fancy roved

On to the joy that yet was not;—

Fancy who hath no present home,

But builds her bower in scenes to come,

Walking for ever in a light

That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried

A mountain realm-rugged as e'er

Upraised to heaven its summits bare,

Or told to earth with frown of pride

That Freedom's falcon nest was there,

Too high for hand of lord or king

To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land—her ancient hills,

The abode of nymphs—her countless rills

And torrents in their downward dash

Shining like silver thro' the shade

Of the sea-pine and flowering ash—

All with a truth so fresh portrayed

As wants but touch of life to be

A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band

Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance—

Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand

Linked in the Ariadne dance;

And while, apart from that gay throng,

A minstrel youth in varied song

Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills

Of these wild children of the hills,

The rest by turns or fierce or gay

As war or sport inspires the lay

Follow each change that wakes the strings

And act what thus the lyrist sings:—

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's,

His home is near the sky,

Where throned above this world he hears

Its strife at distance die,

Or should the sound of hostile drum

Proclaim below, "We come—we come,"

Each crag that towers in air

Gives answer, "Come who dare!"

While like bees from dell and dingle,

Swift the swarming warriors mingle,

And their cry "Hurra!" will be,

"Hurra, to victory!"

Then when battle's hour is over

See the happy mountain lover

With the nymph who'll soon be bride

Seated blushing by his side,—

Every shadow of his lot

In her sunny smile forgot.

Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's.

His home is near the sky,

Where throned above this world he hears

Its strife at distance die.

Nor only thus thro' summer suns

His blithe existence cheerly runs—

Even winter bleak and dim

Brings joyous hours to him;

When his rifle behind him flinging

He watches the roe-buck springing,

And away, o'er the hills away

Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest when night is closing,

By the kindled hearth reposing,

To his rebeck's drowsy song,

He beguiles the hour along;

Or provoked by merry glances

To a brisker movement dances,

Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain,

He dreams o'er chase and dance again,

Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

* * * * *

As slow that minstrel at the close

Sunk while he sung to feigned repose,

Aptly did they whose mimic art

Followed the changes of his lay

Portray the lull, the nod, the start,

Thro' which as faintly died away

His lute and voice, the minstrel past,

Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er

Their startled ears—song that at first

As solemnly the night-wind bore

Across the wave its mournful burst,

Seemed to the fancy like a dirge

Of some lone Spirit of the Sea,

Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge

The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause

The wondering nymphs; and as the sound

Of that strange music nearer draws,

With mute inquiring eye look round,

Asking each other what can be

The source of this sad minstrelsy?

Nor longer can they doubt, the song

Comes from some island-bark which now

Courses the bright waves swift along

And soon perhaps beneath the brow

Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed

'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence,

Flew to the rock and saw from thence

A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide,

Whose shadow as it swept the spray

Scattered the moonlight's smiles away.

Soon as the mariners saw that throng

From the cliff gazing, young and old,

Sudden they slacked their sail and song,

And while their pinnace idly rolled

On the light surge, these tidings told:—

'Twas from an isle of mournful name,

From Missolonghi, last they came—

Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet

O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame

That e'er in life's young glory set!—

And now were on their mournful way,

Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;—

News that would cloud even Freedom's ray

And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain,

Out spread the galliot's wings again;

And as she sped her swift career

Again that Hymn rose on the ear—

"Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!"

As oft 'twas sung in ages flown

Of him, the Athenian, who to shed

A tyrant's blood poured out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy soul to realms above us fled

Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head

Still lights this world below.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread

And flowers ethereal blow,

Thy god-like Spirit now is led,

Thy lip with life ambrosial fed

Forgets all taste of woe.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread

Which struck the immortal blow,

Throughout all time with leaves unshed—

The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread—

Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,

Tho' quenched the vital glow,

Their memory lights a flame instead,

Which even from out the narrow bed

Of death its beams shall throw.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,

From age to age shall go,

Long as the oak and ivy wed,

As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,

Or Helle's waters flow.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

* * * * *

'Mong those who lingered listening there,—

Listening with ear and eye as long

As breath of night could towards them bear

A murmur of that mournful song,—

A few there were in whom the lay

Had called up feelings far too sad

To pass with the brief strain away,

Or turn at once to theme more glad;

And who in mood untuned to meet

The light laugh of the happie train,

Wandered to seek some moonlight seat

Where they might rest, in converse sweet,

Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night

To sadness lent more soothing light.

On one side in the dark blue sky

Lonely and radiant was the eye

Of Jove himself, while on the other

'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed,

The young moon like the Roman mother

Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around,

A pensive maid—one who, tho' young,

Had known what 'twas to see unwound

The ties by which her heart had clung—

Wakened her soft tamboura's sound,

And to its faint accords thus sung:—

SONG.

Calm as beneath its mother's eyes

In sleep the smiling infant lies,

So watched by all the stars of night

Yon landscape sleeps in light.

And while the night-breeze dies away,

Like relics of some faded strain,

Loved voices, lost for many a day,

Seem whispering round again.

Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed

Such glory once—where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that down the sky

Art pointing like an angel's wand,

As if to guide to realms that lie

In that bright sea beyond:

Who knows but in some brighter deep

Than even that tranquil, moonlit main,

Some land may lie where those who weep

Shall wake to smile again!

With cheeks that had regained their power

And play of smiles,—and each bright eye

Like violets after morning's shower

The brighter for the tears gone by,

Back to the scene such smiles should grace

These wandering nymphs their path retrace,

And reach the spot with rapture new

Just as the veils asunder flew

And a fresh vision burst to view.

There by her own bright Attic flood,

The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;—

Not as she haunts the sage's dreams,

With brow unveiled, divine, severe;

But softened as on bards she beams

When fresh from Poesy's high sphere

A music not her own she brings,

And thro' the veil which Fancy flings

O'er her stern features gently sings.

But who is he—that urchin nigh,

With quiver on the rose-trees hung,

Who seems just dropt from yonder sky,

And stands to watch that maid with eye

So full of thought for one so young?—

That child—but, silence! lend thine ear,

And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:—

SONG.

As Love one summer eve was straying,

Who should he see at that soft hour

But young Minerva gravely playing

Her flute within an olive bower.

I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion

That grave or merry, good or ill,

The sex all bow to his dominion,

As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given

To learned dames his smiles or sighs,

So handsome Pallas looked that even

Love quite forgot the maid was wise.

Besides, a youth of his discerning

Knew well that by a shady rill

At sunset hour whate'er her learning

A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,—

Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.—

For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic,

To Love seem always out of tune.

But long as he found face to flatter,

The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;

As, weak or wise—it doesn't matter—

Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming,

"How rosy was her lips' soft dye!"

And much that flute the flatterer blaming,

For twisting lips so sweet awry.

The nymph looked down, beheld her features

Reflected in the passing rill,

And started, shocked—for, ah, ye creatures!

Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious.

That graceless flute the Goddess took

And while yet filled with breath melodious,

Flung it into the glassy brook;

Where as its vocal life was fleeting

Adown the current, faint and shrill,

'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating,

"Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

* * * * *

An interval of dark repose—

Such as the summer lightning knows,

Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright

The quick revealment comes and goes,

Opening each time the veils of night,

To show within a world of light—

Such pause, so brief, now past between

This last gay vision and the scene

Which now its depth of light disclosed.

A bower it seemed, an Indian bower,

Within whose shade a nymph reposed,

Sleeping away noon's sunny hour—

Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves

Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves,

And there, as Indian legends say,

Dreams the long summer hours away.

And mark how charmed this sleeper seems

With some hid fancy—she, too, dreams!

Oh for a wizard's art to tell

The wonders that now bless her sight!

'Tis done—a truer, holier spell

Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell.

Thus brings her vision all to light:—

SONG.

"Who comes so gracefully

"Gliding along

"While the blue rivulet

"Sleeps to her song;

"Song richly vying

"With the faint sighing

"Which swans in dying

"Sweetly prolong?"

So sung the shepherd-boy

By the stream's side,

Watching that fairy-boat

Down the flood glide,

Like a bird winging,

Thro' the waves bringing

That Syren, singing

To the husht tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy,

"Fairy-boat, stay,

"Linger, sweet minstrelsy,

"Linger a day."

But vain his pleading,

Past him, unheeding,

Song and boat, speeding,

Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes

Joy and hope shone;

So while we gazed on them

Fast they flew on;—

Like flowers declining

Even in the twining,

One moment shining.

And the next gone!

* * * * *

Soon as the imagined dream went by,

Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye

Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon

She waited from that sun-bright dome,

And marvelled that it came not soon

As her young thoughts would have it come.

But joy is in her glance!—the wing

Of a white bird is seen above;

And oh, if round his neck he bring

The long-wished tidings from her love,

Not half so precious in her eyes

Even that high-omened bird[26] would be.

Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies

To wear a crown of royalty.

She had herself last evening sent

A winged messenger whose flight

Thro' the clear, roseate element,

She watched till lessening out of sight

Far to the golden West it went,

Wafting to him, her distant love,

A missive in that language wrought

Which flowers can speak when aptly wove,

Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

And now—oh speed of pinion, known

To Love's light messengers alone I—

Ere yet another evening takes

Its farewell of the golden lakes,

She sees another envoy fly,

With the wished answer, thro' the sky.

SONG.

Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging,

Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea,

Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing

Love's written vows from my lover to me.

Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!—

Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?"

But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber,

And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.

Yet dost thou droop—even now while I utter

Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away;

Cheer thee, my bird—were it life's ebbing flutter.

This fondling bosom should woo it to stay,

But no—thou'rt dying—thy last task is over—

Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!

The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover,

Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

* * * * *

While thus this scene of song (their last

For the sweet summer season) past,

A few presiding nymphs whose care

Watched over all invisibly,

As do those guardian sprites of air

Whose watch we feel but cannot see,

Had from the circle—scarcely missed,

Ere they were sparkling there again—

Glided like fairies to assist

Their handmaids on the moonlight plain,

Where, hid by intercepting shade

From the stray glance of curious eyes,

A feast of fruits and wines was laid—

Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light

Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore

In safety thro' that deep of night

Spirits of earth, the good, the bright,

To some remote immortal shore,

Had half-way sped her glorious way,

When round reclined on hillocks green

In groups beneath that tranquil ray,

The Zeans at their feast were seen.

Gay was the picture—every maid

Whom late the lighted scene displayed,

Still in her fancy garb arrayed;—

The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here

Beside the nymph of India's sky;

While there the Mainiote mountaineer

Whispered in young Minerva's ear,

And urchin Love stood laughing by.

Meantime the elders round the board,

By mirth and wit themselves made young,

High cups of juice Zacynthian poured,

And while the flask went round thus sung:—

SONG.

Up with the sparkling brimmer,

Up to the crystal rim;

Let not a moonbeam glimmer

'Twixt the flood and brim.

When hath the world set eyes on

Aught to match this light,

Which o'er our cup's horizon

Dawns in bumpers bright?

Truth in a deep well lieth—

So the wise aver;

But Truth the fact denieth—

Water suits not her.

No, her abode's in brimmers,

Like this mighty cup—

Waiting till we, good swimmers,

Dive to bring her up.

* * * * *

Thus circled round the song of glee,

And all was tuneful mirth the while,

Save on the cheeks of some whose smile

As fixt they gaze upon the sea,

Turns into paleness suddenly!

What see they there? a bright blue light

That like a meteor gliding o'er

The distant wave grows on the sight,

As tho' 'twere winged to Zea's shore.

To some, 'mong those who came to gaze,

It seemed the night-light far away

Of some lone fisher by the blaze

Of pine torch luring on his prey;

While others, as 'twixt awe and mirth

They breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name,

Vowed that such light was not of earth

But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame

Which mariners see on sail or mast

When Death is coming in the blast.

While marvelling thus they stood, a maid

Who sate apart with downcast eye,

Not yet had like the rest surveyed

That coming light which now was nigh,

Soon as it met her sight, with cry

Of pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!"

Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by

The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea.

At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed,

All stood like statues mute and gazed

Into each other's eyes to seek

What meant such mood in maid so meek?

Till now, the tale was known to few,

But now from lip to lip it flew:—

A youth, the flower of all the band,

Who late had left this sunny shore,

When last he kist that maiden's hand,

Lingering to kiss it o'er and o'er.

By his sad brow too plainly told

The ill-omened thought which crost him then,

That once those hands should lose their hold,

They ne'er would meet on earth again!

In vain his mistress sad as he,

But with a heart from Self as free

As generous woman's only is,

Veiled her own fears to banish his:—

With frank rebuke but still more vain,

Did a rough warrior who stood by

Call to his mind this martial strain,

His favorite once, ere Beauty's eye

Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:—

SONG.

March! nor heed those arms that hold thee,

Tho' so fondly close they come;

Closer still will they enfold thee

When thou bring'st fresh laurels home.

Dost thou dote on woman's brow?

Dost thou live but in her breath?

March!—one hour of victory now

Wins thee woman's smile till death.

Oh what bliss when war is over

Beauty's long-missed smile to meet.

And when wreaths our temples cover

Lay them shining at her feet.

Who would not that hour to reach

Breathe out life's expiring sigh,—

Proud as waves that on the beach

Lay their war-crests down and die.

There! I see thy soul is burning—

She herself who clasps thee so

Paints, even now, thy glad returning,

And while clasping bids thee go.

One deep sigh to passion given,

One last glowing tear and then—

March!—nor rest thy sword till Heaven

Brings thee to those arms again.

* * * * *

Even then ere loath their hands could part

A promise the youth gave which bore

Some balm unto the maiden's heart,

That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er,

To home he'd speed, if safe and free—

Nay, even if dying, still would come,

So the blest word of "Victory!"

Might be the last he'd breathe at home.

"By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark;

"But should I come thro' midnight dark,

"A blue light on the prow shall tell

"That Greece hath won and all is well!"

Fondly the maiden every night,

Had stolen to seek that promised light;

Nor long her eyes had now been turned

From watching when the signal burned.

Signal of joy—for her, for all—

Fleetly the boat now nears the land,

While voices from the shore-edge call

For tidings of the long-wished band.

Oh the blest hour when those who've been

Thro' peril's paths by land or sea

Locked in our arms again are seen

Smiling in glad security;

When heart to heart we fondly strain,

Questioning quickly o'er and o'er—

Then hold them off to gaze affain

And ask, tho' answered oft before,

If they indeed are ours once more?

Such is the scene so full of joy

Which welcomes now this warrior-boy,

As fathers, sisters, friends all run

Bounding to meet him—all but one

Who, slowest on his neck to fall,

Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him circled round

With beaming faces at that board,

While cups with laurel foliage crowned,

Are to the coming warriors poured—

Coming, as he, their herald, told,

With blades from victory scarce yet cold,

With hearts untouched by Moslem steel

And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.

"Ere morn," said he,—and while he spoke

Turned to the east, where clear and pale

The star of dawn already broke—

"We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!"

Then wherefore part? all, all agree

To wait them here beneath this bower;

And thus, while even amidst their glee,

Each eye is turned to watch the sea,

With song they cheer the anxious hour.

SONG.

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy

As he saw it spring bright from the earth,

And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy,

To witness and hallow its birth.

The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed

Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale;

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" every Spirit exclaimed

"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew,

While a light on the vine-leaves there broke

In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew

T'was the light from his lips as he spoke.

"Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried,

"And the fount of Wit never can fail:"

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply,

"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire

Each tendril and cluster it wore,

From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire,

As made the tree tremble all o'er.

Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky,

Such a soul-giving odor inhale:

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry,

"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die,

Came to crown the bright hour with his ray;

And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye,

When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;—

A laugh of the heart which was echoed around

Till like music it swelled on the gale:

"T is the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound,

"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

[1] "Nerium Oleander. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days."—Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey.

[2] Lonicera caprifolium, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.

[3] Cuscuta europoea. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."— Walpole's Turkey.

[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals."—Clarke's Travels.

[5] Now Santa Maura—the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.

[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks."—Goodisson's Ionian Isles.

[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika."

[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave."—Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure,"

[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.

[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country.

[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks."—Williams's Travels in Greece.

[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.

[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name."

[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears."

[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. De Guys tells us that he has seen "the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them."

[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification."—Clarke.

[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."—Pindar.

[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, Lib. 35 c. 40.

[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is received into a large basin called Shrub wee krub, "Drink and away"— there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.

[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk."—Richardson.

[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey."—Hasselquist.

[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:—"For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, 'Bind on your burden'?"

[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one," etc.

[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."

[26] the Hume.

[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.

ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT.

LETTER I.

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.

Well may you wonder at my flight

From those fair Gardens in whose bowers

Lingers whate'er of wise and bright,

Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light,

Is left to grace this world of ours.

Well may my comrades as they roam

On such sweet eyes as this inquire

Why I have left that happy home

Where all is found that all desire,

And Time hath wings that never tire:

Where bliss in all the countless shapes

That Fancy's self to bliss hath given

Comes clustering round like roadside grapes

That woo the traveller's lip at even;

Where Wisdom flings not joy away—

As Pallas in the stream they say

Once flung her flute—but smiling owns

That woman's lip can send forth tones

Worth all the music of those spheres

So many dream of but none hears;

Where Virtue's self puts on so well

Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loath

From either nymph apart to dwell,

We finish by embracing both.

Yes, such the place of bliss, I own

From all whose charms I just have flown;

And even while thus to thee I write,

And by the Nile's dark flood recline,

Fondly, in thought I wing my flight

Back to those groves and gardens bright,

And often think by this sweet light

How lovelily they all must shine;

Can see that graceful temple throw

Down the green slope its lengthened shade,

While on the marble steps below

There sits some fair Athenian maid,

Over some favorite volume bending;

And by her side a youthful sage

Holds back the ringlets that descending

Would else o'ershadow all the page.

But hence such thoughts!—nor let me grieve

O'er scenes of joy that I but leave,

As the bird quits awhile its nest

To come again with livelier zest.

And now to tell thee—what I fear

Thou'lt gravely smile at—why I'm here

Tho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream,

I've floated without pain or care

Like a light leaf down pleasure's stream,

Caught in each sparkling eddy there;

Tho' never Mirth awaked a strain

That my heart echoed not again;

Yet have I felt, when even most gay,

Sad thoughts—I knew not whence or why—

Suddenly o'er my spirit fly,

Like clouds that ere we've time to say

"How bright the sky is!" shade the sky.

Sometimes so vague, so undefined

Were these strange darkenings of my mind—

"While naught but joy around me beamed

So causelessly they've come and flown,

That not of life or earth they seemed,

But shadows from some world unknown.

More oft, however, 'twas the thought

How soon that scene with all its play

Of life and gladness must decay—

Those lips I prest, the hands I caught—

Myself—the crowd that mirth had brought

Around me—swept like weeds away!

This thought it was that came to shed

O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys;

And close as shade with sunshine wed

Its sadness with my happiest joys.

Oh, but for this disheartening voice

Stealing amid our mirth to say

That all in which we most rejoice

Ere night may be the earthworm's prey—

But for this bitter—only this—

Full as the world is brimmed with bliss,

And capable as feels my soul

Of draining to its dregs the whole,

I should turn earth to heaven and be,

If bliss made Gods, a Deity?

Thou know'st that night—the very last

That 'mong my Garden friends I past—

When the School held its feast of mirth

To celebrate our founder's birth.

And all that He in dreams but saw

When he set Pleasure on the throne

Of this bright world and wrote her law

In human hearts was felt and known—

Not in unreal dreams but true,

Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew—

By hearts and bosoms, that each felt

Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt.

That night when all our mirth was o'er,

The minstrels silent, and the feet

Of the young maidens heard no more—

So stilly was the time, so sweet,

And such a calm came o'er that scene,

Where life and revel late had been—

Lone as the quiet of some bay

From which the sea hath ebbed away—

That still I lingered, lost in thought,

Gazing upon the stars of night,

Sad and intent as if I sought

Some mournful secret in their light;

And asked them mid that silence why

Man, glorious man, alone must die

While they, less wonderful than he,

Shine on thro' all eternity.

That night—thou haply may'st forget

Its loveliness—but 'twas a night

To make earth's meanest slave regret

Leaving a world so soft and bright.

On one side in the dark blue sky

Lonely and radiant was the eye

Of Jove himself, while on the other,

'Mong stars that came out one by one,

The young moon—like the Roman mother

Among her living jewels—shone.

"Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought,

"Pure and eternal as they are,

"There could to earth some power be brought,

"Some charm with their own essence fraught

"To make man deathless as a star,

"And open to his vast desires

"A course, as boundless and sublime

"As that which waits those comet-fires,

"That burn and roam throughout all time!"

While thoughts like these absorbed my mind,

That weariness which earthly bliss

However sweet still leaves behind,

As if to show how earthly 'tis,

Came lulling o'er me and I laid

My limbs at that fair statue's base—

That miracle, which Art hath made

Of all the choice of Nature's grace—

To which so oft I've knelt and sworn.

That could a living maid like her

Unto this wondering world be born,

I would myself turn worshipper.

Sleep came then o'er me—and I seemed

To be transported far away

To a bleak desert plain where gleamed

One single, melancholy ray.

Throughout that darkness dimly shed

From a small taper in the hand

Of one who pale as are the dead

Before me took his spectral stand,

And said while awfully a smile

Came o'er the wanness of his cheek—

"Go and beside the sacred Nile

"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek."

Soon as he spoke these words the hue

Of death o'er all his features grew

Like the pale morning when o'er night

She gains the victory full of light;

While the small torch he held became

A glory in his hand whose flame

Brightened the desert suddenly,

Even to the far horizon's line—

Along whose level I could see

Gardens and groves that seemed to shine

As if then o'er them freshly played

A vernal rainbow's rich cascade;

And music floated every where,

Circling, as 'twere itself the air,

And spirits on whose wings the hue

Of heaven still lingered round me flew,

Till from all sides such splendors broke,

That with the excess of light I woke!

Such was my dream;—and I confess

Tho' none of all our creedless school

E'er conned, believed, or reverenced less

The fables of the priest-led fool

Who tells us of a soul, a mind,

Separate and pure within us shrined,

Which is to live—ah, hope too bright!—

For ever in yon fields of light;

Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes

Of Gods are on him—as if blest

And blooming in their own blue skies

The eternal Gods were not too wise

To let weak man disturb their rest!—

Tho' thinking of such creeds as thou

And all our Garden sages think,

Yet is there something, I allow,

In dreams like this—a sort of link

With worlds unseen which from the hour

I first could lisp my thoughts till now

Hath mastered me with spell-like power.

And who can tell, as we're combined

Of various atoms—some refined,

Like those that scintillate and play

In the fixt stars—some gross as they

That frown in clouds or sleep in clay—

Who can be sure but 'tis the best

And brightest atoms of our frame,

Those most akin to stellar flame,

That shine out thus, when we're at rest;—

Even as the stars themselves whose light

Comes out but in the silent night.

Or is it that there lurks indeed

Some truth in Man's prevailing creed

And that our Guardians from on high

Come in that pause from toil and sin

To put the senses' curtain by

And on the wakeful soul look in!

Vain thought!—but yet, howe'er it be,

Dreams more than once have proved to me

Oracles, truer far than Oak

Or Dove or Tripod ever spoke.

And 'twas the words—thou'lt hear and smile—

The words that phantom seemed to speak—

"Go and beside the sacred Nile

"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"—

That haunting me by night, by day,

At length as with the unseen hand

Of Fate itself urged me away

From Athens to this Holy Land;

Where 'mong the secrets still untaught,

The mysteries that as yet nor sun

Nor eye hath reached—oh, blessed thought!—

May sleep this everlasting one.

Farewell—when to our Garden friends

Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends

The gayest of their school thus far,

Wandering beneath Canopus' star,

Tell them that wander where he will

Or howsoe'er they now condemn

His vague and vain pursuit he still

Is worthy of the School and them;—

Still all their own—nor e'er forgets

Even while his heart and soul pursue

The Eternal Light which never sets,

The many meteor joys that do,

But seeks them, hails them with delight

Where'er they meet his longing sight.

And if his life must wane away

Like other lives at least the day,

The hour it lasts shall like a fire

With incense fed in sweets expire.

LETTER II.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

Memphis.

'Tis true, alas—the mysteries and the lore

I came to study on this, wondrous shore.

Are all forgotten in the new delights.

The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights.

Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak

From subterranean temples, those I seek

Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives,

And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives.

Instead of honoring Isis in those rites

At Coptos held, I hail her when she lights

Her first young crescent on the holy stream—

When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam

And number o'er the nights she hath to run,

Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.

While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lends

A clew into past times the student bends,

And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread

Back thro' the shadowy knowledge of the dead—

The only skill, alas, I yet can claim

Lies in deciphering some new loved-one's name—

Some gentle missive hinting time and place,

In language soft as Memphian reed can trace.

And where—oh where's the heart that could withstand

The unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land,

Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurled

And Love hath temples ancient as the world!

Where mystery like the veil by Beauty worn

Hides but to win and shades but to adorn;

Where that luxurious melancholy born

Of passion and of genius sheds a gloom

Making joy holy;—where the bower and tomb

Stand side by side and Pleasure learns from Death

The instant value of each moment's breath.

Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream

This lovely land now looks!—the glorious stream

That late between its banks was seen to glide

'Mong shrines and marble cities on each side

Glittering like jewels strung along a chain

Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain

And valley like a giant from his bed

Rising with outstretched limbs hath grandly spread.

While far as sight can reach beneath as clear

And blue a heaven as ever blest our sphere,

Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes

And high-built temples fit to be the homes

Of mighty Gods, and pyramids whose hour

Outlasts all time above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make

One theatre of this vast, peopled lake,

Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives

Of life and motion ever moves and lives.

Here, up the steps of temples from the wave

Ascending in procession slow and grave.

Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands

And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands;

While there, rich barks—fresh from those sunny tracts

Far off beyond the sounding cataracts—

Glide with their precious lading to the sea,

Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory,

Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains

Of gold washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here where the waters wind into a bay

Shadowy and cool some pilgrims on their way

To Saïs or Bubastus among beds

Of lotus flowers that close above their heads

Push their light barks, and there as in a bower,

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour;

Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat,

That leaf from which its waters drink most sweet.—

While haply not far off beneath a bank

Of blossoming acacias many a prank

Is played in the cool current by a train

Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,[1] whose chain

Around two conquerors of the world was cast,

But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

For oh! believe not them who dare to brand

As poor in charms the women of this land.

Tho' darkened by that sun whose spirit flows

Thro' every vein and tinges as it goes,

'Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tells

How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells—

The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear,

Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there.

And never yet did tell-tale looks set free

The secret of young hearts more tenderly.

Such eyes!—long, shadowy, with that languid fall

Of the fringed lids which may be seen in all

Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays—

Lending such looks as on their marriage days

Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze!

Then for their grace—mark but the nymph-like shapes

Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes

From green Anthylla or light urns of flowers—

Not our own Sculpture in her happiest hours

E'er imaged forth even at the touch of him[2]

Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb!

Then, canst thou wonder if mid scenes like these

I should forget all graver mysteries,

All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best

In heaven or earth, the art of being blest!

Yet are there times—tho' brief I own their stay,

Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away—

Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pall

Upon my saddening heart and I recall

That garden dream—that promise of a power,

Oh, were there such!—to lengthen out life's hour,

On, on, as thro' a vista far away

Opening before us into endless day!

And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought

Come on that evening—bright as ever brought

Light's golden farewell to the world—when first

The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst

Awfully on my sight-standing sublime

Twixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time,

From whose lone summit when his reign hath past

From earth for ever he will look his last!

There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round

Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound

In the still air that circled them which stole

Like music of past times into my soul.

I thought what myriads of the wise and brave

And beautiful had sunk into the grave,

Since earth first saw these wonders—and I said

"Are things eternal only for the Dead?

"Hath Man no loftier hope than this which dooms

"His only lasting trophies to be tombs?

"But 'tis not so—earth, heaven, all nature shows

"He may become immortal—may unclose

"The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise

"Redeemed from earth, a creature of the skies!

"And who can say, among the written spells

"From Hermes' hand that in these shrines and cells

"Have from the Flood lay hid there may not be

"Some secret clew to immortality,

"Some amulet whose spell can keep life's fire

"Awake within us never to expire!

"'Tis known that on the Emerald Table, hid

"For ages in yon loftiest pyramid,

"The Thrice-Great[3] did himself engrave of old

"The chymic mystery that gives endless gold.

"And why may not this mightier secret dwell

"Within the same dark chambers? who can tell

"But that those kings who by the written skill

"Of the Emerald Table called forth gold at will

"And quarries upon quarries heapt and hurled,

"To build them domes that might outstand the world—

"Who knows, but that the heavenlier art which shares

"The life of Gods with man was also theirs—

"That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power

"Of fate and death, are living at this hour;

"And these, the giant homes they still possess.

"Not tombs but everlasting palaces

"Within whose depths hid from the world above

"Even now they wander with the few they love,

"Thro' subterranean gardens, by a light

"Unknown on earth which hath nor dawn nor night!

"Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand

"And hidden halls that undermine this land?

"Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go

"Thro' the dark windings of that realm below,

"Nor aught from heaven itself except the God

"Of Silence thro' those endless labyrinths trod?"

Thus did I dream—wild, wandering dreams, I own,

But such as haunt me ever, if alone,

Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I be,

Like a ship husht between two waves at sea.

Then do these spirit whisperings like the sound

Of the Dark Future come appalling round;

Nor can I break the trance that holds me then,

Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again!

Even now for new adventure, new delight,

My heart is on the wing;—this very night,

The Temple on that island halfway o'er

From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore

Sends up its annual rite[4] to her whose beams

Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams;

The nymph who dips her urn in silent lakes

And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;—

Oh! not our Dian of the North who chains

In vestal ice the current of young veins,

But she who haunts the gay Bubastian[5] grove

And owns she sees from her bright heaven above,

Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love.

Think then what bliss will be abroad to-night!—

Besides those sparkling nymphs who meet the sight

Day after day, familiar as the sun,

Coy buds of beauty yet unbreathed upon

And all the hidden loveliness that lies,—

Shut up as are the beams of sleeping eyes

Within these twilight shrines—tonight shall be

Let loose like birds for this festivity!

And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bids

His evening farewell to the Pyramids.

As he hath done age after age till they

Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray;

While their great shadows stretching from the light

Look like the first colossal steps of Night

Stretching across the valley to invade

The distant hills of porphyry with their shade.

Around, as signals of the setting beam,

Gay, gilded flags on every housetop gleam:

While, hark!—from all the temples a rich swell

Of music to the Moon—farewell—farewell.

[1] Cleopatra.

[2] Apellas.

[3] The Hermes Trismegistus.

[4] The great Festival of the Moon.

[5] Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology.

LETTER III.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

Memphis.

There is some star—or may it be

That moon we saw so near last night—

Which comes athwart my destiny

For ever with misleading light.

If for a moment pure and wise

And calm I feel there quick doth fall

A spark from some disturbing eyes,

That thro' my heart, soul, being flies,

And makes a wildfire of it all.

I've seen—oh, Cleon, that this earth

Should e'er have given such beauty birth!—

That man—but, hold—hear all that past

Since yester-night from first to last.

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,

And beautiful, as if she came

Fresh from the Elysian bowers below,

Was with a loud and sweet acclaim

Welcomed from every breezy height,

Where crowds stood waiting for her light.

And well might they who viewed the scene

Then lit up all around them, say

That never yet had Nature been

Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray

Or rivalled her own noontide face

With purer show of moonlight grace.

Memphis—still grand, tho' not the same

Unrivalled Memphis that could seize

From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,

And wear it bright thro' centuries—

Now, in the moonshine, that came down

Like a last smile upon that crown.

Memphis, still grand among her lakes,

Her pyramids and shrines of fire,

Rose like a vision that half breaks

On one who dreaming still awakes

To music from some midnight choir:

While to the west—where gradual sinks

In the red sands from Libya rolled.

Some mighty column or fair sphynx,

That stood in kingly courts of old—

It seemed as, mid the pomps that shone

Thus gayly round him Time looked on,

Waiting till all now bright and blest,

Should sink beneath him like the rest.

No sooner had the setting sun

Proclaimed the festal rite begun,

And mid their idol's fullest beams

The Egyptian world was all afloat,

Than I who live upon these streams

Like a young Nile-bird turned my boat

To the fair island on whose shores

Thro' leafy palms and sycamores

Already shone the moving lights

Of pilgrims hastening to the rites.

While, far around like ruby sparks

Upon the water, lighted barks,

Of every form and kind—from those

That down Syene's cataract shoots,

To the grand, gilded barge that rows

To tambour's beat and breath of flutes,

And wears at night in words of flame

On the rich prow its master's name;—

All were alive and made this sea

Of cities busy as a hill

Of summer ants caught suddenly

In the overflowing of a rill.

Landed upon the isle, I soon

Thro' marble alleys and small groves

Of that mysterious palm she loves,

Reached the fair Temple of the Moon;

And there—as slowly thro' the last

Dim-lighted vestibule I past—

Between the porphyry pillars twined

With palm and ivy, I could see

A band of youthful maidens wind

In measured walk half dancingly,

Round a small shrine on which was placed

That bird[1] whose plumes of black and white

Wear in their hue by Nature traced

A type of the moon's shadowed light.

In drapery like woven snow

These nymphs were clad; and each below

The rounded bosom loosely wore

A dark blue zone or bandelet,

With little silver stars all o'er

As are the skies at midnight set.

While in their tresses, braided thro',

Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes,

The silvery lotus in whose hue

As much delight the young Moon takes

As doth the Day-God to behold

The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold.

And, as they gracefully went round

The worshipt bird, some to the beat

Of castanets, some to the sound

Of the shrill sistrum timed their feet;

While others at each step they took

A tinkling chain of silver shook.

They seemed all fair—but there was one

On whom the light had not yet shone,

Or shone but partly—so downcast

She held her brow, as slow she past.

And yet to me there seemed to dwell

A charm about that unseen face—

A something in the shade that fell

Over that brow's imagined grace

Which won me more than all the best

Outshining beauties of the rest.

And her alone my eyes could see

Enchained by this sweet mystery;

And her alone I watched as round

She glided o'er that marble ground,

Stirring not more the unconscious air

Than if a Spirit were moving there.

Till suddenly, wide open flew

The Temple's folding gates and threw

A splendor from within, a flood

Of glory where these maidens stood.

While with that light—as if the same

Rich source gave birth to both—there came

A swell of harmony as grand

As e'er was born of voice and band,

Filling the gorgeous aisles around

With luxury of light and sound.

Then was it, by the flash that blazed

Full o'er her features—oh 'twas then,

As startingly her eyes she raised,

But quick let fall their lids again,

I saw—not Psyche's self when first

Upon the threshold of the skies

She paused, while heaven's glory burst

Newly upon her downcast eyes,

Could look more beautiful or blush

With holier shame than did this maid,

Whom now I saw in all that gush

Of splendor from the aisles, displayed.

Never—tho' well thou know'st how much

I've felt the sway of Beauty's star—

Never did her bright influence touch

My soul into its depths so far;

And had that vision lingered there

One minute more I should have flown,

Forgetful who I was and where.

And at her feet in worship thrown

Proffered my soul thro' life her own.

But scarcely had that burst of light

And music broke on ear and sight,

Than up the aisle the bird took wing

As if on heavenly mission sent,

While after him with graceful spring

Like some unearthly creatures, meant

To live in that mixt element

Of light and song the young maids went;

And she who in my heart had thrown

A spark to burn for life was flown.

In vain I tried to follow;—bands

Of reverend chanters filled the aisle:

Where'er I sought to pass, their wands

Motioned me back, while many a file

Of sacred nymphs—but ah, not they

Whom my eyes looked for thronged the way.

Perplext, impatient, mid this crowd

Of faces, lights—the o'erwhelming cloud

Of incense round me, and my blood

Full of its new-born fire—I stood,

Nor moved, nor breathed, but when I caught

A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone,

Or wreath of lotus, which I thought

Like those she wore at distance shone.

But no, 'twas vain—hour after hour,

Till my heart's throbbing turned to pain,

And my strained eyesight lost its power,

I sought her thus, but all in vain.

At length, hot—wildered—in despair,

I rushed into the cool night-air,

And hurrying (tho' with many a look

Back to the busy Temple) took

My way along the moonlight shore,

And sprung into my boat once more.

There is a Lake that to the north

Of Memphis stretches grandly forth,

Upon whose silent shore the Dead

Have a proud city of their own,[2]

With shrines and pyramids o'erspread—

Where many an ancient kingly head

Slumbers, immortalized in stone;

And where thro' marble grots beneath

The lifeless, ranged like sacred things,

Nor wanting aught of life but breath,

Lie in their painted coverings,

And on each new successive race

That visit their dim haunts below

Look with the same unwithering face

They wore three thousand years ago.

There. Silence, thoughtful God, who loves

The neighborhood of death in groves

Of asphodel lies hid and weaves

His hushing spell among the leaves—

Nor ever noise disturbs the air

Save the low, humming, mournful sound

Of priests within their shrines at prayer

For the fresh Dead entombed around.

'Twas toward this place of death—in mood

Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark—

I now across the shining flood

Unconscious turned my light-winged bark.

The form of that young maid in all

Its beauty was before me still;

And oft I thought, if thus to call

Her image to my mind at will,

If but the memory of that one

Bright look of hers for ever gone,

Was to my heart worth all the rest

Of woman-kind, beheld, possest—

What would it be if wholly mine,

Within these arms as in a shrine,

Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine—

An idol, worshipt by the light

Of her own beauties, day and night—

If 'twas a blessing but to see

And lose again, what would this be?

In thoughts like these—but often crost

By darker threads—my mind was lost,

Till near that City of the Dead,

Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead—

As if by some enchanter bid

Suddenly from the wave to rise—

Pyramid over pyramid

Tower in succession to the skies;

While one, aspiring, as if soon,

'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all;

And, on its summit, the white moon

Rested as on a pedestal!

The silence of the lonely tombs

And temples round where naught was heard

But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes,

Shaken at times by breeze or bird,

Formed a deep contrast to the scene

Of revel where I late had been;

To those gay sounds that still came o'er,

Faintly from many a distant shore,

And the unnumbered lights that shone

Far o'er the flood from Memphis on

To the Moon's Isle and Babylon.

My oars were lifted and my boat

Lay rocked upon the rippling stream;

While my vague thoughts alike afloat,

Drifted thro' many an idle dream.

With all of which, wild and unfixt

As was their aim, that vision mixt,

That bright nymph of the Temple—now,

With the same innocence of brow

She wore within the lighted fane—

Now kindling thro' each pulse and vein

With passion of such deep-felt fire

As Gods might glory to inspire;—

And now—oh Darkness of the tomb,

That must eclipse even light like hers!

Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom

Of those eternal sepulchres.

Scarce had I turned my eyes away

From that dark death-place, at the thought,

When by the sound of dashing spray

From a light oar my ear was caught,

While past me, thro' the moonlight, sailed.

A little gilded bark that bore

Two female figures closely veiled

And mantled towards that funeral shore.

They landed—and the boat again

Put off across the watery plain.

Shall I confess—to thee I may—

That never yet hath come the chance

Of a new music, a new ray

From woman's voice, from woman's glance,

Which—let it find me how it might,

In joy or grief—I did not bless,

And wander after as a light

Leading to undreamt, happiness.

And chiefly now when hopes so vain

Were stirring in my heart and brain,

When Fancy had allured my soul

Into a chase as vague and far

As would be his who fixt his goal

In the horizon or some star—

Any bewilderment that brought

More near to earth my high-flown thought—

The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure,

Less high and heavenly, but more sure,

Came welcome—and was then to me

What the first flowery isle must be

To vagrant birds blown out to sea.

Quick to the shore I urged my bark,

And by the bursts of moonlight shed

Between the lofty tombs could mark

Those figures as with hasty tread

They glided on—till in the shade

Of a small pyramid, which thro'

Some boughs of palm its peak displayed,

They vanisht instant from my view.

I hurried to the spot—no trace

Of life was in that lonely place;

And had the creed I hold by taught

Of other worlds I might have thought

Some mocking spirits had from thence

Come in this guise to cheat my sense.

At length, exploring darkly round

The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found

An iron portal—opening high

'Twixt peak and base—and, with a prayer

To the bliss-loving Moon whose eye

Alone beheld me sprung in there.

Downward the narrow stairway led

Thro' many a duct obscure and dread,

A labyrinth for mystery made,

With wanderings onward, backward, round,

And gathering still, where'er it wound.

But deeper density of shade.

Scarce had I asked myself, "Can aught

"That man delights in sojourn here?"—

When, suddenly, far off, I caught

A glimpse of light, remote, but clear—

Whose welcome glimmer seemed to pour

From some alcove or cell that ended

The long, steep, marble corridor,

Thro' which I now, all hope, descended.

Never did Spartan to his bride

With warier foot at midnight glide.

It seemed as echo's self were dead

In this dark place, so mute my tread.

Reaching at length that light, I saw—

Oh! listen to the scene now raised

Before my eyes—then guess the awe,

The still, rapt awe with which I gazed.

'Twas a small chapel, lined around

With the fair, spangling marble found

In many a ruined shrine that stands

Half seen above the Libyan sands.

The walls were richly sculptured o'er,

And charactered with that dark lore

Of times before the Flood, whose key

Was lost in the "Universal Sea."—

While on the roof was pictured bright

The Theban beetle as he shines,

When the Nile's mighty flow declines

And forth the creature springs to light,

With life regenerate in his wings:—

Emblem of vain imaginings!

Of a new world, when this is gone,

In which the spirit still lives on!

Direct beneath this type, reclined

On a black granite altar, lay

A female form, in crystal shrined,

And looking fresh as if the ray

Of soul had fled but yesterday,

While in relief of silvery hue

Graved on the altar's front were seen

A branch of lotus, broken in two,

As that fair creature's life had been,

And a small bird that from its spray

Was winging like her soul away.

But brief the glimpse I now could spare

To the wild, mystic wonders round;

For there was yet one wonder there

That held me as by witchery bound.

The lamp that thro' the chamber shed

Its vivid beam was at the head

Of her who on that altar slept;

And near it stood when first I came—

Bending her brow, as if she kept

Sad watch upon its silent flame—

A female form as yet so placed

Between the lamp's strong glow and me,

That I but saw, in outline traced,

The shadow of her symmetry.

Yet did my heart—I scarce knew why—

Even at that shadowed shape beat high.

Nor was it long ere full in sight

The figure turned; and by the light

That touched her features as she bent

Over the crystal monument,

I saw 'twas she—the same—the same—

That lately stood before me, brightening

The holy spot where she but came

And went again like summer lightning!

Upon the crystal o'er the breast

Of her who took that silent rest,

There was a cross of silver lying—

Another type of that blest home,

Which hope and pride and fear of dying

Build for us in a world to come:—

This silver cross the maiden raised

To her pure lips:—then, having gazed

Some minutes on that tranquil face,

Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,

Upward she turned her brow serene,

As if intent on heaven those eyes

Saw them nor roof nor cloud between

Their own pure orbits and the skies,

And, tho' her lips no motion made,

And that fixt look was all her speech,

I saw that the rapt spirit prayed

Deeper within than words could reach.

Strange power of Innocence, to turn

To its own hue whate'er comes near,

And make even vagrant Passion burn

With purer warmth within its sphere!

She who but one short hour before

Had come like sudden wild-fire o'er

My heart and brain—whom gladly even

From that bright Temple in the face

Of those proud ministers of heaven,

I would have borne in wild embrace,

And risked all punishment, divine

And human, but to make her mine;—

She, she was now before me, thrown

By fate itself into my arms—

There standing, beautiful, alone,

With naught to guard her but her charms.

Yet did I, then—did even a breath

From my parched lips, too parched to move,

Disturb a scene where thus, beneath

Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death

Held converse thro' undying love?

No—smile and taunt me as thou wilt—

Tho' but to gaze thus was delight,

Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt,

To win by stealth so pure a sight:

And rather than a look profane

Should then have met those thoughtful eyes,

Or voice or whisper broke the chain

That linked her spirit with the skies,

I would have gladly in that place

From which I watched her heavenward face,

Let my heart break, without one beat

That could disturb a prayer so sweet.

Gently, as if on every tread.

My life, my more than life depended,

Back thro' the corridor that led

To this blest scene I now ascended,

And with slow seeking and some pain

And many a winding tried in vain

Emerged to upper earth again.

The sun had freshly risen, and down

The marble hills of Araby,

Scattered as from a conqueror's crown

His beams into that living sea.

There seemed a glory in his light,

Newly put on—as if for pride.

Of the high homage paid this night

To his own Isis, his young bride.,

Now fading feminine away

In her proud Lord's superior ray.

My mind's first impulse was to fly

At once from this entangling net—

New scenes to range, new loves to try,

Or in mirth, wine and luxury

Of every sense that might forget.

But vain the effort—spell-bound still,

I lingered, without power or will

To turn my eyes from that dark door,

Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead;

Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'er

The sunny pile their flickering shed.

'Twas her light form again I saw

Starting to earth—still pure and bright,

But wakening, as I hoped, less awe,

Thus seen by morning's natural light,

Than in that strange, dim cell at night.

But no, alas—she ne'er returned:

Nor yet—tho' still I watch—nor yet,

Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned,

And now in his mid course hath met

The peak of that eternal pile

He pauses still at noon to bless,

Standing beneath his downward smile,

Like a great Spirit shadowless!—

Nor yet she comes—while here, alone,

Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place,

Where no heart beats except my own,

Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown,

By turns I watch and rest and trace

These lines that are to waft to thee

My last night's wondrous history.

Dost thou remember, in that Isle

Of our own Sea where thou and I

Lingered so long, so happy a while,

Till all the summer flowers went by—

How gay it was when sunset brought

To the cool Well our favorite maids—

Some we had won, and some we sought—

To dance within the fragrant shades,

And till the stars went down attune

Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?

That time, too—oh, 'tis like a dream—

When from Scamander's holy tide

I sprung as Genius of the Stream,

And bore away that blooming bride,

Who thither came, to yield her charms

(As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed)

Into the cold Scamander's arms,

But met and welcomed mine, instead—

Wondering as on my neck she fell,

How river-gods could love so well!

Who would have thought that he who roved

Like the first bees of summer then,

Rifling each sweet nor ever loved

But the free hearts that loved again,

Readily as the reed replies

To the least breath that round it sighs—

Is the same dreamer who last night

Stood awed and breathless at the sight

Of one Egyptian girl; and now

Wanders among these tombs with brow

Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just,

Himself, had risen from out their dust!

Yet so it is—and the same thirst

For something high and pure, above

This withering world, which from the first

Made me drink deep of woman's love—

As the one joy, to heaven most near

Of all our hearts can meet with here—

Still burns me up, still keeps awake

A fever naught but death can slake.

Farewell; whatever may befall—

Or bright, or dark—thou'lt know it all.

[1] The Ibis.

[2] Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis.

[3] These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles.

LETTER IV.

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT.

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;—the youthful Chief

Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,

And gay and godless makes the present hour

Its only heaven, is now within our power.

Smooth, impious school!—not all the weapons aimed,

At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed,

E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,

The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed.

And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet

As any _thou _canst boast—even when the feet

Of thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood,

To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,

And bring him tamed and prostrate to implore

The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore.

What!—do these sages think, to them alone

The key of this world's happiness is known?

That none but they who make such proud parade

Of Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid,

Or that Religion keeps no secret place,

No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace?

Fools!—did they know how keen the zest that's given

To earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven;

How Piety's grave mask improves the hue

Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro',

And how the Priest set aptly within reach

Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,

Would they not, Decius—thou, whom the ancient tie

'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally—

Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?

Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowers

Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers,

For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayed

That slyly lurk within the Temple's shade?

And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school—

Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,

Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,

Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride—

Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true,

Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,

Who far too wise to theorize on bliss

Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss.

Preach other worlds but live for only this:-

Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,

Which, like its type the golden cloud that hung

O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,

Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they

Alone despise the craft of us who pray;—

Still less their creedless vanity deceive

With the fond thought that we who pray believe.

Believe!—Apis forbid—forbid it, all

Ye monster Gods before whose shrines we fall—

Deities framed in jest as if to try

How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky;

How far the same low fancy that combines

Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,

And turns that Heaven itself into a place

Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,

Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep,

Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap.

Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,

Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food—

All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees

In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!

Believe!—oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care

For things divine beyond the soldier's share,

Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,

A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs—

Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs

Loose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangs

Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart

Stubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part—

The deep and dire disgust with which I wade

Thro' the foul juggling of this holy trade—

This mud profound of mystery where the feet

At every step sink deeper in deceit.

Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze,

O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,

Did I not keep still proudly in my mind

The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind—

A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,

To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned—

I should in vengeance of the shame I feel

At my own mockery crush the slaves that kneel

Besotted round; and—like that kindred breed

Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,

At famed Arsinoë[1]—make my keepers bless,

With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness.

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain

Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,

Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold.

And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?

It must not be:—think'st thou that Christian sect,

Whose followers quick as broken waves, erect

Their crests anew and swell into a tide,

That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride—

Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even they

Would triumph thus, had not the constant play

Of Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?—

That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,

Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,

Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs

Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,

Threatening such change as do the awful freaks

Of summer lightning ere the tempest breaks.

But, to my point—a youth of this vain school,

But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool

Down to that freezing point where Priests despair

Of any spark from the altar catching there—

Hath, some nights since—it was, me thinks, the night

That followed the full Moon's great annual rite—

Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward stray

To these earth—hidden temples, tracked his way,

Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,

The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,

Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.

The clangor of the marvellous Gate that stands

At the Well's lowest depth—which none but hands

Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,

Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move—

Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:—

'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,

Had been observed, curiously wandering round

The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.

Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,—

The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared,

That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past,

With trembling hope, to come to—what, at last?

Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him

Who mid terrific sounds and spectres dim

Walks at Eleusis; ask of those who brave

The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave

With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep

Those terrible night-mysteries where they weep

And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze.

O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities—

Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men,

Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as gods again;—

Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below

This seven-fold mystery—can they tell thee? No;

Gravely they keep that only secret, well

And fairly kept—that they have none to tell;

And duped themselves console their humbled pride

By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.

And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time—

That earliest master of our craft sublime—

So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,

From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad,

That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast,

And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;

Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round

In pomp and darkness till it seems profound;

Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,

With changeful skill; and make the human mind

Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray

But by the Priest's permission wins its way—

Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods.

Monsters at will are conjured into Gods;

While Reason like a grave-faced mummy stands

With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.

But chiefly in that skill with which we use

Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,

Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,

Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.

And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil

Hath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soil

This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,

Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reigns

In a rich, sunless empire of her own,

With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:—

A realm for mystery made, which undermines

The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines

That keep Initiation's holy rite,

Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light.

A light that knows no change—its brooks that run

Too deep for day, its gardens without sun,

Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised.

And all that bard or prophet e'er devised

For man's Elysium, priests have realized.

Here, at this moment—all his trials past.

And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last—

Our new Initiate roves—as yet left free

To wander thro' this realm of mystery;

Feeding on such illusions as prepare

The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear

All shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will,

Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;—

Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown.

By scenic skill, into that world unknown.

Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;

And all those other witching, wildering arts,

Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,

Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quail

To any goblin throned behind a veil.

Yes—such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,

Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere;

Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length,

His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,

Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine—

If he become not absolutely mine,

Body and soul and like the tame decoy

Which wary hunters of wild doves employ

Draw converts also, lure his brother wits

To the dark cage where his own spirit flits.

And give us if not saints good hypocrites—

If I effect not this then be it said

The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled,

Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased

To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.

[1] For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented see the "Epicurean" chap x.

[2] Pythagoras.

LALLA ROOKH

TO

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

THIS EASTERN ROMANCE

IS INSCRIBED

BY

HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

LALLA ROOKH

In the eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet; and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia.[1] During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, LALLA ROOKH; [2]—a Princess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful than Leila,[3] Shirine,[4] Dewildé,[5] or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia.

The day of LALLA ROOKH'S departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called the Scattering of the Roses;[6] till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Perpetual Lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore.

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the Imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor,[7] the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimm'd kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles;—the costly armor of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan,[8] in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the massiness of their maces of gold;—the glittering of the gilt pine-apple[9] on the tops of the palankeens;—the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique temples, within which the Ladies of LALLA ROOKH lay as it were enshrined; —the rose-colored veils of the Princess's own sumptuous litter,[10] at the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing;[11]—and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian maids of honor, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses;—all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fastidious FADLADEEN, Great Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of the pageant.

FADLADEEN was a judge of everything,—from the pencilling of a Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science and literature; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi,— "Should the Prince at noon-day say, It is night, declare that you behold the moon and stars."—And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,[12] was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the idol of Jaghernaut.[13]

During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOKH, who had passed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi,[14] found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her imagination; and when at evening or in the heat of the day they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encampments,—sometimes, on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl;[15] sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banyan tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, [16]as "places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves;"—she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But LALLA ROOKH was young, and the young love variety; nor could the conversation of her Ladies and the Great Chamberlain, FADLADEEN,(the only persons, of course, admitted to her pavilion.) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the Vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wavnak and Ezra,[17] the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver,[18] not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon.[19] At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great Pagoda to attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman FADLADEEN, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tinkling of their golden anklets[20] was an abomination.

But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noon-days were beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the Valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousness of the journey by some of his most agreeable recitals. At the mention of a poet, FADLADEEN elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence.

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had conceived from that specimen no very favorable ideas of the Caste, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her;—she felt inclined, however, to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of FERAMORZ. He was a youth about LALLA ROOKH'S own age, and graceful as that idol of women, Crishna,[21]—such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness; and the Ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.[22] Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied negligence;—nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give way to FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery.

For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar;—such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra—and, having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khorassan,[23] who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began:—

THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.[24]

In that delightful Province of the Sun,

The first of Persian lands he shines upon.

Where all the loveliest children of his beam,

Flowerets and fruits, blush over every stream,[25]

And, fairest of all streams, the MURGA roves

Among MEROU'S[26] bright palaces and groves;—

There on that throne, to which the blind belief

Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet-Chief,

The Great MOKANNA. O'er his features hung

The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung

In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight

His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light.

For, far less luminous, his votaries said,

Were even the gleams, miraculously shed

O'er MOUSSA'S[27] cheek, when down the Mount he trod

All glowing from the presence of his God!

On either side, with ready hearts and hands,

His chosen guard of bold Believers stands;

Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords,

On points of faith, more eloquent than words;

And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand

Uplifted there, but at the Chief's command,

Would make his own devoted heart its sheath,

And bless the lips that doomed so dear a death!

In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,[28]

Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white;

Their weapons various—some equipt for speed,

With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;[29]

Or bows of buffalo horn and shining quivers

Filled with the stems[30]

that bloom on IRAN'S rivers;[31]

While some, for war's more terrible attacks,

Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe;

And as they wave aloft in morning's beam

The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem

Like a chenar-tree grove[32] when winter throws

O'er all its tufted heads his feathery snows.

Between the porphyry pillars that uphold

The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold,

Aloft the Haram's curtained galleries rise,

Where thro' the silken net-work, glancing eyes,

From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow

Thro' autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below.—

What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare

To hint that aught but Heaven hath placed you there?

Or that the loves of this light world could bind,

In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind?

No—wrongful thought!—commissioned from above

To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love,

(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes

They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,)

There to recline among Heaven's native maids,

And crown the Elect with bliss that never fades—

Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done;

And every beauteous race beneath the sun,

From those who kneel at BRAHMA'S burning fount,[33]

To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er YEMEN'S mounts;

From PERSIA'S eyes of full and fawnlike ray,

To the small, half-shut glances of KATHAY;[34]

And GEORGIA'S bloom, and AZAB'S darker smiles,

And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles;

All, all are there;—each Land its flower hath given,

To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven!

But why this pageant now? this armed array?

What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day

With turbaned heads of every hue and race,

Bowing before that veiled and awful face,

Like tulip-beds,[35] of different shape and dyes,

Bending beneath the invisible West-wind's sighs!

What new-made mystery now for Faith to sign

And blood to seal, as genuine and divine,

What dazzling mimicry of God's own power

Hath the bold Prophet planned to grace this hour?

Not such the pageant now, tho' not less proud;

Yon warrior youth advancing from the crowd

With silver bow, with belt of broidered crape

And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape.[36]

So fiercely beautiful in form and eye,

Like war's wild planet in a summer sky;

That youth to-day,—a proselyte, worth hordes

Of cooler spirits and less practised swords,—

Is come to join, all bravery and belief,

The creed and standard of the heaven-sent Chief.

Tho' few his years, the West already knows

Young AZIM'S fame;—beyond the Olympian snows

Ere manhood darkened o'er his downy cheek,

O'erwhelmed in fight and captive to the Greek,[37]

He lingered there, till peace dissolved his chains;—

Oh! who could even in bondage tread the plains

Of glorious GREECE nor feel his spirit rise

Kindling within him? who with heart and eyes

Could walk where Liberty had been nor see

The shining foot-prints of her Deity,

Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air

Which mutely told her spirit had been there?

Not he, that youthful warrior,—no, too well

For his soul's quiet worked the awakening spell;

And now, returning to his own dear land,

Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand,

Haunt the young heart,—proud views of human-kind,

Of men to Gods exalted and refined,—

False views like that horizon's fair deceit

Where earth and heaven but seem, alas, to meet!—

Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was raised

To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed

On the white flag MOKANNA'S host unfurled,

Those words of sunshine, "Freedom to the World,"

At once his faith, his sword, his soul obeyed

The inspiring summons; every chosen blade

That fought beneath that banner's sacred text

Seemed doubly edged for this world and the next;

And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind

Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind,

In virtue's cause;—never was soul inspired

With livelier trust in what it most desired,

Than his, the enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale

With pious awe before that Silver Veil,

Believes the form to which he bends his knee

Some pure, redeeming angel sent to free

This fettered world from every bond and stain,

And bring its primal glories back again!

Low as young AZIM knelt, that motley crowd

Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bowed,

With shouts of "ALLA!" echoing long and loud;

Which high in air, above the Prophet's head,

Hundreds of banners to the sunbeam spread

Waved, like the wings of the white birds that fan

The flying throne of star-taught SOLIMAN.[38]

Then thus he spoke:-"Stranger, tho' new the frame

"Thy soul inhabits now. I've trackt its flame

"For many an age,[39] in every chance and change

"Of that existence, thro' whose varied range,—

"As thro' a torch-race where from hand to hand

"The flying youths transmit their shining brand,

"From frame to frame the unextinguisht soul

"Rapidly passes till it reach the goal!

"Nor think 'tis only the gross Spirits warmed

"With duskier fire and for earth's medium formed

"That run this course;—Beings the most divine

"Thus deign thro' dark mortality to shine.

"Such was the Essence that in ADAM dwelt,

"To which all Heaven except the Proud One knelt:[40]

"Such the refined Intelligence that glowed

"In MOUSSA'S[41] frame,—and thence descending flowed

"Thro' many a Prophet's breast;—in ISSA[42] shone

"And in MOHAMMED burned; till hastening on.

"(As a bright river that from fall to fall

"In many a maze descending bright thro' all,

"Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past,

"In one full lake of light it rests at last)

"That Holy Spirit settling calm and free

"From lapse or shadow centres all in me!

Again throughout the assembly at these words

Thousands of voices rung: the warrior's swords

Were pointed up at heaven; a sudden wind

In the open banners played, and from behind

Those Persian hangings that but ill could screen

The Harem's loveliness, white hands were seen

Waving embroidered scarves whose motion gave

A perfume forth—like those the Houris wave

When beckoning to their bowers the immortal Brave.

"But these," pursued the Chief "are truths sublime,

"That claim a holier mood and calmer time

"Than earth allows us now;—this sword must first

"The darkling prison-house of mankind burst.

"Ere Peace can visit them or Truth let in

"Her wakening daylight on a world of sin.

"But then,—celestial warriors, then when all

"Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall,

"When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down

"His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown,

"The Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath,

"And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath

"Shall like a whirlwind scatter in its breeze

"That whole dark pile of human mockeries:—

"Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth,

"And starting fresh as from a second birth,

"Man in the sunshine of the world's new spring

"Shall walk transparent like some holy thing!

"Then too your Prophet from his angel brow

"Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendors now,

"And gladdened Earth shall thro' her wide expanse

"Bask in the glories of this countenance!

"For thee, young warrior, welcome!—thou hast yet

"Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget,

"Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave;—

"But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!"

The pomp is at an end—the crowds are gone—

Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone

Of that deep voice, which thrilled like ALLA'S own!

The Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances,

The glittering throne and Haram's half-caught glances,

The Old deep pondering on the promised reign

Of peace and truth, and all the female train

Ready to risk their eyes could they but gaze

A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze!

But there was one among the chosen maids

Who blushed behind the gallery's silken shades,

One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day

Has been like death:—you saw her pale dismay,

Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst

Of exclamation from her lips when first

She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known,

Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.

Ah ZELICA! there was a time when bliss

Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his,

When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air

In which he dwelt was thy soul's fondest prayer;

When round him hung such a perpetual spell,

Whate'er he did, none ever did so well.

Too happy days! when, if he touched a flower

Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour;

When thou didst study him till every tone

And gesture and dear look became thy own.—

Thy voice like his, the changes of his face

In thine reflected with still lovelier grace,

Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught

With twice the aerial sweetness it had brought!

Yet now he comes,—brighter than even he

E'er beamed before,—but, ah! not bright for thee;

No—dread, unlookt for, like a visitant

From the other world he comes as if to haunt

Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight,

Long lost to all but memory's aching sight:—

Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth

Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth

And innocence once ours and leads us back,

In mournful mockery o'er the shining track

Of our young life and points out every ray

Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way!

Once happy pair!—In proud BOKHARA'S groves,

Who had not heard of their first youthful loves?

Born by that ancient flood,[43]which from its spring

In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering,

Enriched by every pilgrim brook that shines

With relics from BUCHARIA'S ruby mines.

And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength,

In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;—

There, on the banks of that bright river born,

The flowers that hung above its wave at morn

Blest not the waters as they murmured by

With holier scent and lustre than the sigh

And virgin-glance of first affection cast

Upon their youth's smooth current as it past!

But war disturbed this vision,—far away

From her fond eyes summoned to join the array

Of PERSIA'S warriors on the hills of THRACE,

The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling-place

For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash;

His ZELICA'S sweet glances for the flash

Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains

For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM'S plains.

Month after month in widowhood of soul

Drooping the maiden saw two summers roll

Their suns away—but, ah, how cold and dim

Even summer suns when not beheld with him!

From time to time ill-omened rumors came

Like spirit-tongues muttering the sick man's name

Just ere he dies:—at length those sounds of dread

Fell withering on her soul, "AZIM is dead!"

Oh Grief beyond all other griefs when fate

First leaves the young heart lone and desolate

In the wide world without that only tie

For which it loved to live or feared to die;—

Lorn as the hung-up lute, that near hath spoken

Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!

Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such,

Even reason sunk,—blighted beneath its touch;

And tho' ere long her sanguine spirit rose

Above the first dead pressure of its woes,

Tho' health and bloom returned, the delicate chain

Of thought once tangled never cleared again.

Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day,

The mind was still all there, but turned astray,—

A wandering bark upon whose pathway shone

All stars of heaven except the guiding one!

Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly smiled,

But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild;

And when she sung to her lute's touching strain,

'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain,

The bulbul[44] utters ere her soul depart,

When, vanquisht by some minstrel's powerful art,

She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart!

Such was the mood in which that mission found,

Young ZELICA,—that mission which around

The Eastern world in every region blest

With woman's smile sought out its loveliest

To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes

Which the Veiled Prophet destined for the skies:—

And such quick welcome as a spark receives

Dropt on a bed of Autumn's withered leaves,

Did every tale of these enthusiasts find

In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind.

All fire at once the maddening zeal she caught:—

Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought!

Predestined bride, in heaven's eternal dome,

Of some brave youth—ha! durst they say "of some?"

No—of the one, one only object traced

In her heart's core too deep to be effaced;

The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined

With every broken link of her lost mind;

Whose image lives tho' Reason's self be wreckt

Safe mid the ruins of her intellect!

Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all

The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall

To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids

A sainted colony for Eden's shades;

Or dream that he,—of whose unholy flame

Thou wert too soon the victim,—shining came

From Paradise to people its pure sphere

With souls like thine which he hath ruined here!

No—had not reason's light totally set,

And left thee dark thou hadst an amulet

In the loved image graven on thy heart

Which would have saved thee from the tempter's art,

And kept alive in all its bloom of breath

That purity whose fading is love's death!—

But lost, inflamed,—a restless zeal took place

Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace;

First of the Prophets favorites, proudly first

In zeal and charms, too well the Impostor nurst

Her soul's delirium in whose active flame,

Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame,

He saw more potent sorceries to bind

To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind,

More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twined.

No art was spared, no witchery;—all the skill

His demons taught him was employed to fill

Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns—

That gloom, thro' which Frenzy but fiercer burns,

That ecstasy which from the depth of sadness

Glares like the maniac's moon whose light is madness!

'Twas from a brilliant banquet where the sound

Of poesy and music breathed around,

Together picturing to her mind and ear

The glories of that heaven, her destined sphere,

Where all was pure, where every stain that lay

Upon the spirit's light should pass away,

And realizing more than youthful love

E'er wisht or dreamed, she should for ever rove

Thro' fields of fragrance by her AZIM'S side,

His own blest, purified, eternal bride!—

T was from a scene, a witching trance like this,

He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss,

To the dim charnel-house;—thro' all its steams

Of damp and death led only by those gleams

Which foul Corruption lights, as with design

To show the gay and proud she too can shine—

And passing on thro' upright ranks of Dead

Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by dread,

Seemed, thro' the bluish death-light round them cast,

To move their lips in mutterings as she past—

There in that awful place, when each had quaft

And pledged in silence such a fearful draught,

Such—oh! the look and taste of that red bowl

Will haunt her till she dies—he bound her soul

By a dark oath, in hell's own language framed,

Never, while earth his mystic presence claimed,

While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both,

Never, by that all-imprecating oath,

In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.—

She swore and the wide charnel echoed "Never, never!"

From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given

To him and—she believed, lost maid!—to heaven;

Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflamed,

How proud she stood, when in full Haram named

The Priestess of the Faith!—how flasht her eyes

With light, alas, that was not of the skies,

When round in trances only less than hers

She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers.

Well might MOKANNA think that form alone

Had spells enough to make the world his own:—

Light, lovely limbs to which the spirit's play

Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray,

When from its stem the small bird wings away;

Lips in whose rosy labyrinth when she smiled

The soul was lost, and blushes, swift and wild

As are the momentary meteors sent

Across the uncalm but beauteous firmament.

And then her look—oh! where's the heart so wise

Could unbewildered meet those matchless eyes?

Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,

Like those of angels just before their fall;

Now shadowed with the shames of earth—now crost

By glimpses of the Heaven her heart had lost;

In every glance there broke without control,

The flashes of a bright but troubled soul,

Where sensibility still wildly played

Like lightning round the ruins it had made!

And such was now young ZELICA—so changed

From her who some years since delighted ranged

The almond groves that shade BOKHARA'S tide

All life and bliss with AZIM by her side!

So altered was she now, this festal day,

When, mid the proud Divan's dazzling array,

The vision of that Youth whom she had loved,

Had wept as dead, before her breathed and moved;—

When—bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track

But half-way trodden, he had wandered back

Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light—

Her beauteous AZIM shone before her sight.

O Reason! who shall say what spells renew,

When least we look for it, thy broken clew!

Thro' what small vistas o'er the darkened brain

Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again;

And how like forts to which beleaguerers win

Unhoped-for entrance thro' some friend within,

One clear idea, wakened in the breast

By memory's magic, lets in all the rest.

Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee!

But tho' light came, it came but partially;

Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense

Wandered about,—but not to guide it thence;

Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave,

But not to point the harbor which might save.

Hours of delight and peace, long left behind,

With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind;

But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone

In shame and falsehood since those moments shone;

And then her oath—there madness lay again,

And shuddering, back she sunk into her chain

Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee

From light whose every glimpse was agony!

Yet one relief this glance of former years

Brought mingled with its pain,—tears, floods of tears,

Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills

Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills,

And gushing warm after a sleep of frost,

Thro' valleys where their flow had long been lost.

Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame

Trembled with horror when the summons came

(A summons proud and rare, which all but she,

And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,)

To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer,

A garden oratory cool and fair

By the stream's side, where still at close of day

The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray,

Sometimes alone—but oftener far with one,

One chosen nymph to share his orison.

Of late none found such favor in his sight

As the young Priestess; and tho', since that night

When the death-cavorns echoed every tone

Of the dire oath that made her all his own,

The Impostor sure of his infatuate prize

Had more than once thrown off his soul's disguise,

And uttered such unheavenly, monstrous things,

As even across the desperate wanderings

Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out,

Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;—

Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow,

The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow,

Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye concealed,

Would soon, proud triumph! be to her revealed,

To her alone;—and then the hope, most dear,

Most wild of all, that her transgression here

Was but a passage thro' earth's grosser fire,

From which the spirit would at last aspire,

Even purer than before,—as perfumes rise

Thro' flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies—

And that when AZIM's fond, divine embrace

Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace

Would on that bosom he once loved remain.

But all be bright, be pure, be his again!—

These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit

Had chained her soul beneath the tempter's feet,

And made her think even damning falsehood sweet.

But now that Shape, which had appalled her view,

That Semblance—oh how terrible, if true!

Which came across her frenzy's full career

With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe.

As when in northern seas at midnight dark

An isle of ice encounters some swift bark,

And startling all its wretches from their sleep

By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;—

So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear,

And waking up each long-lulled image there,

But checkt her headlong soul to sink it in despair!

Wan and dejected, thro' the evening dusk,

She now went slowly to that small kiosk,

Where, pondering alone his impious schemes,

MOKANNA waited her—too wrapt in dreams

Of the fair-ripening future's rich success,

To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless,

That sat upon his victim's downcast brow,

Or mark how slow her step, how altered now

From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound

Came like a spirit's o'er the unechoing ground,—

From that wild ZELICA whose every glance

Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!

Upon his couch the Veiled MOKANNA lay,

While lamps around—not such as lend their ray,

Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray

In holy KOOM,[45] or MECCA'S dim arcades,—

But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids.

Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow

Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow.

Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer,

Which the world fondly thought he mused on there,

Stood Vases, filled with KISIIMEE'S[46] golden wine,

And the red weepings of the SHIRAZ vine;

Of which his curtained lips full many a draught

Took zealously, as if each drop they quaft

Like ZEMZEM'S Spring of Holiness[47] had power

To freshen the soul's virtues into flower!

And still he drank and pondered—nor could see

The approaching maid, so deep his revery;

At length with fiendish laugh like that which broke

From EBLIS at the Fall of Man he spoke:—

"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given,

"Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven;

"God's images, forsooth!—such gods as he

"Whom INDIA serves, the monkey deity;[48]

"Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay,

"To whom if LUCIFER, as gran-dams say,

"Refused tho' at the forfeit of heaven's light

"To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right!

"Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck

"Of your foul race and without fear or check,

"Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame,

"My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name!—

"Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce

"As hooded falcons, thro' the universe

"I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,

"Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey!

"Ye wise, ye learned, who grope your dull way on

"By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone,

"Like superstitious thieves who think the light

"From dead men's marrow guides them best at night[49]—

"Ye shall have honors—wealth—yes, Sages, yes—

"I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness;

"Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere,

"But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here.

"How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along

"In lying speech and still more lying song,

"By these learned slaves, the meanest of the throng;

"Their wits brought up, their wisdom shrunk so small,

"A sceptre's puny point can wield it all!

"Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,

"Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds;

"Who, bolder even than NEMROD, think to rise

"By nonsense heapt on nonsense to the skies;

"Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too,

"Seen, heard, attested, everything—but true.

"Your preaching zealots too inspired to seek

"One grace of meaning for the things they speak:

"Your martyrs ready to shed out their blood,

"For truths too heavenly to be understood;

"And your State Priests, sole venders of the lore,

"That works salvation;—as, on AVA'S shore,

"Where none but priests are privileged to trade

"In that best marble of which Gods are made[50];

"They shall have mysteries—ay precious stuff

"For knaves to thrive by—mysteries enough;

"Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave,

"Which simple votaries shall on trust receive,

"While craftier feign belief till they believe.

"A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,—

"A splendid Paradise,—pure souls, ye must:

"That Prophet ill sustains his holy call,

"Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all;

"Houris for boys, omniscience for sages,

"And wings and glories for all ranks and ages.

"Vain things!—as lust or vanity inspires,

"The heaven of each is but what each desires,

"And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be,

"Man would be man to all eternity!

"So let him—EBLIS! grant this crowning curse,

"But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse."

"Oh my lost soul!" exclaimed the shuddering maid,

Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said:

MOKANNA started—not abasht, afraid,—

He knew no more of fear than one who dwells

Beneath the tropics knows of icicles!

But in those dismal words that reached his ear,

"Oh my lost soul!" there was a sound so drear,

So like that voice among the sinful dead

In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read,

That, new as 'twas from her whom naught could dim

Or sink till now, it startled even him.

"Ha, my fair Priestess!"—thus, with ready wile,

The impostor turned to greet her—"thou whose smile

"Hath inspiration in its rosy beam

"Beyond the Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream,

"Light of the Faith! who twin'st religion's zeal

"So close with love's, men know not which they feel,

"Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart,

"The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art!

"What should I be without thee? without thee

"How dull were power, how joyless victory!

"Tho' borne by angels, if that smile of thine

"Blest not my banner 'twere but half divine.

"But—why so mournful, child? those eyes that shone

"All life last night—what!—is their glory gone?

"Come, come—this morn's fatigue hath made them pale,

"They want rekindling—suns themselves would fail

"Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,

"From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy.

"Thou seest this cup—no juice of earth is here,

"But the pure waters of that upper sphere,

"Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,

"Catching the gem's bright color as they go.

"Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns—

"Nay, drink—in every drop life's essence burns;

"'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light—

"Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night:

"There is a youth—why start?—thou saw'st him then;

"Lookt he not nobly? such the godlike men,

"Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;—

"Tho' he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love,

"Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss

"The world calls virtue—we must conquer this;

"Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! 'tis not for thee

"To scan the mazes of Heaven's mystery:

"The steel must pass thro' fire, ere it can yield

"Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield.

"This very night I mean to try the art

"Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart.

"All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit,

"Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite,

"Shall tempt the boy;—young MIRZALA'S blue eyes

"Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies;

"AROUYA'S cheeks warm as a spring-day sun

"And lips that like the seal of SOLOMON

"Have magic in their pressure; ZEBA'S lute,

"And LILLA'S dancing feet that gleam and shoot

"Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep—

"All shall combine their witching powers to steep

"My convert's spirit in that softening trance,

"From which to heaven is but the next advance;—

"That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast.

"On which Religion stamps her image best.

"But hear me, Priestess!—tho' each nymph of these

"Hath some peculiar, practised power to please,

"Some glance or step which at the mirror tried

"First charms herself, then all the world beside:

"There still wants one to make the victory sure,

"One who in every look joins every lure,

"Thro' whom all beauty's beams concentred pass,

"Dazzling and warm as thro' love's burning glass;

"Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,

"Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored.

"Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,

"Which our faith takes for granted are divine!

"Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light,

"To crown the rich temptations of to-night;

"Such the refined enchantress that must be

"This hero's vanquisher,—and thou art she!"

With her hands claspt, her lips apart and pale,

The maid had stood gazing upon the Veil

From which these words like south winds thro' a fence

Of Kerzrah flowers, came filled with pestilence;[51]

So boldly uttered too! as if all dread

Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled,

And the wretch felt assured that once plunged in,

Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin!

At first, tho' mute she listened, like a dream

Seemed all he said: nor could her mind whose beam

As yet was weak penetrate half his scheme.

But when at length he uttered, "Thou art she!"

All flasht at once and shrieking piteously,

"Oh not for worlds! "she cried—"Great God! to whom

"I once knelt innocent, is this my doom?

"Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss,

"My purity, my pride, then come to this,—

"To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be

"The pander of his guilt—oh infamy!

"And sunk myself as low as hell can steep

"In its hot flood, drag others down as deep!

"Others—ha! yes—that youth who came to-day—

"Not him I loved—not him—oh! do but say,

"But swear to me this moment 'tis not he,

"And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!"

"Beware, young raving thing!—in time beware,

"Nor utter what I can not, must not bear,

"Even from thy lips. Go—try thy lute, thy voice,

"The boy must feel their magic;—I rejoice

"To see those fires, no matter whence they rise,

"Once more illuming my fait Priestess' eyes;

"And should the youth whom soon those eyes shall warm,

"Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form,

"So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom,

"As one warm lover full of life and bloom

"Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb.

"Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet!—those eyes were made

"For love, not anger—I must be obeyed."

"Obeyed!—'tis well—yes, I deserve it all—

"On me, on me Heaven's vengeance can not fall

"Too heavily—but AZIM, brave and true

"And beautiful—must he be ruined too?

"Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven

"A renegade like me from Love and Heaven?

"Like me?—weak wretch, I wrong him—not like me;

"No—he's all truth and strength and purity!

"Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the brim,

"Its witchery, fiends, will have no charm for him.

"Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers,

"He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers!

"Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign

"Pure as when first we met, without a stain!

"Tho' ruined—lost—my memory like a charm

"Left by the dead still keeps his soul from harm.

"Oh! never let him know how deep the brow

"He kist at parting is dishonored now;—

"Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she.

"Whom once he loved—once!—still loves dotingly.

"Thou laugh'st, tormentor,—what!—thou it brand my name?

"Do, do—in vain—he'll not believe my shame—

"He thinks me true, that naught beneath God's sky

"Could tempt or change me, and—so once thought I.

"But this is past—tho' worse than death my lot,

"Than hell—'tis nothing while he knows it not.

"Far off to some benighted land I'll fly,

"Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die;

"Where none will ask the lost one whence she came,

"But I may fade and fall without a name.

"And thou—curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art,

"Who found'st this burning plague-spot in my heart,

"And spread'st it—oh, so quick!—thro' soul and frame,

"With more than demon's art, till I became

"A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!—

"If, when I'm gone"—"Hold, fearless maniac, hold,

"Nor tempt my rage—by Heaven, not half so bold

"The puny bird that dares with teasing hum

"Within the crocodile's stretched jaws to come![52]

"And so thou'lt fly, forsooth?—what!—give up all

"Thy chaste dominion in the Haram Hall,

"Where now to Love and now to ALLA given,

"Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even

"As doth MEDINA'S tomb, 'twixt hell and heaven!

"Thou'lt fly?—as easily may reptiles run,

"The gaunt snake once hath fixt his eyes upon;

"As easily, when caught, the prey may be

"Pluckt from his loving folds, as thou from me.

"No, no, 'tis fixt—let good or ill betide,

"Thou'rt mine till death, till death MOKANNA'S bride!

"Hast thou forgot thy oath?"—

At this dread word,

The Maid whose spirit his rude taunts had stirred

Thro' all its depths and roused an anger there,

That burst and lightened even thro' her despair—

Shrunk back as if a blight were in the breath

That spoke that word and staggered pale as death.

"Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers

"Their bridal place—the charnel vault was ours!

"Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me

"Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality,

"Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed.

"And for our guests a row of goodly Dead,

"(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,)

"From reeking shrouds upon the rite looked out!

"That oath thou heard'st more lips than thine repeat—

"That cup—thou shudderest, Lady,—was it sweet?

"That cup we pledged, the charnel's choicest wine,

"Hath bound thee—ay—body and soul all mine;

"Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst

"No matter now, not hell itself shall burst!

"Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay,

"Look wild, look—anything but sad; yet stay—

"One moment more—from what this night hath past,

"I see thou know'st me, know'st me well at last.

"Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thought'st all true,

"And that I love mankind?—I do, I do—

"As victims, love them; as the sea-dog dotes

"Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats;

"Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives

"That rank and venomous food on which she lives!—

"And, now thou seest my soul's angelic hue,

"'Tis time these features were uncurtained too;—

"This brow, whose light—oh rare celestial light!

"Hath been reserved to bless thy favored sight;

"These dazzling eyes before whose shrouded might

"Thou'st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake—

"Would that they were heaven's lightnings for his sake!

"But turn and look—then wonder, if thou wilt,

"That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt,

"Upon the hand whose mischief or whose mirth

"Sent me thus mained and monstrous upon earth;

"And on that race who, tho' more vile they be

"Than moving apes, are demigods to me!

"Here—judge if hell, with all its power to damn,

"Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!"—

He raised his veil—the Maid turned slowly round,

Looked at him—shrieked—and sunk upon the ground!

On their arrival next night at the place of encampment they were surprised and delighted to find the groves all around illuminated; some artists of Yamtcheou[53] having been sent on previously for the purpose. On each side of the green alley, which led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo-work were erected, representing arches, minarets, towers, from which hung thousands of silken lanterns painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton.—Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias shining in the light of the bamboo-scenery which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Peristan.

LALLA ROOKH, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of ZELICA and her lover to give a thought to anything else, except perhaps him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splendor to her pavilion,—greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtcheou,—and was followed with equal rapidity by the Great Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations.[54]

Without a moment's delay, young FERAMORZ was introduced, and FADLADEEN, who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet till he knew the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni when LALLA KOOKH impatiently clapped her hands for silence, and the youth being seated upon the musnud near her proceeded:—

Prepare thy soul, young AZIM!—thou hast braved

The bands of GREECE, still mighty tho' enslaved;

Hast faced her phalanx armed with all its fame,—

Her Macedonian pikes and globes of fame,

All this hast fronted with firm heart and brow,

But a more perilous trial waits thee now,—

Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes

From every land where woman smiles or sighs;

Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise

His black or azure banner in their blaze;

And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash

That lightens boldly thro' the shadowy lash,

To the sly, stealing splendors almost hid

Like swords half-sheathed beneath the downcast lid;—

Such, AZIM, is the lovely, luminous host

Now led against thee; and let conquerors boast

Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms

A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms,

Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall,

Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all.

Now, thro' the Haram chambers, moving lights

And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;—

From room to room the ready handmaids hie,

Some skilled to wreath the turban tastefully,

Or hang the veil in negligence of shade

O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid,

Who, if between the folds but one eye shone,

Like SEBA'S Queen could vanquish with that one:[55]—

While some bring leaves of Henna to imbue

The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,[56]

So bright that in the mirror's depth they seem

Like tips of coral branches in the stream:

And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye,

To give that long, dark languish to the eye,[57]

Which makes the maids whom kings are proud to call

From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful.

All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls

Are shining everywhere:—some younger girls

Are gone by moonlight to the garden-beds,

To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;—

Gay creatures! sweet, tho' mournful, 'tis to see

How each prefers a garland from that tree

Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day

And the dear fields and friendships far away.

The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold

In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold,[58]

Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES' flood,

Her little playmates scattered many a bud

Upon her long black hair with glossy gleam

Just dripping from the consecrated stream;

While the young Arab haunted by the smell

Of her own mountain flowers as by a spell,—

The sweet Alcaya[59] and that courteous tree

Which bows to all who seek its canopy,[60]

Sees called up round her by these magic scents

The well, the camels, and her father's tents;

Sighs for the home she left with little pain,

And wishes even its sorrow back again!

Meanwhile thro' vast illuminated halls,

Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls

Of fragrant waters gushing with cool sound

From many a jasper fount is heard around,

Young AZIM roams bewildered,—nor can guess

What means this maze of light and loneliness.

Here the way leads o'er tesselated floors

Or mats of CAIRO thro' long corridors,

Where ranged in cassolets and silver urns

Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns,

And spicy rods such as illume at night

The bowers of TIBET[61] send forth odorous light,

Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road

For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:—

And here at once the glittering saloon

Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon;

Where in the midst reflecting back the rays

In broken rainbows a fresh fountain plays

High as the enamelled cupola which towers

All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers:

And the mosaic floor beneath shines thro'

The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew,

Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye

That on the margin of the Red Sea lie.

Here too he traces the kind visitings

Of woman's love in those fair, living things

Of land and wave, whose fate—in bondage thrown

For their weak loveliness—is like her own!

On one side gleaming with a sudden grace

Thro' water brilliant as the crystal vase

In which it undulates, small fishes shine

Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;—

While, on the other, latticed lightly in

With odoriferous woods of COMORIN,

Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;—

Gay, sparkling loories such as gleam between

The crimson blossoms of the coral-tree[62]

In the warm isles of India's sunny sea:

Mecca's blue sacred pigeon,[63] and the thrush

Of Hindostan[64] whose holy warblings gush

At evening from the tall pagoda's top;—

Those golden birds that in the spice time drop

About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food[65]

Whose scent hath lured them o'er the summer flood;[66]

And those that under Araby's soft sun

Build their high nests of budding cinnamon;[67]

In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly

Thro' the pure element here calmly lie

Sleeping in light, like the green birds[68] that dwell

In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel!

So on, thro' scenes past all imagining,

More like the luxuries of that impious King,[69]

Whom Death's dark Angel with his lightning torch

Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch,

Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent

Armed with Heaven's sword for man's enfranchisement—

Young AZIM wandered, looking sternly round,

His simple garb and war-boots clanking sound

But ill according with the pomp and grace

And silent lull of that voluptuous place.

"Is this, then," thought the youth, "is this the way

"To free man's spirit from the deadening sway

"Of worldly sloth,—to teach him while he lives

"To know no bliss but that which virtue gives,

"And when he dies to leave his lofty name

"A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame?

"It was not so, Land of the generous thought

"And daring deed, thy god-like sages taught;

"It was not thus in bowers of wanton ease

"Thy Freedom nurst her sacred energies;

"Oh! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow

"Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow

"With which she wreathed her sword when she would dare

"Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air

"Of toil,—of temperance,—of that high, rare,

"Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe

"Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath.

"Who that surveys this span of earth we press.—

"This speck of life in time's great wilderness,

"This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,

"The past, the future, two eternities!—

"Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare,

"When he might build him a proud temple there,

"A name that long shall hallow all its space,

"And be each purer soul's high resting-place.

"But no—it cannot be, that one whom God

"Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,—

"A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws

"Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause

"With the world's vulgar pomps;—no, no,—I see—

"He thinks me weak—this glare of luxury

"Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze

"Of my young soul—shine on, 'twill stand the blaze!"

So thought the youth;—but even while he defied

This witching scene he felt its witchery glide

Thro' every sense. The perfume breathing round,

Like a pervading spirit;—the still sound

Of falling waters, lulling as the song

Of Indian bees at sunset when they throng

Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep

In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;[70]

And music, too—dear music! that can touch

Beyond all else the soul that loves it much—

Now heard far off, so far as but to seem

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream;

All was too much for him, too full of bliss,

The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this;

Softened he sunk upon a couch and gave

His soul up to sweet thoughts like wave on wave

Succeeding in smooth seas when storms are laid;

He thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid,

And of the time when full of blissful sighs

They sat and lookt into each other's eyes,

Silent and happy—as if God had given

Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven.

"Oh, my loved mistress, thou whose spirit still

"Is with me, round me, wander where I will—

"It is for thee, for thee alone I seek

"The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek

"With warm approval—in that gentle look

"To read my praise as in an angel's book,

"And think all toils rewarded when from thee

"I gain a smile worth immortality!

"How shall I bear the moment, when restored

"To that young heart where I alone am Lord.

"Tho' of such bliss unworthy,—since the best

"Alone deserve to be the happiest:—

"When from those lips unbreathed upon for years

"I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,

"And find those tears warm as when last they started,

"Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted.

"O my own life!—why should a single day,

"A moment keep me from those arms away?"

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze

Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies,

Each note of which but adds new, downy links

To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks.

He turns him toward the sound, and far away

Thro' a long vista sparkling with the play

Of countless lamps,—like the rich track which Day

Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us,

So long the path, its light so tremulous;—

He sees a group of female forms advance,

Some chained together in the mazy dance

By fetters forged in the green sunny bowers,

As they were captives to the King of Flowers;[71]

And some disporting round, unlinkt and free,

Who seemed to mock their sisters' slavery;

And round and round them still in wheeling flight

Went like gay moths about a lamp at night;

While others waked, as gracefully along

Their feet kept time, the very soul of song

From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill,

Or their own youthful voices heavenlier still.

And now they come, now pass before his eye,

Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vie

With Fancy's pencil and give birth to things

Lovely beyond its fairest picturings.

Awhile they dance before him, then divide,

Breaking like rosy clouds at eventide

Around the rich pavilion of the sun,—

Till silently dispersing, one by one,

Thro' many a path that from the chamber leads

To gardens, terraces and moonlight meads,

Their distant laughter comes upon the wind,

And but one trembling nymph remains behind,—

Beckoning them back in vain—for they are gone

And she is left in all that light alone;

No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow,

In its young bashfulness more beauteous now;

But a light golden chain-work round her hair,[72]

Such as the maids of YEZD and SHIRAS wear,[73]

From which on either side gracefully hung

A golden amulet in the Arab tongue,

Engraven o'er with some immortal line

From Holy Writ or bard scarce less divine;

While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood,

Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood,

Which once or twice she touched with hurried strain,

Then took her trembling fingers off again.

But when at length a timid glance she stole

At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul

She saw thro' all his features calmed her fear,

And like a half-tamed antelope more near,

Tho' shrinking still, she came;—then sat her down

Upon a musnud's[74] edge, and, bolder grown.

In the pathetic mode of ISFAHAN[75]

Touched a preluding strain and thus began:—

There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER's[76] stream,

And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream,

To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music, I never forget,

But oft when alone in the bloom of the year

I think—is the nightingale singing there yet?

Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER?

No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave,

But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone.

And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave

All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies

An essence that breathes of it many a year;

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes,

Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER!

"Poor maiden!" thought the youth, "if thou wert sent

"With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment

"To wake unholy wishes in this heart,

"Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art.

"For tho' thy lips should sweetly counsel wrong,

"Those vestal eyes would disavow its song.

"But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay

"Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day,

"And leads thy soul—if e'er it wandered thence—

"So gently back to its first innocence,

"That I would sooner stop the unchained dove,

"When swift returning to its home of love,

"And round its snowy wing new fetters twine.

"Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!"

Scarce had this feeling past, when sparkling thro'

The gently open'd curtains of light blue

That veiled the breezy casement, countless eyes

Peeping like stars thro' the blue evening skies,

Looked laughing in as if to mock the pair

That sat so still and melancholy there:—

And now the curtains fly apart and in

From the cool air mid showers of jessamine

Which those without fling after them in play,

Two lightsome maidens spring,—lightsome as they

Who live in the air on odors,—and around

The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground,

Chase one another in a varying dance

Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance,

Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:—

While she who sung so gently to the lute

Her dream of home steals timidly away,

Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,—

But takes with her from AZIM'S heart that sigh

We sometimes give to forms that pass us by

In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain,

Creatures of light we never see again!

Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced

Hung carcanets of orient gems that glanced

More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er

The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;[77]

While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall

Of curls descending, bells as musical

As those that on the golden-shafted trees

Of EDEN shake in the eternal breeze,[78]

Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet.

As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet.

At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed

Within each other's arms; while soft there breathed

Thro' the cool casement, mingled with the sighs

Of moonlight flowers, music that seemed to rise

From some still lake, so liquidly it rose;

And as it swelled again at each faint close

The ear could track thro' all that maze of chords

And young sweet voices these impassioned words:—

A SPIRIT there is whose fragrant sigh

Is burning now thro' earth and air;

Where cheeks are blushing the Spirit is nigh,

Where lips are meeting the Spirit is there!

His breath is the soul of flowers like these,

And his floating eyes—oh! they resemble[79]

Blue water-lilies,[80] when the breeze

Is making the stream around them tremble.

Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power!

Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss!

Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,

And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.

By the fair and brave

Who blushing unite,

Like the sun and wave,

When they meet at night;

By the tear that shows

When passion is nigh,

As the rain-drop flows

From the heat of the sky;

By the first love-beat

Of the youthful heart,

By the bliss to meet,

And the pain to part;

By all that thou hast

To mortals given,

Which—oh, could it last,

This earth were heaven!

We call thee thither, entrancing Power!

Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss!

Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour,

And there never was moonlight so sweet as this.

Impatient of a scene whose luxuries stole,

Spite of himself, too deep into his soul,

And where, midst all that the young heart loves most,

Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost,

The youth had started up and turned away

From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay

To muse upon the pictures that hung round,—[81]

Bright images, that spoke without a sound,

And views like vistas into fairy ground.

But here again new spells came o'er his sense:—

All that the pencil's mute omnipotence

Could call up into life, of soft and fair,

Of fond and passionate, was glowing there;

Nor yet too warm, but touched with that fine art

Which paints of pleasure but the purer part;

Which knows even Beauty when half-veiled is best,—

Like her own radiant planet of the west,

Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.[82]

There hung the history of the Genii-King,

Traced thro' each gay, voluptuous wandering

With her from SABA'S bowers, in whose bright eyes

He read that to be blest is to be wise;—

Here fond ZULEIKA woos with open arms[83]

The Hebrew boy who flies from her young charms,

Yet flying turns to gaze and half undone

Wishes that Heaven and she could both be won;

And here MOHAMMED born for love and guile

Forgets the Koran in his MARY'S smile;—

Then beckons some kind angel from above

With a new text to consecrate their love.[84]

With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye,

Did the youth pass these pictured stories by,

And hastened to a casement where the light

Of the calm moon came in and freshly bright

The fields without were seen sleeping as still

As if no life remained in breeze or rill.

Here paused he while the music now less near

Breathed with a holier language on his ear,

As tho' the distance and that heavenly ray

Thro' which the sounds came floating took away

All that had been too earthly in the lay.

Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmoved,

And by that light—nor dream of her he loved?

Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may'st;

'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste.

Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart,

Ere all the light that made it dear depart.

Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last,

Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercast;

Recall her tears to thee at parting given,

Pure as they weep, if angels weep in Heaven.

Think in her own still bower she waits thee now

With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow,

Yet shrined in solitude—thine all, thine only,

Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely.

Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoyed,

Should be so sadly, cruelly destroyed!

The song is husht, the laughing nymphs are flown,

And he is left musing of bliss alone;—

Alone?—no, not alone—that heavy sigh,

That sob of grief which broke from some one nigh—

Whose could it be?—alas! is misery found

Here, even here, on this enchanted ground?

He turns and sees a female form close veiled,

Leaning, as if both heart and strength had failed,

Against a pillar near;—not glittering o'er

With gems and wreaths such as the others wore,

But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress.[85]

BOKHARA'S maidens wear in mindfulness

Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;—

And such as ZELICA had on that day

He left her—when with heart too full to speak

He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek.

A strange emotion stirs within him,—more

Than mere compassion ever waked before;

Unconsciously he opes his arms while she

Springs forward as with life's last energy,

But, swooning in that one convulsive bound,

Sinks ere she reach his arms upon the ground;—

Her veil falls off—her faint hands clasp his knees—

'Tis she herself!—it is ZELICA he sees!

But, ah, so pale, so changed—none but a lover

Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover

The once adorned divinity—even he

Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly

Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed

Upon those lids where once such lustre blazed,

Ere he could think she was indeed his own,

Own darling maid whom he so long had known

In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both;

Who, even when grief was heaviest—when loath

He left her for the wars—in that worst hour

Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[86]

When darkness brings its weeping glories out,

And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.

"Look up, my ZELICA—one moment show

"Those gentle eyes to me that I may know

"Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,

"But there at least shines as it ever shone.

"Come, look upon thy AZIM—one dear glance,

"Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance

"Hath brought thee here, oh, 'twas a blessed one!

"There—my loved lips—they move—that kiss hath run

"Like the first shoot of life thro' every vein,

"And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.

"Oh the delight—now, in this very hour,

"When had the whole rich world been in my power,

"I should have singled out thee only thee,

"From the whole world's collected treasury—

"To have thee here—to hang thus fondly o'er

"My own, best, purest ZELICA once more!"

It was indeed the touch of those fond lips

Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse.

And gradual as the snow at Heaven's breath

Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath,

Her lids unclosed and the bright eyes were seen

Gazing on his—not, as they late had been,

Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene;

As if to lie even for that tranced minute

So near his heart had consolation in it;

And thus to wake in his beloved caress

Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.

But, when she heard him call her good and pure,

Oh! 'twas too much—too dreadful to endure!

Shuddering she broke away from his embrace.

And hiding with both hands her guilty face

Said in a tone whose anguish would have riven

A heart of very marble, "Pure!—oh Heaven!"—

That tone—those looks so changed—the withering blight,

That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light:

The dead despondency of those sunk eyes,

Where once, had he thus met her by surprise,

He would have seen himself, too happy boy,

Reflected in a thousand lights of joy:

And then the place,—that bright, unholy place,

Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace

And charm of luxury as the viper weaves

Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,[87]—

All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold

As death itself;—it needs not to be told—

No, no—he sees it all plain as the brand

Of burning shame can mark—whate'er the hand,

That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever,

'Tis done—to Heaven and him she's lost for ever!

It was a dreadful moment; not the tears,

The lingering, lasting misery of years

Could match that minute's anguish—all the worst

Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst

Broke o'er his soul and with one crash of fate

Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.

"Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he tost

His desperate hand towards Heav'n—"tho' I am lost,

"Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,

"No, no—'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all!

"Nay, doubt me not—tho' all thy love hath ceased—

"I know it hath—yet, yet believe, at least,

"That every spark of reason's light must be

"Quenched in this brain ere I could stray from thee.

"They told me thou wert dead—why, AZIM, why

"Did we not, both of us, that instant die

"When we were parted? oh! couldst thou but know

"With what a deep devotedness of woe

"I wept thy absence—o'er and o'er again

"Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,

"And memory like a drop that night and day

"Falls cold and ceaseless wore my heart away.

"Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home,

"My eyes still turned the way thou wert to come,

"And, all the long, long night of hope and fear,

"Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear—

"Oh God! thou wouldst not wonder that at last,

"When every hope was all at once o'ercast,

"When I heard frightful voices round me say

"Azim is dead!—this wretched brain gave way,

"And I became a wreck, at random driven,

"Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven—

"All wild—and even this quenchless love within

"Turned to foul fires to light me into sin!—

"Thou pitiest me—I knew thou wouldst—that sky

"Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I.

"The fiend, who lured me hither—hist! come near.

"Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear—

"Told me such things—oh! with such devilish art.

"As would have ruined even a holier heart—

"Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere,

"Where blest at length, if I but served him here,

"I should for ever live in thy dear sight.

"And drink from those pure eyes eternal light.

"Think, think how lost, how maddened I must be,

"To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!

"Thou weep'st for me—do weep—oh, that I durst

"Kiss off that tear! but, no—these lips are curst,

"They must not touch thee;—one divine caress,

"One blessed moment of forgetfulness

"I've had within those arms and that shall lie

"Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die;

"The last of joy's last relics here below,

"The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,

"My heart has treasured from affection's spring,

"To soothe and cool its deadly withering!

"But thou—yes, thou must go—for ever go;

"This place is not for thee—for thee! oh no,

"Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain

"Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again!

"Enough that Guilt reigns here—that hearts once good

"Now tainted, chilled and broken are his food.—

"Enough that we are parted—that there rolls

"A flood of headlong fate between our souls,

"Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee

"As hell from heaven to all eternity!"

"ZELICA, ZELICA!" the youth exclaimed.

In all the tortures of a mind inflamed

Almost to madness—"by that sacred Heaven,

"Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven,

"As thou art here—here, in this writhing heart,

"All sinful, wild, and ruined as thou art!

"By the remembrance of our once pure love,

"Which like a church-yard light still burns above

"The grave of our lost souls—which guilt in thee

"Cannot extinguish nor despair in me!

"I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence—

"If thou hast yet one spark of innocence,

"Fly with me from this place"—

"With thee! oh bliss!

"'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.

"What! take the lost one with thee?—let her rove

"By thy dear side, as in those days of love,

"When we were both so happy, both so pure—

"Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure

"For the sunk heart, 'tis this—day after day

"To be the blest companion of thy way;

"To hear thy angel eloquence—to see

"Those virtuous eyes for ever turned on me;

"And in their light re-chastened silently,

"Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,

"Grow pure by being purely shone upon!

"And thou wilt pray for me—I know thou wilt—

"At the dim vesper hour when thoughts of guilt

"Come heaviest o'er the heart thou'lt lift thine eyes

"Full of sweet tears unto the darkening skies

"And plead for me with Heaven till I can dare

"To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;

"Till the good angels when they see me cling

"For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing,

"Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven,

"And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven!

"Oh yes, I'll fly with thee"—

Scarce had she said

These breathless words when a voice deep and dread

As that of MONKER waking up the dead

From their first sleep—so startling 'twas to both—

Rang thro' the casement near, "Thy oath! thy oath!"

Oh Heaven, the ghastliness of that Maid's look!—

"'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook

Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes,

Tho' thro' the casement, now naught but the skies

And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before—

"'Tis he, and I am his—all, all is o'er—

"Go—fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too—

"My oath, my oath, oh God! 'tis all too true,

"True as the worm in this cold heart it is—

"I am MOKANNA'S bride—his, AZIM, his—

"The Dead stood round us while I spoke that vow,

"Their blue lips echoed it—I hear them now!

"Their eyes glared on me, while I pledged that bowl,

"'Twas burning blood—I feel it in my soul!

"And the Veiled Bridegroom—hist! I've seen to-night

"What angels know not of—so foul a sight.

"So horrible—oh! never may'st thou see

"What there lies hid from all but hell and me!

"But I must hence—off, off—I am not thine,

"Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine—

"Hold me not—ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever

"Hearts cannot sunder hands?—thus, then—for ever!"

With all that strength which madness lends the weak

She flung away his arm; and with a shriek

Whose sound tho' be should linger out more years

Than wretch e'er told can never leave his ears—

Flew up thro' that long avenue of light,

Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night,

Across the sun; and soon was out of sight!

LALLA ROOKH could think of nothing all day but the misery of those two young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon FADLAPEEN. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that AZIM must have been just such a youth as FERAMORZ; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often like the sunny apples of Istkahar[88] is all sweetness on one side and all bitterness on the other.

As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. LALLA ROOKH was all curiosity;—when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often in the dusk of the evening the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,)[89] informed the princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain.

LALLA ROOKH as they moved on more than once looked back to observe how the young Hindoo's lamp proceeded; and while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now for the first time felt that shade of melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden's heart as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of FERAMOKZ, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion that she waked from the revery in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from FADLADEEN upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a Princess everything was arranged as on the preceding evening and all listened with eagerness while the story was thus continued:—

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way,

Where all was waste and silent yesterday?

This City of War which, in a few short hours,

Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers[90]

Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,

Built the high pillared halls of CHILMINAR,[91]

Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see,

This world of tents and domes and sunbright armory:—

Princely pavilions screened by many a fold

Of crimson cloth and topt with balls of gold:—

Steeds with their housings of rich silver spun,

Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun;

And camels tufted o'er with Yemen's shells[92]

Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells!

But yester-eve, so motionless around,

So mute was this wide plain that not a sound

But the far torrent or the locust bird[93]

Hunting among thickets could be heard;—

Yet hark! what discords now of every kind,

Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind;

The neigh of cavalry;—the tinkling throngs

Of laden camels and their drivers' songs;—

Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze

Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;—[94]

War-music bursting out from time to time

With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime;—

Or in the pause when harsher sounds are mute,

The mellow breathings of some horn or flute,

That far off, broken by the eagle note

Of the Abyssinian trumpet, swell and float.[95]

Who leads this mighty army?—ask ye "who?"

And mark ye not those banners of dark hue,

The Night and Shadow, over yonder tent?—[96]

It is the CALIPH'S glorious armament.

Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms,

That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms,

And of his host of infidels who hurled

Defiance fierce at Islam and the world,[97]

Tho' worn with Grecian warfare, and behind

The veils of his bright Palace calm reclined,

Yet brooked he not such blasphemy should stain,

Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign;

But having sworn upon the Holy Grave[98]

To conquer or to perish, once more gave

His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,

And with an army nurst in victories,

Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun

His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun.

Ne'er did the march of MAHADI display

Such pomp before;—not even when on his way

To MECCA'S Temple, when both land and sea

Were spoiled to feed the Pilgrim's luxury;[99]

When round him mid the burning sands he saw

Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,

And cooled his thirsty lip beneath the glow

Of MECCA'S sun with urns of Persian snow:—

Nor e'er did armament more grand than that

Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.

First, in the van, the People of the Rock[100]

On their light mountain steeds of royal stock:[101]

Then chieftains of DAMASCUS proud to see

The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry;—[102]

Men from the regions near the VOLGA'S mouth

Mixt with the rude, black archers of the South;

And Indian lancers in white-turbaned ranks

From the far SINDE or ATTOCK'S sacred banks,

With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,[103]

And many a mace-armed Moor and Midsea islander.

Nor less in number tho' more new and rude

In warfare's school was the vast multitude

That, fired by zeal or by oppression wronged,

Round the white standard of the impostor thronged.

Beside his thousands of Believers—blind,

Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind—

Many who felt and more who feared to feel

The bloody Islamite's converting steel,

Flockt to his banner;—Chiefs of the UZBEK race,

Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[104]

TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth

From the aromatic pastures of the North;

Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,—and those[105]

Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows

Of HINDOO KOSH, in stormy freedom bred,

Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed.

But none of all who owned the Chief's command

Rushed to that battle-field with bolder hand

Or sterner hate than IRAN'S outlawed men,

Her Worshippers of Fire—all panting then[106]

For vengeance on the accursed Saracen;

Vengeance at last for their dear country spurned,

Her throne usurpt, and her bright shrines o'erturned.

From YEZD'S eternal Mansion of the Fire[107]

Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire:

From BADKU and those fountains of blue flame

That burn into the CASPIAN, fierce they came,[108]

Careless for what or whom the blow was sped,

So vengeance triumpht and their tyrants bled.

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host

That high in air their motley banners tost

Around the Prophet-Chief—all eyes still bent

Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went,

That beacon thro' the battle's stormy flood,

That rainbow of the field whose showers were blood!

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set

And risen again and found them grappling yet;

While streams of carnage in his noontide blaze,

Smoke up to Heaven—hot as that crimson haze

By which the prostrate Caravan is awed[109]

In the red Desert when the wind's abroad.

"Oh, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,—

"Thrones for the living—Heaven for him who falls!"—

"On, brave avengers, on," MOKANNA cries,

"And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!"

Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day—

They clash—they strive—the CALIPH'S troops give way!

MOKANNA'S self plucks the black Banner down,

And now the Orient World's Imperial crown

Is just within his grasp—when, hark, that shout!

Some hand hath checkt the flying Moslem's rout;

And now they turn, they rally—at their head

A warrior, (like those angel youths who led,

In glorious panoply of Heaven's own mail,

The Champions of the Faith thro BEDER'S vale,)[110]

Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives,

Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives

At once the multitudinous torrent back—

While hope and courage kindle in his track;

And at each step his bloody falchion makes

Terrible vistas thro' which victory breaks!

In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight,

Stands like the red moon on some stormy night

Among the fugitive clouds that hurrying by

Leave only her unshaken in the sky—

In vain he yells his desperate curses out,

Deals death promiscuously to all about,

To foes that charge and coward friends that fly,

And seems of all the Great Archenemy.

The panic spreads—"A miracle!" throughout

The Moslem ranks, "a miracle!" they shout,

All gazing on that youth whose coming seems

A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams;

And every sword, true as o'er billows dim

The needle tracks the lode-star, following him!

Right towards MOKANNA now he cleaves his path,

Impatient cleaves as tho' the bolt of wrath

He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst

From weaker heads and souls but half way curst,

To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst!

But vain his speed—tho', in that hour of blood,

Had all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stood

With swords o'fire ready like fate to fall,

MOKANNA'S soul would have defied them all;

Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong

For human force, hurries even him along;

In vain he struggles mid the wedged array

Of flying thousands—he is borne away;

And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows,

In this forced flight, is—murdering as he goes!

As a grim tiger whom the torrent's might

Surprises in some parched ravine at night,

Turns even in drowning on the wretched flocks

Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks,

And, to the last, devouring on his way,

Bloodies the stream lie hath not power to stay.

"Alla illa Alla!"—the glad shout renew—

"Alla Akbar"—the Caliph's in MEROU.[111]

Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets,

And light your shrines and chant your ziraleets.[112]

The swords of God have triumpht—on his throne

Your Caliph sits and the veiled Chief hath flown.

Who does not envy that young warrior now

To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow,

In all the graceful gratitude of power,

For his throne's safety in that perilous hour?

Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaim

Of thousands heralding to heaven his name—

Mid all those holier harmonies of fame

Which sound along the path of virtuous souls,

Like music round a planet as it rolls,—

He turns away—coldly, as if some gloom

Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume;—

Some sightless grief upon whose blasted gaze

Tho' glory's light may play, in vain it plays.

Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief,

Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief!

A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break.

Or warm or brighten,—Like that Syrian Lake[113]

Upon whose surface morn and summer shed

Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!—

Hearts there have been o'er which this weight of woe

Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow;

But thine, lost youth! was sudden—over thee

It broke at once, when all seemed ecstasy;

When Hope lookt up and saw the gloomy Past

Melt into splendor and Bliss dawn at last—

'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly blown

This mortal blight of misery came down;

Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart

Were checkt—like fount-drops, frozen as they start—

And there like them cold, sunless relics hang,

Each fixt and chilled into a lasting pang.

One sole desire, one passion now remains

To keep life's fever still within his veins,

Vengeance!—dire vengeance on the wretch who cast

O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast.

For this, when rumors reached him in his flight

Far, far away, after that fatal night,—

Rumors of armies thronging to the attack

Of the Veiled Chief,—for this he winged him back,

Fleet as the Vulture speeds to flags unfurled,

And when all hope seemed desperate, wildly hurled

Himself into the scale and saved a world.

For this he still lives on, careless of all

The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall;

For this alone exists—like lightning-fire,

To speed one bolt of vengeance and expire!

But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives;

With a small band of desperate fugitives,

The last sole stubborn fragment left unriven

Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven,

He gained MEROU—breathed a short curse of blood

O'er his lost throne—then past the JIHON'S flood,[114]

And gathering all whose madness of belief

Still saw a Saviour in their down-fallen Chief,

Raised the white banner within NEKSHEB'S gates,[115]

And there, untamed, the approaching conqueror waits.

Of all his Haram, all that busy hive,

With music and with sweets sparkling alive,

He took but one, the partner of his flight,

One—not for love—not for her beauty's light—

No, ZELICA stood withering midst the gay.

Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday

From the Alma tree and dies, while overhead

To-day's young flower is springing in its stead.[116]

Oh, not for love—the deepest Damned must be

Touched with Heaven's glory ere such fiends as he

Can feel one glimpse of Love's divinity.

But no, she is his victim; there lie all

Her charms for him-charms that can never pall,

As long as hell within his heart can stir,

Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her.

To work an angel's ruin,—to behold

As white a page as Virtue e'er unrolled

Blacken beneath his touch into a scroll

Of damning sins, sealed with a burning soul—

This is his triumph; this the joy accurst,

That ranks him among demons all but first:

This gives the victim that before him lies

Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes,

A light like that with which hellfire illumes

The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes!

But other tasks now wait him—tasks that need

All the deep daringness of thought and deed

With which the Divs have gifted him—for mark,[117]

Over yon plains which night had else made dark,

Those lanterns countless as the winged lights

That spangle INDIA'S field on showery nights,—[118]

Far as their formidable gleams they shed,

The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread,

Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line

And thence in nearer circles till they shine

Among the founts and groves o'er which the town

In all its armed magnificence looks down.

Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements

MOKANNA views that multitude of tents;

Nay, smiles to think that, tho' entoiled, beset,

Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;—

That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay,

Even thus a match for myriads such as they.

"Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel's wing,

"Who brushed the thousands of the Assyrian King[119]

"To darkness in a moment that I might

"People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night!

"But come what may, let who will grasp the throne,

"Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan;

"Let who will torture him, Priest—Caliph—King—

"Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring

"With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave,—

"Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave!"

Thus, to himself—but to the scanty train

Still left around him, a far different strain:—

"Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown

"I bear from Heaven whose light nor blood shall drown

"Nor shadow of earth eclipse;—before whose gems

"The paly pomp of this world's diadems,

"The crown of GERASHID. the pillared throne

"Of PARVIZ[120] and the heron crest that shone[121]

"Magnificent o'er ALI'S beauteous eyes.[122]

"Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies:

"Warriors, rejoice—the port to which we've past

"O'er Destiny's dark wave beams out at last!

"Victory's our own—'tis written in that Book

"Upon whose leaves none but the angels look,

"That ISLAM'S sceptre shall beneath the power

"Of her great foe fall broken in that hour

"When the moon's mighty orb before all eyes

"From NEKSHEB'S Holy Well portentously shall rise!

"Now turn and see!"—They turned, and, as he spoke,

A sudden splendor all around them broke,

And they beheld an orb, ample and bright,

Rise from the Holy Well and cast its light[123]

Round the rich city and the plain for miles,—

Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles

Of many a dome and fair-roofed imaret

As autumn suns shed round them when they set.

Instant from all who saw the illusive sign

A murmur broke—"Miraculous! divine!"

The Gheber bowed, thinking his idol star

Had waked, and burst impatient thro' the bar

Of midnight to inflame him to the war;

While he of MOUSSA'S creed saw in that ray

The glorious Light which in his freedom's day

Had rested on the Ark, and now again[124]

Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain.

"To victory!" is at once the cry of all—

Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call;

But instant the huge gates are flung aside,

And forth like a diminutive mountain-tide

Into the boundless sea they speed their course

Right on into the MOSLEM'S mighty force.

The watchmen of the camp,—who in their rounds

Had paused and even forgot the punctual sounds

Of the small drum with which they count the night,[125]

To gaze upon that supernatural light,—

Now sink beneath an unexpected arm,

And in a death-groan give their last alarm.

"On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen[126]

"Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean;

"There rests the CALIPH—speed—one lucky lance

"May now achieve mankind's deliverance."

Desperate the die—such as they only cast

Who venture for a world and stake their last.

But Fate's no longer with him—blade for blade

Springs up to meet them thro' the glimmering shade,

And as the clash is heard new legions soon

Pour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[127]

To the shrill timbrel's summons,—till at length

The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength.

And back to NEKSHEB'S gates covering the plain

With random slaughter drives the adventurous train;

Among the last of whom the Silver Veil

Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail

Of some tost vessel on a stormy night

Catching the tempest's momentary light!

And hath not this brought the proud spirit low!

Nor dashed his brow nor checkt his daring? No.

Tho' half the wretches whom at night he led

To thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead,

Yet morning hears him with unshrinking crest.

Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest;—

And they believe him!—oh, the lover may

Distrust that look which steals his soul away;—

The babe may cease to think that it can play

With Heaven's rainbow;—alchymists may doubt

The shining gold their crucible gives out;

But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast

To some dear falsehood hugs it to the last.

And well the Impostor knew all lures and arts,

That LUCIFER e'er taught to tangle hearts;

Nor, mid these last bold workings of his plot

Against men's souls, is ZELICA forgot.

Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason been

Awake, thro' half the horrors thou hast seen,

Thou never couldst have borne it—Death had come

At once and taken thy wrung spirit home.

But 'twas not so—a torpor, a suspense

Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense

And passionate struggles of that fearful night,

When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight:

And tho' at times a gleam of frenzy broke,—

As thro' some dull volcano's veil of smoke

Ominous flashings now and then will start,

Which show the fire's still busy at its heart;

Yet was she mostly wrapt in solemn gloom,—

Not such as AZIM'S, brooding o'er its doom

And calm without as is the brow of death

While busy worms are gnawing underneath—

But in a blank and pulseless torpor free

From thought or pain, a sealed-up apathy

Which left her oft with scarce one living thrill

The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will.

Again, as in MEROU, he had her deckt

Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect;

And led her glittering forth before the eyes

Of his rude train as to a sacrifice,—

Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride

Of the fierce NILE, when, deckt in all the pride

Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[128]

And while the wretched maid hung down her head,

And stood as one just risen from the dead

Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell

His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell

Possest her now,—and from that darkened trance

Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance.

Or if at times goaded by guilty shame,

Her soul was roused and words of wildness came,

Instant the bold blasphemer would translate

Her ravings into oracles of fate,

Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes

And call her shrieks the language of the skies!

But vain at length his arts—despair is seen

Gathering around; and famine comes to glean

All that the sword had left unreaped;—in vain

At morn and eve across the northern plain

He looks impatient for the promised spears

Of the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers;

They come not—while his fierce beleaguerers pour

Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[129]

And horrible as new;—javelins, that fly[130]

Enwreathed with smoky flames thro' the dark sky,

And red-hot globes that opening as they mount

Discharge as from a kindled Naphtha fount[131]

Showers of consuming fire o'er all below;

Looking as thro' the illumined night they go

Like those wild birds that by the Magians oft[132]

At festivals of fire were sent aloft

Into the air with blazing fagots tied

To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide.

All night the groans of wretches who expire

In agony beneath these darts of fire

Ring thro' the city—while descending o'er

Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,—

Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold,

Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled,—

Its beauteous marble baths whose idle jets.

Now gush with blood,—and its tall minarets

That late have stood up in the evening glare

Of the red sun, unhallowed by a prayer;—

O'er each in turn the dreadful flame-bolts fall,

And death and conflagration throughout all

The desolate city hold high festival!

MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;—

One sting at parting and his grasp is o'er,

"What! drooping now?"—thus, with unblushing cheek,

He hails the few who yet can hear him speak,

Of all those famished slaves around him lying,

And by the light of blazing temples dying;

"What!—drooping now!—now, when at length we press

"Home o'er the very threshold of success;

"When ALLA from our ranks hath thinned away

"Those grosser branches that kept out his ray

"Of favor from us and we stand at length

"Heirs of his light and children of his strength,

"The chosen few who shall survive the fall

"Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all!

"Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are,

"All faith in him who was your Light, your Star?

"Have you forgot the eye of glory hid

"Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid

"Could like a sun-stroke of the desert wither

"Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither?

"Long have its lightnings slept—too long—but now

"All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brow!

"To-night—yes, sainted men! this very night,

"I bid you all to a fair festal rite,

"Where—having deep refreshed each weary limb

"With viands such as feast Heaven's cherubim

"And kindled up your souls now sunk and dim

"With that pure wine the Dark-eyed Maids above

"Keep, sealed with precious musk, for those they love,—[133]

"I will myself uncurtain in your sight

"The wonders of this brow's ineffable light;

"Then lead you forth and with a wink disperse

"Yon myriads howling thro' the universe!"

Eager they listen—while each accent darts

New life into their chilled and hope-sick hearts;

Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies

To him upon the stake who drinks and dies!

Wildly they point their lances to the light

Of the fast sinking sun, and shout "To-night!"—

"To-night," their Chief re-echoes in a voice

Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice.

Deluded victims!—never hath this earth

Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth.

Here, to the few whose iron frames had stood

This racking waste of famine and of blood,

Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout

Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out:—

There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire,

Danced like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre

Among the dead and dying strewed around;—

While some pale wretch lookt on and from his wound

Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled,

In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head!

'Twas more than midnight now—a fearful pause

Had followed the long shouts, the wild applause,

That lately from those Royal Gardens burst,

Where the veiled demon held his feast accurst,

When ZELICA, alas, poor ruined heart,

In every horror doomed to bear its part!—

Was bidden to the banquet by a slave,

Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave,

Grew black, as tho' the shadows of the grave

Compast him round and ere he could repeat

His message thro', fell lifeless at her feet!

Shuddering she went—a soul-felt pang of fear

A presage that her own dark doom was near,

Roused every feeling and brought Reason back

Once more to writhe her last upon the rack.

All round seemed tranquil even the foe had ceased

As if aware of that demoniac feast

His fiery bolts; and tho' the heavens looked red,

'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread.

But hark—she stops—she listens—dreadful tone!

'Tis her Tormentor's laugh—and now, a groan,

A long death-groan comes with it—can this be

The place of mirth, the bower of revelry?

She enters—Holy ALLA, what a sight

Was there before her! By the glimmering light

Of the pale dawn, mixt with the flare of brands

That round lay burning dropt from lifeless hands,

She saw the board in splendid mockery spread,

Rich censers breathing—garlands overhead—

The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaft

All gold and gems, but—what had been the draught?

Oh! who need ask that saw those livid guests,

With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts,

Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare,

As if they sought but saw no mercy there;

As if they felt, tho' poison racked them thro',

Remorse the deadlier torment of the two!

While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train

Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain

Would have met death with transport by his side,

Here mute and helpless gasped;—but as they died

Lookt horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain,

And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain.

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare,

The stony look of horror and despair,

Which some of these expiring victims cast

Upon their souls' tormentor to the last;

Upon that mocking Fiend whose Veil now raised,

Showed them as in death's agony they gazed,

Not the long promised light, the brow whose beaming

Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming,

But features horribler than Hell e'er traced

On its own brood;—no Demon of the Waste,[134]

No church-yard Ghoul caught lingering in the light

Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight

With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those

The Impostor now in grinning mockery shows:—

"There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star—

"Ye would be dupes and victims and ye are.

"Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill

"Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still?

"Swear that the burning death ye feel within

"Is but the trance with which Heaven's joys begin:

"That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced

"Even monstrous men, is—after God's own taste;

"And that—but see!—ere I have half-way said

"My greetings thro', the uncourteous souls are fled.

"Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die,

"If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.—

"Ha, my young bride!—'tis well—take thou thy seat;

"Nay come—no shuddering—didst thou never meet

"The Dead before?—they graced our wedding, sweet;

"And these, my guests to-night, have brimmed so true

"Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too.

"But—how is this?—all empty? all drunk up?

"Hot lips have been before thee in the cup,

"Young bride,—yet stay—one precious drop remains,

"Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;—

"Here, drink—and should thy lover's conquering arms

"Speed hither ere thy lip lose all its charms,

"Give him but half this venom in thy kiss,

"And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss!

"For, me—I too must die—but not like these

"Vile rankling things to fester in the breeze;

"To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown,

"With all death's grimness added to its own,

"And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes

"Of slaves, exclaiming, 'There his Godship lies!'

"No—cursed race—since first my soul drew breath,

"They've been my dupes and shall be even in death.

"Thou seest yon cistern in the shade—'tis filled

"With burning drugs for this last hour distilled;

"There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame—

"Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame!—

"There perish, all—ere pulse of thine shall fail—

"Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale.

"So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave,

"Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;—

"That I've but vanished from this earth awhile,

"To come again with bright, unshrouded smile!

"So shall they build me altars in their zeal,

"Where knaves shall minister and fools shall kneel;

"Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell,

"Written in blood—and Bigotry may swell

"The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell!

"So shall my banner thro' long ages be

"The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy;—

"Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA'S name,

"And tho' I die my spirit still the same

"Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife,

"And guilt and blood that were its bliss in life.

"But hark! their battering engine shakes the wall—

"Why, let it shake—thus I can brave them all.

"No trace of me shall greet them when they come,

"And I can trust thy faith, for—thou'lt be dumb.

"Now mark how readily a wretch like me

"In one bold plunge commences Deity!"

He sprung and sunk as the last words were said—

Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head,

And ZELICA was left—within the ring

Of those wide walls the only living thing;

The only wretched one still curst with breath

In all that frightful wilderness of death!

More like some bloodless ghost—such as they tell,

In the Lone Cities of the Silent dwell,[135]

And there unseen of all but ALLA sit

Each by its own pale carcass watching it.

But morn is up and a fresh warfare stirs

Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers.

Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent

By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent;

And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent

From high balistas and the shielded throng

Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along,

All speak the impatient Islamite's intent

To try, at length, if tower and battlement

And bastioned wall be not less hard to win,

Less tough to break down than the hearts within.

First he, in impatience and in toil is

The burning AZIM—oh! could he but see

The impostor once alive within his grasp,

Not the gaunt lion's hug nor boa's clasp

Could match thy gripe of vengeance or keep pace

With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace!

Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls;

Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,

But, still no breach—"Once more one mighty swing

"Of all your beams, together thundering!"

There—the wall shakes—the shouting troops exult,

"Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult

"Right on that spot and NEKSHEB is our own!"

'Tis done—the battlements come crashing down,

And the huge wall by that stroke riven in two

Yawning like some old crater rent anew,

Shows the dim, desolate city smoking thro'.

But strange! no sign of life—naught living seen

Above, below—what can this stillness mean?

A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes—

"In thro' the breach," impetuous AZIM cries;

But the cool CALIPH fearful of some wile

In this blank stillness checks the troops awhile.—

Just then a figure with slow step advanced

Forth from the ruined walls and as there glanced

A sunbeam over it all eyes could see

The well-known Silver Veil!—"'Tis He, 'tis He,

"MOKANNA and alone!" they shout around;

Young AZIM from his steed springs to the ground—

"Mine, Holy Caliph! mine," he cries, "the task

"To crush yon daring wretch—'tis all I ask."

Eager he darts to meet the demon foe

Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow

And falteringly comes, till they are near;

Then with a bound rushes on AZIM'S spear,

And casting off the Veil in falling shows—

Oh!—'tis his ZELICA'S life-blood that flows!

"I meant not, AZIM," soothingly she said,

As on his trembling arm she leaned her head,

And looking in his face saw anguish there

Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear—

"I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this:—

"Tho' death with thee thus tasted is a bliss

"Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know

"How oft I've prayed to God I might die so!

"But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow;—

"To linger on were maddening—and I thought

"If once that Veil—nay, look not on it—caught

"The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be

"Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly.

"But this is sweeter—oh! believe me, yes—

"I would not change this sad, but dear caress.

"This death within thy arms I would not give

"For the most smiling life the happiest live!

"All that stood dark and drear before the eye

"Of my strayed soul is passing swiftly by;

"A light comes o'er me from those looks of love,

"Like the first dawn of mercy from above;

"And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven,

"Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven!

"But live, my AZIM;—oh! to call thee mine

"Thus once again! my AZIM—dream divine!

"Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet

"Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet,

"Oh, live to pray for her—to bend the knee

"Morning and night before that Deity

"To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain,

"As thine are, AZIM, never breathed in vain,—

"And pray that He may pardon her,—may take

"Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake,

"And naught remembering but her love to thee,

"Make her all thine, all His, eternally!

"Go to those happy fields where first we twined

"Our youthful hearts together—every wind

"That meets thee there fresh from the well-known flowers

"Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours

"Back to thy soul and thou mayst feel again

"For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then.

"So shall thy orisons like dew that flies

"To Heaven upon the morning's sunshine rise

"With all love's earliest ardor to the skies!

"And should they—but, alas, my senses fail—

"Oh for one minute!—should thy prayers prevail—

"If pardoned souls may from that World of Bliss

"Reveal their joy to those they love in this—

"I'll come to thee—in some sweet dream—and tell—

"Oh Heaven—I die—dear love! farewell, farewell."

Time fleeted—years on years had past away,

And few of those who on that mournful day

Had stood with pity in their eyes to see

The maiden's death and the youth's agony,

Were living still—when, by a rustic grave,

Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave,

An aged man who had grown aged there

By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer,

For the last time knelt down—and tho' the shade

Of death hung darkening over him there played

A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek,

That brightened even Death—like the last streak

Of intense glory on the horizon's brim,

When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim.

His soul had seen a Vision while he slept;

She for whose spirit he had prayed and wept

So many years had come to him all drest

In angel smiles and told him she was blest!

For this the old man breathed his thanks and died.—

And there upon the banks of that loved tide,

He and his ZELICA sleep side by side.

The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of course impossible.[136] In the next place, the elephant laden with his fine antique porcelain,[137] had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:—an irreparable loss, as many of the vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose.

"In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, "to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever"—-"My good FADLADEEN!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will I have no doubt be abundantly edifying without any further waste of your valuable erudition."—"If that be all," replied the critic,—evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him—"if that be all that is required the matter is easily despatched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which few recovered and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill-favored gentleman with a veil over his face;—a young lady whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise;—and a youth in one of those hideous Bokharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. "From such materials," said he, "what can be expected?—after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies in a set speech whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires. This you will allow is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory!) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling."

With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;—it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's [138] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were unpardonable;—for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;—

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

"What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities?"—He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus:—

"Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:—so far from it indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him."

Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavilion—to one heart perhaps too dangerously welcome;—but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided. Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient;—the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;—while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone—and Love knew why—persisted in being delighted with all she had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.—"Many like me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed for ever!"—that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the air and never touches the earth:[139]—it is only once in many ages a Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for ever:[140]—but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man of the Sea, upon his back!"[141]—FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment.

But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his mistress's hair to be Cámalatá by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.[142] As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, [143] or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost,—the young Poet in whose eyes she appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. "It is," said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, "in a lighter and humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:—

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

One morn a Peri at the gate

Of Eden stood disconsolate;

And as she listened to the Springs

Of Life within like music flowing

And caught the light upon her wings

Thro' the half-open portal glowing,

She wept to think her recreant race

Should e'er have lost that glorious place!

"How happy," exclaimed this child of air,

"Are the holy Spirits who wander there

"Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;

"Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea

"And the stars themselves have flowers for me,

"One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all!

"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE

"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[144]

"And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall;

"Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY

And the golden floods that thitherward stray,[145]

Yet—oh, 'tis only the Blest can say

How the waters of Heaven outshine them all!

"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,

From world to luminous world as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall:

Take all the pleasures of all the spheres

And multiply each thro' endless years

One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"

The glorious Angel who was keeping

The gates of Light beheld her weeping,

And as he nearer drew and listened

To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened

Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden's fountain when it lies

On the blue flower which—Bramins say—

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[146]

"Nymph of a fair but erring line!"

Gently he said—"One hope is thine.

'Tis written in the Book of Fate,

The Peri yet may be forgiven

Who brings to this Eternal gate

The Gift that is most dear to Heaven!

Go seek it and redeem thy sin—

'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in."

Rapidly as comets run

To the embraces of the Sun;—

Fleeter than the starry brands

Flung at night from angel hands[147]

At those dark and daring sprites

Who would climb the empyreal heights,

Down the blue vault the PERI flies,

And lighted earthward by a glance

That just then broke from morning's eyes,

Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse.

But whither shall the Spirit go

To find this gift for Heaven;—"I know

The wealth," she cries, "of every urn

In which unnumbered rubies burn

Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:[148]

I know where the Isles of Perfume are[149]

Many a fathom down in the sea,

To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[150]

I know too where the Genii hid

The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,[151]

"With Life's elixir sparkling high—

"But gifts like these are not for the sky.

"Where was there ever a gem that shone

"Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne?

"And the Drops of Life—oh! what would they be

"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"

While thus she mused her pinions fanned

The air of that sweet Indian land

Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads

O'er coral rocks and amber beds,[152]

Whose mountains pregnant by the beam

Of the warm sun with diamonds teem,

Whose rivulets are like rich brides,

Lovely, with gold beneath their tides,

Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice

Might be a Peri's Paradise!

But crimson now her rivers ran

With human blood—the smell of death

Came reeking from those spicy bowers,

And man the sacrifice of man

Mingled his taint with every breath

Upwafted from the innocent flowers.

Land of the Sun! what foot invades

Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades—

Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones,

Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?[153]

'Tis He of GAZNA[154], fierce in wrath

He comes and INDIA'S diadems

Lie scattered in his ruinous path.-

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,

Torn from the violated necks

Of many a young and loved Sultana;[155]

Maidens within their pure Zenana,

Priests in the very fane he slaughters,

And chokes up with the glittering wrecks

Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

Downward the PERI turns her gaze,

And thro' the war-field's bloody haze

Beholds a youthful warrior stand

Alone beside his native river,—

The red blade broken in his hand

And the last arrow in his quiver.

"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share

"The trophies and the crowns I bear!"

Silent that youthful warrior stood—

Silent he pointed to the flood

All crimson with his country's blood,

Then sent his last remaining dart,

For answer, to the Invader's heart.

False flew the shaft tho' pointed well;

The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!—

Yet marked the PERI where he lay,

And when the rush of war was past

Swiftly descending on a ray

Of morning light she caught the last—

Last glorious drop his heart had shed

Before its free-born spirit fled!

"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,

"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.

"Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil

"On the field of warfare, blood like this

"For Liberty shed so holy is,

"It would not stain the purest rill

"That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!

"Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere

"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear,

"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws

"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"

"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave

The gift into his radiant hand,

"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave

"Who die thus for their native Land.—

"But see—alas! the crystal bar

"Of Eden moves not—holier far

"Than even this drop the boon must be

"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted,

Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains[156]

Far to the South the PERI lighted

And sleeked her plumage at the fountains

Of that Egyptian tide whose birth

Is hidden from the sons of earth

Deep in those solitary woods

Where oft the Genii of the Floods

Dance round the cradle of their Nile

And hail the new-born Giant's smile.[157]

Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves

Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,[158]

The exiled Spirit sighing roves

And now hangs listening to the doves

In warm ROSETTA'S vale;[159] now loves

To watch the moonlight on the wings

Of the white pelicans that break

The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake.[160]

'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright

Never did mortal eye behold!

Who could have thought that saw this night

Those valleys and their fruits of gold

Basking in Heaven's serenest light,

Those groups of lovely date-trees bending

Languidly their leaf-crowned heads,

Like youthful maids, when sleep descending

Warns them to their silken beds,[161]

Those virgin lilies all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake

That they may rise more fresh and bright,

When their beloved Sun's awake,

Those ruined shrines and towers that seem

The relics of a splendid dream,

Amid whose fairy loneliness

Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,—

Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting,

Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,)

Some purple-winged Sultana sitting[162]

Upon a column motionless

And glittering like an Idol bird!—

Who could have thought that there, even there,

Amid those scenes so still and fair,

The Demon of the Plague hath cast

From his hot wing a deadlier blast,

More mortal far than ever came

From the red Desert's sands of flame!

So quick that every living thing

Of human shape touched by his wing,

Like plants, where the Simoom hath past

At once falls black and withering!

The sun went down on many a brow

Which, full of bloom and freshness then,

Is rankling in the pest-house now

And ne'er will feel that sun again,

And, oh! to see the unburied heaps

On which the lonely moonlight sleeps—

The very vultures turn away,

And sicken at so foul a prey!

Only the fierce hyaena stalks[163]

Throughout the city's desolate walks[164]

At midnight and his carnage plies:—

Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets

The glaring of those large blue eyes

Amid the darkness of the streets!

"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit,

"Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall—

"Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit,

"But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!"

She wept—the air grew pure and clear

Around her as the bright drops ran,

For there's a magic in each tear

Such kindly Spirits weep for man!

Just then beneath some orange trees

Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze

Were wantoning together, free,

Like age at play with infancy—

Beneath that fresh and springing bower

Close by the Lake she heard the moan

Of one who at this silent hour,

Had thither stolen to die alone.

One who in life where'er he moved,

Drew after him the hearts of many;

Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved,

Dies here unseen, unwept by any!

None to watch near him—none to slake

The fire that in his bosom lies,

With even a sprinkle from that lake

Which shines so cool before his eyes.

No voice well known thro' many a day

To speak the last, the parting word

Which when all other sounds decay

Is still like distant music heard;—

That tender farewell on the shore

Of this rude world when all is o'er,

Which cheers the spirit ere its bark

Puts off into the unknown Dark.

Deserted youth! one thought alone

Shed joy around his soul in death

That she whom he for years had known,

And loved and might have called his own

Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,—

Safe in her father's princely halls

Where the cool airs from fountain falls,

Freshly perfumed by many a brand

Of the sweet wood from India's land,

Were pure as she whose brow they fanned.

But see—who yonder comes by stealth,

This melancholy bower to seek,

Like a young envoy sent by Health

With rosy gifts upon her cheek?

'Tis she—far off, thro' moonlight dim

He knew his own betrothed bride,

She who would rather die with him

Than live to gain the world beside!—

Her arms are round her lover now,

His livid cheek to hers she presses

And dips to bind his burning brow

In the cool lake her loosened tresses.

Ah! once, how little did he think

An hour would come when he should shrink

With horror from that dear embrace,

Those gentle arms that were to him

Holy as is the cradling place

Of Eden's infant cherubim!

And now he yields—now turns away,

Shuddering as if the venom lay

All in those proffered lips alone—

Those lips that then so fearless grown

Never until that instant came

Near his unasked or without shame.

"Oh! let me only breathe the air.

"The blessed air, that's breathed by thee,

"And whether on its wings it bear

"Healing or death 'tis sweet to me!

"There—drink my tears while yet they fall—

"Would that my bosom's blood were balm,

"And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all

"To give thy brow one minute's calm.

"Nay, turn not from me that dear face—

"Am I not thine—thy own loved bride—

"The one, the chosen one, whose place

"In life or death is by thy side?

"Thinkst thou that she whose only light,

"In this dim world from thee hath shone

"Could bear the long, the cheerless night

"That must be hers when thou art gone?

"That I can live and let thee go,

"Who art my life itself?—No, no—

"When the stem dies the leaf that grew

"Out of its heart must perish too!

"Then turn to me, my own love, turn,

"Before, like thee, I fade and burn;

"Cling to these yet cool lips and share

"The last pure life that lingers there!"

She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp

In charnel airs or cavern-damp,

So quickly do his baleful sighs

Quench all the sweet light of her eyes,

One struggle—and his pain is past—

Her lover is no longer living!

One kiss the maiden gives, one last,

Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stole

The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul,

As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast—

"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest

"In balmier airs than ever yet stirred

"The enchanted pile of that lonely bird

"Who sings at the last his own death-lay[165]

"And in music and perfume dies away!"

Thus saying, from her lips she spread

Unearthly breathings thro' the place

And shook her sparkling wreath and shed

Such lustre o'er each paly face

That like two lovely saints they seemed,

Upon the eve of doomsday taken

From their dim graves in ordor sleeping;

While that benevolent PERI beamed

Like their good angel calmly keeping

Watch o'er them till their souls would waken.

But morn is blushing in the sky;

Again the PERI soars above,

Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh

Of pure, self-sacrificing love.

High throbbed her heart with hope elate

The Elysian palm she soon shall win.

For the bright Spirit at the gate

Smiled as she gave that offering in;

And she already hears the trees

Of Eden with their crystal bells

Ringing in that ambrosial breeze

That from the throne of ALLA swells;

And she can see the starry bowls

That lie around that lucid lake

Upon whose banks admitted Souls

Their first sweet draught of glory take![166]

But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain—

Again the Fates forbade, again

The immortal barrier closed—"Not yet,"

The Angel said as with regret

He shut from her that glimpse of glory—

"True was the maiden, and her story

"Written in light o'er ALLA'S head

"By seraph eyes shall long be read.

"But, PERI, see—the crystal bar

"Of Eden moves not—holier far

"Than even this sigh the boon must be

"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee."

Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses[167]

Softly the light of Eve reposes,

And like a glory the broad sun

Hangs over sainted LEBANON,

Whose head in wintry grandeur towers

And whitens with eternal sleet,

While summer in a vale of flowers

Is sleeping rosy at his feet.

To one who looked from upper air

O'er all the enchanted regions there,

How beauteous must have been the glow,

The life, the sparkling from below!

Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks

Of golden melons on their banks,

More golden where the sunlight falls;—

Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[168]

Of ruined shrines, busy and bright

As they were all alive with light;

And yet more splendid numerous flocks

Of pigeons settling on the rocks

With their rich restless wings that gleam

Variously in the crimson beam

Of the warm West,—as if inlaid

With brilliants from the mine or made

Of tearless rainbows such as span

The unclouded skies of PERISTAN.

And then the mingling sounds that come,

Of shepherd's ancient reed,[169] with hum

Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,[170]

Banqueting thro' the flowery vales;

And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine

And woods so full of nightingales.[171]

But naught can charm the luckless PERI;

Her soul is sad—her wings are weary—

Joyless she sees the Sun look down

On that great Temple once his own,[172]

Whose lonely columns stand sublime,

Flinging their shadows from on high

Like dials which the Wizard Time

Had raised to count his ages by!

Yet haply there may lie concealed

Beneath those Chambers of the Sun

Some amulet of gems, annealed

In upper fires, some tablet sealed

With the great name of SOLOMON,

Which spelled by her illumined eyes,

May teach her where beneath the moon,

In earth or ocean, lies the boon,

The charm, that can restore so soon

An erring Spirit to the skies.

Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;—

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,

Nor have the golden bowers of Even

In the rich West begun to wither;—

When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging

Slowly she sees a child at play,

Among the rosy wild flowers singing,

As rosy and as wild as they;

Chasing with eager hands and eyes

The beautiful blue damsel-flies,[173]

That fluttered round the jasmine stems

Like winged flowers or flying gems:—

And near the boy, who tired with play

Now nestling mid the roses lay.

She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed and on the brink

Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink.

Then swift his haggard brow he turned

To the fair child who fearless sat,

Tho' never yet hath day-beam burned

Upon a brow more fierce than that,—

Sullenly fierce—a mixture dire

Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire;

In which the PERI'S eye could read

Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;

The ruined maid—the shrine profaned—

Oaths broken—and the threshold stained

With blood of guests!—there written, all,

Black as the damning drops that fall

From the denouncing Angel's pen,

Ere Mercy weeps them out again.

Yet tranquil now that man of crime

(As if the balmy evening time

Softened his spirit) looked and lay,

Watching the rosy infant's play:—

Tho' still whene'er his eye by chance

Fell on the boy's, its lucid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,

As torches that have burnt all night

Tho' some impure and godless rite,

Encounter morning's glorious rays.

But, hark! the vesper call to prayer,

As slow the orb of daylight sets,

Is rising sweetly on the air.

From SYRIA'S thousand minarets!

The boy has started from the bed

Of flowers where he had laid his head.

And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels[174] with his forehead to the south

Lisping the eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth,

And looking while his hands and eyes

Are lifted to the glowing skies

Like a stray babe of Paradise

Just lighted on that flowery plain

And seeking for its home again.

Oh! 'twas a sight—that Heaven—that child—

A scene, which might have well beguiled

Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man

Reclining there—while memory ran

O'er many a year of guilt and strife,

Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,

Nor found one sunny resting-place.

Nor brought him back one branch of grace.

"There was a time," he said, in mild,

Heart-humbled tones—"thou blessed child!

"When young and haply pure as thou

"I looked and prayed like thee—but now"—

He hung his head—each nobler aim

And hope and feeling which had slept

From boyhood's hour that instant came

Fresh o'er him and he wept—he wept!

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence!

In whose benign, redeeming flow

Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know.

"There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon

"Falls thro' the withering airs of June

"Upon EGYPT'S land,[175] of so healing a power,

"So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour

"That drop descends contagion dies

"And health reanimates earth and skies!—

"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin,

"The precious tears of repentance fall?

"Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within

"One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!"

And now—behold him kneeling there

By the child's side, in humble prayer,

While the same sunbeam shines upon

The guilty and the guiltless one.

And hymns of joy proclaim thro' Heaven

The triumph of a Soul Forgiven!

'Twas when the golden orb had set,

While on their knees they lingered yet,

There fell a light more lovely far

Than ever came from sun or star,

Upon the tear that, warm and meek,

Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek.

To mortal eye this light might seem

A northern flash or meteor beam—

But well the enraptured PERI knew

'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw

From Heaven's gate to hail that tear

Her harbinger of glory near!

"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done—

"The Gates are past and Heaven is won!

"Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am—

"To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad

"Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,[176]

"And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD!

"Farewell ye odors of Earth that die

"Passing away like a lover's sigh;—

"My feast is now of the Tooba Tree[177]

"Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!

"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone

"In my fairy wreath so bright an' brief;—

"Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown

"To the lote-tree springing by ALLA'S throne[178]

"Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf.

"Joy, joy for ever.—my task is done—

"The Gates are past and Heaven is won!"

"And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eternal architecture of Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind, FADLADEEN kept by him for rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand Streams of Basra.[179] They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success;—as warriors have been punished even after gaining a victory because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What then was to be said to those who failed? to those who presumed as in the present lamentable instance to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder sons of song without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to negligence;—who like them flung the jereed[180] carelessly, but not, like them, to the mark;—"and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, "contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they allow themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who is ingenious enough to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest and loosest drawers of Masulipatam!"

It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could not help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the skies,—a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's "radiant hand" he professed himself at a loss to discover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. "But, in short," said he, "it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous,—puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan Hospital[181] for Sick Insects should undertake."

In vain did LALLA ROOKH try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, reminding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges by crushing and trampling upon them,[182] that severity often extinguished every chance of the perfection which it demanded, and that after all perfection was like the Mountain of the Talisman,—no one had ever yet reached its summit.[183] Neither these gentle axioms nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated could lower for one instant the elevation of FADLADEEN'S eyebrows or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of FADLADEEN:—he carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of religion, and though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal was the same too in either pursuit, whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters, worshippers of cows, or writers of epics.

They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless where Death appeared to share equal honors with Heaven would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of LALLA ROOKH, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire possession of her already. She was here met by messengers despatched from Cashmere who informed her that the King had arrived in the Valley and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were then making in the Saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intelligence,—which to a bride whose heart was free and light would have brought only images of affection and pleasure,—convinced her that her peace was gone for ever and that she was in love, irretrievably in love, with young FERAMORZ. The veil had fallen off in which this passion at first disguises itself, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. FERAMORZ, too,—what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers;—if, notwithstanding her rank and the modest homage he always paid to it, even he should have yielded to the influence of those long and happy interviews where music, poetry, the delightful scenes of nature,—all had tended to bring their hearts close together and to waken by every means that too ready passion which often like the young of the desert-bird is warmed into life by the eyes alone! [184] She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as unhappy, and this however painful she was resolved to adopt. FERAMORZ must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it while the clew was yet in her hand would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least be pure, and she must only endeavor to forget the short dream of happiness she had enjoyed,—like that Arabian shepherd who in wandering into the wilderness caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim and then lost them again for ever!

The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic manner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey and never encamped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard here rode in splendid cavalcade through the city and distributed the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares which cast forth showers of confectionery among the people, while the artisans in chariots[185] adorned with tinsel and flying streamers exhibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays of life and pageantry among the palaces and domes and gilded minarets of Lahore made the city altogether like a place of enchantment;—particularly on the day when LALLA ROOKH set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and girls who kept waving over their heads plates of gold and silver flowers,[186] and then threw them around to be gathered by the populace.

For many days after their departure from Lahore a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. LALLA ROOKH, who had intended to make illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to feign indisposition was unnecessary;— FADLADEEN felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled and was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed memory!) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees[187] a least as far as the mountains of Cashmere;—while the Ladies who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feathers and listen to FADLADEEN seemed heartily weary of the life they led and in spite of all the Great Chamberlain's criticisms were so tasteless as to wish for the poet again. One evening as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night the Princess who for the freer enjoyment of the air had mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves and a voice which she but too well knew singing the following words:—

Tell me not of joys above,

If that world can give no bliss,

Truer, happier than the Love

Which enslaves our souls in this.

Tell me not of Houris' eyes;—

Far from me their dangerous glow.

If those looks that light the skies

Wound like some that burn below.

Who that feels what Love is here,

All its falsehood—all its pain—

Would, for even Elysium's sphere,

Risk the fatal dream again?

Who that midst a desert's heat

Sees the waters fade away

Would not rather die than meet

Streams again as false as they?

The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered went to LALLA ROOKH'S heart;—and as she reluctantly rode on she could not help feeling it to be a sad but still sweet certainty that FERAMORZ was to the full as enamored and miserable as herself.

The place where they encamped that evening was the first delightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo temples and planted with the most graceful trees of the East, where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fan-like foliage of the Palmyra,—that favorite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[188]. In the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by small mango-trees on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus,[189] while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful- looking tower which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of all that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. LALLA ROOKH guessed in vain, and the all- pretending FADLADEEN who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the Ladies suggested that perhaps FERAMORZ could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching his native mountains and this tower might perhaps be a relic of some of those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam dawned upon it. The Chamberlain who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him was by no means pleased with this officious reference, and the Princess too was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but before either of them could speak a slave was despatched for FERAMORZ, who in a very few minutes made his appearance before them—looking so pale and unhappy in LALLA ROOKH'S eyes that she repented already of her cruelty in having so long excluded him.

That venerable tower he told them was the remains of an ancient Fire- Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who many hundred years since had fled hither from the Arab conquerors, preferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful struggles which had been made by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own Fire in the Burning Field at Bakou when suppressed in one place they had but broken out with fresh flame in another; and as a native of Cashmere, of that fair and Holy Valley which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers[190] and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the sufferings of the persecuted Ghebers which every monument like this before them but tended more powerfully to awaken.

It was the first time that FERAMORZ had ever ventured upon so much prose before FADLADEEN and it may easily be conceived what effect such prose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan- hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, "Bigoted conquerors!—sympathy with Fire-worshippers!"[191]— while FERAMORZ happy to take advantage of this almost speechless horror of the Chamberlain proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story connected with the events of one of those struggles of the brave Fire-worshippers against their Arab masters, which if the evening was not too far advanced he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for LALLA ROOKH to refuse;—he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled she thought like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted; and while FADLADEEN sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-worshippers:

THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.

'Tis moonlight over OMAN'S SEA;[192]

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles

Bask in the night-beam beauteously

And her blue waters sleep in smiles.

'Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA'S[193] walls,

And through her EMIR'S porphyry halls

Where some hours since was heard the swell

Of trumpets and the clash of zel[194]

Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;—

The peaceful sun whom better suits

The music of the bulbul's nest

Or the light touch of lovers' lutes

To sing him to his golden rest.

All husht—there's not a breeze in motion;

The shore is silent as the ocean.

If zephyrs come, so light they come.

Nor leaf is stirred nor wave is driven;—

The wind-tower on the EMIR'S dome[195]

Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps

Calm, while a nation round him weeps,

While curses load the air he breathes

And falchions from unnumbered sheaths

Are starting to avenge the shame

His race hath brought on IRAN'S[196]name.

Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike

Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike;

One of that saintly, murderous brood,

To carnage and the Koran given,

Who think thro' unbelievers' blood

Lies their directest path to heaven,—

One who will pause and kneel unshod

In the warm blood his hand hath poured,

To mutter o'er some text of God

Engraven on his reeking sword;[197]

Nay, who can coolly note the line,

The letter of those words divine,

To which his blade with searching art

Had sunk into its victim's heart!

Just ALLA! what must be thy look

When such a wretch before thee stands

Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,—

Turning the leaves with bloodstained hands,

And wresting from its page sublime

His creed of lust and hate and crime;—

Even as those bees of TREBIZOND,

Which from the sunniest flowers that glad

With their pure smile the gardens round,

Draw venom forth that drives men mad.[198]

Never did fierce Arabia send

A satrap forth more direly great;

Never was IRAN doomed to bend

Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight.

Her throne had fallen—her pride was crusht—

Her sons were willing slaves, nor blusht,

In their own land,—no more their own,—

To crouch beneath a stranger's throne.

Her towers where MITHRA once had burned.

To Moslem shrines—oh shame!—were turned,

Where slaves converted by the sword,

Their mean, apostate worship poured,

And curst the faith their sires adored.

Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill,

O'er all this wreck high buoyant still

With hope and vengeance;—hearts that yet—

Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays

They've treasured from the sun that's set,—

Beam all the light of long-lost days!

And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow

To second all such hearts can dare:

As he shall know, well, dearly know.

Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there,

Tranquil as if his spirit lay

Becalmed in Heaven's approving ray.

Sleep on—for purer eyes than thine

Those waves are husht, those planets shine;

Sleep on and be thy rest unmoved

By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;—

None but the loving and the loved

Should be awake at this sweet hour.

And see—where high above those rocks

That o'er the deep their shadows fling.

Yon turret stands;—where ebon locks,

As glossy as the heron's wing

Upon the turban of a king,[199]

Hang from the lattice, long and wild,—

'Tis she, that EMIR'S blooming child,

All truth and tenderness and grace,

Tho' born of such ungentle race;—

An image of Youth's radiant Fountain

Springing in a desolate mountain![200]

Oh what a pure and sacred thing

Is Beauty curtained from the sight

Of the gross world, illumining

One only mansion with her light!

Unseen by man's disturbing eye,—

The flower that blooms beneath the sea,

Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie

Hid in more chaste obscurity.

So, HINDA. have thy face and mind,

Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined.

And oh! what transport for a lover

To lift the veil that shades them o'er!—

Like those who all at once discover

In the lone deep some fairy shore

Where mortal never trod before,

And sleep and wake in scented airs

No lip had ever breathed but theirs.

Beautiful are the maids that glide

On summer-eves thro' YEMEN'S[201] dales,

And bright the glancing looks they hide

Behind their litters' roseate veils;—

And brides as delicate and fair

As the white jasmine flowers they wear,

Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime,

Who lulled in cool kiosk or bower,[202]

Before their mirrors count the time[203]

And grow still lovelier every hour.

But never yet hath bride or maid

In ARABY'S gay Haram smiled.

Whose boasted brightness would not fade

Before AL HASSAN'S blooming child.

Light as the angel shapes that bless

An infant's dream, yet not the less

Rich in all woman's loveliness;—

With eyes so pure that from their ray

Dark Vice would turn abasht away,

Blinded like serpents when they gaze

Upon the emerald's virgin blaze;[204]—

Yet filled with all youth's sweet desires,

Mingling the meek and vestal fires

Of other worlds with all the bliss,

The fond, weak tenderness of this:

A soul too more than half divine,

Where, thro' some shades of earthly feeling,

Religion's softened glories shine,

Like light thro' summer foliage stealing,

Shedding a glow of such mild hue,

So warm and yet so shadowy too,

As makes the very darkness there

More beautiful than light elsewhere.

Such is the maid who at this hour

Hath risen from her restless sleep

And sits alone in that high bower,

Watching the still and shining deep.

Ah! 'twas not thus,—with tearful eyes

And beating heart,—she used to gaze

On the magnificent earth and skies,

In her own land, in happier days.

Why looks she now so anxious down

Among those rocks whose rugged frown

Blackens the mirror of the deep?

Whom waits she all this lonely night?

Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep,

For man to scale that turret's height!—

So deemed at least her thoughtful sire,

When high, to catch the cool night-air

After the day-beam's withering fire,[205]

He built her bower of freshness there,

And had it deckt with costliest skill

And fondly thought it safe as fair:—

Think, reverend dreamer! think so still,

Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;—

Love, all defying Love, who sees

No charm in trophies won with ease;—

Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss

Are plucked on Danger's precipice!

Bolder than they who dare not dive

For pearls but when the sea's at rest,

Love, in the tempest most alive,

Hath ever held that pearl the best

He finds beneath the stormiest water.

Yes, ARABY'S unrivalled daughter,

Tho' high that tower, that rock-way rude,

There's one who but to kiss thy cheek

Would climb the untrodden solitude

Of ARARAT'S tremendous peak,[206]

And think its steeps, tho' dark and dread,

Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led!

Even now thou seest the flashing spray,

That lights his oar's impatient way;—

Even now thou hearest the sudden shock

Of his swift bark against the rock,

And stretchest down thy arms of snow

As if to lift him from below!

Like her to whom at dead of night

The bridegroom with his locks of light[207]

Came in the flush of love and pride

And scaled the terrace of his bride;—

When as she saw him rashly spring,

And midway up in danger cling,

She flung him down her long black hair,

Exclaiming breathless, "There, love, there!"

And scarce did manlier nerve uphold

The hero ZAL in that fond hour,

Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold,

Now climbs the rocks to HINDA'S bower.

See-light as up their granite steeps

The rock-goats of ARABIA clamber,[208]

Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,

And now is in the maiden's chamber.

She loves—but knows not whom she loves,

Nor what his race, nor whence he came;—

Like one who meets in Indian groves

Some beauteous bird without a name;

Brought by the last ambrosial breeze

From isles in the undiscovered seas,

To show his plumage for a day

To wondering eyes and wing away!

Will he thus fly—her nameless lover?

ALLA forbid! 'twas by a moon

As fair as this, while singing over

Some ditty to her soft Kanoon,

Alone, at this same witching hour,

She first beheld his radiant eyes

Gleam thro' the lattice of the bower,

Where nightly now they mix their sighs;

And thought some spirit of the air

(For what could waft a mortal there?)

Was pausing on his moonlight way

To listen to her lonely lay!

This fancy ne'er hath left her mind:

And—tho', when terror's swoon had past,

She saw a youth of mortal kind

Before her in obeisance cast,—

Yet often since, when he hath spoken

Strange, awful words,—and gleams have broken

From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,

Oh! she hath feared her soul was given

To some unhallowed child of air,

Some erring spirit cast from heaven,

Like those angelic youths of old

Who burned for maids of mortal mould,

Bewildered left the glorious skies

And lost their heaven for woman's eyes.

Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he

Who woos thy young simplicity;

But one of earth's impassioned sons,

As warm in love, as fierce in ire

As the best heart whose current runs

Full of the Day-God's living fire.

But quenched to-night that ardor seems,

And pale his cheek and sunk his brow;—

Never before but in her dreams

Had she beheld him pale as now:

And those were dreams of troubled sleep

From which 'twas joy to wake and weep;

Visions that will not be forgot,

But sadden every waking scene

Like warning ghosts that leave the spot

All withered where they once have been.

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,

Of her own gentle voice afraid,

So long had they in silence stood

Looking upon that tranquil flood—

"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile

"To-night upon yon leafy isle!

"Oft, in my fancy's wanderings,

"I've wisht that little isle had wings,

"And we within its fairy bowers

"Were wafted off to seas unknown,

"Where not a pulse should beat but ours,

"And we might live, love, die, alone!

"Far from the cruel and the cold,—

"Where the bright eyes of angels only

"Should come around us to behold

"A paradise so pure and lonely.

"Would this be world enough for thee?"—

Playful she turned that he might see

The passing smile her cheek put on;

But when she markt how mournfully

His eye met hers, that smile was gone;

And bursting into heart-felt tears,

"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears,

"My dreams have boded all too right—

"We part—for ever part—tonight!

"I knew, I knew it could not last—

"'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past!

"Oh! ever thus from childhood's hour

"I've seen my fondest hopes decay;

"I never loved a tree or flower,

"But 'twas the first to fade away.

"I never nurst a dear gazelle

"To glad me with its soft black eye

"But when it came to know me well

"And love me it was sure to die I

"Now too—the joy most like divine

"Of all I ever dreamt or knew,

"To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—

"Oh misery! must I lose that too?

"Yet go—on peril's brink we meet;—

"Those frightful rocks—that treacherous sea—

"No, never come again—tho' sweet,

"Tho' heaven, it may be death to thee.

"Farewell—and blessings on thy way,

"Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger!

"Better to sit and watch that ray

"And think thee safe, tho' far away,

"Than have thee near me and in danger!"

"Danger!—oh, tempt me not to boast"—

The youth exclaimed—"thou little know'st

"What he can brave, who, born and nurst

"In Danger's paths, has dared her worst;

"Upon whose ear the signal-word

"Of strife and death is hourly breaking;

"Who sleeps with head upon the sword

"His fevered hand must grasp in waking.

"Danger!"—

"Say on—thou fearest not then,

"And we may meet—oft meet again?"

"Oh! look not so—beneath the skies

"I now fear nothing but those eyes.

"If aught on earth could charm or force

"My spirit from its destined course,—

"If aught could make this soul forget

"The bond to which its seal is set,

"'Twould be those eyes;—they, only they,

"Could melt that sacred seal away!

"But no—'tis fixt—my awful doom

"Is fixt—on this side of the tomb

"We meet no more;—why, why did Heaven

"Mingle two souls that earth has riven,

"Has rent asunder wide as ours?

"Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers

"Of Light and Darkness may combine.

"As I be linkt with thee or thine!

"Thy Father"—

"Holy ALLA save

"His gray head from that lightning glance!

"Thou knowest him not—he loves the brave;

"Nor lives there under heaven's expanse

"One who would prize, would worship thee

"And thy bold spirit more than he.

"Oft when in childhood I have played

"With the bright falchion by his side,

"I've heard him swear his lisping maid

"In time should be a warrior's bride.

"And still whene'er at Haram hours

"I take him cool sherbets and flowers,

"He tells me when in playful mood

"A hero shall my bridegroom be,

"Since maids are best in battle wooed,

"And won with shouts of victory!

"Nay, turn not from me—thou alone

"Art formed to make both hearts thy own.

"Go—join his sacred ranks—thou knowest

"The unholy strife these Persians wage:—

"Good Heaven, that frown!—even now thou glowest

"With more than mortal warrior's rage.

"Haste to the camp by morning's light,

"And when that sword is raised in fight,

"Oh still remember, Love and I

"Beneath its shadow trembling lie!

"One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire,

"Those impious Ghebers whom my sire

"Abhors"—

"Hold, hold—thy words are death"—

The stranger cried as wild he flung

His mantle back and showed beneath

The Gheber belt that round him clung.[209]—

"Here, maiden, look—weep—blush to see

"All that thy sire abhors in me!

"Yes—I am of that impious race,

"Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even,

"Hail their Creator's dwelling-place

"Among the living lights of heaven:[210]

"Yes—I am of that outcast few,

"To IRAN and to vengeance true,

"Who curse the hour your Arabs came

"To desolate our shrines of flame,

"And swear before God's burning eye

"To break our country's chains or die!

"Thy bigot sire,—nay, tremble not,—

"He who gave birth to those dear eyes

"With me is sacred as the spot

"From which our fires of worship rise!

"But know—'twas he I sought that night,

"When from my watch-boat on the sea

"I caught this turret's glimmering light,

"And up the rude rocks desperately

"Rusht to my prey—thou knowest the rest—

"I climbed the gory vulture's nest,

"And found a trembling dove within;—

"Thine, thine the victory—thine the sin—

"If Love hath made one thought his own,

"That Vengeance claims first—last—alone!

"Oh? had we never, never met,

"Or could this heart even now forget

"How linkt, how blest we might have been,

"Had fate not frowned so dark between!

"Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,

"In neighboring valleys had we dwelt,

"Thro' the same fields in childhood played,

"At the same kindling altar knelt,—

"Then, then, while all those nameless ties

"In which the charm of Country lies

"Had round our hearts been hourly spun,

"Till IRAN'S cause and thine were one;

"While in thy lute's awakening sigh

"I heard the voice of days gone by,

"And saw in every smile of thine

"Returning hours of glory shine;—

"While the wronged Spirit of our Land

"Lived, lookt, and spoke her wrongs thro' thee,—

"God! who could then this sword withstand?

"Its very flash were victory!

"But now—estranged, divorced for ever,

"Far as the grasp of Fate can sever;

"Our only ties what love has wove,—

"In faith, friends, country, sundered wide;

"And then, then only, true to love,

"When false to all that's dear beside!

"Thy father IKAN'S deadliest foe—

"Thyself, perhaps, even now—but no—

"Hate never looked so lovely yet!

No—sacred to thy soul will be

"The land of him who could forget

"All but that bleeding land for thee.

"When other eyes shall see, unmoved,

"Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,

"Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved.

"And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!

"But look"—

With sudden start he turned

And pointed to the distant wave

Where lights like charnel meteors burned

Bluely as o'er some seaman's grave;

And fiery darts at intervals[211]

Flew up all sparkling from the main

As if each star that nightly falls

Were shooting back to heaven again.

"My signal lights!—I must away—

"Both, both are ruined, if I stay.

"Farewell—sweet life! thou clingest in vain—

"Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!"

Fiercely he broke away, nor stopt,

Nor lookt—but from the lattice dropt

Down mid the pointed crags beneath

As if he fled from love to death.

While pale and mute young HINDA stood,

Nor moved till in the silent flood

A momentary plunge below

Startled her from her trance of woe;—

Shrieking she to the lattice flew,

"I come—I come—if in that tide

"Thou sleepest to-night, I'll sleep there too

"In death's cold wedlock by thy side.

"Oh! I would ask no happier bed

"Than the chill wave my love lies under:—

"Sweeter to rest together dead,

"Far sweeter than to live asunder!"

But no—their hour is not yet come—

Again she sees his pinnace fly,

Wafting him fleetly to his home,

Where'er that ill-starred home may lie;

And calm and smooth it seemed to win

Its moonlight way before the wind

As if it bore all peace within

Nor left one breaking heart behind!

The Princess whose heart was sad enough already could have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies however were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet's theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.[212]

Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;— through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where in more than one place the awful signal of the bamboo staff[213] with the white flag at its top reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen and encamped under one of those holy trees whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade some pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain[214] which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here while as usual the Princess sat listening anxiously with FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side the young Poet leaning against a branch of the tree thus continued his story:—

The morn hath risen clear and calm

And o'er the Green Sea[215] palely shines,

Revealing BAHREIN'S groves of palm

And lighting KISHMA'S amber vines.

Fresh smell the shores of ARABY,

While breezes from the Indian sea

Blow round SELAMA'S[216] sainted cape

And curl the shining flood beneath,—

Whose waves are rich with many a grape

And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath

Which pious seamen as they past

Had toward that holy headland cast—

Oblations to the Genii there

For gentle skies and breezes fair!

The nightingale now bends her flight[217]

From the high trees where all the night

She sung so sweet with none to listen;

And hides her from the morning star

Where thickets of pomegranate glisten

In the clear dawn,—bespangled o'er

With dew whose night-drops would not stain

The best and brightest scimitar[218]

That ever youthful Sultan wore

On the first morning of his reign.

And see—the Sun himself!—on wings

Of glory up the East he springs.

Angel of Light! who from the time

Those heavens began their march sublime,

Hath first of all the starry choir

Trod in his Maker's steps of fire!

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere,

When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turned

To meet that eye where'er it burned?—

When from the banks of BENDEMEER

To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND

Thy temples flamed o'er all the land?

Where are they? ask the shades of them

Who, on CADESSIA'S[219] bloody plains,

Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem

From IRAN'S broken diadem,

And bind her ancient faith in chains:—

Ask the poor exile cast alone

On foreign shores, unloved, unknown,

Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,

Or on the snowy Mossian mountains,

Far from his beauteous land of dates,

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains:

Yet happier so than if he trod

His own beloved but blighted sod

Beneath a despot stranger's nod!—

Oh, he would rather houseless roam

Where Freedom and his God may lead,

Than be the sleekest slave at home

That crouches to the conqueror's creed!

Is IRAN'S pride then gone for ever,

Quenched with the flame in MITHRA'S caves?

No—she has sons that never—never—

Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves

While heaven has light or earth has graves;—

Spirits of fire that brood not long

But flash resentment back for wrong;

And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds

Of vengeance ripen into deeds,

Till in some treacherous hour of calm

They burst like ZEILAN'S giant palm[220]

Whose buds fly open with a sound

That shakes the pigmy forests round!

Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tower,

And had he reached thy slumbering breast

Had taught thee in a Gheber's power

How safe even tyrant heads may rest—

Is one of many, brave as he,

Who loathe thy haughty race and thee;

Who tho' they knew the strife is vain,

Who tho' they know the riven chain

Snaps but to enter in the heart

Of him who rends its links apart,

Yet dare the issue,—blest to be

Even for one bleeding moment free

And die in pangs of liberty!

Thou knowest them well—'tis some moons since

Thy turbaned troops and blood-red flags,

Thou satrap of a bigot Prince,

Have swarmed among these Green Sea crags;

Yet here, even here, a sacred band

Ay, in the portal of that land

Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own,

Their spears across thy path have thrown;

Here—ere the winds half winged thee o'er—

Rebellion braved thee from the shore.

Rebellion! foul, dishonoring word,

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained

The holiest cause that tongue or sword

Of mortal ever lost or gained.

How many a spirit born to bless

Hath sunk beneath that withering name,

Whom but a day's, an hour's success

Had wafted to eternal fame!

As exhalations when they burst

From the warm earth if chilled at first,

If checkt in soaring from the plain

Darken to fogs and sink again;—

But if they once triumphant spread

Their wings above the mountain-head,

Become enthroned in upper air,

And turn to sun-bright glories there!

And who is he that wields the might

Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink,

Before whose sabre's dazzling light[221]

The eyes of YEMEN'S warriors wink?

Who comes embowered in the spears

Of KERMAN'S hardy mountaineers?

Those mountaineers that truest, last,

Cling to their country's ancient rites,

As if that God whose eyelids cast

Their closing gleam on IRAN'S heights,

Among her snowy mountains threw

The last light of his worship too!

'Tis HAFED—name of fear, whose sound

Chills like the muttering of a charm!—

Shout but that awful name around,

And palsy shakes the manliest arm.

'Tis HAFED, most accurst and dire

(So rankt by Moslem hate and ire)

Of all the rebel Sons of Fire;

Of whose malign, tremendous power

The Arabs at their mid-watch hour

Such tales of fearful wonder tell

That each affrighted sentinel

Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes,

Lest HAFED in the midst should rise!

A man, they say, of monstrous birth,

A mingled race of flame and earth,

Sprung from those old, enchanted kings[222]

Who in their fairy helms of yore

A feather from the mystic wings

Of the Simoorgh resistless wore;

And gifted by the Fiends of Fire,

Who groaned to see their shrines expire

With charms that all in vain withstood

Would drown the Koran's light in blood!

Such were the tales that won belief,

And such the coloring Fancy gave

To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,—

One who, no more than mortal brave,

Fought for the land his soul adored,

For happy homes and altars free,—

His only talisman, the sword,

His only spell-word, Liberty!

One of that ancient hero line,

Along whose glorious current shine

Names that have sanctified their blood:

As LEBANON'S small mountain-flood

Is rendered holy by the ranks

Of sainted cedars on its banks.[223]

'Twas not for him to crouch the knee

Tamely to Moslem tyranny;

'Twas not for him whose soul was cast

In the bright mould of ages past,

Whose melancholy spirit fed

With all the glories of the dead

Tho' framed for IRAN'S happiest years.

Was born among her chains and tears!—

'Twas not for him to swell the crowd

Of slavish heads, that shrinking bowed

Before the Moslem as he past

Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast—

No—far he fled—indignant fled

The pageant of his country's shame;

While every tear her children shed

Fell on his soul like drops of flame;

And as a lover hails the dawn

Of a first smile, so welcomed he

The sparkle of the first sword drawn

For vengeance and for liberty!

But vain was valor—vain the flower

Of KERMAN, in that deathful hour,

Against AL HASSAN'S whelming power.—

In vain they met him helm to helm

Upon the threshold of that realm

He came in bigot pomp to sway,

And with their corpses blockt his way—

In vain—for every lance they raised

Thousands around the conqueror blazed;

For every arm that lined their shore

Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,—

A bloody, bold, and countless crowd,

Before whose swarm as fast they bowed

As dates beneath the locust cloud.

There stood—but one short league away

From old HARMOZIA'S sultry bay—

A rocky mountain o'er the Sea—

Of OMAN beetling awfully;[224]

A last and solitary link

Of those stupendous chains that reach

From the broad Caspian's reedy brink

Down winding to the Green Sea beach.

Around its base the bare rocks stood

Like naked giants, in the flood

As if to guard the Gulf across;

While on its peak that braved the sky

A ruined Temple towered so high

That oft the sleeping albatross[225]

Struck the wild ruins with her wing,

And from her cloud-rockt slumbering

Started—to find man's dwelling there

In her own silent fields of air!

Beneath, terrific caverns gave

Dark welcome to each stormy wave

That dasht like midnight revellers in;—

And such the strange, mysterious din

At times throughout those caverns rolled,—

And such the fearful wonders told

Of restless sprites imprisoned there,

That bold were Moslem who would dare

At twilight hour to steer his skiff

Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.[226]

On the land side those towers sublime,

That seemed above the grasp of Time,

Were severed from the haunts of men

By a wide, deep, and wizard glen,

So fathomless, so full of gloom,

No eye could pierce the void between:

It seemed a place where Ghouls might come

With their foul banquets from the tomb

And in its caverns feed unseen.

Like distant thunder, from below

The sound of many torrents came,

Too deep for eye or ear to know

If 'twere the sea's imprisoned flow,

Or floods of ever-restless flame.

For each ravine, each rocky spire

Of that vast mountain stood on fire;[227]

And tho' for ever past the days

When God was worshipt in the blaze—

That from its lofty altar shone,—

Tho' fled the priests, the votaries gone,

Still did the mighty flame burn on,[228]

Thro' chance and change, thro' good and ill,

Like its own God's eternal will,

Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable!

Thither the vanquisht HAFED led

His little army's last remains;—

"Welcome, terrific glen!" he said,

"Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,

"Is Heaven to him who flies from chains!"

O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way known

To him and to his Chiefs alone

They crost the chasm and gained the towers;—

"This home," he cried, "at least is ours;

"Here we may bleed, unmockt by hymns

"Of Moslem triumph o'er our head;

"Here we may fall nor leave our limbs

"To quiver to the Moslem's tread.

"Stretched on this rock while vultures' beaks

"Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,

"Here—happy that no tyrant's eye

"Gloats on our torments—we may die!"—

'Twas night when to those towers they came,

And gloomily the fitful flame

That from the ruined altar broke

Glared on his features as he spoke:—

"'Tis o'er—what men could do, we've done—

"If IRAN will look tamely on

"And see her priests, her warriors driven

"Before a sensual bigot's nod,

"A wretch who shrines his lusts in heaven

"And makes a pander of his God;

"If her proud sons, her high-born souls,

"Men in whose veins—oh last disgrace!

"The blood of ZAL and RUSTAM[229] rolls.—

"If they will court this upstart race

"And turn from MITHRA'S ancient ray

"To kneel at shrines of yesterday;

"If they will crouch to IRAN'S foes,

"Why, let them—till the land's despair

"Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows

"Too vile for even the vile to bear!

"Till shame at last, long hidden, burns

"Their inmost core, and conscience turns

"Each coward tear the slave lets fall

"Back on his heart in drops of gall.

"But here at least are arms unchained

"And souls that thraldom never stained;—

"This spot at least no foot of slave

"Or satrap ever yet profaned,

"And tho' but few—tho' fast the wave

"Of life is ebbing from our veins,

"Enough for vengeance still remains.

"As panthers after set of sun

"Rush from the roots of LEBANON

"Across the dark sea-robber's way,[230]

"We'll bound upon our startled prey.

"And when some hearts that proudest swell

"Have felt our falchion's last farewell,

"When Hope's expiring throb is o'er

"And even Despair can prompt no more,

"This spot shall be the sacred grave

"Of the last few who vainly brave

"Die for the land they cannot save!"

His Chiefs stood round—each shining blade

Upon the broken altar laid—

And tho' so wild and desolate

Those courts where once the Mighty sate:

Nor longer on those mouldering towers

Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers

With which of old the Magi fed

The wandering Spirits of their Dead;[231]

Tho' neither priest nor rites were there,

Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate,[232]

Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,

Nor symbol of their worshipt planet;[233]

Yet the same God that heard their sires

Heard them while on that altar's fires

They swore the latest, holiest deed

Of the few hearts, still left to bleed,

Should be in IRAN'S injured name

To die upon that Mount of Flame—

The last of all her patriot line,

Before her last untrampled Shrine!

Brave, suffering souls! they little knew

How many a tear their injuries drew

From one meek maid, one gentle foe,

Whom love first touched with others' woe—

Whose life, as free from thought as sin,

Slept like a lake till Love threw in

His talisman and woke the tide

And spread its trembling circles wide.

Once, EMIR! thy unheeding child

Mid all this havoc bloomed and smiled,—

Tranquil as on some battle plain

The Persian lily shines and towers[234]

Before the combat's reddening stain

Hath fallen upon her golden flowers.

Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved,

While Heaven but spared the sire she loved,

Once at thy evening tales of blood

Unlistening and aloof she stood—

And oft when thou hast paced along

Thy Haram halls with furious heat,

Hast thou not curst her cheerful song,

That came across thee, calm and sweet,

Like lutes of angels touched so near

Hell's confines that the damned can hear!

Far other feelings Love hath brought—

Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,

She now has but the one dear thought,

And thinks that o'er, almost to madness!

Oft doth her sinking heart recall

His words—"for my sake weep for all;"

And bitterly as day on day

Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,

She weeps a lover snatched away

In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.

There's not a sabre meets her eye

But with his life-blood seems to swim;

There's not an arrow wings the sky

But fancy turns its point to him.

No more she brings with footsteps light

AL HASSAN's falchion for the fight;

And—had he lookt with clearer sight,

Had not the mists that ever rise

From a foul spirit dimmed his eyes—

He would have markt her shuddering frame,

When from the field of blood he came,

The faltering speech—the look estranged—

Voice, step and life and beauty changed—

He would have markt all this, and known

Such change is wrought by Love alone!

Ah! not the Love that should have blest

So young, so innocent a breast;

Not the pure, open, prosperous Love,

That, pledged on earth and sealed above,

Grows in the world's approving eyes,

In friendship's smile and home's caress,

Collecting all the heart's sweet ties

Into one knot of happiness!

No, HINDA, no,—thy fatal flame

Is nurst in silence, sorrow, shame;—

A passion without hope or pleasure,

In thy soul's darkness buried deep,

It lies like some ill-gotten treasure,—

Some idol without shrine or name,

O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep

Unholy watch while others sleep.

Seven nights have darkened OMAN'S sea,

Since last beneath the moonlight ray

She saw his light oar rapidly

Hurry her Gheber's bark away,—

And still she goes at midnight hour

To weep alone in that high bower

And watch and look along the deep

For him whose smiles first made her weep;—

But watching, weeping, all was vain,

She never saw his bark again.

The owlet's solitary cry,

The night-hawk flitting darkly by,

And oft the hateful carrion bird,

Heavily flapping his clogged wing,

Which reeked with that day's banqueting—

Was all she saw, was all she heard.

'Tis the eighth morn—AL HASSAN'S brow

Is brightened with unusual joy—

What mighty mischief glads him now,

Who never smiles but to destroy?

The sparkle upon HERKEND'S Sea,

When tost at midnight furiously,[235]

Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,

More surely than that smiling eye!

"Up, daughter, up—the KERNA'S[236] breath

"Has blown a blast would waken death,

"And yet thou sleepest—up, child, and see

"This blessed day for heaven and me,

"A day more rich in Pagan blood

"Than ever flasht o'er OMAN'S flood.

"Before another dawn shall shine,

"His head—heart—limbs—will all be mine;

"This very night his blood shall steep

"These hands all over ere I sleep!"—

"His blood!" she faintly screamed—her mind

Still singling one from all mankind—

"Yes—spite of his ravines and towers,

"HAFED, my child, this night is ours.

"Thanks to all-conquering treachery,

"Without whose aid the links accurst,

"That bind these impious slaves, would be

"Too strong for ALLA'S self to burst!

"That rebel fiend whose blade has spread

"My path with piles of Moslem dead,

"Whose baffling spells had almost driven

"Back from their course the Swords of Heaven,

"This night with all his band shall know

"How deep an Arab's steel can go,

"When God and Vengeance speed the blow.

"And—Prophet! by that holy wreath

"Thou worest on OHOD'S field of death,[237]

"I swear, for every sob that parts

"In anguish from these heathen hearts,

"A gem from PERSIA'S plundered mines

"Shall glitter on thy shrine of Shrines.

"But, ha!—she sinks—that look so wild—

"Those livid lips—my child, my child,

"This life of blood befits not thee,

"And thou must back to ARABY.

"Ne'er had I riskt thy timid sex

"In scenes that man himself might dread,

"Had I not hoped our every tread

"Would be on prostrate Persian necks—

"Curst race, they offer swords instead!

"But cheer thee, maid,—the wind that now

"Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow

"To-day shall waft thee from the shore;

"And ere a drop of this night's gore

"Have time to chill in yonder towers,

"Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!"

His bloody boast was all too true;

There lurkt one wretch among the few

Whom HAFED'S eagle eye could count

Around him on that Fiery Mount,—

One miscreant who for gold betrayed

The pathway thro' the valley's shade

To those high towers where Freedom stood

In her last hold of flame and blood.

Left on the field last dreadful night,

When sallying from their sacred height

The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,

He lay—but died not with the brave;

That sun which should have gilt his grave

Saw him a traitor and a slave;—

And while the few who thence returned

To their high rocky fortress mourned

For him among the matchless dead

They left behind on glory's bed,

He lived, and in the face of morn

Laught them and Faith and

Heaven to scorn.

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave

Whose treason like a deadly blight

Comes o'er the councils of the brave

And blasts them in their hour of might!

May Life's unblessed cup for him

Be drugged with treacheries to the brim.—

With hopes that but allure to fly,

With joys that vanish while he sips,

Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye,

But turn to ashes on the lips![238]

His country's curse, his children's shame,

Outcast of virtue, peace and fame,

May he at last with lips of flame

On the parched desert thirsting die,—

While lakes that shone in mockery nigh,[239]

Are fading off, untouched, untasted,

Like the once glorious hopes he blasted!

And when from earth his spirit flies,

Just Prophet, let the damned-one dwell

Full in the sight of Paradise

Beholding heaven and feeling hell!

LALLA ROOKH had the night before been visited by a dream which in spite of the impending fate of poor HAFED made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bidmusk had just passed over.[240] She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean where the sea-gypsies who live for ever on the water[241] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty but on coming nearer—

She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when FERAMORZ appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence of course everything else was forgotten and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;—the violet sherbets[242] were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute in the pathetic measure of Nava,[243] which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued:—

The day is lowering—stilly black

Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack,

Disperst and wild, 'twixt earth and sky

Hangs like a shattered canopy.

There's not a cloud in that blue plain

But tells of storm to come or past;—

Here flying loosely as the mane

Of a young war-horse in the blast;—

There rolled in masses dark and swelling,

As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!

While some already burst and riven

Seen melting down the verge of heaven;

As tho' the infant storm had rent

The mighty womb that gave him birth,

And having swept the firmament

Was now in fierce career for earth.

On earth 'twas yet all calm around,

A pulseless silence, dread, profound,

More awful than the tempest's sound.

The diver steered for ORMUS' bowers,

And moored his skiff till calmer hours;

The sea-birds with portentous screech

Flew fast to land;—upon the beach

The pilot oft had paused, with glance

Turned upward to that wild expanse;—

And all was boding, drear and dark

As her own soul when HINDA'S bark

Went slowly from the Persian shore.—

No music timed her parting oar,[244]

Nor friends upon the lessening strand

Lingering to wave the unseen hand

Or speak the farewell, heard no more;—

But lone, unheeded, from the bay

The vessel takes its mournful way,

Like some ill-destined bark that steers

In silence thro' the Gate of Tears.[245]

And where was stern AL HASSAN then?

Could not that saintly scourge of men

From bloodshed and devotion spare

One minute for a farewell there?

No—close within in changeful fits

Of cursing and of prayer he sits

In savage loneliness to brood

Upon the coming night of blood,—

With that keen, second-scent of death,

By which the vulture snuffs his food

In the still warm and living breath![246]

While o'er the wave his weeping daughter

Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,—

As a young bird of BABYLON,[247]

Let loose to tell of victory won,

Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstained

By the red hands that held her chained.

And does the long-left home she seeks

Light up no gladness on her cheeks?

The flowers she nurst—the well-known groves,

Where oft in dreams her spirit roves—

Once more to see her dear gazelles

Come bounding with their silver bells;

Her birds' new plumage to behold

And the gay, gleaming fishes count,

She left all filleted with gold

Shooting around their jasper fount;[248]

Her little garden mosque to see,

And once again, at evening hour,

To tell her ruby rosary

In her own sweet acacia bower.—

Can these delights that wait her now

Call up no sunshine on her brow?

No,—silent, from her train apart,—

As if even now she felt at heart

The chill of her approaching doom,—

She sits, all lovely in her gloom

As a pale Angel of the Grave;

And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave

Looks with a shudder to those towers

Where in a few short awful hours

Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run,

Foul incense for to-morrow's sun!

"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou,

"So loved, so lost, where art thou now?

"Foe—Gheber—infidel—whate'er

"The unhallowed name thou'rt doomed to bear,

"Still glorious—still to this fond heart

"Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art!

"Yes—ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes—

"If there be wrong, be crime in this,

"Let the black waves that round us roll,

"Whelm me this instant ere my soul

"Forgetting faith—home—father—all

"Before its earthly idol fall,

"Nor worship even Thyself above him—

"For, oh, so wildly do I love him,

"Thy Paradise itself were dim

"And joyless, if not shared with him!"

Her hands were claspt—her eyes upturned,

Dropping their tears like moonlight rain;

And, tho' her lip, fond raver! burned

With words of passion, bold, profane.

Yet was there light around her brow,

A holiness in those dark eyes,

Which showed,—tho' wandering earthward now,—

Her spirit's home was in the skies.

Yes—for a spirit pure as hers

Is always pure, even while it errs;

As sunshine broken in the rill

Tho' turned astray is sunshine still!

So wholly had her mind forgot

All thoughts but one she heeded not

The rising storm—the wave that cast

A moment's midnight as it past—

Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread

Of gathering tumult o'er her head—

Clasht swords and tongues that seemed to vie

With the rude riot of the sky.—

But, hark!—that war-whoop on the deck—

That crash as if each engine there,

Mast, sails and all, were gone to wreck,

Mid yells and stampings of despair!

Merciful Heaven! what can it be?

'Tis not the storm, tho' fearfully

The ship has shuddered as she rode

O'er mountain-waves—"Forgive me, God!

"Forgive me"—shrieked the maid and knelt,

Trembling all over—for she felt

As if her judgment hour was near;

While crouching round half dead with fear,

Her handmaids clung, nor breathed nor stirred—

When, hark!—a second crash—a third—

And now as if a bolt of thunder

Had riven the laboring planks asunder,

The deck falls in—what horrors then!

Blood, waves and tackle, swords and men

Come mixt together thro' the chasm,—

Some wretches in their dying spasm

Still fighting on—and some that call

"For GOD and IRAN!" as they fall!

Whose was the hand that turned away

The perils of the infuriate fray,

And snatcht her breathless from beneath

This wilderment of wreck and death?

She knew not—for a faintness came

Chill o'er her and her sinking frame

Amid the ruins of that hour

Lay like a pale and scorched flower

Beneath the red volcano's shower.

But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread

That shockt her ere her senses fled!

The yawning deck—the crowd that strove

Upon the tottering planks above—

The sail whose fragments, shivering o'er

The stragglers' heads all dasht with gore

Fluttered like bloody flags—the clash

Of sabres and the lightning's flash

Upon their blades, high tost about

Like meteor brands[249]—as if throughout

The elements one fury ran,

One general rage that left a doubt

Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man!

Once too—but no—it could not be—

'Twas fancy all—yet once she thought,

While yet her fading eyes could see

High on the ruined deck she caught

A glimpse of that unearthly form,

That glory of her soul,—even then,

Amid the whirl of wreck and storm,

Shining above his fellow-men,

As on some black and troublous night

The Star of EGYPT,[250] whose proud light

Never hath beamed on those who rest

In the White Islands of the West,

Burns thro' the storm with looks of flame

That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame.

But no—'twas but the minute's dream—

A fantasy—and ere the scream

Had half-way past her pallid lips,

A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse

Of soul and sense its darkness spread

Around her and she sunk as dead.

How calm, how beautiful comes on

The stilly hour when storms are gone,

When warring winds have died away,

And clouds beneath the glancing ray

Melt off and leave the land and sea

Sleeping in bright tranquillity,—

Fresh as if Day again were born,

Again upon the lap of Morn!—

When the light blossoms rudely torn

And scattered at the whirlwind's will,

Hang floating in the pure air still,

Filling it all with precious balm,

In gratitude for this sweet calm;—

And every drop the thundershowers

Have left upon the grass and flowers

Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem[251]

Whose liquid flame is born of them!

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,

There blow a thousand gentle airs

And each a different perfume bears,—

As if the loveliest plants and trees

Had vassal breezes of their own

To watch and wait on them alone,

And waft no other breath than theirs:

When the blue waters rise and fall,

In sleepy sunshine mantling all;

And even that swell the tempest leaves

Is like the full and silent heaves

Of lovers' hearts when newly blest,

Too newly to be quite at rest.

Such was the golden hour that broke

Upon the world when HINDA woke

From her long trance and heard around

No motion but the water's sound

Rippling against the vessel's side,

As slow it mounted o'er the tide.—

But where is she?—her eyes are dark,

Are wilder still—is this the bark,

The same, that from HARMOZIA'S bay

Bore her at morn—whose bloody way

The sea-dog trackt?—no—strange and new

Is all that meets her wondering view.

Upon a galliot's deck she lies,

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,—

No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,

Nor jasmine on her pillow laid.

But the rude litter roughly spread

With war-cloaks is her homely bed,

And shawl and sash on javelins hung

For awning o'er her head are flung.

Shuddering she lookt around—there lay

A group of warriors in the sun,

Resting their limbs, as for that day

Their ministry of death were done.

Some gazing on the drowsy sea

Lost in unconscious revery;

And some who seemed but ill to brook

That sluggish calm with many a look

To the slack sail impatient cast,

As loose it bagged around the mast.

Blest ALLA! who shall save her now?

There's not in all that warrior band

One Arab sword, one turbaned brow

From her own Faithful Moslem land.

Their garb—the leathern belt that wraps

Each yellow vest[252]—that rebel hue—

The Tartar fleece upon their caps[253]—

Yes—yes—her fears are all too true,

And Heaven hath in this dreadful hour

Abandoned her to HAFED'S power;—

HAFED, the Gheber!—at the thought

Her very heart's blood chills within;

He whom her soul was hourly taught

To loathe as some foul fiend of sin,

Some minister whom Hell had sent

To spread its blast where'er he went

And fling as o'er our earth he trod

His shadow betwixt man and God!

And she is now his captive,—thrown

In his fierce hands, alive, alone;

His the infuriate band she sees,

All infidels—all enemies!

What was the daring hope that then

Crost her like lightning, as again

With boldness that despair had lent

She darted tho' that armed crowd

A look so searching, so intent,

That even the sternest warrior bowed

Abasht, when he her glances caught,

As if he guessed whose form they sought.

But no—she sees him not—'tis gone,

The vision that before her shone

Thro' all the maze of blood and storm,

Is fled—'twas but a phantom form—

One of those passing, rainbow dreams,

Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams

Paint on the fleeting mists that roll

In trance or slumber round the soul.

But now the bark with livelier bound

Scales the blue wave—the crew's in motion.

The oars are out and with light sound

Break the bright mirror of the ocean,

Scattering its brilliant fragments round.

And now she sees—with horror sees,

Their course is toward that mountain-hold,—

Those towers that make her life-blood freeze,

Where MECCA'S godless enemies

Lie like beleaguered scorpions rolled

In their last deadly, venomous fold!

Amid the illumined land and flood

Sunless that mighty mountain stood;

Save where above its awful head,

There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red,

As 'twere the flag of destiny

Hung out to mark where death would be!

Had her bewildered mind the power

Of thought in this terrific hour,

She well might marvel where or how

Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow,

Since ne'er had Arab heard or known

Of path but thro' the glen alone.—

But every thought was lost in fear,

When, as their bounding bark drew near

The craggy base, she felt the waves

Hurry them toward those dismal caves

That from the Deep in windings pass

Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;—

And loud a voice on deck commands

To lower the mast and light the brands!—

Instantly o'er the dashing tide

Within a cavern's mouth they glide,

Gloomy as that eternal Porch

Thro' which departed spirits go:—

Not even the flare of brand and torch

Its flickering light could further throw

Than the thick flood that boiled below.

Silent they floated—as if each

Sat breathless, and too awed for speech

In that dark chasm where even sound

Seemed dark,—so sullenly around

The goblin echoes of the cave

Muttered it o'er the long black wave

As 'twere some secret of the grave!

But soft—they pause—the current turns

Beneath them from its onward track;—

Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns

The vexed tide all foaming back,

And scarce the oar's redoubled force

Can stem the eddy's whirling course;

When, hark!—some desperate foot has sprung

Among the rocks—the chain is flung—

The oars are up—the grapple clings,

And the tost bark in moorings swings.

Just then, a day-beam thro' the shade

Broke tremulous—but ere the maid

Can see from whence the brightness steals,

Upon her brow she shuddering feels

A viewless hand that promptly ties

A bandage round her burning eyes;

While the rude litter where she lies,

Uplifted by the warrior throng,

O'er the steep rocks is borne along.

Blest power of sunshine!—genial Day,

What balm, what life is in thy ray!

To feel thee is such real bliss,

That had the world no joy but this

To sit in sunshine calm and sweet.—

It were a world too exquisite

For man to leave it for the gloom,

The deep, cold shadow of the tomb.

Even HINDA, tho' she saw not where

Or whither wound the perilous road,

Yet knew by that awakening air,

Which suddenly around her glowed,

That they had risen from the darkness there,

And breathed the sunny world again!

But soon this balmy freshness fled—

For now the steepy labyrinth led

Thro' damp and gloom—mid crash of boughs,

And fall of loosened crags that rouse

The leopard from his hungry sleep,

Who starting thinks each crag a prey,

And long is heard from steep to steep

Chasing them down their thundering way!

The jackal's cry—the distant moan

Of the hyena, fierce and lone—

And that eternal saddening sound

Of torrents in the glen beneath,

As 'twere the ever-dark Profound

That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death!

All, all is fearful—even to see,

To gaze on those terrific things

She now but blindly hears, would be

Relief to her imaginings;

Since never yet was shape so dread,

But Fancy thus in darkness thrown

And by such sounds of horror fed

Could frame more dreadful of her own.

But does she dream? has Fear again

Perplext the workings of her brain,

Or did a voice, all music, then

Come from the gloom, low whispering near—

"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?"

She does not dream—all sense, all ear,

She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here."

'Twas his own voice—she could not err—

Throughout the breathing world's extent

There was but one such voice for her,

So kind, so soft, so eloquent!

Oh, sooner shall the rose of May

Mistake her own sweet nightingale,

And to some meaner minstrel's lay

Open her bosom's glowing veil,[254]

Than Love shall ever doubt a tone,

A breath of the beloved one!

Though blest mid all her ills to think

She has that one beloved near,

Whose smile tho' met on ruin's brink

Hath power to make even ruin dear,—

Yet soon this gleam of rapture crost

By fears for him is chilled and lost.

How shall the ruthless HAFED brook

That one of Gheber blood should look,

With aught but curses in his eye,

On her—a maid of ARABY—

A Moslem maid—the child of him,

Whose bloody banners' dire success

Hath left their altars cold and dim,

And their fair land a wilderness!

And worse than all that night of blood

Which comes so fast—Oh! who shall stay

The sword, that once hath tasted food

Of Persian hearts or turn its way?

What arm shall then the victim cover,

Or from her father shield her lover?

"Save him, my God!" she inly cries—

"Save him this night—and if thine eyes

"Have ever welcomed with delight

"The sinner's tears, the sacrifice

"Of sinners' hearts—guard him this night,

"And here before thy throne I swear

"From my heart's inmost core to tear

"Love, hope, remembrance, tho' they be

"Linkt with each quivering life-string there,

"And give it bleeding all to Thee!

"Let him but live,—the burning tear,

"The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear,

"Which have been all too much his own,

"Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone.

"Youth past in penitence and age

"In long and painful pilgrimage

"Shall leave no traces of the flame

"That wastes me now—nor shall his name

"E'er bless my lips but when I pray

"For his dear spirit, that away

"Casting from its angelic ray

"The eclipse of earth, he too may shine

"Redeemed, all glorious and all Thine!

"Think—think what victory to win

"One radiant soul like his from sin,

"One wandering star of virtue back

"To its own native, heavenward track!

"Let him but live, and both are Thine,

"Together Thine—for blest or crost,

"Living or dead, his doom is mine,

"And if he perish, both are lost!"

The next evening LALLA ROOKH was entreated by her Ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind;—much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[255]

FADLADEEN, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr while the Poet resumed his profane and seditious story as follows:—

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease

The leafy shores and sun-bright seas

That lay beneath that mountain's height

Had been a fair enchanting sight.

'Twas one of those ambrosial eyes

A day of storm so often leaves

At its calm setting—when the West

Opens her golden bowers of rest,

And a moist radiance from the skies

Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes

Of some meek penitent whose last

Bright hours atone for dark ones past,

And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgiven

Shine as they fall with light from heaven!

'Twas stillness all—the winds that late

Had rushed through KERMAN'S almond groves,

And shaken from her bowers of date

That cooling feast the traveller loves.[256]

Now lulled to languor scarcely curl

The Green Sea wave whose waters gleam

Limpid as if her mines of pearl

Were melted all to form the stream:

And her fair islets small and bright

With their green shores reflected there

Look like those PERI isles of light

That hang by spell-work in the air

But vainly did those glories burst

On HINDA'S dazzled eyes, when first

The bandage from her brow was taken,

And, pale and awed as those who waken

In their dark tombs—when, scowling near,

The Searchers of the Grave[257] appear.—

She shuddering turned to read her fate

In the fierce eyes that flasht around;

And saw those towers all desolate,

That o'er her head terrific frowned,

As if defying even the smile

Of that soft heaven to gild their pile.

In vain with mingled hope and fear,

She looks for him whose voice so dear

Had come, like music, to her ear,—

Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled.

And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread

That thro' her inmost bosom run,

When voices from without proclaim

"HAFED, the Chief"—and, one by one,

The warriors shout that fearful name!

He comes—the rock resounds his tread—

How shall she dare to lift her head

Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare

Not YEMEN'S boldest sons can bear?

In whose red beam, the Moslem tells,

Such rank and deadly lustre dwells

As in those hellish fires that light

The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.[258]

How shall she bear that voice's tone,

At whose loud battle-cry alone

Whole squadrons oft in panic ran,

Scattered like some vast caravan,

When stretched at evening round the well

They hear the thirsting tiger's yell.

Breathless she stands with eyes cast down

Shrinking beneath the fiery frown

Which, fancy tells her, from that brow

Is flashing o'er her fiercely now:

And shuddering as she hears the tread

Of his retiring warrior band.—

Never was pause full of dread;

Till HAFED with a trembling hand

Took hers and leaning o'er her said,

"HINDA;"—that word was all he spoke.

And 'twas enough—the shriek that broke

From her full bosom told the rest.—

Panting with terror, joy, surprise,

The maid but lifts her wandering eyes,

To hide them on her Gheber's breast!

'Tis he, 'tis he—the man of blood,

The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood,

HAFED, the demon of the fight,

Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,—

Is her own loved Gheber, mild

And glorious as when first he smiled

In her lone tower and left such beams

Of his pure eye to light her dreams,

That she believed her bower had given

Rest to some wanderer from heaven!

Moments there are, and this was one,

Snatched like a minute's gleam of sun

Amid the black Simoom's eclipse—

Or like those verdant spots that bloom

Around the crater's burning lips.

Sweetening the very edge of doom!

The past, the future—all that Fate

Can bring of dark or desperate

Around such hours but makes them cast

Intenser radiance while they last!

Even he, this youth—tho' dimmed and gone

Each Star of Hope that cheered him on—

His glories lost—his cause betrayed—

IRAN, his dear-loved country, made

A land of carcasses and slaves,

One dreary waste of chains and graves!

Himself but lingering, dead at heart,

To see the last, long struggling breath

Of Liberty's great soul depart,

Then lay him down and share her death—

Even he so sunk in wretchedness

With doom still darker gathering o'er him,

Yet, in this moment's pure caress,

In the mild eyes that shone before him,

Beaming that blest assurance worth

All other transports known on earth.

That he was loved-well, warmly loved—

Oh! in this precious hour he proved

How deep, how thorough-felt the glow

Of rapture kindling out of woe;—

How exquisite one single drop

Of bliss thus sparkling to the top

Of misery's cup—how keenly quaft,

Tho' death must follow on the draught!

She too while gazing on those eyes

That sink into her soul so deep,

Forgets all fears, all miseries,

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep,

Whom fancy cheats into a smile.

Who dreams of joy and sobs the while!

The mighty Ruins where they stood

Upon the mount's high, rocky verge

Lay open towards the ocean flood,

Where lightly o'er the illumined surge

Many a fair bark that, all the day,

Had lurkt in sheltering creek or bay

Now bounded on and gave their sails,

Yet dripping to the evening gales;

Like eagles when the storm is done,

Spreading their wet wings in the sun.

The beauteous clouds, tho' daylight's Star

Had sunk behind the hills of LAR,

Were still with lingering glories bright.—

As if to grace the gorgeous West

The Spirit of departing Light

That eve had left his sunny vest

Behind him ere he winged his flight.

Never was scene so formed for love!

Beneath them waves of crystal move

In silent swell—Heaven glows above

And their pure hearts, to transport given,

Swell like the wave and glow like heaven.

But ah! too soon that dream is past—

Again, again her fear returns;—

Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast,

More faintly the horizon burns,

And every rosy tint that lay

On the smooth sea hath died away

Hastily to the darkening skies

A glance she casts—then wildly cries

"At night, he said—and look, 'tis near—

"Fly, fly—if yet thou lovest me, fly—

"Soon will his murderous band be here.

"And I shall see thee bleed and die.—

"Hush! heardest thou not the tramp of men

"Sounding from yonder fearful glen?—

"Perhaps, even now they climb the wood—

"Fly, fly—tho' still the West is bright,

"He'll come—oh! yes—he wants thy blood—

"I know him—he'll not wait for night!"

In terrors even to agony

She clings around the wondering Chief;—

"Alas, poor wildered maid! to me

"Thou owest this raving trance of grief.

"Lost as I am, naught ever grew

"Beneath my shade but perisht too—

"My doom is like the Dead Sea air,

"And nothing lives that enters there!

"Why were our barks together driven

"Beneath this morning's furious heaven?

"Why when I saw the prize that chance

"Had thrown into my desperate arms,—

"When casting but a single glance

"Upon thy pale and prostrate charms,

"I vowed (tho' watching viewless o'er

"Thy safety thro' that hour's alarms)

"To meet the unmanning sight no more—

"Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow?

"Why weakly, madly met thee now?

"Start not—that noise is but the shock

"Of torrents thro' yon valley hurled—

"Dread nothing here—upon this rock

"We stand above the jarring world,

"Alike beyond its hope—its dread—

"In gloomy safety like the Dead!

"Or could even earth and hell unite

"In league to storm this Sacred Height,

"Fear nothing thou—myself, tonight,

"And each o'erlooking star that dwells

"Near God will be thy sentinels;—

"And ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow,

"Back to thy sire"—

"To-morrow!—no"—

The maiden screamed—"Thou'lt never see

"To-morrow's sun—death, death will be

"The night-cry thro' each reeking tower,

"Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour!

"Thou art betrayed—some wretch who knew

"That dreadful glen's mysterious clew-

"Nay, doubt not—by yon stars, 'tis true—

"Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire;

"This morning, with that smile so dire

"He wears in joy he told me all

"And stampt in triumph thro' our hall,

"As tho' thy heart already beat

"Its last life-throb beneath his feet!

"Good Heaven, how little dreamed I then

"His victim was my own loved youth!—

"Fly—send—let some one watch the glen—

"By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!"

Oh! colder than the wind that freezes

Founts that but now in sunshine played,

Is that congealing pang which seizes

The trusting bosom, when betrayed.

He felt it—deeply felt—and stood,

As if the tale had frozen his blood,

So mazed and motionless was he;—

Like one whom sudden spells enchant,

Or some mute, marble habitant

Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![259]

But soon the painful chill was o'er,

And his great soul herself once more

Lookt from his brow in all the rays

Of her best, happiest, grandest days.

Never in moment most elate

Did that high spirit loftier rise:—

While bright, serene, determinate,

His looks are lifted to the skies,

As if the signal lights of Fate

Were shining in those awful eyes!

'Tis come—his hour of martyrdom

In IRAN'S sacred cause is come;

And tho' his life hath past away

Like lightning on a stormy day,

Yet shall his death-hour leave a track

Of glory permanent and bright

To which the brave of after-times,

The suffering brave, shall long look back

With proud regret,—and by its light

Watch thro' the hours of slavery's night

For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes.

This rock, his monument aloft,

Shall speak the tale to many an age;

And hither bards and heroes oft

Shall come in secret pilgrimage,

And bring their warrior sons and tell

The wondering boys where HAFED fell;

And swear them on those lone remains

Of their lost country's ancient fanes,

Never—while breath of life shall live

Within them—never to forgive

The accursed race whose ruthless chain

Hath left on IRAN'S neck a stain

Blood, blood alone can cleanse again!

Such are the swelling thoughts that now

Enthrone themselves on HAFED'S brow;

And ne'er did Saint of ISSA [260] gaze

On the red wreath for martyrs twined.

More proudly than the youth surveys

That pile which thro' the gloom behind,

Half lighted by the altar's fire,

Glimmers—his destined funeral pyre!

Heaped by his own, his comrades hands,

Of every wood of odorous breath.

There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands,

Ready to fold in radiant death

The few still left of those who swore

To perish there when hope was o'er—

The few to whom that couch of flame,

Which rescues them from bonds and shame,

Is sweet and welcome as the bed

For their own infant Prophet spread,

When pitying Heaven to roses turned

The death-flames that beneath him burned![261]

With watchfulness the maid attends

His rapid glance where'er it bends—

Why shoot his eyes such awful beams?

What plans he now? what thinks or dreams?

Alas! why stands he musing here,

When every moment teems with fear?

"HAFED, my own beloved Lord,"

She kneeling cries—"first, last adored!

"If in that soul thou'st ever felt

"Half what thy lips impassioned swore,

"Here on my knees that never knelt

"To any but their God before,

"I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly—

"Now, now—ere yet their blades are nigh.

"Oh haste—the bark that bore me hither

"Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea

"East—west—alas, I care not whither,

"So thou art safe, and I with thee!

"Go where we will, this hand in thine,

"Those eyes before me smiling thus,

"Thro' good and ill, thro' storm and shine,

"The world's a world of love for us!

"On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,

"Where 'tis no crime to love too well;

"Where thus to worship tenderly

"An erring child of light like thee

"Will not be sin—or if it be

"Where we may weep our faults away,

"Together kneeling, night and day,

"Thou, for my sake, at ALLA'S shrine,

"And I—at any God's, for thine!"

Wildly these passionate words she spoke—

Then hung her head and wept for shame;

Sobbing as if a heart-string broke

With every deep-heaved sob that came,

While he, young, warm—oh! wonder not

If, for a moment, pride and fame;

His oath—his cause—that shrine of flame,

And IRAN'S self are all forgot

For her, whom at his feet he sees

Kneeling in speechless agonies.

No, blame him not if Hope awhile

Dawned in his soul and threw her smile

O'er hours to come—o'er days and nights,

Winged with those precious, pure delights

Which she who bends all beauteous there

Was born to kindle and to share.

A tear or two which as he bowed

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole,

First warned him of this dangerous cloud

Of softness passing o'er his soul.

Starting he brusht the drops away

Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;—

Like one who on the morn of fight

Shakes from his sword the dews of night,

That had but dimmed not stained its light.

Yet tho' subdued the unnerving thrill,

Its warmth, its weakness lingered still

So touching in each look and tone,

That the fond, fearing, hoping maid

Half counted on the flight she prayed,

Half thought the hero's soul was grown

As soft, as yielding as her own,

And smiled and blest him while he said,—

"Yes—if there be some happier sphere

"Where fadeless truth like ours is dear.—

"If there be any land of rest

"For those who love and ne'er forget,

"Oh! comfort thee—for safe and blest

"We'll meet in that calm region yet!"

Scarce had she time to ask her heart

If good or ill these words impart,

When the roused youth impatient flew

To the tower-wall, where high in view

A ponderous sea-horn[262] hung, and blew

A signal deep and dread as those

The storm-fiend at his rising blows.—

Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true

Thro' life and death, that signal knew;

For 'twas the appointed warning-blast,

The alarm to tell when hope was past

And the tremendous death-die cast!

And there upon the mouldering tower

Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour,

Ready to sound o'er land and sea

That dirge-note of the brave and free.

They came—his Chieftains at the call

Came slowly round and with them all—

Alas, how few!—the worn remains

Of those who late o'er KERMAN'S plains

When gayly prancing to the clash

Of Moorish zel and tymbalon

Catching new hope from every flash

Of their long lances in the sun,

And as their coursers charged the wind

And the white ox-tails streamed behind,[263]

Looking as if the steeds they rode

Were winged and every Chief a God!

How fallen, how altered now! how wan

Each scarred and faded visage shone,

As round the burning shrine they came;—

How deadly was the glare it cast,

As mute they paused before the flame

To light their torches as they past!

'Twas silence all—the youth hath planned

The duties of his soldier-band;

And each determined brow declares

His faithful Chieftains well know theirs.

But minutes speed—night gems the skies—

And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes

That look from heaven ye may behold

Sights that will turn your star-fires cold!

Breathless with awe, impatience, hope,

The maiden sees the veteran group

Her litter silently prepare,

And lay it at her trembling feet;—

And now the youth with gentle care,

Hath placed her in the sheltered seat

And prest her hand—that lingering press

Of hands that for the last time sever;

Of hearts whose pulse of happiness

When that hold breaks is dead for ever.

And yet to her this sad caress

Gives hope—so fondly hope can err!

'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess—

Their happy flight's dear harbinger;

'Twas warmth—assurance—tenderness—

'Twas any thing but leaving her.

"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds grow dark,

"But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark;

"And by to-morrow's dawn—oh bliss!

"With thee upon the sun-bright deep,

"Far off, I'll but remember this,

"As some dark vanisht dream of sleep;

"And thou"—but ah!—he answers not—

Good Heaven!—and does she go alone?

She now has reached that dismal spot,

Where some hours since his voice's tone

Had come to soothe her fears and ills,

Sweet as the angel ISRAFIL'S,[264]

When every leaf on Eden's tree

Is trembling to his minstrelsy—

Yet now—oh, now, he is not nigh.—

"HAFED! my HAFED!—if it be

"Thy will, thy doom this night to die

"Let me but stay to die with thee

"And I will bless thy loved name,

"Till the last life-breath leave this frame.

"Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid

"But near each other while they fade;

"Let us but mix our parting breaths,

"And I can die ten thousand deaths!

"You too, who hurry me away

"So cruelly, one moment stay—

"Oh! stay—one moment is not much—

"He yet may come—for him I pray—

"HAFED! dear HAFED!"—all the way

In wild lamentings that would touch

A heart of stone she shrieked his name

To the dark woods—no HAFED came:—

No—hapless pair—you've lookt your last:—

Your hearts should both have broken then:—

The dream is o'er—your doom is cast—

You'll never meet on earth again!

Alas for him who hears her cries!

Still half-way down the steep he stands,

Watching with fixt and feverish eyes

The glimmer of those burning brands

That down the rocks with mournful ray,

Light all he loves on earth away!

Hopeless as they who far at sea

By the cold moon have just consigned

The corse of one loved tenderly

To the bleak flood they leave behind,

And on the deck still lingering stay,

And long look back with sad delay

To watch the moonlight on the wave

That ripples o'er that cheerless grave.

But see—he starts—what heard he then?

That dreadful shout!—across the glen

From the land-side it comes and loud

Rings thro' the chasm, as if the crowd

Of fearful things that haunt that dell

Its Ghouls and Divs and shapes of hell,

And all in one dread howl broke out,

So loud, so terrible that shout!

"They come—the Moslems come!"—he cries,

His proud soul mounting to his eyes,—

"Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam

"Enfranchised thro' yon starry dome,

"Rejoice—for souls of kindred fire

"Are on the wing to join your choir!"

He said—and, light as bridegrooms bound

To their young loves, reclined the steep

And gained the Shrine—his Chiefs stood round—

Their swords, as with instinctive leap,

Together at that cry accurst

Had from their sheaths like sunbeams burst.

And hark!—again—again it rings;

Near and more near its echoings

Peal thro' the chasm—oh! who that then

Had seen those listening warrior-men,

With their swords graspt, their eyes of flame

Turned on their Chief—could doubt the shame,

The indignant shame with which they thrill

To hear those shouts and yet stand still?

He read their thoughts—they were his own—

"What! while our arms can wield these blades,

"Shall we die tamely? die alone?

"Without one victim to our shades,

"One Moslem heart, where buried deep

"The sabre from its toil may sleep?

"No—God of IRAN'S burning skies!

"Thou scornest the inglorious sacrifice.

"No—tho' of all earth's hope bereft,

"Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.

"We'll make yon valley's reeking caves

"Live in the awe-struck minds of men

"Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves

"Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen,

"Follow, brave hearts!—this pile remains

"Our refuge still from life and chains;

"But his the best, the holiest bed,

"Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!"

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,

While vigor more than human strung

Each arm and heart.—The exulting foe

Still thro' the dark defiles below,

Trackt by his torches' lurid fire,

Wound slow, as thro' GOLCONDA'S vale

The mighty serpent in his ire

Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.

No torch the Ghebers need—so well

They know each mystery of the dell,

So oft have in their wanderings

Crost the wild race that round them dwell,

The very tigers from their delves

Look out and let them pass as things

Untamed and fearless like themselves!

There was a deep ravine that lay

Yet darkling in the Moslem's way;

Fit spot to make invaders rue

The many fallen before the few.

The torrents from that morning's sky

Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high,

And on each side aloft and wild

Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,—

The guards with which young Freedom lines

The pathways to her mountain-shrines,

Here at this pass the scanty band;

Of IRAN'S last avengers stand;

Here wait in silence like the dead

And listen for the Moslem's tread

So anxiously the carrion-bird

Above them flaps his wing unheard!

They come—that plunge into the water

Gives signal for the work of slaughter.

Now, Ghebers, now—if e'er your blades

Had point or prowess prove them now—

Woe to the file that foremost wades!

They come—a falchion greets each brow,

And as they tumble trunk on trunk

Beneath the gory waters sunk,

Still o'er their drowning bodies press

New victims quick and numberless;

Till scarce an arm in HAFED'S band,

So fierce their toil, hath power to stir,

But listless from each crimson hand

The sword hangs clogged with massacre.

Never was horde of tyrants met

With bloodier welcome—never yet

To patriot vengeance hath the sword

More terrible libations poured!

All up the dreary, long ravine,

By the red, murky glimmer seen

Of half-quenched brands, that o'er the flood

Lie scattered round and burn in blood,

What ruin glares! what carnage swims!

Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs,

Lost swords that dropt from many a hand,

In that thick pool of slaughter stand;—

Wretches who wading, half on fire

From the tost brands that round them fly,

'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;—

And some who grasp by those that die

Sink woundless with them, smothered o'er

In their dead brethren's gushing gore!

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed,

Still hundreds, thousands more succeed;

Countless as toward some flame at night

The North's dark insects wing their flight

And quench or perish in its light,

To this terrific spot they pour—

Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er,

It bears aloft their slippery tread,

And o'er the dying and the dead,

Tremendous causeway! on they pass.

Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas,

What hope was left for you? for you,

Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice

Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;—

Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew.

And burned with shame to find how few.

Crusht down by that vast multitude

Some found their graves where first they stood;

While some with hardier struggle died,

And still fought on by HAFED'S side,

Who fronting to the foe trod back

Towards the high towers his gory track;

And as a lion swept away

By sudden swell of JORDAN'S pride

From the wild covert where he lay,[265]

Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide,

So fought he back with fierce delay

And kept both foes and fate at bay.

But whither now? their track is lost,

Their prey escaped—guide, torches gone—

By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost,

The scattered crowd rush blindly on—

"Curse on those tardy lights that wind,"

They panting cry, "so far behind;

"Oh, for a bloodhound's precious scent,

"To track the way the Ghebers went!"

Vain wish—confusedly along

They rush more desperate as more wrong:

Till wildered by the far-off lights,

Yet glittering up those gloomy heights,

Their footing mazed and lost they miss,

And down the darkling precipice

Are dasht into the deep abyss;

Or midway hang impaled on rocks,

A banquet yet alive for flocks

Of ravening vultures,—while the dell

Re-echoes with each horrible yell.

Those sounds—the last, to vengeance dear.

That e'er shall ring in HAFED'S ear,—

Now reached him as aloft alone

Upon the steep way breathless thrown,

He lay beside his reeking blade,

Resigned, as if life's task were o'er,

Its last blood-offering amply paid,

And IRAN'S self could claim no more.

One only thought, one lingering beam

Now broke across his dizzy dream

Of pain and weariness—'twas she,

His heart's pure planet shining yet

Above the waste of memory

When all life's other lights were set.

And never to his mind before

Her image such enchantment wore.

It seemed as if each thought that stained,

Each fear that chilled their loves was past,

And not one cloud of earth remained

Between him and her radiance cast;—

As if to charms, before so bright,

New grace from other worlds was given.

And his soul saw her by the light

Now breaking o'er itself from heaven!

A voice spoke near him—'twas the tone

Of a loved friend, the only one

Of all his warriors left with life

From that short night's tremendous strife.—

"And must we then, my chief, die here?

"Foes round us and the Shrine so near!"

These words have roused the last remains

Of life within him:—"What! not yet

"Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!"

The thought could make even Death forget

His icy bondage:—with a bound

He springs all bleeding from the ground

And grasps his comrade's arm now grown

Even feebler, heavier than his own.

And up the painful pathway leads,

Death gaining on each step he treads.

Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow!

They mount—they bleed—oh save them now—

The crags are red they've clambered o'er,

The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;—

Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length,

How breaks beneath thy tottering strength!

Haste, haste—the voices of the Foe

Come near and nearer from below—

One effort more—thank Heaven! 'tis past,

They've gained the topmost steep at last.

And now they touch the temple's walls.

Now HAFED sees the Fire divine—

When, lo!—his weak, worn comrade falls

Dead on the threshold of the shrine.

"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled!

"And must I leave thee withering here,

"The sport of every ruffian's tread,

"The mark for every coward's spear?

"No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"

He cries and with a strength that seems

Not of this world uplifts the frame

Of the fallen Chief and toward the flame

Bears him along; with death-damp hand

The corpse upon the pyre he lays,

Then lights the consecrated brand

And fires the pile whose sudden blaze

Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.—

"Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee,"

The youth exclaims and with a smile

Of triumph vaulting on the pile,

In that last effort ere the fires

Have harmed one glorious limb expires!

What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide?

It came from yonder drifting bark,

That just hath caught upon her side

The death-light—and again is dark.

It is the boat—ah! why delayed?—

That bears the wretched Moslem maid;

Confided to the watchful care

Of a small veteran band with whom

Their generous Chieftain would not share

The secret of his final doom,

But hoped when HINDA safe and free

Was rendered to her father's eyes,

Their pardon full and prompt would be

The ransom of so dear a prize.—

Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate,

And proud to guard their beauteous freight,

Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves

That foam around those frightful caves

When the curst war-whoops known so well

Came echoing from the distant dell—

Sudden each oar, upheld and still,

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side,

And driving at the current's will,

They rockt along the whispering tide;

While every eye in mute dismay

Was toward that fatal mountain turned.

Where the dim altar's quivering ray

As yet all lone and tranquil burned.

Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power

Of Fancy's most terrific touch

To paint thy pangs in that dread hour—

Thy silent agony—'twas such

As those who feel could paint too well,

But none e'er felt and lived to tell!

'Twas not alone the dreary state

Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate,

When tho' no more remains to dread

The panic chill will not depart;—

When tho' the inmate Hope be dead,

Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart;

No—pleasures, hopes, affections gone,

The wretch may bear and yet live on

Like things within the cold rock found

Alive when all's congealed around.

But there's a blank repose in this,

A calm stagnation, that were bliss

To the keen, burning, harrowing pain,

Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;—

That spasm of terror, mute, intense,

That breathless, agonized suspense

From whose hot throb whose deadly aching,

The heart hath no relief but breaking!

Calm is the wave—heaven's brilliant lights

Reflected dance beneath the prow;—

Time was when on such lovely nights

She who is there so desolate now

Could sit all cheerful tho' alone

And ask no happier joy than seeing

That starlight o'er the waters thrown—

No joy but that to make her blest,

And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being

Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,—

Itself a star not borrowing light

But in its own glad essence bright.

How different now!—but, hark! again

The yell of havoc rings—brave men!

In vain with beating hearts ye stand

On the bark's edge—in vain each hand

Half draws the falchion from its sheath;

All's o'er—in rust your blades may lie:—

He at whose word they've scattered death

Even now this night himself must die!

Well may ye look to yon dim tower,

And ask and wondering guess what means

The battle-cry at this dead hour—

Ah! she could tell you—she who leans

Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast,

With brow against the dew-cold mast;—

Too well she knows—her more than life,

Her soul's first idol and its last

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife.

But see—what moves upon the height?

Some signal!—'tis a torch's light

What bodes its solitary glare?

In gasping silence toward the Shrine

All eyes are turned—thine, HINDA, thine

Fix their last fading life-beams there.

'Twas but a moment—fierce and high

The death-pile blazed into the sky

And far-away o'er rock and flood

Its melancholy radiance sent:

While HAFED like a vision stood

Revealed before the burning pyre.

Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fire

Shrined in its own grand element!

"'Tis he!"—the shuddering maid exclaims,—

But while she speaks he's seen no more;

High burst in air the funeral flames,

And IRAN'S hopes and hers are o'er!

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave;

Then sprung as if to reach that blaze

Where still she fixt her dying gaze,

And gazing sunk into the wave.—

Deep, deep,—where never care or pain

Shall reach her innocent heart again!

* * * * *

Farewell—farewell to thee. ARABY'S daughter!

(Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,)

No pearl ever lay under OMAN'S green water

More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,

How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,

Like the wind of the south[266] o'er a summer lute blowing,

And husht all its music and withered its frame!

But long upon ARABY'S green sunny highlands

Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom

Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands

With naught but the sea-star[267] to light up her tomb.

And still when the merry date-season is burning

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old,

The happiest there from their pastime returning

At sunset will weep when thy story is told.

The young village-maid when with flowers she dresses

Her dark flowing hair for some festival day

Will think of thy fate till neglecting her tresses

She mournfully turns from the mirror away.

Nor shall IRAN, beloved of her Hero! forget thee—

Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they start,

Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee,

Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell—be it ours to embellish thy pillow

With everything beauteous that grows in the deep;

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber

That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[268]

With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed chamber

We Peris of Ocean by moonlight have slept.

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling

And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian[269] are sparkling

And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.

Farewell—farewell!—Until Pity's sweet fountain

Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,

They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain,

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.

The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,—which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[270] would be advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance.

Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen.— he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, —the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,—who among other great things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[271] and Grand Nazir or Chamberlain of the Haram.

They were now not far from that Forbidden River[272] beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer,—or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy,— resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge[273] who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads.[274]

The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,[275] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;— taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers.

About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious;"[276]—and here in listening to the sweet voice of FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, [277] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so fond,—the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA ROOKH'S little Persian slave, and thus began:—

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE,

With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[278]

Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave?

Oh! to see it at sunset,—when warm o'er the Lake

Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws,

Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to take

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!—

When the shrines thro' the foliage are gleaming half shown,

And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own.

Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells,

Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging,

And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells

Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[279]

Or to see it by moonlight when mellowly shines

The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines,

When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars

And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars

Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet

From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.—

Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakes

A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks,

Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one

Out of darkness as if but just born of the Sun.

When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day

From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;

And the wind full of wantonness wooes like a lover

The young aspen-trees,[280]

till they tremble all over.

When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,

And day with his banner of radiance unfurled

Shines in thro' the mountainous portal[281] that opes,

Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!

But never yet by night or day,

In dew of spring or summer's ray,

Did the sweet Valley shine so gay

As now it shines—all love and light,

Visions by day and feasts by night!

A happier smile illumes each brow;

With quicker spread each heart uncloses,

And all is ecstasy—for now

The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[282]

The joyous Time when pleasures pour

Profusely round and in their shower

Hearts open like the Season's Rose,—

The Floweret of a hundred leaves[283]

Expanding while the dew-fall flows

And every leaf its balm receives.

'Twas when the hour of evening came

Upon the Lake, serene and cool,

When day had hid his sultry flame

Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,

When maids began to lift their heads.

Refresht from their embroidered beds

Where they had slept the sun away,

And waked to moonlight and to play.

All were abroad:—the busiest hive

On BELA'S[284] hills is less alive

When saffron-beds are full in flower,

Than lookt the Valley in that hour.

A thousand restless torches played

Thro' every grove and island shade;

A thousand sparkling lamps were set

On every dome and minaret;

And fields and pathways far and near

Were lighted by a blaze so clear

That you could see in wandering round

The smallest rose-leaf on the ground,

Yet did the maids and matrons leave

Their veils at home, that brilliant eve;

And there were glancing eyes about

And cheeks that would not dare shine out

In open day but thought they might

Look lovely then, because 'twas night.

And all were free and wandering

And all exclaimed to all they met,

That never did the summer bring

So gay a Feast of Roses yet;—

The moon had never shed a light

So clear as that which blest them there;

The roses ne'er shone half so bright,

Nor they themselves lookt half so fair.

And what a wilderness of flowers!

It seemed as tho' from all the bowers

And fairest fields of all the year,

The mingled spoil were scattered here.

The lake too like a garden breathes

With the rich buds that o'er it lie,—

As if a shower of fairy wreaths

Had fallen upon it from the sky!

And then the sounds of joy,—the beat

Of tabors and of dancing feet;—

The minaret-crier's chant of glee

Sung from his lighted gallery,[285]

And answered by a ziraleet

From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet;—

The merry laughter echoing

From gardens where the silken swing[286]

Wafts some delighted girl above

The top leaves of the orange-grove;

Or from those infant groups at play

Among the tents[287] that line the way,

Flinging, unawed by slave or mother,

Handfuls of roses at each other.—

Then the sounds from the Lake,—the low whispering in boats,

As they shoot thro' the moonlight,—the dipping of oars

And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats

Thro' the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores

Like those of KATHAY uttered music and gave

An answer in song to the kiss on each wave.[288]

But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling

That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,—

Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power

Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour.

Oh! best of delights as it everywhere is

To be near the loved One,—what a rapture is his

Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide

O'er the Lake of CASHMERE with that One by his side!

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,

Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE!

So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,

When from power and pomp and the trophies of war

He flew to that Valley forgetting them all

With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL.

When free and uncrowned as the Conqueror roved

By the banks of that Lake with his only beloved

He saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatch

From the hedges a glory his crown could not match,

And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world.

There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright,

Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light,

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender

Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor.

This was not the beauty—oh, nothing like this

That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss!

But that loveliness ever in motion which plays

Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,

Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies

From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes;

Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,

Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams.

When pensive it seemed as if that very grace,

That charm of all others, was born with her face!

And when angry,—for even in the tranquillest climes

Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes—

The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken

New beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken.

If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye

At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye,

From the depth of whose shadow like holy revealings

From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings.

Then her mirth—oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing

From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring;

Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages,

Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.[289]

While her laugh full of life, without any control

But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;

And where it most sparkled no glance could discover,

In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over,—

Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon

When it breaks into dimples and, laughs in the sun.

Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave

NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave:

And tho' bright was his Haram,—a living parterre

Of the flowers[290] of this planet—tho' treasures were there,

For which SOLIMAN'S self might have given all the store

That the navy from OPHIR e'er winged to his shore,

Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all

And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL!

But where is she now, this night of joy,

When bliss is every heart's employ?—

When all around her is so bright,

So like the visions of a trance,

That one might think, who came by chance

Into the vale this happy night,

He saw that City of Delight[291]

In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers

Are made of gems and light and flowers!

Where is the loved Sultana? where,

When mirth brings out the young and fair,

Does she, the fairest, hide her brow

In melancholy stillness now?

Alas!—how light a cause may move

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain had tried

And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm when waves were rough

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea

When heaven was all tranquillity!

A something light as air—a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken—

Oh! love that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in

To spread the breach that words begin;

And eyes forget the gentle ray

They wore in courtship's smiling day;

And voices lose the tone that shed

A tenderness round all they said;

Till fast declining one by one

The sweetnesses of love are gone,

And hearts so lately mingled seem

Like broken clouds,—or like the stream

That smiling left the mountain's brow

As tho' its waters ne'er could sever,

Yet ere it reach the plain below,

Breaks into floods that part for ever.

Oh, you that have the charge of Love,

Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

As in the Fields of Bliss above

He sits with flowerets fettered round;—

Loose not a tie that round him clings.

Nor ever let him use his wings;

For even an hour, a minute's flight

Will rob the plumes of half their light.

Like that celestial bird whose nest

Is found beneath far Eastern skies,

Whose wings tho' radiant when at rest

Lose all their glory when he flies![292]

Some difference of this dangerous kind,—

By which, tho' light, the links that bind

The fondest hearts may soon be riven;

Some shadow in Love's summer heaven,

Which, tho' a fleecy speck at first

May yet in awful thunder burst;—

Such cloud it is that now hangs over

The heart of the Imperial Lover,

And far hath banisht from his sight

His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light!

Hence is it on this happy night

When Pleasure thro' the fields and groves

Has let loose all her world of loves

And every heart has found its own

He wanders joyless and alone

And weary as that bird of Thrace

Whose pinion knows no resting place.[293]

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes

This Eden of the Earth supplies

Come crowding round—the cheeks are pale,

The eyes are dim:—tho' rich the spot

With every flower this earth has got

What is it to the nightingale

If there his darling rose is not?[294]

In vain the Valley's smiling throng

Worship him as he moves along;

He heeds them not—one smile of hers

Is worth a world of worshippers.

They but the Star's adorers are,

She is the Heaven that lights the Star!

Hence is it too that NOURMAHAL,

Amid the luxuries of this hour,

Far from the joyous festival

Sits in her own sequestered bower,

With no one near to soothe or aid,

But that inspired and wondrous maid,

NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;—one

O'er whom his race the golden sun

For unremembered years has run,

Yet never saw her blooming brow

Younger or fairer than 'tis now.

Nay, rather,—as the west wind's sigh

Freshens the flower it passes by,—

Time's wing but seemed in stealing o'er

To leave her lovelier than before.

Yet on her smiles a sadness hung,

And when as oft she spoke or sung

Of other worlds there came a light

From her dark eyes so strangely bright

That all believed nor man nor earth

Were conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth!

All spells and talismans she knew,

From the great Mantra,[295] which around

The Air's sublimer Spirits drew,

To the gold gems[296] of AFRIC, bound

Upon the wandering Arab's arm

To keep him from the Siltim's[297] harm.

And she had pledged her powerful art,—

Pledged it with all the zeal and heart

Of one who knew tho' high her sphere,

What 'twas to lose a love so dear,—

To find some spell that should recall

Her Selim's[298] smile to NOURMAHAL!

'Twas midnight—thro' the lattice wreathed

With woodbine many a perfume breathed

From plants that wake when others sleep.

From timid jasmine buds that keep

Their odor to themselves all day

But when the sunlight dies away

Let the delicious secret out

To every breeze that roams about;—

When thus NAMOUNA:—"'Tis the hour

"That scatters spells on herb and flower,

"And garlands might be gathered now,

"That twined around the sleeper's brow

"Would make him dream of such delights,

"Such miracles and dazzling sights

"As Genii of the Sun behold

"At evening from their tents of gold

"Upon the horizon—where they play

"Till twilight comes and ray by ray

"Their sunny mansions melt away.

"Now too a chaplet might be wreathed

"Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed,

"Which worn by her whose love has strayed

"Might bring some Peri from the skies,

"Some sprite, whose very soul is made

"Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs,

"And who might tell"—

"For me, for me,"

Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,—

"Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night."

Then rapidly with foot as light

As the young musk-roe's out she flew

To cull each shining leaf that grew

Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams

For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams.

Anemones and Seas of Gold,[299]

And new-blown lilies of the river,

And those sweet flowerets that unfold

Their buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;[300]—

The tuberose, with her silvery light,

That in the Gardens of Malay

Is called the Mistress of the Night,[301]

So like a bride, scented and bright,

She comes out when the sun's away:—

Amaranths such as crown the maids

That wander thro' ZAMARA'S shades;[302]—

And the white moon-flower as it shows,

On SERENDIB'S high crags to those

Who near the isle at evening sail,

Scenting her clove-trees in the gale;

In short all flowerets and all plants,

From the divine Amrita tree[303]

That blesses heaven's habitants

With fruits of immortality,

Down to the basil tuft[304] that waves

Its fragrant blossom over graves,

And to the humble rosemary

Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed

To scent the desert[305]and the dead:—

All in that garden bloom and all

Are gathered by young NOURMAHAL,

Who heaps her baskets with the flowers

And leaves till they can hold no more;

Then to NAMOUNA flies and showers

Upon her lap the shining store.

With what delight the Enchantress views

So many buds bathed with the dews

And beams of that blest hour!—her glance

Spoke something past all mortal pleasures,

As in a kind of holy trance

She hung above those fragrant treasures,

Bending to drink their balmy airs,

As if she mixt her soul with theirs.

And 'twas indeed the perfume shed

From flowers and scented flame that fed

Her charmed life—for none had e'er

Beheld her taste of mortal fare,

Nor ever in aught earthly dip,

But the morn's dew, her roseate lip.

Filled with the cool, inspiring smell,

The Enchantress now begins her spell,

Thus singing as she winds and weaves

In mystic form the glittering leaves:—

I know where the winged visions dwell

That around the night-bed play;

I know each herb and floweret's bell,

Where they hide their wings by day.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love that nightly flies

To visit the bashful maid,

Steals from the jasmine flower that sighs

Its soul like her in the shade.

The dream of a future, happier hour

That alights on misery's brow,

Springs out of the silvery almond-flower

That blooms on a leafless bough.[306]

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The visions that oft to worldly eyes

The glitter of mines unfold

Inhabit the mountain-herb[307] that dyes

The tooth of the fawn like gold.

The phantom shapes—oh touch not them—

That appal the murderer's sight,

Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,

That shrieks when pluckt at night!

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injured, patient mind

That smiles at the wrongs of men

Is found in the bruised and wounded rind

Of the cinnamon, sweetest then.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid,

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

No sooner was the flowery crown

Placed on her head than sleep came down,

Gently as nights of summer fall,

Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;—

And suddenly a tuneful breeze

As full of small, rich harmonies

As ever wind that o'er the tents

Of AZAB[308] blew was full of scents,

Steals on her ear and floats and swells

Like the first air of morning creeping

Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells

Where Love himself of old lay sleeping;[309]

And now a Spirit formed, 'twould seem,

Of music and of light,—so fair,

So brilliantly his features beam,

And such a sound is in the air

Of sweetness when he waves his wings,—

Hovers around her and thus sings:

From CHINDARA'S[310] warbling fount I come,

Called by that moonlight garland's spell;

From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home,

Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell.

Where lutes in the air are heard about

And voices are singing the whole day long,

And every sigh the heart breathes out

Is turned, as it leaves the lips, to song!

Hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain

I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats

And mine are the murmuring, dying notes

That fall as soft as snow on the sea

And melt in the heart as instantly:—

And the passionate strain that, deeply going,

Refines the bosom it trembles thro'

As the musk-wind over the water blowing

Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too.

Mine is the charm whose mystic sway

The Spirits of past Delight obey;—

Let but the tuneful talisman sound,

And they come like Genii hovering round.

And mine is the gentle song that bears

From soul to soul the wishes of love,

As a bird that wafts thro' genial airs

The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[311]

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure

The past, the present and future of pleasure;

When Memory links the tone that is gone

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;

And Hope from a heavenly note flies on

To a note more heavenly still that is near.

The warrior's heart when touched by me,

Can as downy soft and as yielding be

As his own white plume that high amid death

Thro' the field has shone—yet moves with a breath!

And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten.

When Music has reached her inward soul,

Like the silent stars that wink and listen

While Heaven's eternal melodies roll.

So hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,

I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath

Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

'Tis dawn—at least that earlier dawn

Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,[312]

As if the morn had waked, and then

Shut close her lids of light again.

And NOURMAHAL is up and trying

The wonders of her lute whose strings—

Oh, bliss!—now murmur like the sighing

From that ambrosial Spirit's wings.

And then her voice—'tis more than human—

Never till now had it been given

To lips of any mortal woman

To utter notes so fresh from heaven;

Sweet as the breath of angel sighs

When angel sighs are most divine.—

"Oh! let it last till night," she cries,

"And he is more than ever mine."

And hourly she renews the lay,

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness

Should ere the evening fade away,—

For things so heavenly have such fleetness!

But far from fading it but grows

Richer, diviner as it flows;

Till rapt she dwells on every string

And pours again each sound along,

Like echo, lost and languishing,

In love with her own wondrous song.

That evening, (trusting that his soul

Might be from haunting love released

By mirth, by music and the bowl,)

The Imperial SELIM held a feast

In his magnificent Shalimar:[313]—

In whose Saloons, when the first star

Of evening o'er the waters trembled,

The Valley's loveliest all assembled;

All the bright creatures that like dreams

Glide thro' its foliage and drink beams

Of beauty from its founts and streams;[314]

And all those wandering minstrel-maids,

Who leave—how can they leave?—the shades

Of that dear Valley and are found

Singing in gardens of the South[315]

Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound

As from a young Cashmerian's mouth.

There too the Haram's inmates smile;—

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair,

And from the Garden of the NILE,

Delicate as the roses there;[316]—

Daughters of Love from CYPRUS rocks,

With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[317]—

Light PERI forms such as there are

On the gold Meads of CANDAHAR;[318]

And they before whose sleepy eyes

In their own bright Kathaian bowers

Sparkle such rainbow butterflies

That they might fancy the rich flowers

That round them in the sun lay sighing

Had been by magic all set flying.[319]

Every thing young, every thing fair

From East and West is blushing there,

Except—except—oh, NOURMAHAL!

Thou loveliest, dearest of them all,

The one whose smile shone out alone,

Amidst a world the only one;

Whose light among so many lights

Was like that star on starry nights,

The seaman singles from the sky,

To steer his bark for ever by!

Thou wert not there—so SELIM thought,

And every thing seemed drear without thee;

But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,—and brought

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee,

Mingling unnoticed with a band

Of lutanists from many a land,

And veiled by such a mask as shades

The features of young Arab maids,[320]—

A mask that leaves but one eye free,

To do its best in witchery,—

She roved with beating heart around

And waited trembling for the minute

When she might try if still the sound

Of her loved lute had magic in it.

The board was spread with fruits and wine,

With grapes of gold, like those that shine

On CASBIN hills;[321]—pomegranates full

Of melting sweetness, and the pears,

And sunniest apples[322] that CAUBUL

In all its thousand gardens[323] bears;—

Plantains, the golden and the green,

MALAYA'S nectared mangusteen;[324]

Prunes of BOCKHARA, and sweet nuts

From the far groves of SAMARCAND,

And BASRA dates, and apricots,

Seed of the Sun,[325] from IRAN'S land;—

With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[326]

Of orange flowers, and of those berries

That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles

Feed on in ERAC's rocky dells.[327]

All these in richest vases smile,

In baskets of pure santal-wood,

And urns of porcelain from that isle[328]

Sunk underneath the Indian flood,

Whence oft the lucky diver brings

Vases to grace the halls of kings.

Wines too of every clime and hue

Around their liquid lustre threw;

Amber Rosolli,[329]—the bright dew

From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[330]

And SHIRAZ wine that richly ran

As if that jewel large and rare,

The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN

Offered a city's wealth,[331] was blushing

Melted within the goblets there!

And amply SELIM quaffs of each,

And seems resolved the flood shall reach

His inward heart,—shedding around

A genial deluge, as they run,

That soon shall leave no spot undrowned

For Love to rest his wings upon.

He little knew how well the boy

Can float upon a goblet's streams,

Lighting them with his smile of joy;—

As bards have seen him in their dreams,

Down the blue GANGES laughing glide

Upon a rosy lotus wreath,[332]

Catching new lustre from the tide

That with his image shone beneath.

But what are cups without the aid

Of song to speed them as they flow?

And see—a lovely Georgian maid

With all the bloom, the freshened glow

Of her own country maidens' looks,

When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks;[333]

And with an eye whose restless ray

Full, floating, dark—oh, he, who knows

His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray

To guard him from such eyes as those!—

With a voluptuous wildness flings

Her snowy hand across the strings

Of a syrinda[334] and thus sings:—

Come hither, come hither—by night and by day,

We linger in pleasures that never are gone;

Like the waves of the summer as one dies away

Another as sweet and as shining comes on.

And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth

To a new one as warm, as unequalled in bliss;

And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.[335]

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh

As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;[336]

And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[337]

Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.

Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth

When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,

And own if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar that hallowed by love

Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,

Who for wine of this earth[338] left the fountains above,

And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.

And, blest with the odor our goblet gives forth,

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss?

For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute,

When the same measure, sound for sound,

Was caught up by another lute

And so divinely breathed around

That all stood husht and wondering,

And turned and lookt into the air,

As if they thought to see the wing

Of ISRAFIL[339] the Angel there;—

So powerfully on every soul

That new, enchanted measure stole.

While now a voice sweet as the note

Of the charmed lute was heard to float

Along its chords and so entwine

Its sounds with theirs that none knew whether

The voice or lute was most divine,

So wondrously they went together:—

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When two that are linkt in one heavenly tie,

With heart never changing and brow never cold,

Love on thro' all ills and love on till they die!

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;

And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this, it is this.

'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words,

But that deep magic in the chords

And in the lips that gave such power

As music knew not till that hour.

At once a hundred voices said,

"It is the maskt Arabian maid!"

While SELIM who had felt the strain

Deepest of any and had lain

Some minutes rapt as in a trance

After the fairy sounds were o'er.

Too inly touched for utterance,

Now motioned with his hand for more:—

Fly to the desert, fly with me,

Our Arab's tents are rude for thee;

But oh! the choice what heart can doubt,

Of tents with love or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there

The acacia waves her yellow hair,

Lonely and sweet nor loved the less

For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope

The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gayly springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come—thy Arab maid will be

The loved and lone acacia-tree.

The antelope whose feet shall bless

With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart

An instant sunshine thro' the heart,—

As if the soul that minute caught

Some treasure it thro' life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes,

Predestined to have all our sighs

And never be forgot again,

Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,

When first on me they breathed and shone,

New as if brought from other spheres

Yet welcome as if loved for years.

Then fly with me,—if thou hast known

No other flame nor falsely thrown

A gem away, that thou hadst sworn

Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come if the love thou hast for me

Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—

Fresh as the fountain under ground,

When first 'tis by the lapwing found.[340]

But if for me thou dost forsake

Some other maid and rudely break

Her worshipt image from its base,

To give to me the ruined place;—

Then fare thee well—I'd rather make

My bower upon some icy lake

When thawing suns begin to shine

Than trust to love so false as thine.

There was a pathos in this lay,

That, even without enchantment's art,

Would instantly have found its way

Deep in to SELIM'S burning heart;

But breathing as it did a tone

To earthly lutes and lips unknown;

With every chord fresh from the touch

Of Music's Spirit,—'twas too much!

Starting he dasht away the cup,—

Which all the time of this sweet air

His hand had held, untasted, up,

As if 'twere fixt by magic there—

And naming her, so long unnamed,

So long unseen, wildly exclaimed,

"Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL!

"Hadst thou but sung this witching strain,

"I could forget—forgive thee all

"And never leave those eyes again."

The mask is off—the charm is wrought—

And SELIM to his heart has caught,

In blushes, more than ever bright,

His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light!

And well do vanisht frowns enhance

The charm of every brightened glance;

And dearer seems each dawning smile

For having lost its light awhile:

And happier now for all her sighs

As on his arm her head reposes

She whispers him, with laughing eyes,

"Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!"

FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's poetry,—of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, "frivolous"—"inharmonious"—"nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, viewed in the most favorable light it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,— a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions, —not to mention dews, gems, etc.—was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,—these were the themes honored with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poem just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine;—"being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, "one of those bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that painted porcelain,[341] so curious and so rare, whose images are only visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole, it was his opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he begged to say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that—whatever other merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess—poetry was by no means his proper avocation; "and indeed," concluded the critic, "from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him than a poet."

They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains, which separate Cashmere from the rest of India; and, as the heats were intolerable, and the time of their encampments limited to the few hours necessary for refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and LALLA ROOKH saw no more of FERAMORZ. She now felt that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recollection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water that serves the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart's refreshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek, and her ladies saw with regret—though not without some suspicion of the cause—that the beauty of their mistress, of which they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and beautiful LALLA ROOKH, whom the poets of Delhi had described as more perfect than the divinest images in the house of AZOR,[342] he should receive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled,—to hide himself in her heart?

If any thing could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that Valley, which the Persians so justly called the Unequalled.[343] But neither the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains,—neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that shone put from the depth of its woods, nor the grottoes, hermitages, and miraculous fountains,[344] which make every spot of that region holy ground,—neither the countless waterfalls, that rush into the Valley from all those high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair city on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,[345] appeared at a distance like one vast and variegated parterre;—not all these wonders and glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her heart for a minute from those sad thoughts which but darkened and grew bitterer every step she advanced.

The gay pomps and processions that met her upon her entrance into the Valley, and the magnificence with which the roads all along were decorated, did honor to the taste and gallantry of the young King. It was night when they approached the city, and, for the last two miles, they had passed under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned with only those rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more precious than gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple-colored tortoise-shell of Pegu.[346] Sometimes, from a dark wood by the side of the road, a display of fireworks would break out, so sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin might fancy he beheld that grove, in whose purple shade the God of Battles was born, bursting into a flame at the moment of his birth;—while, at other times, a quick and playful irradiation continued to brighten all the fields and gardens by which they passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the horizon; like the meteors of the north as they are seen by those hunters who pursue the white and blue foxes on the confines of the Icy Sea.

These arches and fireworks delighted the Ladies of the Princess exceedingly; and, with their usual good logic, they deduced from his taste for illuminations, that the King of Bucharia would make the most exemplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, could LALLA ROOKH herself help feeling the kindness and splendor with which the young bridegroom welcomed her;—but she also felt how painful is the gratitude which kindness from those we cannot love excites; and that their best blandishments come over the heart with all that chilling and deadly sweetness which we can fancy in the cold, odoriferous wind[347] that is to blow over this earth in the last days.

The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival, when she was, for the first time, to be presented to the monarch in that Imperial Palace beyond the lake, called the Shalimar. Though never before had a night of more wakeful and anxious thought been passed in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in the morning, and her Ladies came around her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal ornaments, they thought they had never seen her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms was more than made up by that intellectual expression, that soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is worth all the rest of loveliness. When they had tinged her fingers with the Henna leaf, and placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she proceeded to the barge that was to convey her across the lake;—first kissing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian, which her father at parting had hung about her neck.

The morning was as fresh and fair as the maid on whose nuptials it rose, and the shining lake, all covered with boats, the minstrels playing upon the shores of the islands, and the crowded summer-houses on the green hills around, with shawls and banners waving from their roofs, presented such a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she, who was the object of it all, did not feel with transport. To LALLA ROOKH alone it was a melancholy pageant; nor could she have even borne to look upon the scene, were it not for a hope that among the crowds around, she might once more perhaps catch a glimpse of FERAMORZ. So much was her imagination haunted by this thought that there was scarcely an islet or boat she passed on the way at which her heart did not flutter with the momentary fancy that he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the humblest slave upon whom the light of his dear looks fell!—In the barge immediately after the Princess sat FADLADEEN, with his silken curtains thrown widely apart, that all might have the benefit of his august presence, and with his head full of the speech he was to deliver to the King, "concerning FERAMORZ and literature and the Chabuk as connected therewith."

They now had entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid domes and saloons of the Shalimar and went gliding on through the gardens that ascended from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made the air all perfume; while from the middle of the canal rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to such a dazzling height that they stood like tall pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the arches of various saloons they at length arrived at the last and most magnificent, where the monarch awaited the coming of his bride; and such was the agitation of her heart and frame that it was with difficulty she could walk up the marble steps which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the barge. At the end of the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the Cerulean Throne of Koolburga,[348] on one of which sat ALIRIS, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the other was in a few minutes to be placed the most beautiful Princess in the world. Immediately upon the entrance of LALLA ROOKH into the saloon the monarch descended from his throne to meet her; but scarcely had he time to take her hand in his when she screamed with surprise and fainted at his feet. It was FERAMORZ, himself, who stood before her! FERAMORZ, was, himself, the Sovereign of Bucharia, who in this disguise had accompanied his young bride from Delhi, and having won her love as an humble minstrel now amply deserved to enjoy it as a King.

The consternation of FADLADEEN at this discovery was, for the moment, almost pitiable. But change of opinion is a resource too convenient in courts for this experienced courtier not to have learned to avail himself of it. His criticisms were all, of course, recanted instantly: he was seized with an admiration of the King's verses, as unbounded as, he begged him to believe, it was disinterested; and the following week saw him in possession of an additional place, swearing by all the Saints of Islam that never had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch ALIRIS, and moreover ready to prescribe his favorite regimen of the Chabuk for every man, woman and child that dared to think otherwise.

Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there can be but little doubt; and among the lesser symptoms it is recorded of LALLA ROOKH that to the day of her death in memory of their delightful journey she never called the King by any other name than FERAMORZ.

[1] These particulars of the visit of the King of Bucharia to Aurungzebe are found in Dow's "History of Hindostan," vol. iii. p. 392.

[2] Tulip cheek.

[3] The mistress of Mejnoun, upon whose story so many Romances in all the languages of the East are founded.

[4] For the loves of this celebrated beauty with Khosrou and with Ferhad, see D'Herbelot, Gibbon, Oriental Collections, etc.

[5] "The history of the loves of Dewildé and Chizer, the son of the Emperor Alla, is written in an elegant poem, by the noble Chusero."- Ferishta.

[6] Gul Reazee.

[7] "One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the Emperor is the permission to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the training of hawks, and to call them to the lure, and is worn in the field by all sportsmen to that end."—Fryer's Travels. "Those on whom the King has conferred the privilege must wear an ornament of jewels on the right side of the turban, surmounted by a high plume of the feathers of a kind of egret. This bird is found only in Cashmere, and the feathers are carefully collected for the King, who bestows them on his nobles."—Elphinstone's Account of Cabul.

[8] "Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turquestan beyond the Gibon (at the end of the eleventh century), whenever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an equal number bearing maces of gold. He was a great patron of poetry, and it was he who used to preside at public exercises of genius, with four basins of gold and silver by him to distribute among the poets who excelled."—Richardson's Dissertation prefixed to his Dictionary.

[9] "The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape of a pine- apple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin."—Scott's Notes on the Bahardanush.

[10] In the Poem of Zohair, in the Moallakat, there is the following lively description of "a company of maidens seated on camels." "They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awnings, and with rose-colored veils, the linings of which have the hue of crimson Andem-wood. "When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on the saddlecloth, with every mark of a voluptuous gayety. "Now, When they have reached the brink of yon blue-gushing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arab with a settled mansion."

[11] See Bernier's description of the attendants on Rauchanara Begum, in her progress to Cashmere.

[12] This hypocritical Emperor would have made a worthy associate of certain Holy Leagues.—"He held the cloak of religion [says Dow] between his actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which he owed to his own wickedness. When he was murdering and persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building a magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for his assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted as high priest at the consecration of this temple; and made a practice of attending divine service there, in the humble dress of a Fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he, with the other, signed warrants for the assassination of his relations."—"History of Hindostan,". vol. iii. p.335. See also the curious letter of Aurungzebe, given in the Oriental Collections, vol. i. p.320.

[13] "The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith is suffered to enter the Pagoda, one having stole one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the Idol."—Tavernier.

[14] See a description of these royal Gardens in "An Account of the present State of Delhi, by Lieut. W. Franklin."—Asiat. Research, vol. iv. p. 417.

[15] "In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which receives this name from its pellucid water."—Pennant's "Hindostan." "Nasir Jung encamped in the vicinity of the Lake of Tonoor, amused himself with sailing on that clear and beautiful water, and gave it the fanciful name of Motee Talah, 'the Lake of Pearls,' which it still retains."— Wilks's "South of India."

[16] Sir Thomas Roe, Ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire.

[17] "The romance Wemakweazra, written in Persian verse, which contains the loves of Wamak and Ezra, two celebrated lovers who lived before the time of Mahomet."—Note on the Oriental Tales.

[18] Their amour is recounted in the Shah-Namêh of Ferdousi; and there is much beauty in the passage which describes the slaves of Rodahver sitting on the bank of the river and throwing flowers into the stream, in order to draw the attention of the young Hero who is encamped on the opposite side.—See Champion's translation.

[19] Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particulars of his victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or White Demon, see Oriental Collections, vol. ii. p. 45.—Near the city of Shiraz is an immense quadrangular monument, in commemoration of this combat, called the Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed, or castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his "Gazophilacium Persicum," p.127, declares to have been the most memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen in Persia.—See Ouseley's "Persian Miscellanies."

[20] "The women of the Idol, or dancing girls of the Pagoda, have little golden bells, fastened to their feet, the soft harmonious tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices."— Maurice's "Indian Antiquities."

"The Arabian courtesans, like the Indian women, have little golden bells fastened round their legs, neck, and elbows, to the sound of which they dance before the King. The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their fingers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known and they themselves receive in passing the homage due to them."—See Calmet's Dictionary, art. "Bells."

[21] The Indian Apollo. "He and the three Ramas are described as youths of perfect beauty, and the princesses of Hindustan were all passionately in love with Chrishna, who continues to this hour the darling God of the Indan women."—Sir W. Jones, on the Gods of Greece, Italy, and India.

[22] See Turner's Embassy for a description of this animal, "the most beautiful among the whole tribe of goats." The material for the shawls (which is carried to Cashmere) is found next the skin.

[23] For the real history of this Impostor, whose original name was Hakem ben Haschem, and who was called Mocanna from the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which he always wore, see D'Herbelot.

[24] Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province or Region of the Sun.—Sir W. Jones.

[25] "The fruits of Meru are finer than those of any other place: and one cannot see in any other city such palaces with groves, and streams, and gardens."—Ebn Haukal's Geography.

[26] One of the royal cities of Khorassan.

[27] Moses.

[28] Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House of Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards.

[29] "Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Khathaian reeds, slender and delicate."—Poem of Amru.

[30] Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians.

[31] The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of it.—"Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of this plant in flower during the rains on the banks of rivers, where it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining asclepias."—Sir W. Jones..

[32] The oriental plane. "The chenar is a delightful tree; its bole is of a fine white and smooth bark; and its foliage, which grows in a tuft at the summit, is of a bright green."—Morier's Travels..

[33] The burning fountains of Brahma near Chittogong, esteemed as holy.—Turner.

[34] China.

[35] "The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to the flower on account of its resembling a turban."—Beckmann's History of Inventions.

[36] "The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet, shaped much after the Polish fashion, having a large fur border. They tie their kaftans about the middle with a girdle of a kind of silk crape, several times round the body."—Account of Independent Tartary, in Pinkerton's Collection.

[37] In the war of the Caliph Mahadi against the Empress Irene, for an account of which vide Gibbon, vol. x.

[38] When Soliman travelled, the eastern writers say, "He had a carpet of green silk on which his throne was placed, being of a prodigious length and breadth, and sufficient for all his forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves on his right hand, and the spirits on his left; and that when all were in order, the wind, at his command, took up the carpet, and transported it, with all that were upon it, wherever he pleased; the army of birds at the same time flying over their heads, and forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the sun."—Sale's Koran, vol. ii. p. 214, note.

[39] The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines.—Vide D'Herbelot..

[40] "And when we said unto the angels. Worship Adam, they all worshipped him except Eblis (Lucifer), who refused." The. Koran, chap. ii.

[41] Moses.

[42] Jesus.

[43] The Amu, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two branches; one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles.

[44] The nightingale.

[45] The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, mausoleums and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia —Chardin..

[46] An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine.

[47] The miraculous well at Mecca: so called, says Sale, from the murmuring of its waters.

[48] The god Hannaman.—"Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of respect to the God Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form of that race."—Pennant's Hindoostan. See a curious account in Stephen's Persia, of a solemn embassy from some part of the Indies to Goa when the Portuguese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom of Jafanapatan.

[49] A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition.

[50] The material of which images of Gaudma (the Birman Deity) are made, is held sacred. "Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity ready made." —Sytnes's "Ava," vol. ii. p. 876.

[51] "It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot south wind, which in June or July passes over that flower (the Kerzereh), it will kill him."—Thevenot.

[52] The humming bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of picking the crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is related of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witness, by Paul Lucas, "Voyage fait en 1714."

The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or humming-bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed at Java.—Barrow's "Cochin-China."

[53] "The feast of Lanterns celebrated at Yamtcheou with more magnificence than anywhere else! and the report goes that the illuminations there are so splendid, that an Emperor once, not daring openly to leave his Court to go thither, committed himself with the Queen and several Princesses of his family into the hands of a magician, who promised to transport them thither in a trice. He made them in the night to ascend magnificent thrones that were borne up by swans, which in a moment arrived at Yamtcheou. The Emperor saw at his leisure all the solemnity, being carried upon a cloud that hovered over the city and descended by degrees; and came back again with the same speed and equipage, nobody at court perceiving his absence."—The Present State of China," p. 156.

[54] "The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in the family of a famous mandarin, whose daughter, walking one evening upon the shore of a lake, fell in and was drowned: this afflicted father, with his family, ran thither, and the better to find her, he caused a great company of lanterns to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the place thronged after him with torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon the shores the same day; they continued the ceremony every year, every one lighted his lantern, and by degrees it commenced into a custom."—The Present State of China."

[55] "Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes."—Sol. Song.

[56] "They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with Henna, so that they resembled branches of coral."—Story of Prince Futtun in Bahardanush.

[57] "The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named the black Kohol."—Russell.

"None of these ladies," says Shaw, "take themselves to be completely dressed, till they have tinged their hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping first into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, and then drawing it afterwards through the eyelids over the ball of the eye, we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30) may be supposed to mean by rending the eyes with painting. This practice is no doubt of great antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 30.) to have painted her face, the original words are, she adjusted her eyes with the powder of lead-ore."—Shaw's Travels.

[58] "The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored Campac on the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit Poets with many elegant allusions."—See Asiatic Researches, vol. iv.

[59] A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills of Yemen.—Niebuhr.

[60] Of the genus mimosa "which droops its branches whenever any person approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under its shade."—Niebuhr.

[61] Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition of the perfumed rods, which men of rank keep constantly burning in their presence.— Turner's "Tibet."

[62] "Thousands of variegated loories visit the coral-trees."—Barrow.

[63] "In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will affright or abuse, much less kill."—Pitt's Account of the Mahometans.

[64] "The Pagoda Thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melodious song."—Pennant's "Hindostan."

[65] Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs; and that hence it is they are said to have no feet.

[66] Birds of Paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India; and "the strength of the nutmeg," says Tavernier, "so intoxicates them that they fall dead drunk to the earth."

[67] "That bird which liveth in Arabia, and buildeth its nest with cinnamon."—Brown's Vulgar Errors.

[68] "The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds."—Gibbon, vol. ix. p. 421.

[69] Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first time he attempted to enter them.

[70] "My Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their Sephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its blossoms."—Sir W. Jones.

[71] They deterred it till the King of Flowers should ascend his throne of enamelled foliage."—The Bahardanush".

[72] "One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light golden chain-work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear."—Hanway's Travels.

[73] "Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz."—Tavernier.

[74] Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for persons of distinction.

[75] The Persians, like the ancient Greeks call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc.

[76] A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar.

[77] "To the north of us (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku,) was a mountain, which sparkled like diamonds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it abounds."—Journey of the Russian Ambassador to Persia, 1746.

[78] "To which will be added, the sound of the bells, hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish for music."—Sale.

[79] "Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the breeze."—Jayadeva.

[80] The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia.

[81] It has been generally supposed that the Mahometans prohibit all pictures of animals; but Toderini shows that, though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arabs of Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into Painting.

[82] This is not quite astronomically true. "Dr. Hadley [says Keil] has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from the sun; and that then but only a fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth."

[83] The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals. The passion which this frail beauty of antiquity conceived for her young Hebrew slave has given rise to a much esteemed poem in the Persian language, entitled Yusef vau Zelikha, by Noureddin Jami; the manuscript copy of which, in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, is supposed to be the finest in the whole world."—Note upon Nott's Translation of Hafez."

[84] The particulars of Mahomet's amour with Mary, the Coptic girl, in justification of which he added a new chapter to the Koran, may be found in Gagnier's Notes upon Abulfeda, p. 151.

[85] "Deep blue is their mourning color." Hanway.

[86] The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odor after sunset.

[87] "Concerning the vipers, which Pliny says were frequent among the balsam-trees, I made very particular inquiry; several were brought me alive both to Yambo and Jidda."—Bruce.

[88] In the territory of Istkahar there is a kind of apple, half of which is sweet and half sour.—Ebn Haukal.

[89] "The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, and where there are more than a hundred springs, which sparkle like stars; whence it is called Hotun-nor, that is, the Sea of Stars."—Description of Tibet in Pinkerton.

[90] "The Lescar or Imperial Camp is divided, like a regular town, into squares, alleys, and streets, and from a rising ground furnishes one of the most agreeable prospects in the world. Starting up in a few hours in an uninhabited plain, it raises the idea of a city built by enchantment. Even those who leave their houses in cities to follow the prince in his progress are frequently so charmed with the Lescar, when situated in a beautiful and convenient place, that they cannot prevail with themselves to remove. To prevent this inconvenience to the court, the Emperor, after sufficient time is allowed to the tradesmen to follow, orders them to be burnt out of their tents."—Dow's Hindostan.

[91] The edifices of Chilminar and Balbec are supposed to have been built by the Genii, acting under the orders of Jan ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam.

[92] "A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small shells."—Ali Bey.

[93] A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by means of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried.

[94] "Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about their fore-horses' necks, which together with the servants (who belong to the camels, and travel on foot), singing all night, make a pleasant noise, and the journey passes away delightfully."—Pitt's Account of the Mahometans.

"The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and sometimes playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipes, the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when he gives over his music."—Tavernier.

[95] "This trumpet is often called, in Abyssinia, nesser cano, which signifies the Note of the Eagle."—Note of Bruce's Editor.

[96] The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of Abbas were called, allegorically, The Night and The Shadow.—See Gibbon.

[97] The Mohometan religion.

[98] "The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shad Besade, who is buried at Casbin; and when one desires another to asseverate a matter he will ask him, if he dare swear by the Holy Grave."—Struy.

[99] Mahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of dinars of gold.

[100] The inhabitants of Hejaz or Arabia Petraea, called by an Eastern writer "The People of the Rock."—Ebn Haukal.

[101] "Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom a written genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. They are said to derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds."—Niebuhr.

[102] "Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small gems."—Asiat. Misc. v. i.

[103] Azab or Saba.

[104] "The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of white heron's feathers in their turbans."—Account of Independent Tartary.

[105] In the mountains of Nishapour and Tous in (Khorassan) they find turquoises.—Ebn Huukal.

[106] The Ghebers or Guebres, those original natives of Persia, who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home, or forced to become wanderers abroad.

[107] "Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives who worship the Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, about 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain."—Stephen's Persia.

[108] When the weather is hazy, the springs of Naphtha (on an island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the Naphtha often takes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost incredible."—Hanway on the Everlasting Fire at Baku.

[109] Savary says of the south wind, which blows in Egypt from February to May, "Sometimes it appears only in the shape of an impetuous whirlwind, which passes rapidly, and is fatal to the traveller, surprised in the middle of the deserts. Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the firmament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the color of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it."

[110] In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Beder, he was assisted, say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels led by Gabriel mounted on his horse Hiazum.—See The Koran and its Commentators.

[111] The Techir, or cry of the Arabs. "Alla Acbar!" says Ockley, means, "God is most mighty."

[112] The ziraleet is a kind of chorus, which the women of the East sing upon joyful occasions.

[113] The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life.

[114] The ancient Oxus.

[115] A city of Transoxiana.

[116] "You never can cast your eyes on this tree, but you meet there either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossom drops underneath on the ground (which is frequently covered with these purple-colored flowers), others come forth in their stead," etc.—Nieuhoff.

[117] The Demons of the Persian mythology.

[118] Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy season.—See his Travels.

[119] Sennacherib, called by the Orientals King of Moussal.—D'Herbelot.

[120] Chosroes. For the description of his Throne or Palace, see Gibbon and D'Herbelot.

There were said to be under this Throne or Palace of Khosrou Parviz a hundred vaults filled with "treasures so immense that some Mahometan writers tell us, their Prophet to encourage his disciples carried them to a rock which at his command opened and gave them a prospect through it of the treasures of Khosrou."—Universal History.

[121] "The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft of thy turban."—From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb.—See Chardin.

[122] The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable, that whenever the Persians would describe anything as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hali, or the Eyes of Ali.—Chardin.

[123] "Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiana, where they say there is a well, in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day."

[124] The Shechinah, called Sakfnat in the Koran.—See Sale's Note, chap. ii.

[125] The parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of music, as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums.—See Burder's Oriental Customs, vol. i. p. 119.

[126] The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth, stiffened with cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents.—_Notes on the Bakardanush.

The tents of Princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells us that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before it.—See Harmer's Observations on Job.

[127] "From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroon the bees cull a celebrated honey.—Morier's Travels.

[128] "A custom still subsisting at this day, seems to me to prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the God of the Nile; for they now make a statue of earth in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river."—Savary.

[129] That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow's account of Mamood I. "When he at Moultan, finding that the country of the Jits was defended by great rivers, he ordered fifteen hundred boats to be built, each of which he armed with six iron spikes, projecting from their prows and sides, to prevent their being boarded by the enemy, who were very expert in that kind of war. When he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the whole river on fire."

[130] The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the emperors to their allies. "It was," says Gibbon, "either launched in red-hot balls of stone and iron, or darted in arrows and javelins, twisted round with flax and tow, which had deeply imbibed the imflammable oil."

[131] See Hanway's Account of the Springs of Naphtha at Baku (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinger Joala Mookee, or, the Flaming Mouth), taking fire and running into the sea. Dr. Cooke, in his Journal, mentions some wells in Circassia, strongly impregnated with this inflammable oil, from which issues boiling water. "Though the weather," he adds, "was now very cold, the warmth of these wells of hot water produced near them the verdure and flowers of spring.'

[132] "At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, they used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumination; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the woods for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced."—Richardson's Dissertation.

[133] "The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, sealed: the seal whereof shall be musk."—Koran, chap lxxxiii.

[134] The Afghans believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whom they call The Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, by saying they are wild as the Demon of the Waste."—Elphinstone's Caubul.

[135] "They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the departed, who sit each at the head of his own grave, invisible to mortal eyes."—Elphinstone.

[136] The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, which are certainly the best I ever tasted. The parent-tree, from which all those of this species have been grafted, is honored during the fruit-season by a guard of sepoys; and, in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers ware stationed between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh supply of mangoes for the royal table."—Mrs. Graham's Journal of Residence in India.

[137] This old porcelain is found in digging, and "if it is esteemed, it is not because it has acquired any new degree of beauty in the earth, but because it has retained its ancient beauty; and this alone is of great importance in China, where they give large sums for the smallest vessels which were used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to be used by the Emperors" (about the year 442).—Dunn's Collection of curious Observations, etc.

[138] The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and whose apron became the royal standard of Persia.

[139] "The Huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground; it is looked upon as a bird of happy omen; and that every head it overshades will in time wear a crown."—Richardson.

In the terms of alliance made by Fuzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one of the stipulations was, "that he should have the distinction of two honorary attendants standing behind him, holding fans composed of the feathers of the humma, according to the practice of his family."— Wilks's South of India. He adds in a note;—"The Humma is a fabulous bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the throne of Tippoo Sultaun, found at Seringapatam in 1799, was intended to represent this poetical fancy."

[140] "To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the inscriptions, figures, etc., on those rocks, which have from thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain."—Volney.

M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some mysterious and important meaning to these inscriptions; but Niebuhr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have been executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, "who were satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with any pointed instrument; adding to their names and the date of their journeys some rude figures, which bespeak the hand of a people but little skilled in the arts."—Niebuhr.

[141] The Story of Sinbad.

[142] "The Cámalatá (called by Linnaeus, Ipomaea) is the most beautiful of its order, both in the color and form of its leaves and flowers; its elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue,' and have justly procured is the name of Cámalatá, or Love's creeper."—Sir W. Jones.

[143] "According to Father Premare, in his tract on Chinese Mythology, the mother of Fo-hi was the daughter of heaven, surnamed Flower-loving; and as the nymph was walking alone on the bank of a river, she found herself encircled by a rainbow, after which she became pregnant, and, at the end of twelve years, was delivered of a son radiant as herself."—Asiat. Res.

[144] "Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is called Char Chenaur, from the plane trees upon it.—Foster.

[145] "The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the inhabitants all the summer in gathering it."—Description of Tibet in Pinkerton.

[146] "The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue campac flowers only in Paradise."—Sir W. Jones. It appears, however, from a curious letter of the Sultan of Menangeabow, given by Marsden, that one place on earth may lay claim to the possession of it. "This is the Sultan, who keeps the flower champaka that is blue, and to be found in no other country but his, being yellow elsewhere."—Marsden's Sumatra.

[147] "The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near the empyrean or verge or the heavens."—Fryer.

[148] The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there.—D'Herbelot, Volney.

[149] Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchai, to the south of Arabia Felix, where there was a temple of Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared, "sunk [says Grandpré] in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foundations."—Voyage to the Indian Ocean.

[150] The Isles of Panchaia.

[151] "The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of Persepolis."-Richardson.

[152] "It is not like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and ambergris, whose mountains of the coast are stored with gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, cloves, sandal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics; where parrots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civit are collected upon the lands."—Travels of Two Mohammedans.

[153] "With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth in golden thrones and in other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of Ghizni." Ferishta.

[154] "Mahmood of Gazna, or Chizni, who conquered India in the beginning of the 11th century."—See his History in Dow and Sir J. Malcolm.

[155] "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmood was so magnificent, that he kept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds each of which wore a collar set with jewels and a covering edged with gold and pearls."—Universal History, vol. iii.

[156] "The Mountains of the Moon, or the Montes Lunae of antiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise."—Bruce.

[157] "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy or the Giant."—Asiat. Research. vol. i. p. 387.

[158] See Perry's View of the Levant for an account of the sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with hieroglyphics in the mountains of Upper Egypt.

[159] "The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves.—Sonnini.

[160] Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Moeris.

[161] "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep."—Dafard el Hadad.

[162] "That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its part, as well as the brilliancy of its colors, has obtained the title of Sultana,"—Sonnini.

[163] Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when he was there, says, "The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries," etc.

[164] "Gondar was full of hyaenas from the time it turned dark, till the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose in the streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these animals are Falashta from the neighboring mountains, transformed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the dark in safety."—Bruce.

[165] "In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to the wood and consumes himself."—Richardson.

[166] "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave."—From Chateaubriand's Description of the Mahometan Paradise, in his "Beauties of Christianity."

[167] Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose, for which that country has always been famous;—hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses.

[168] "The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Balbec amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with them."—Bruce.

[169] "The Syrinx or Pan's pipes is still a pastoral instrument in Syria."—Russel.

[170] "Wild bees, frequent in Palestine, in hollow trunks or branches of trees, and the clefts of rocks. Thus it is said (Psalm lxxxi.), 'honey out of the stony rock.'"—Burder's Oriental Customs.

[171] "The River Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant woods, among which thousands of nightingales warble all together."—Thevenot.

[172] The Temple of the Sun at Balbec.

[173] "You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire procured for them the name of Damsels.—Sonnini.

[174] "Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend the mosques, are still obliged to execute that duty; nor are they ever known to fail, whatever business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms them, whatever they are about, in that very place they chance to stand on; insomuch that when a janissary, whom you have to guard you up and down the city, hears the notice which is given him from the steeples, he will turn about, stand still, and beckon with his hand, to tell his charge he must have patience for awhile; when, taking out his handkerchief, he spreads it on the ground, sits cross-legged thereupon, and says his prayers, though in the open market, which, having ended he leaps briskly up, salutes the person whom he undertook to convey, and renews his journey with the mild expression of Ghell yelinnum ghell, or Come, dear, follow me."—Aaron Hill's Travels.

[175] The Nucta, Or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. John's day in June and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the plague.

[176] The Country of Delight—the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan.

[177] The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. See Sale's Prelim. Disc.—Tooba, says D'Herbelot, signifies beatitude, or eternal happiness.

[178] Mahomet is described, in the 53d chapter of the Koran, as having seen the Angel Gabriel "by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right hand of the Throne of God.

[179] "It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the time of Peisl ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams."—Ebn Haukal.

[180] The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exercise. See Castellan, "Moeurs des Ottomans," tom. iii. p. 161.

[181] "This account excited a desire of visiting the Banyan Hospital, as I had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds of animals that were either sick, lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On my arrival, there were presented to my view many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment; in another, dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them to repose on. Above stairs were depositories for seeds of many sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and insects."—Parson's Travels. It is said that all animals know the Banyans, that the most timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them than to other people.—See Grandpré.

[182] "A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Heridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and diffuses, when crushed, a strong odor."—Sir W. Jones on the Spikenard of the Ancients.

[183] "Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the Mountain of the Talisman, because, according to the traditions of the country, no person ever succeeded in gaining its summit."—Kinneir.

[184] "The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their young by only looking at them."

[185] Oriental Tales.

[186] Ferishta. "Or rather," says Scott, upon the passage of Ferishta, from which this is taken, "small coins, stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in charity and on occasion thrown by the purse-bearers of the great among the populace."

[187] The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. This road is 250 leagues in length. It has "little pyramids or turrets," says Bernier, "erected every half league, to mark the ways, and frequent wells to afford drink to passengers, and to water the young trees."

[188] The Baya, or Indian Grosbeak.—Sir W. Jones.

[189] "Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of which float multitudes of the beautiful red lotus: the flower is larger than that of the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphaeas I have seen."—Mrs. Graham's Journal of a Residence in India.

[190] "Cashmere (says its historian) had its own princes 4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar would have found some difficulty to reduce this paradise of the Indies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, but its monarch, Yusef-Khan, was basely betrayed by his Omrahs."—Pennant.

[191] Voltaire tells us that in his tragedy, "Les Guèbres," he was generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists. I should not be surprised if this story of the Fire worshippers were found capable of a similar doubleness of application.

[192] The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores of Persia and Arabia.

[193] The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf.

[194] A Moorish instrument of music.

[195] "At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the purpose of catching the wind and cooling the houses.—Le Bruyn.

[196] "Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.—Asiat. Res. Disc. 5.

[197] "On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is usually inscribed.—Russel.

[198] There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad;"—Tournefort.

[199] Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers, upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignty "—Hanway.

[200] "The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, is situated in some dark region of the East."—Richardson.

[201] Arabia Felix.

[202] "In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckles, make a sort of green wall; large trees are planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures."—Lady M. W. Montagu.

[203] The women of the East are never without their looking-glasses. "In Barbary," says Shaw, "they are so fond of their looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when after the drudgery of the day they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water."—Travels.

[204] "They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of those stones (emeralds), he immediately becomes blind."—Ahmed ben Abdalaziz, Treatise on Jewels.

[205] "At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus, it is sometimes so hot, that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water."—Marco Polo.

[206] This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible. Struy says, "I can well assure the reader that their opinion is not true, who suppose this mount to be inaccessible." He adds, that "the lower part of the mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middlemost part very cold, and like clouds of snow, but the upper regions perfectly calm."—It was on this mountain that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the Deluge, and part of it, they say, exists there still, which Struy thus gravely accounts for:—"Whereas none can remember that the air on the top of the hill did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, which is presumed to be the reason that the Ark has endured so long without being rotten."—See Carreri's Travels, where the Doctor laughs at this whole account of Mount Ararat.

[207] In one of the books of the Shâh Nâmeh, when Zal (a celebrated hero of Persia, remarkable for his white hair,) comes to the terrace of his mistress Rodahver at night, she lets down her long tresses to assist him in his ascent;—he, however, manages it in a less romantic way by fixing his crook in a projecting beam.—See Champion's Ferdosi.

[208] "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petraea, are rock-goats."—Niebuhr.

[209] "They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it."—Grose's Voyage.

[210] "They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary."—Hanway.

[211] The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air which in some measure resembled lightning or falling stars."—Baumgarten.

[212] "Within the enclosure which surrounds his monument (at Gualior) is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, a musician of incomparable skill, who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious notion prevails, that the chewing of its leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the voice."—Narrative of a Journey from Agra to Ouzein, by W. Hunter, Esq.

[213] "It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to a bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a tiger has destroyed a man. It is common for the passengers also to throw each a stone or brick near the spot, so that in the course of a little time a pile equal to a good wagon-load is collected. The sight of these flags and piles of stones imparts a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of apprehension."—Oriental Field Sports, vol. ii.

[214] "The Ficus Indica is called the Pagod Tree of Councils; the first, from the idols placed under its shade; the second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is believed to be the haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, elegantly carved, and ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain to supply the use of mirrors."—Pennant.

[215] The Persian Gulf.—"To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian Gulf."—Sir W. Jones.

[216] Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. "The Indians when they pass the promontory throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers into the sea to secure a propitious voyage."—Morier.

[217] "The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the daytime and from the loftiest trees at night."—Russel's "Aleppo."

[218] In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, "The dew is of such a pure nature, that if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust."

[219] The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed.

[220] The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which grows in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon."— Thunberg.

[221] "When the bright scimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink."—The Moallakat, Poem of Amru.

[222] Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in Fairy-land among the Peris and Divs may be found in Richardson's curious Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterwards to his descendants.

[223] This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the "cedar-saints" among which it rises.

[224] This mountain is my own creation, as the "stupendous chain," of which I suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of the Persian Gulf.

[225] These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hope.

[226] "There is an extraordinary hill in this neighborhood, called Kohé Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence or Deeves or Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witchcraft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or explore it."—Pottinger's "Beloochistan."

[227] The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires.

[228] "At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distinguished by the appellation of the Darub Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which, they assert, has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city; but for this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the tolerance of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-five rupees each man."—Pottinger's "Beloochistan."

[229] Ancient heroes of Persia. "Among the Guebres there are some who boast their descent from Rustam."—Stephen's Persia.

[230] See Russel's account of the panther's attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon.

[231] "Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place upon the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves."— Richardson.

[232] In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their Fire, as described by Lord, "the Daroo," he says, "giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness."

[233] "Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, and offer incense to the sun.'—Rabbi Benjamin.

[234] A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow color."— Russel's "Aleppo."

[235] It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire."—Travels of Two Mohammedans.

[236] A kind of trumpet;—it "was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of which is described as uncommonly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at a distance of several miles."—Richardson.

[237] "Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, he wore at the battle of Ohod."—Universal History.

[238] "They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very lovely fruit, but within are all full of ashes."— Thevenot.

[239] "The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the rarefaction of the atmosphere from extreme heat; and, which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy is though it had been the face of a clear and still lake."—Pottinger.

[240] "A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, from a small and odoriferous flower of that name."—"The wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end of the month."—Le Bruyn.

[241] "The Biajús are of two races: the one is settled on Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious nation, who reckon themselves the original possessors of the island of Borneo. The other is a species of sea-gypsies or itinerant fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a perpetual summer on the eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from island to island, with the variations of the monsoon.

[242] "The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed, particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet sugar."—Hassequist.

[243] "Last of all she took a guitar, and sang a pathetic air in the measure called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers."—Persian Tales.

[244] "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with music."—Harmer.

[245] "The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name from the old Arabians, on account of the danger of the navigation and the number of shipwrecks by which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead, and to wear mourning for all who had the boldness to hazard the passage through it into the Ethiopic ocean."—Richardson.

[246] "I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appears."—Pennant.

[247] "They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or Babylonian pigeon."—Travels of certain Englishmen.

[248] "The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known by fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them."—Harris.

[249] The meteors that Pliny calls "faces."

[250] "The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates."—Brown.

[251] A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients, Ceraunium, because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had fire in it; and the author of the Dissertation of Harris's Voyages, supposes it to be the opal.

[252] "The Guebres are known by a dark yellow color, which the men affect in their clothes."—Thevenot.

[253] "The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the sheep of Tartary."—Waring.

[254] A frequent image among the oriental poets. "The nightingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud, and the rose."—Jami.

[255] "Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a durable color to silk."—Remarks on the Husbandry of Bengal, p. 200. Nilica is one of the Indian names of this flower.—Sir W. Jones. The Persians call it Gul.—Carreri.

[256] "In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for travellers.—Ebn Haukal.

[257] The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called "the Searchers of the Grave" in the "Creed of the orthodox Mahometans" given by Ockley, vol. ii.

[258] "The Arabians call the mandrake 'the devil's candle,' on account of its shining appearance in the night."—Richardson.

[259] For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, etc., to be seen to this day, see Perry's "Views of the Levant."

[260] Jesus.

[261] The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into "a bed of roses, where the child sweetly reposed."—Tavernier.

[262] "The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound."— Pennant.

[263] "The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are to be found in some places of the Indies."—Thevenot.

[264] "The angel Israfll, who has the most melodious voice of all God's creatures."—Sale.

[265] "In this thicket upon the banks of the Jordan several sorts of wild beasts are wont to harbor themselves, whose being washed out of the covert by the overflowings of the river, gave occasion to that allusion of Jeremiah, he shall come up like a lion from the smelling of Jordan."—Maundrell's "Aleppo."

[266] "This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts."—Stephen's Persia.

[267] "One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays."—Mirza Abu Taleb.

[268] Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the tears of birds.—See Trevoux, Chambers.

[269] "The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire."—Struy.

[270] "The application of whips or rods."—Dubois.

[271] Kempfer mentions such an officer among the attendants of the King of Persia, and calls him "formae corporis estimator." His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle whose limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. If any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till they came within proper bounds.

[272] "Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the Nilab, which he called Attock, which means in the Indian language Forbidden; for, by the superstition of the Hindoos, it was held unlawful to cross that river."—Dow's Hindostan.

[273] "The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never afflicted with sadness or melancholy; on this subject the Sheikh Abu-al-Kheir-Azhari has the following distich:—

"'Who is the man without care or sorrow, (tell) that I may rub my hand to him.

"'(Behold) the Zingians, without care and sorrow, frolicsome with tipsiness and mirth.'"

[274] The star Soheil, or Canopus.

[275] "The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining the head it mimics them when they say their prayers."—Hasselquist.

[276] "As you enter at that Bazar, without the gate of Damascus, you see the Green Mosque, so called because it hath a steeple faced with green glazed bricks, which render it very resplendent: It is covered at top with a pavilion of the same stuff. The Turks say this mosque was made in that place, because Mahomet being come so far, would not enter the town, saying it was too delicious."—Thevenot.

[277] Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was afterwards called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World.

[278] "The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odor has long been proverbial in the East."—Foster.

[279] "Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing melody."—Song of Jayadeva.

[280] "The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbors and large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall."—Bernier.

[281] "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahommetans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake."—Forster.

[282] "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in bloom."—See Pietro de la Valle.

[283] "Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular species."—Ouseley.

[284] A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehan- Guire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron-flowers about Cashmere.

[285] "It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous chorus."—Russel.

[286] "The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, as promoting a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates."— Richardson.

[287] At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, with music, dances, etc."—Herbert.

[288] "An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the ancients having remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of them,"—Grosier.

[289] In the wars of the Divs with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, "they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the highest trees. Here they were visited by their companions, who brought them the choicest odors."—Richardson.

[290] In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers.

[291] The capital of Shadukiam.

[292] "Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beautiful colors, but when it flies they lose all their splendor."—Grosier.

[293] "As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are called by the French 'les âmes damnées.'"—Dalloway.

[294] "You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not in his constant heart for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose."—Jami.

[295] "He is said to have found the great Mantra, spell or talisman, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations."—Wilford.

[296] "The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, from the supposed charm they contain."—Jackson.

[297] "A demon, supposed to haunt woods, etc., in a human shape."— Richardson.

[298] The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to the throne.

[299] "Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold color."—Sir W. Jones.

[300] "This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightful on earth, and the delicious odor of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love."—Id.

[301] "The Malayans style the tuberose (polianthes tuberosa) Sandal Malam, or the Mistress of the Night."—Pennant.

[302] The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names), "when not engaged in war, lead an idle, inactive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, mostly prevails,"—Marsden.

[303] "The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called Amrita, or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit."—Sir W. Jones.

[304] Sweet Basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in churchyards.

[305] "In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavender and rosemary."—Asiat. Res.

[306] "The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches."—Hasselquist.

[307] An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goat and other animals that graze upon it.

[308] The myrrh country.

[309] "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in shells on the shores of the Red Sea."—Wilford.

[310] "A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing."—Richardson.

[311] "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree."—See Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.

[312] "The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They account for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of daybreak. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain, and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning."—Scott Waring.

[313] "In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shan Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back of the garden, and flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief beauty of the Shalimar."—Forster.

[314] "The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to them."—Ali Yezdi.

[315] "From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of India."—Persian Miscellanies.

[316] "The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace) are unequalled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon."—Jackson.

[317] "On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamond."—Mariti.

[318] "These is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land."— Thevenot. In some of those countries to the north of India vegetable gold is supposed to be produced.

[319] "These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colors, and are so variegated, that they may be called flying flowers; and indeed they are always produced in the finest flower-gardens."—Dunn.

[320] "The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily ordered."—Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation.

[321] "The golden grapes of Casbin."—Description of Persia.

[322] "The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, pomegranates," etc.—Elphinstone.

[323] "We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave an enchanting account; that city and its 100,000 gardens," etc.—Ib.

[324] "The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; the pride of the Malay islands."—Marsden.

[325] "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokmekshems, signifying sun's seed."—Description of Persia.

[326] "Sweetmeats, in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with Iemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers," etc.—Russel.

[327] "Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac."—The Moallakat, Poem of Tarafa.

[328] "Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan."—See Kempfer.

[329] Persian Tales.

[330] The white wine of Kishma.

[331] "The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for It, but the king answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world."—Marco Polo.

[332] The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges on the Nymphaea Nelumbo.—See Pennant.

[333] Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths.—See Ebn Haukal.

[334] "The Indian Syrinda, or guitar."—Symez.

[335] "Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of white marble—'If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.'"—Franklin.

[336] "Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain tops while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil."—Song of Jayadera.

[337] "The Nison or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells."—Richardson.

[338] For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels, see Mariti.

[339] The Angel of Music.

[340] The Hudhud, or Lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.

[341] "The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of porcelain vessels fish and other animals, which were only perceptible when the vessel was full of some liquor, They call this species Kia-tsin, that is, azure is put in press, on account of the manner in which the azure is laid on."—"They are every now and then trying to discover the art of this magical painting, but to no purpose."—Dunn.

[342] An eminent carver of idols, said in the Koran to be father to Abraham. "I have such a lovely idol as is not to be met with in the house of Azor."—Hafiz.

[343] Kachmire be Nazeer.—Forster.

[344] Jehan-Guire mentions "a fountain in Cashmere called Tirnagh, which signifies a snake; probably because some large snake had formerly been seen there."—"During the lifetime of my father, I went twice to this fountain, which is about twenty coss from the city of Cashmere. The vestiges of places of worship and sanctity are to be traced without number amongst the ruins and the caves which are interspersed in its neighborhood."—Toozek Jehangeery.—v. Asiat. Misc. vol. ii.

[345] "On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an equal warmth in winter, as a refreshing coolness in the summer season, when the tops of the houses, which are planted with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious view of a beautifully checkered parterre."—Forster.

[346] "Two hundred slaves there are, who have no other office than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoises for the King's Vivary. Of the shells of these also lanterns are made."—Vincent le Blanc's Travels.

[347] This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damascena, is, according to the Mahometans, one of the signs of the Last Day's approach.

Another of the signs is, "Great distress in the world, so that a man when he passes by another's grave shall say, Would to God I were in his place!"—Sale's Preliminary Discourse.

[348] "On Mahommed Shaw's return to Koolburga (the capital of Dekkan), he made a great festival, and mounted this throne with much pomp and magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have heard some old persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in breadth; made of ebony covered with plates of pure gold, and set with precious stones of immense value. Every prince of the house of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a point of adding to it some rich stones; so that when in the reign of Sultan Mamood it was taken to pieces to remove some of the jewels to be set in vases and cups, the jewellers valued it at one corore of oons (nearly four millions sterling). I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being partly enamelled of a sky-blue color which was in time totally concealed by the number of jewels."— Ferishta.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

PREFACE.

The Eastern story of the angels Harut and Marut and the Rabbinical fictions of the loves of Uzziel and Shámchazai are the only sources to which I need refer for the origin of the notion on which this Romance is founded. In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium through which might be shadowed out (as I have endeavored to do in the following stories) the fall of the Soul from its original purity[1]—the loss of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures—and the punishments both from conscience and Divine justice with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of Heaven are sure to be visited—The beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of "veiled meaning," and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate to the following pages the same moral interest.

Among the doctrines or notions derived by Plato from the East, one of the most natural and sublime is that which inculcates the pre-existence of the soul and its gradual descent into this dark material world from that region of spirit and light which it is supposed to have once inhabited and to which after a long lapse of purification and trial it will return. This belief under various symbolical forms may be traced through almost all the Oriental theologies. The Chaldeans represent the Soul as originally endowed with wings which fall away when it sinks from its native element and must be re-produced before it can hope to return. Some disciples of Zoroaster once inquired of him, "How the wings of the Soul might be made to grow again?"

"By sprinkling them," he replied, "with the Waters of Life."

"But where are those Waters to be found?" they asked.

"In the Garden of God," replied Zoroaster.

The mythology of the Persians has allegorized the same doctrine, in the history of those genii of light who strayed from their dwellings in the stars and obscured their original nature by mixture with this material sphere; while the Egyptians connecting it with the descent and ascent of the sun in the zodiac considered Autumn as emblematic of the Soul's decline toward darkness and the re-appearance of Spring as its return to life and light.

Besides the chief spirits of the Mahometan heaven, such as Gabriel the angel of Revelation, Israfil by whom the last trumpet is to be sounded, and Azrael the angel of death, there were also a number of subaltern intelligences of which tradition has preserved the names, appointed to preside over the different stages of ascents into which the celestial world was supposed to be divided.[2] Thus Kelail governs the fifth heaven; while Sadiel, the presiding spirit of the third, is also employed in steadying the motions of the earth which would be in a constant state of agitation if this angel did not keep his foot planted upon its orb.

Among other miraculous interpositions in favor of Mahomet we find commemorated in the pages of the Koran the appearance of five thousand angels on his side at the battle of Bedr.

The ancient Persians supposed that Ormuzd appointed thirty angels to preside successively over the days of the month and twelve greater ones to assume the government of the months themselves; among whom Bahman (to whom Ormuzd committed the custody of all animals, except man) was the greatest. Mihr, the angel of the 7th month, was also the spirit that watched over the affairs of friendship and love;—Chûr had the care of the disk of the sun;—Mah was agent for the concerns of the moon;—Isphandârmaz (whom Cazvin calls the Spirit of the Earth) was the tutelar genius of good and virtuous women, etc. For all this the reader may consult the 19th and 20th chapters of Hyde, "de Religione Veterum Persarum," where the names and attributes of these daily and monthly angels are with much minuteness and erudition explained. It appears from the Zend-avesta that the Persians had a certain office or prayer for every day of the month (addressed to the particular angel who presided over it), which they called the Sirouzé.

The Celestial Hierarchy of the Syrians, as described by Kircher, appears to be the most regularly graduated of any of these systems. In the sphere of the Moon they placed the angels, in that of Mercury the archangels, Venus and the Sun contained the Principalities and the Powers;—and so on to the summit of the planetary system, where, in the sphere of Saturn, the Thrones had their station. Above this was the habitation of the Cherubim in the sphere of the fixed stars; and still higher, in the region of those stars which are so distant as to be imperceptible, the Seraphim, we are told, the most perfect of all celestial creatures, dwelt.

The Sabeans also (as D'Herbelot tells us) had their classes of angels, to whom they prayed as mediators, or intercessors; and the Arabians worshipped female angels, whom they called Benab Hasche, or, Daughters of God.

[1] The account which Macrobius gives of the downward journey of the Soul, through that gate of the zodiac which opens into the lower spheres, is a curious specimen of the wild fancies that passed for philosophy in ancient times.

[2] "We adorned the lower heaven with lights, and placed therein a guard of angels."—Koran, chap. xli.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS

'Twas when the world was in its prime,

When the fresh stars had just begun

Their race of glory and young Time

Told his first birth-days by the sun;

When in the light of Nature's dawn

Rejoicing, men and angels met

On the high hill and sunny lawn,—

Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn

'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!

When earth lay nearer to the skies

Than in these days of crime and woe,

And mortals saw without surprise

In the mid-air angelic eyes

Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane

Even then the morning of the earth!

That, sadder still, the fatal stain

Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth—

And that from Woman's love should fall

So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,

On a hill's side where hung the ray

Of sunset brightening rill and bower,

Three noble youths conversing lay;

And, as they lookt from time to time

To the far sky where Daylight furled

His radiant wing, their brows sublime

Bespoke them of that distant world—

Spirits who once in brotherhood

Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,

And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown

The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,[1]

Creatures of light such as still play,

Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,

And thro' their infinite array

Transmit each moment, night and day,

The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,

Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;

Till yielding gradual to the soft

And balmy evening's influence—

The silent breathing of the flowers—

The melting light that beamed above,

As on their first, fond, erring hours,—

Each told the story of his love,

The history of that hour unblest,

When like a bird from its high nest

Won down by fascinating eyes,

For Woman's smile he lost the skies.

The First who spoke was one, with look

The least celestial of the three—

A Spirit of light mould that took

The prints of earth most yieldingly;

Who even in heaven was not of those

Nearest the Throne but held a place

Far off among those shining rows

That circle out thro' endless space,

And o'er whose wings the light from Him

In Heaven's centre falls most dim.[2]

Still fair and glorious, he but shone

Among those youths the unheavenliest one—

A creature to whom light remained

From Eden still, but altered, stained,

And o'er whose brow not Love alone

A blight had in his transit cast,

But other, earthlier joys had gone,

And left their foot-prints as they past.

Sighing, as back thro' ages flown,

Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran,

Lifting each shroud that Time had thrown

O'er buried hopes, he thus began:—

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

'Twas in a land that far away

Into the golden orient lies,

Where Nature knows not night's delay,

But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day,

Upon the threshold of the skies,

One morn, on earthly mission sent,[3]

And mid-way choosing where to light,

I saw from the blue element—

Oh beautiful, but fatal sight!—

One of earth's fairest womankind,

Half veiled from view, or rather shrined

In the clear crystal of a brook;

Which while it hid no single gleam

Of her young beauties made them look

More spirit-like, as they might seem

Thro' the dim shadowing of a dream.

Pausing in wonder I lookt on,

While playfully around her breaking

The waters that like diamonds shone

She moved in light of her own making.

At length as from that airy height

I gently lowered my breathless flight,

The tremble of my wings all o'er

(For thro' each plume I felt the thrill)

Startled her as she reached the shore

Of that small lake—her mirror still—

Above whose brink she stood, like snow

When rosy with a sunset glow,

Never shall I forget those eyes!—

The shame, the innocent surprise

Of that bright face when in the air

Uplooking she beheld me there.

It seemed as if each thought and look

And motion were that minute chained

Fast to the spot, such root she took,

And—like a sunflower by a brook,

With face upturned—so still remained!

In pity to the wondering maid,

Tho' loath from such a vision turning,

Downward I bent, beneath the shade

Of my spread wings to hide the burning

Of glances, which—I well could feel—

For me, for her, too warmly shone;

But ere I could again unseal

My restless eyes or even steal

One sidelong look the maid was gone—

Hid from me in the forest leaves,

Sudden as when in all her charms

Of full-blown light some cloud receives

The Moon into his dusky arms.

'Tis not in words to tell the power,

The despotism that from that hour

Passion held o'er me. Day and night

I sought around each neighboring spot;

And in the chase of this sweet light,

My task and heaven and all forgot;—

All but the one, sole, haunting dream

Of her I saw in that bright stream.

Nor was it long ere by her side

I found myself whole happy days

Listening to words whose music vied

With our own Eden's seraph lays,

When seraph lays are warmed by love,

But wanting that far, far above!—

And looking into eyes where, blue

And beautiful, like skies seen thro'

The sleeping wave, for me there shone

A heaven, more worshipt than my own.

Oh what, while I could hear and see

Such words and looks, was heaven to me?

Tho' gross the air on earth I drew,

'Twas blessed, while she breathed it too;

Tho' dark the flowers, tho' dim the sky,

Love lent them light while she was nigh.

Throughout creation I but knew

Two separate worlds—the one, that small,

Beloved and consecrated spot

Where LEA was—the other, all

The dull, wide waste where she was not!

But vain my suit, my madness vain;

Tho' gladly, from her eyes to gain

One earthly look, one stray desire,

I would have torn the wings that hung

Furled at my back and o'er the Fire

In GEHIM'S[4] pit their fragments flung;—

'Twas hopeless all—pure and unmoved

She stood as lilies in the light

Of the hot noon but look more white;—

And tho' she loved me, deeply loved,

'Twas not as man, as mortal—no,

Nothing of earth was in that glow—

She loved me but as one, of race

Angelic, from that radiant place

She saw so oft in dreams—that Heaven

To which her prayers at morn were sent

And on whose light she gazed at even,

Wishing for wings that she might go

Out of this shadowy world below

To that free, glorious element!

Well I remember by her side

Sitting at rosy even-tide,

When,—turning to the star whose head

Lookt out as from a bridal bed,

At that mute, blushing hour,—she said,

"Oh! that it were my doom to be

"The Spirit of yon beauteous star,

"Dwelling up there in purity,

"Alone as all such bright things are;—

"My sole employ to pray and shine,

"To light my censer at the sun,

"And cast its fire towards the shrine

"Of Him in heaven, the Eternal One!"

So innocent the maid, so free

From mortal taint in soul and frame,

Whom 'twas my crime—my destiny—

To love, ay, burn for, with a flame

To which earth's wildest fires are tame.

Had you but seen her look when first

From my mad lips the avowal burst;

Not angered—no!—the feeling came

From depths beyond mere anger's flame—

It was a sorrow calm as deep,

A mournfulness that could not weep,

So filled her heart was to the brink,

So fixt and frozen with grief to think

That angel natures—that even I

Whose love she clung to, as the tie

Between her spirit and the sky—

Should fall thus headlong from the height

Of all that heaven hath pure and bright!

That very night—my heart had grown

Impatient of its inward burning;

The term, too, of my stay was flown,

And the bright Watchers near the throne.

Already, if a meteor shone

Between them and this nether zone,

Thought 'twas their herald's wing returning.

Oft did the potent spell-word, given

To Envoys hither from the skies,

To be pronounced when back to heaven

It is their time or wish to rise,

Come to my lips that fatal day;

And once too was so nearly spoken,

That my spread plumage in the ray

And breeze of heaven began to play;—

When my heart failed—the spell was broken—

The word unfinisht died away,

And my checkt plumes ready to soar,

Fell slack and lifeless as before.

How could I leave a world which she,

Or lost or won, made all to me?

No matter where my wanderings were,

So there she lookt, breathed, moved about—

Woe, ruin, death, more sweet with her,

Than Paradise itself, without!

But to return—that very day

A feast was held, where, full of mirth,

Came—crowding thick as flowers that play

In summer winds—the young and gay

And beautiful of this bright earth.

And she was there and mid the young

And beautiful stood first, alone;

Tho' on her gentle brow still hung

The shadow I that morn had thrown—

The first that ever shame or woe

Had cast upon its vernal snow.

My heart was maddened;—in the flush

Of the wild revel I gave way

To all that frantic mirth—that rush

Of desperate gayety which they,

Who never felt how pain's excess

Can break out thus, think happiness!

Sad mimicry of mirth and life

Whose flashes come but from the strife

Of inward passions—like the light

Struck out by clashing swords in fight.

Then too that juice of earth, the bane

And blessing of man's heart and brain—

That draught of sorcery which brings

Phantoms of fair, forbidden things—

Whose drops like those of rainbows smile

Upon the mists that circle man,

Brightening not only Earth the while,

But grasping Heaven too in their span!—

Then first the fatal wine-cup rained

Its dews of darkness thro' my lips,

Casting whate'er of light remained

To my lost soul into eclipse;

And filling it with such wild dreams,

Such fantasies and wrong desires,

As in the absence of heaven's beams

Haunt us for ever—like wildfires

That walk this earth when day retires.

Now hear the rest;—our banquet done,

I sought her in the accustomed bower,

Where late we oft, when day was gone

And the world husht, had met alone,

At the same silent, moonlight hour.

Her eyes as usual were upturned

To her loved star whose lustre burned

Purer than ever on that night;

While she in looking grew more bright

As tho' she borrowed of its light.

There was a virtue in that scene,

A spell of holiness around,

Which had my burning brain not been

Thus maddened would have held me bound,

As tho' I trod celestial ground.

Even as it was, with soul all flame

And lips that burned in their own sighs,

I stood to gaze with awe and shame—

The memory of Eden came

Full o'er me when I saw those eyes;

And tho' too well each glance of mine

To the pale, shrinking maiden proved

How far, alas! from aught divine,

Aught worthy of so pure a shrine,

Was the wild love with which I loved,

Yet must she, too, have seen—oh yes,

'Tis soothing but to think she saw

The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness,

The homage of an Angel's awe

To her, a mortal, whom pure love

Then placed above him—far above—

And all that struggle to repress

A sinful spirit's mad excess,

Which workt within me at that hour,

When with a voice where Passion shed

All the deep sadness of her power,

Her melancholy power—I said,

"Then be it so; if back to heaven

"I must unloved, unpitied fly.

"Without one blest memorial given

"To soothe me in that lonely sky;

"One look like those the young and fond

"Give when they're parting—which would be,

"Even in remembrance far beyond

"All heaven hath left of bliss for me!

"Oh, but to see that head recline

"A minute on this trembling arm,

"And those mild eyes look up to mine,

"Without a dread, a thought of harm!

"To meet but once the thrilling touch

"Of lips too purely fond to fear me—

"Or if that boon be all too much,

"Even thus to bring their fragrance near me!

"Nay, shrink not so—a look—a word—

"Give them but kindly and I fly;

"Already, see, my plumes have stirred

"And tremble for their home on high.

"Thus be our parting—cheek to cheek—

"One minute's lapse will be forgiven,

"And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak

"The spell that plumes my wing for heaven!"

While thus I spoke, the fearful maid,

Of me and of herself afraid,

Had shrinking stood like flowers beneath

The scorching of the south-wind's breath:

But when I named—alas, too well,

I now recall, tho' wildered then,—

Instantly, when I named the spell

Her brow, her eyes uprose again;

And with an eagerness that spoke

The sudden light that o'er her broke,

"The spell, the spell!—oh, speak it now.

"And I will bless thee!" she exclaimed—

Unknowing what I did, inflamed,

And lost already, on her brow

I stampt one burning kiss, and named

The mystic word till then ne'er told

To living creature of earth's mould!

Scarce was it said when quick a thought,

Her lips from mine like echo caught

The holy sound—her hands and eyes

Were instant lifted to the skies,

And thrice to heaven she spoke it out

With that triumphant look Faith wears,

When not a cloud of fear or doubt,

A vapor from this vale of tears.

Between her and her God appears!

That very moment her whole frame

All bright and glorified became,

And at her back I saw unclose

Two wings magnificent as those

That sparkle around ALLA'S Throne,

Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose

Above me, in the moon-beam shone

With a pure light; which—from its hue,

Unknown upon this earth—I knew

Was light from Eden, glistening thro'!

Most holy vision! ne'er before

Did aught so radiant—since the day

When EBLIS in his downfall, bore

The third of the bright stars away—

Rise in earth's beauty to repair

That loss of light and glory there!

But did I tamely view her flight?

Did not I too proclaim out thrice

The powerful words that were that night,—

Oh even for heaven too much delight!—

Again to bring us, eyes to eyes

And soul to soul, in Paradise?

I did—I spoke it o'er and o'er—

I prayed, I wept, but all in vain;

For me the spell had power no more.

There seemed around me some dark chain

Which still as I essayed to soar

Baffled, alas, each wild endeavor;

Dead lay my wings as they have lain

Since that sad hour and will remain—

So wills the offended God—for ever!

It was to yonder star I traced

Her journey up the illumined waste—

That isle in the blue firmament

To which so oft her fancy went

In wishes and in dreams before,

And which was now—such, Purity,

Thy blest reward—ordained to be

Her home of light for evermore!

Once—or did I but fancy so?—

Even in her flight to that fair sphere,

Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow,

A pitying look she turned below

On him who stood in darkness here;

Him whom perhaps if vain regret

Can dwell in heaven she pities yet;

And oft when looking to this dim

And distant world remembers him.

But soon that passing dream was gone;

Farther and farther off she shone,

Till lessened to a point as small

As are those specks that yonder burn,—

Those vivid drops of light that fall

The last from Day's exhausted urn.

And when at length she merged, afar,

Into her own immortal star,

And when at length my straining sight

Had caught her wing's last fading ray,

That minute from my soul the light

Of heaven and love both past away;

And I forgot my home, my birth,

Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow,

And revelled in gross joys of earth

Till I became—what I am now!

The Spirit bowed his head in shame;

A shame that of itself would tell—

Were there not even those breaks of flame,

Celestial, thro' his clouded frame—

How grand the height from which he fell!

That holy Shame which ne'er forgets

The unblenched renown it used to wear;

Whose blush remains when Virtue sets

To show her sunshine has been there.

Once only while the tale he told

Were his eyes lifted to behold

That happy stainless, star where she

Dwelt in her bower of purity!

One minute did he look and then—

As tho' he felt some deadly pain

From its sweet light thro' heart and brain—

Shrunk back and never lookt again.

Who was the Second Spirit? he

With the proud front and piercing glance—

Who seemed when viewing heaven's expanse

As tho' his far-sent eye could see

On, on into the Immensity

Behind the veils of that blue sky

Where ALLA'S grandest secrets lie?—

His wings, the while, tho' day was gone,

Flashing with many a various hue

Of light they from themselves alone,

Instinct with Eden's brightness drew.

'Twas RUBI—once among the prime

And flower of those bright creatures, named

Spirits of Knowledge,[5] who o'er Time

And Space and Thought an empire claimed,

Second alone to Him whose light

Was even to theirs as day to night;

'Twixt whom and them was distance far

And wide as would the journey be

To reach from any island star

To vague shores of Infinity

'Twas RUBI in whose mournful eye

Slept the dim light of days gone by;

Whose voice tho' sweet fell on the ear

Like echoes in some silent place

When first awaked for many a year;

And when he smiled, if o'er his face

Smile ever shone, 'twas like the grace

Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan,

The sunny life, the glory gone.

Even o'er his pride tho' still the same,

A softening shade from sorrow came;

And tho' at times his spirit knew

The kindlings of disdain and ire,

Short was the fitful glare they threw—

Like the last flashes, fierce but few,

Seen thro' some noble pile on fire!

Such was the Angel who now broke

The silence that had come o'er all,

When he the Spirit that last spoke

Closed the sad history of his fall;

And while a sacred lustre flown

For many a day relumed his cheek—

Beautiful as in days of old;

And not those eloquent lips alone

But every feature seemed to speak—

Thus his eventful story told:—

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY.

You both remember well the day

When unto Eden's new-made bowers

ALLA convoked the bright array

Of his supreme angelic powers

To witness the one wonder yet,

Beyond man, angel, star, or sun,

He must achieve, ere he could set

His seal upon the world as done—

To see the last perfection rise,

That crowning of creation's birth,

When mid the worship and surprise

Of circling angels Woman's eyes

First open upon heaven and earth;

And from their lids a thrill was sent,

That thro' each living spirit went

Like first light thro' the firmament!

Can you forget how gradual stole

The fresh-awakened breath of soul

Throughout her perfect form—which seemed

To grow transparent as there beamed

That dawn of Mind within and caught

New loveliness from each new thought?

Slow as o'er summer seas we trace

The progress of the noontide air,

Dimpling its bright and silent face

Each minute into some new grace,

And varying heaven's reflections there—

Or like the light of evening stealing

O'er some fair temple which all day

Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing

Its several beauties ray by ray,

Till it shines out, a thing to bless,

All full of light and loveliness.

Can you forget her blush when round

Thro' Eden's lone, enchanted ground

She lookt, and saw the sea—the skies—

And heard the rush of many a wing,

On high behests then vanishing;

And saw the last few angel eyes,

Still lingering—mine among the rest,—

Reluctant leaving scenes so blest?

From that miraculous hour the fate

Of this new, glorious Being dwelt

For ever with a spell-like weight

Upon my spirit—early, late,

Whate'er I did or dreamed or felt,

The thought of what might yet befall

That matchless creature mixt with all.—

Nor she alone but her whole race

Thro' ages yet to come—whate'er

Of feminine and fond and fair

Should spring from that pure mind and face,

All waked my soul's intensest care;

Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me

Creation's strangest mystery!

It was my doom—even from the first,

When witnessing the primal burst

Of Nature's wonders, I saw rise

Those bright creations in the skies,—

Those worlds instinct with life and light,

Which Man, remote, but sees by night,—

It was my doom still to be haunted

By some new wonder, some sublime

And matchless work, that for the time

Held all my soul enchained, enchanted,

And left me not a thought, a dream,

A word but on that only theme!

The wish to know—that endless thirst,

Which even by quenching is awaked,

And which becomes or blest or curst

As is the fount whereat 'tis slaked—

Still urged me onward with desire

Insatiate, to explore, inquire—

Whate'er the wondrous things might be

That waked each new idolatry—

Their cause, aim, source, whenever sprung—

Their inmost powers, as tho' for me

Existence on that knowledge hung.

Oh what a vision were the stars

When first I saw them born on high,

Rolling along like living cars

Of light for gods to journey by![6]

They were like my heart's first passion—days

And nights unwearied, in their rays

Have I hung floating till each sense

Seemed full of their bright influence.

Innocent joy! alas, how much

Of misery had I shunned below,

Could I have still lived blest with such;

Nor, proud and restless, burned to know

The knowledge that brings guilt and woe.

Often—so much I loved to trace

The secrets of this starry race—

Have I at morn and evening run

Along the lines of radiance spun

Like webs between them and the sun,

Untwisting all the tangled ties

Of light into their different dyes—

The fleetly winged I off in quest

Of those, the farthest, loneliest,

That watch like winking sentinels,[7]

The void, beyond which Chaos dwells;

And there with noiseless plume pursued

Their track thro' that grand solitude,

Asking intently all and each

What soul within their radiance dwelt,

And wishing their sweet light were speech,

That they might tell me all they felt.

Nay, oft, so passionate my chase,

Of these resplendent heirs of space,

Oft did I follow—lest a ray

Should 'scape me in the farthest night—

Some pilgrim Comet on his way

To visit distant shrines of light,

And well remember how I sung

Exultingly when on my sight

New worlds of stars all fresh and young

As if just born of darkness sprung!

Such was my pure ambition then,

My sinless transport night and morn

Ere yet this newer world of men,

And that most fair of stars was born

Which I in fatal hour saw rise

Among the flowers of Paradise!

Thenceforth my nature all was changed,

My heart, soul, senses turned below;

And he who but so lately ranged

Yon wonderful expanse where glow

Worlds upon worlds,—yet found his mind

Even in that luminous range confined,—

Now blest the humblest, meanest sod

Of the dark earth where Woman trod!

In vain my former idols glistened

From their far thrones; in vain these ears

To the once-thrilling music listened,

That hymned around my favorite spheres—

To earth, to earth each thought was given,

That in this half-lost soul had birth;

Like some high mount, whose head's in heaven

While its whole shadow rests on earth!

Nor was it Love, even yet, that thralled

My spirit in his burning ties;

And less, still less could it be called

That grosser flame, round which Love flies

Nearer and near till he dies—

No, it was wonder, such as thrilled

At all God's works my dazzled sense;

The same rapt wonder, only filled

With passion, more profound, intense,—

A vehement, but wandering fire,

Which, tho' nor love, nor yet desire,—

Tho' thro' all womankind it took

Its range, its lawless lightnings run,

Yet wanted but a touch, a look,

To fix it burning upon One.

Then too the ever-restless zeal,

The insatiate curiosity,

To know how shapes so fair must feel—

To look but once beneath the seal

Of so much loveliness and see

What souls belonged to such bright eyes—

Whether as sunbeams find their way

Into the gem that hidden lies,

Those looks could inward turn their ray,

And make the soul as bright as they:

All this impelled my anxious chase.

And still the more I saw and knew

Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering race,

The intenser still my wonder grew.

I had beheld their First, their EVE,

Born in that splendid Paradise,

Which sprung there solely to receive

The first light of her waking eyes.

I had seen purest angels lean

In worship o'er her from above;

And man—oh yes, had envying seen

Proud man possest of all her love.

I saw their happiness, so brief,

So exquisite,—her error, too,

That easy trust, that prompt belief

In what the warm heart wishes true;

That faith in words, when kindly said.

By which the whole fond sex is led

Mingled with—what I durst not blame,

For 'tis my own—that zeal to know,

Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of woe;

Which, tho' from heaven all pure it came,

Yet stained, misused, brought sin and shame

On her, on me, on all below!

I had seen this; had seen Man, armed

As his soul is with strength and sense,

By her first words to ruin charmed;

His vaunted reason's cold defence,

Like an ice-barrier in the ray

Of melting summer, smiled away.

Nay, stranger yet, spite of all this—

Tho' by her counsels taught to err,

Tho' driven from Paradise for her,

(And with her—that at least was bliss,)

Had I not heard him ere he crost

The threshold of that earthly heaven,

Which by her bewildering smile he lost—

So quickly was the wrong forgiven—

Had I not heard him, as he prest

The frail, fond trembler to a breast

Which she had doomed to sin and strife,

Call her—even then—his Life! his Life![8]

Yes, such a love-taught name, the first,

That ruined Man to Woman gave,

Even in his outcast hour, when curst

By her fond witchery, with that worst

And earliest boon of love, the grave!

She who brought death into the world

There stood before him, with the light

Of their lost Paradise still bright

Upon those sunny locks that curled

Down her white shoulders to her feet—

So beautiful in form, so sweet

In heart and voice, as to redeem

The loss, the death of all things dear,

Except herself—and make it seem

Life, endless Life, while she was near!

Could I help wondering at a creature,

Thus circled round with spells so strong—

One to whose every thought, word, feature.

In joy and woe, thro' right and wrong,

Such sweet omnipotence heaven gave,

To bless or ruin, curse or save?

Nor did the marvel cease with her—

New Eves in all her daughters came,

As strong to charm, as weak to err,

As sure of man thro' praise and blame,

Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame,

He still the unreasoning worshipper,

And they, throughout all time, the same

Enchantresses of soul and frame,

Into whose hands, from first to last,

This world with all its destinies,

Devotedly by heaven seems cast,

To save or ruin as they please!

Oh! 'tis not to be told how long,

How restlessly I sighed to find

Some one from out that witching throng,

Some abstract of the form and mind

Of the whole matchless sex, from which,

In my own arms beheld, possest,

I might learn all the powers to witch,

To warm, and (if my fate unblest

Would have it) ruin, of the rest!

Into whose inward soul and sense,

I might descend, as doth the bee

Into the flower's deep heart, and thence

Rifle in all its purity

The prime, the quintessence, the whole

Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul!

At length my burning wish, my prayer—

(For such—oh! what will tongues not dare,

When hearts go wrong?—this lip preferred)—

At length my ominous prayer was heard—

But whether heard in heaven or hell,

Listen—and thou wilt know too well.

There was a maid, of all who move

Like visions o'er this orb most fit.

To be a bright young angel's love—

Herself so bright, so exquisite!

The pride too of her step, as light

Along the unconscious earth she went,

Seemed that of one born with a right

To walk some heavenlier element,

And tread in places where her feet

A star at every step should meet.

'Twas not alone that loveliness

By which the wildered sense is caught—

Of lips whose very breath could bless;

Of playful blushes that seemed naught

But luminous escapes of thought;

Of eyes that, when by anger stirred,

Were fire itself, but at a word

Of tenderness, all soft became

As tho' they could, like the sun's bird,

Dissolve away in their own flame—

Of form, as pliant as the shoots

Of a young tree, in vernal flower;

Yet round and glowing as the fruits,

That drop from it in summer's hour;—

'Twas not alone this loveliness

That falls to loveliest women's share,

Tho' even here her form could spare

From its own beauty's rich excess

Enough to make even them more fair—

But 'twas the Mind outshining clear

Thro' her whole frame—the soul, still near,

To light each charm, yet independent

Of what it lighted, as the sun

That shines on flowers would be resplendent

Were there no flowers to shine upon—

'Twas this, all this, in one combined—

The unnumbered looks and arts that form

The glory of young womankind,

Taken, in their perfection, warm,

Ere time had chilled a single charm,

And stampt with such a seal of Mind,

As gave to beauties that might be

Too sensual else, too unrefined,

The impress of Divinity!

'Twas this—a union, which the hand

Of Nature kept for her alone,

Of every thing most playful, bland,

Voluptuous, spiritual, grand,

In angel-natures and her own—

Oh! this it was that drew me nigh

One, who seemed kin to heaven as I,

A bright twin-sister from on high—

One in whose love, I felt, were given

The mixt delights of either sphere,

All that the spirit seeks in heaven,

And all the senses burn for here.

Had we—but hold!—hear every part

Of our sad tale—spite of the pain

Remembrance gives, when the fixt dart

Is stirred thus in the wound again—

Hear every step, so full of bliss,

And yet so ruinous, that led

Down to the last, dark precipice,

Where perisht both—the fallen, the dead!

From the first hour she caught my sight,

I never left her—day and night

Hovering unseen around her way,

And mid her loneliest musings near,

I soon could track each thought that lay,

Gleaming within her heart, as clear

As pebbles within brooks appear;

And there among the countless things

That keep young hearts for ever glowing—

Vague wishes, fond imaginings,

Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing—

Light, winged hopes that come when bid,

And rainbow joys that end in weeping;

And passions among pure thoughts hid,

Like serpents under flowerets sleeping:—

'Mong all these feelings—felt where'er

Young hearts are beating—I saw there

Proud thoughts, aspirings high—beyond

Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond—

Glimpses of glory, far away

Into the bright, vague future given;

And fancies, free and grand, whose play,

Like that of eaglets, is near heaven!

With this, too—what a soul and heart

To fall beneath the tempter's art!—

A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er

Enshrined itself in form so fair,

Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve,

With every fruit of Eden blest

Save one alone—rather than leave

That one unreached, lost all the rest.

It was in dreams that first I stole

With gentle mastery o'er her mind—

In that rich twilight of the soul,

When reason's beam, half hid behind

The clouds of sleep, obscurely gilds

Each shadowy shape that Fancy builds—

'Twas then by that soft light I brought

Vague, glimmering visions to her view,—

Catches of radiance lost when caught,

Bright labyrinths that led to naught,

And vistas with no pathway thro';—

Dwellings of bliss that opening shone,

Then closed, dissolved, and left no trace—

All that, in short, could tempt Hope on,

But give her wing no resting-place;

Myself the while with brow as yet

Pure as the young moon's coronet,

Thro' every dream still in her sight.

The enchanter of each mocking scene,

Who gave the hope, then brought the blight,

Who said, "Behold yon world of light,"

Then sudden dropt a veil between!

At length when I perceived each thought,

Waking or sleeping, fixt on naught

But these illusive scenes and me—

The phantom who thus came and went,

In half revealments, only meant

To madden curiosity—

When by such various arts I found

Her fancy to its utmost wound.

One night—'twas in a holy spot

Which she for prayer had chosen—a grot

Of purest marble built below

Her garden beds, thro' which a glow

From lamps invisible then stole,

Brightly pervading all the place—

Like that mysterious light the soul,

Itself unseen, sheds thro' the face.

There at her altar while she knelt,

And all that woman ever felt,

When God and man both claimed her sighs—

Every warm thought, that ever dwelt,

Like summer clouds, 'twixt earth and skies,

Too pure to fall, too gross to rise,

Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyes—

Then, as the mystic light's soft ray

Grew softer still, as tho' its ray

Was breathed from her, I heard her say:—

"O idol of my dreams! whate'er

"Thy nature be—human, divine,

"Or but half heavenly—still too fair,

"Too heavenly to be ever mine!

"Wonderful Spirit who dost make

"Slumber so lovely that it seems

"No longer life to live awake,

"Since heaven itself descends in dreams,

"Why do I ever lose thee? why

"When on thy realms and thee I gaze

"Still drops that veil, which I could die,

"Oh! gladly, but one hour to raise?

"Long ere such miracles as thou

"And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst

"For light was in this soul which now

"Thy looks have into passion burst.

"There's nothing bright above, below,

"In sky—earth—ocean, that this breast

"Doth not intensely burn to know,

"And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest!

"Then come, oh Spirit, from behind

"The curtains of thy radiant home,

"If thou wouldst be as angel shrined,

"Or loved and claspt as mortal, come!

"Bring all thy dazzling wonders here,

"That I may, waking, know and see;

"Or waft me hence to thy own sphere,

"Thy heaven or—ay, even that with thee!

"Demon or God, who hold'st the book

"Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye,

"Give me, with thee, but one bright look

"Into its leaves and let me die!

"By those ethereal wings whose way

"Lies thro' an element so fraught

"With living Mind that as they play

"Their every movement is a thought!

"By that bright, wreathed hair, between

"Whose sunny clusters the sweet wind

"Of Paradise so late hath been

"And left its fragrant soul behind!

"By those impassioned eyes that melt

"Their light into the inmost heart,

"Like sunset in the waters, felt

"As molten fire thro' every part—

"I do implore thee, oh most bright

"And worshipt Spirit, shine but o'er

"My waking, wondering eyes this night

"This one blest night—I ask no more!"

Exhausted, breathless, as she said

These burning words, her languid head

Upon the altar's steps she cast,

As if that brain-throb were its last—-

Till, startled by the breathing, nigh,

Of lips that echoed back her sigh,

Sudden her brow again she raised;

And there, just lighted on the shrine,

Beheld me—not as I had blazed

Around her, full of light divine,

In her late dreams, but softened down

Into more mortal grace;—my crown

Of flowers, too radiant for this world,

Left hanging on yon starry steep;

My wings shut up, like banners furled,

When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep;

Or like autumnal clouds that keep

Their lightnings sheathed rather than mar

The dawning hour of some young star;

And nothing left but what beseemed

The accessible, tho' glorious mate

Of mortal woman—whose eyes beamed

Back upon hers, as passionate;

Whose ready heart brought flame for flame,

Whose sin, whose madness was the same;

And whose soul lost in that one hour

For her and for her love—oh more

Of heaven's light than even the power

Of heaven itself could now restore!

And yet, that hour!—

The Spirit here

Stopt in his utterance as if words

Gave way beneath the wild career

Of his then rushing thoughts—like chords,

Midway in some enthusiast's song,

Breaking beneath a touch too strong;

While the clenched hand upon the brow

Told how remembrance throbbed there now!

But soon 'twas o'er—that casual blaze

From the sunk fire of other days—

That relic of a flame whose burning

Had been too fierce to be relumed,

Soon passt away, and the youth turning

To his bright listeners thus resumed:—

Days, months elapsed, and, tho' what most

On earth I sighed for was mine, all—

Yet—was I happy? God, thou know'st,

Howe'er they smile and feign and boast,

What happiness is theirs, who fall!

'Twas bitterest anguish—made more keen

Even by the love, the bliss, between

Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell

In agonizing cross-light given

Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell

In purgatory[9] catch of heaven!

The only feeling that to me

Seemed joy—or rather my sole rest

From aching misery—was to see

My young, proud, blooming LILIS blest.

She, the fair fountain of all ill

To my lost soul—whom yet its thirst

Fervidly panted after still,

And found the charm fresh as at first—

To see her happy—to reflect

Whatever beams still round me played

Of former pride, of glory wreckt,

On her, my Moon, whose light I made,

And whose soul worshipt even my shade—

This was, I own, enjoyment—this

My sole, last lingering glimpse of bliss.

And proud she was, fair creature!—proud,

Beyond what even most queenly stirs

In woman's heart, nor would have bowed

That beautiful young brow of hers

To aught beneath the First above,

So high she deemed her Cherub's love!

Then too that passion hourly growing

Stronger and stronger—to which even

Her love at times gave way—of knowing

Everything strange in earth and heaven;

Not only all that, full revealed,

The eternal ALLA loves to show,

But all that He hath wisely sealed

In darkness for man not to know—

Even this desire, alas! ill-starred

And fatal as it was, I sought

To feed each minute, and unbarred

Such realms of wonder on her thought

As ne'er till then had let their light

Escape on any mortal's sight!

In the deep earth—beneath the sea—

Thro' caves of fire—thro' wilds of air—

Wherever sleeping Mystery

Had spread her curtain, we were there—

Love still beside us as we went,

At home in each new element

And sure of worship everywhere!

Then first was Nature taught to lay

The wealth of all her kingdoms down

At woman's worshipt feet and say

"Bright creature, this is all thine own!"

Then first were diamonds from the night,

Of earth's deep centre brought to light

And made to grace the conquering way

Of proud young beauty with their ray.

Then too the pearl from out its shell

Unsightly, in the sunless sea,

(As 'twere a spirit, forced to dwell

In form unlovely) was set free,

And round the neck of woman threw

A light it lent and borrowed too.

For never did this maid—whate'er

The ambition of the hour—forget

Her sex's pride in being fair;

Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare,

Which makes the mighty magnet, set

In Woman's form, more mighty yet.

Nor was there aught within the range

Of my swift wing in sea or air,

Of beautiful or grand or strange,

That, quickly as her wish could change,

I did not seek, with such fond care,

That when I've seen her look above

At some bright star admiringly,

I've said, "Nay, look not there, my love,[10]

"Alas, I can not give it thee!"

But not alone the wonders found

Thro' Nature's realm—the unveiled, material,

Visible glories, that abound

Thro' all her vast, enchanted ground—

But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal,

Dwells far away from human sense,

Wrapt in its own intelligence—

The mystery of that Fountainhead,

From which all vital spirit runs,

All breath of Life, where'er 'tis spread

Thro' men or angels, flowers or suns—

The workings of the Almighty Mind,

When first o'er Chaos he designed

The outlines of this world, and thro'

That depth of darkness—like the bow,

Called out of rain-clouds hue by hue[11]

Saw the grand, gradual picture grow;—

The covenant with human kind

By ALLA made—the chains of Fate

He round himself and them hath twined,

Till his high task he consummate;—

Till good from evil, love from hate,

Shall be workt out thro' sin and pain,

And Fate shall loose her iron chain

And all be free, be bright again!

Such were the deep-drawn mysteries,

And some, even more obscure, profound,

And wildering to the mind than these,

Which—far as woman's thought could sound,

Or a fallen, outlawed spirit reach—

She dared to learn and I to teach.

Till—filled with such unearthly lore,

And mingling the pure light it brings

With much that fancy had before

Shed in false, tinted glimmerings—

The enthusiast girl spoke out, as one

Inspired, among her own dark race,

Who from their ancient shrines would run,

Leaving their holy rites undone,

To gaze upon her holier face.

And tho' but wild the things she spoke,

Yet mid that play of error's smoke

Into fair shapes by fancy curled,

Some gleams of pure religion broke—

Glimpses that have not yet awoke,

But startled the still dreaming world!

Oh! many a truth, remote, sublime,

Which Heaven would from the minds of men

Have kept concealed till its own time,

Stole out in these revealments then—

Revealments dim that have forerun,

By ages, the great, Sealing One![12]

Like that imperfect dawn or light[13]

Escaping from the Zodiac's signs,

Which makes the doubtful east half bright,

Before the real morning shines!

Thus did some moons of bliss go by—

Of bliss to her who saw but love

And knowledge throughout earth and sky;

To whose enamored soul and eye

I seemed—as is the sun on high—

The light of all below, above,

The spirit of sea and land and air,

Whose influence, felt everywhere,

Spread from its centre, her own heart,

Even to the world's extremest part;

While thro' that world her rainless mind

Had now careered so fast and far,

That earth itself seemed left behind

And her proud fancy unconfined

Already saw Heaven's gates ajar!

Happy enthusiast! still, oh! still

Spite of my own heart's mortal chill,

Spite of that double-fronted sorrow

Which looks at once before and back,

Beholds the yesterday, the morrow,

And sees both comfortless, both black—

Spite of all this, I could have still

In her delight forgot all ill;

Or if pain would not be forgot,

At least have borne and murmured not.

When thoughts of an offended heaven,

Of sinfulness, which I—even I,

While down its steep most headlong driven—

Well knew could never be forgiven,

Came o'er me with an agony

Beyond all reach of mortal woe—

A torture kept for those who know.

Know every thing, and—worst of all—

Know and love Virtue while they fall!

Even then her presence had the power

To soothe, to warm—nay, even to bless—

If ever bliss could graft its flower

On stem so full of bitterness—

Even then her glorious smile to me

Brought warmth and radiance if not balm;

Like moonlight o'er a troubled sea.

Brightening the storm it cannot calm.

Oft too when that disheartening fear,

Which all who love, beneath yon sky,

Feel when they gaze on what is dear—

The dreadful thought that it must die!

That desolating thought which comes

Into men's happiest hours and homes;

Whose melancholy boding flings

Death's shadow o'er the brightest things,

Sicklies the infant's bloom and spreads

The grave beneath young lovers' heads!

This fear, so sad to all—to me

Most full of sadness from the thought

That I most still live on,[14] when she

Would, like the snow that on the sea

Fell yesterday, in vain be sought;

That heaven to me this final seal

Of all earth's sorrow would deny,

And I eternally must feel

The death-pang without power to die!

Even this, her fond endearments—fond

As ever cherisht the sweet bond

'Twixt heart and heart—could charm away;

Before her looks no clouds would stay,

Or if they did their gloom was gone,

Their darkness put a glory on!

But 'tis not, 'tis not for the wrong,

The guilty, to be happy long;

And she too now had sunk within

The shadow of her tempter's sin,

Too deep for even Omnipotence

To snatch the fated victim thence!

Listen and if a tear there be

Left in your hearts weep it for me.

'Twas on the evening of a day,

Which we in love had dreamt away;

In that same garden, where—the pride

Of seraph splendor laid aside,

And those wings furled, whose open light

For mortal gaze were else too bright—

I first had stood before her sight,

And found myself—oh, ecstasy,

Which even in pain I ne'er forget—

Worshipt as only God should be,

And loved as never man was yet!

In that same garden where we now,

Thoughtfully side by side reclining,

Her eyes turned upward and her brow

With its own silent fancies shining.

It was an evening bright and still

As ever blusht on wave or bower,

Smiling from heaven as if naught ill

Could happen in so sweet an hour.

Yet I remember both grew sad

In looking at that light—even she,

Of heart so fresh and brow so glad,

Felt the still hour's solemnity,

And thought she saw in that repose

The death-hour not alone of light,

But of this whole fair world—the close

Of all things beautiful and bright—

The last, grand sunset, in whose ray

Nature herself died calm away!

At length, as tho' some livelier thought

Had suddenly her fancy caught,

She turned upon me her dark eyes,

Dilated into that full shape

They took in joy, reproach, surprise,

As 'twere to let more soul escape,

And, playfully as on my head

Her white hand rested, smiled and said:—

"I had last night a dream of thee,

"Resembling those divine ones, given,

"Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy,

"Before thou camest thyself from heaven.

"The same rich wreath was on thy brow,

"Dazzling as if of starlight made;

"And these wings, lying darkly now,

"Like meteors round thee flasht and played.

"Thou stoodest, all bright, as in those dreams,

"As if just wafted from above,

"Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beams,

"And creature to adore and love.

"Sudden I felt thee draw me near

"To thy pure heart, where, fondly placed,

"I seemed within the atmosphere

"Of that exhaling light embraced;

"And felt methought the ethereal flame

"Pass from thy purer soul to mine;

"Till—oh, too blissful—I became,

"Like thee, all spirit, all divine!

"Say, why did dream so blest come o'er me,

"If, now I wake, 'tis faded, gone?

"When will my Cherub shine before me

"Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone?

"When shall I, waking, be allowed

"To gaze upon those perfect charms,

"And clasp thee once without a cloud,

"A chill of earth, within these arms?

"Oh what a pride to say, this, this

"Is my own Angel—all divine,

"And pure and dazzling as he is

"And fresh from heaven—he's mine, he's mine!

"Thinkest thou, were LILIS in thy place,

"A creature of yon lofty skies,

"She would have hid one single grace,

"One glory from her lover's eyes?

"No, no—then, if thou lovest like me,

"Shine out, young Spirit in the blaze

"Of thy most proud divinity,

"Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze.

"Too long and oft I've looked upon

"Those ardent eyes, intense even thus—

"Too near the stars themselves have gone,

"To fear aught grand or luminous.

"Then doubt me not—oh! who can say

"But that this dream may yet come true

"And my blest spirit drink thy ray,

"Till it becomes all heavenly too?

"Let me this once but feel the flame

"Of those spread wings, the very pride

"Will change my nature, and this frame

"By the mere touch be deified!"

Thus spoke the maid, as one not used

To be by earth or heaven refused—

As one who knew her influence o'er

All creatures, whatsoe'er they were,

And tho' to heaven she could not soar,

At least would bring down heaven to her.

Little did she, alas! or I—

Even I, whose soul, but halfway yet

Immerged in sin's obscurity

Was as the earth whereon we lie,

O'er half whose disk the sun is set—

Little did we foresee the fate,

The dreadful—how can it be told?

Such pain, such anguish to relate

Is o'er again to feel, behold!

But, charged as 'tis, my heart must speak

Its sorrow out or it will break!

Some dark misgivings had, I own,

Past for a moment thro' my breast—

Fears of some danger, vague, unknown,

To one, or both—something unblest

To happen from this proud request.

But soon these boding fancies fled;

Nor saw I aught that could forbid

My full revealment save the dread

Of that first dazzle, when, unhid,

Such light should burst upon a lid

Ne'er tried in heaven;—and even this glare

She might, by love's own nursing care,

Be, like young eagles, taught to bear.

For well I knew, the lustre shed

From cherub wings, when proudliest spread,

Was in its nature lambent, pure,

And innocent as is the light

The glow-worm hangs out to allure

Her mate to her green bower at night.

Oft had I in the mid-air swept

Thro' clouds in which the lightning slept,

As in its lair, ready to spring,

Yet waked it not—tho' from my wing

A thousand sparks fell glittering!

Oft too when round me from above

The feathered snow in all its whiteness,

Fell like the moultings of heaven's Dove,[15]—

So harmless, tho' so full of brightness,

Was my brow's wreath that it would shake

From off its flowers each downy flake

As delicate, unmelted, fair,

And cool as they had lighted there.

Nay even with LILIS—had I not

Around her sleep all radiant beamed,

Hung o'er her slumbers nor forgot

To kiss her eyelids as she dreamed?

And yet at morn from that repose,

Had she not waked, unscathed and bright,

As doth the pure, unconscious rose

Tho' by the fire-fly kist all night?

Thus having—as, alas! deceived

By my sin's blindness, I believed—

No cause for dread and those dark eyes

Now fixt upon me eagerly

As tho' the unlocking of the skies

Then waited but a sign from me—

How could I pause? how even let fall

A word; a whisper that could stir

In her proud heart a doubt that all

I brought from heaven belonged to her?

Slow from her side I rose, while she

Arose too, mutely, tremblingly,

But not with fear—all hope, and pride,

She waited for the awful boon,

Like priestesses at eventide

Watching the rise of the full moon

Whose light, when once its orb hath shone,

'Twill madden them to look upon!

Of all my glories, the bright crown

Which when I last from heaven came down

Was left behind me in yon star

That shines from out those clouds afar—

Where, relic sad, 'tis treasured yet,

The downfallen angel's coronet!—

Of all my glories, this alone

Was wanting:—but the illumined brow,

The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now

Had love's spell added to their own,

And poured a light till then unknown;—

The unfolded wings that in their play

Shed sparkles bright as ALLA'S throne;

All I could bring of heaven's array,

Of that rich panoply of charms

A Cherub moves in, on the day

Of his best pomp, I now put on;

And, proud that in her eyes I shone

Thus glorious, glided to her arms;

Which still (tho', at a sight so splendid,

Her dazzled brow had instantly

Sunk on her breast), were wide extended

To clasp the form she durst not see![16]

Great Heaven! how could thy vengeance light

So bitterly on one so bright?

How could the hand that gave such charms,

Blast them again in love's own arms?

Scarce had I touched her shrinking frame,

When—oh most horrible!—I felt

That every spark of that pure flame—

Pure, while among the stars I dwelt—

Was now by my transgression turned

Into gross, earthly fire, which burned,

Burned all it touched as fast as eye

Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes;

Till there—oh God, I still ask why

Such doom was hers?—I saw her lie

Blackening within my arms to ashes!

That brow, a glory but to see—

Those lips whose touch was what the first

Fresh cup of immortality

Is to a new-made angel's thirst!

Those clasping arms, within whose round—

My heart's horizon—the whole bound

Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found!

Which, even in this dread moment, fond

As when they first were round me cast,

Loosed not in death the fatal bond,

But, burning, held me to the last!

All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed

As if Love's self there breathed and beamed,

Now parched and black before me lay,

Withering in agony away;

And mine, oh misery! mine the flame

From which this desolation came;—

I, the curst spirit whose caress

Had blasted all that loveliness!

'Twas maddening!—but now hear even worse—

Had death, death only, been the curse

I brought upon her—had the doom

But ended here, when her young bloom

Lay in the dust—and did the spirit

No part of that fell curse inherit,

'Twere not so dreadful—but, come near—

Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear—

Just when her eyes in fading took

Their last, keen, agonized farewell,

And looked in mine with—oh, that look!

Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell

Thou mayst to human souls assign,

The memory of that look is mine!—

In her last struggle, on my brow

Her ashy lips a kiss imprest,

So withering!—I feel it now—

'Twas fire—but fire, even more unblest

Than was my own, and like that flame,

The angels shudder but to name,

Hell's everlasting element!

Deep, deep it pierced into my brain,

Maddening and torturing as it went;

And here, mark here, the brand, the stain

It left upon my front—burnt in

By that last kiss of love and sin—

A brand which all the pomp and pride

Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide!

But is it thus, dread Providence—

Can it indeed be thus, that she

Who, (but for one proud, fond offence,)

Had honored heaven itself, should be

Now doomed—I cannot speak it—no,

Merciful ALLA! 'tis not so—

Never could lips divine have said

The fiat of a fate so dread.

And yet, that look—so deeply fraught

With more than anguish, with despair—

That new, fierce fire, resembling naught

In heaven or earth—this scorch I bear!—

Oh—for the first time that these knees

Have bent before thee since my fall,

Great Power, if ever thy decrees

Thou couldst for prayer like mine recall,

Pardon that spirit, and on me,

On me, who taught her pride to err,

Shed out each drop of agony

Thy burning phial keeps for her!

See too where low beside me kneel

Two other outcasts who, tho' gone

And lost themselves, yet dare to feel

And pray for that poor mortal one.

Alas, too well, too well they know

The pain, the penitence, the woe

That Passion brings upon the best,

The wisest, and the loveliest.—

Oh! who is to be saved, if such

Bright, erring souls are not forgiven;

So loath they wander, and so much

Their very wanderings lean towards heaven!

Again I cry. Just Power, transfer

That creature's sufferings all to me—

Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be,

To save one minute's pain to her,

Let mine last all eternity!

He paused and to the earth bent down

His throbbing head; while they who felt

That agony as 'twere their own,

Those angel youths, beside him knelt,

And in the night's still silence there,

While mournfully each wandering air

Played in those plumes that never more

To their lost home in heaven must soar,

Breathed inwardly the voiceless prayer,

Unheard by all but Mercy's ear—

And which if Mercy did not hear,

Oh, God would not be what this bright

And glorious universe of His,

This world of beauty, goodness, light

And endless love proclaims He is!

Not long they knelt, when from a wood

That crowned that airy solitude,

They heard a low, uncertain sound,

As from a lute, that just had found

Some happy theme and murmured round

The new-born fancy, with fond tone,

Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own!

Till soon a voice, that matched as well

That gentle instrument, as suits

The sea-air to an ocean-shell,

(So kin its spirit to the lute's),

Tremblingly followed the soft strain,

Interpreting its joy, its pain,

And lending the light wings of words

To many a thought that else had lain

Unfledged and mute among the chords.

All started at the sound—but chief

The third young Angel in whose face,

Tho' faded like the others, grief

Had left a gentler, holier trace;

As if, even yet, thro' pain and ill,

Hope had not fled him—as if still

Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup

Unmelted at the bottom lay,

To shine again, when, all drunk up,

The bitterness should pass away.

Chiefly did he, tho' in his eyes

There shone more pleasure than surprise,

Turn to the wood from whence that sound

Of solitary sweetness broke;

Then, listening, look delighted round

To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:—

"Come, pray with me, my seraph love,

"My angel-lord, come pray with me:

"In vain to-night my lips hath strove

"To send one holy prayer above—

"The knee may bend, the lip may move,

"But pray I cannot, without thee!

"I've fed the altar in my bower

"With droppings from the incense tree;

"I've sheltered it from wind and shower,

"But dim it burns the livelong hour,

"As if, like me, it had no power

"Of life or lustre without thee!

"A boat at midnight sent alone

"To drift upon the moonless sea,

"A lute, whose leading chord is gone,

"A wounded bird that hath but one

"Imperfect wing to soar upon,

"Are like what I am without thee!

"Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide,

"In life or death, thyself from me;

"But when again in sunny pride

"Thou walk'st thro' Eden, let me glide,

"A prostrate shadow, by thy side—

"Oh happier thus than without thee!"

The song had ceased when from the wood

Which sweeping down that airy height,

Reached the lone spot whereon they stood—

There suddenly shone out a light

From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed

Across the brow of one, who raised

Its flame aloft (as if to throw

The light upon that group below),

Displayed two eyes sparkling between

The dusky leaves, such as are seen

By fancy only, in those faces,

That haunt a poet's walk at even,

Looking from out their leafy places

Upon his dreams of love and heaven.

'Twas but a moment—the blush brought

O'er all her features at the thought

Of being seen thus, late, alone,

By any but the eyes she sought,

Had scarcely for an instant shore

Thro' the dark leaves when she was gone—

Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead

Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said,

"Behold, how beautiful!"—'tis fled,

Yet ere she went the words, "I come,

"I come, my NAMA," reached her ear,

In that kind voice, familiar, dear,

Which tells of confidence, of home,—

Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near,

Till they grow one,—of faith sincere,

And all that Love most loves to hear;

A music breathing of the past,

The present and the time to be,

Where Hope and Memory to the last

Lengthen out life's true harmony!

Nor long did he whom call so kind

Summoned away remain behind:

Nor did there need much time to tell

What they—alas! more fallen than he

From happiness and heaven—knew well,

His gentler love's short history!

Thus did it run—not as he told

The tale himself, but as 'tis graved

Upon the tablets that, of old,

By SETH[17] were from the deluge saved,

All written over with sublime

And saddening legends of the unblest

But glorious Spirits of that time,

And this young Angel's 'mong the rest.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

Among the Spirits, of pure flame,

That in the eternal heavens abide—

Circles of light that from the same

Unclouded centre sweeping wide,

Carry its beams on every side—

Like spheres of air that waft around

The undulations of rich sound—

Till the far-circling radiance be

Diffused into infinity!

First and immediate near the Throne

Of ALLA, as if most his own,

The Seraphs stand[18] this burning sign

Traced on their banner, "Love Divine!"

Their rank, their honors, far above

Even those to high-browed Cherubs given,

Tho' knowing all;—so much doth Love

Transcend all Knowledge, even in heaven!

'Mong these was ZARAPH once—and none

E'er felt affection's holy fire,

Or yearned towards the Eternal One,

With half such longing, deep desire.

Love was to his impassioned soul

Not as with others a mere part

Of its existence, but the whole—

The very life-breath of his heart!

Oft, when from ALLA'S lifted brow

A lustre came, too bright to bear,

And all the seraph ranks would bow,

To shade their dazzled sight nor dare

To look upon the effulgence there—

This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze

(Such pride he in adoring took),

And rather lose in that one gaze

The power of looking than not look!

Then too when angel voices sung

The mercy of their God and strung

Their harps to hail with welcome sweet

That moment, watched for by all eyes,

When some repentant sinner's feet

First touched the threshold of the skies,

Oh! then how clearly did the voice

Of ZARAPH above all rejoice!

Love was in every buoyant tone—

Such love as only could belong

To the blest angels and alone

Could, even from angels, bring such song!

Alas! that it should e'er have been

In heaven as 'tis too often here,

Where nothing fond or bright is seen,

But it hath pain and peril near;—

Where right and wrong so close resemble,

That what we take for virtue's thrill

Is often the first downward tremble

Of the heart's balance unto ill;

Where Love hath not a shrine so pure,

So holy, but the serpent, Sin,

In moments, even the most secure,

Beneath his altar may glide in!

So was it with that Angel—such

The charm, that sloped his fall along,

From good to ill, from loving much,

Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.—

Even so that amorous Spirit, bound

By beauty's spell where'er 'twas found,

From the bright things above the moon

Down to earth's beaming eyes descended,

Till love for the Creator soon

In passion for the creature ended.

'Twas first at twilight, on the shore

Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute

And voice of her he loved steal o'er

The silver waters that lay mute,

As loath, by even a breath, to stay

The pilgrimage of that sweet lay;

Whose echoes still went on and on,

Till lost among the light that shone

Far off beyond the ocean's brim—

There where the rich cascade of day

Had o'er the horizon's golden rim,

Into Elysium rolled away!

Of God she sung and of the mild

Attendant Mercy that beside

His awful throne for ever smiled,

Ready with her white hand to guide

His bolts of vengeance to their prey—

That she might quench them on the way!

Of Peace—of that Atoning Love,

Upon whose star, shining above

This twilight world of hope and fear,

The weeping eyes of Faith are fixt

So fond that with her every tear

The light of that love-star is mixt!—

All this she sung, and such a soul

Of piety was in that song

That the charmed Angel as it stole

Tenderly to his ear, along

Those lulling waters where he lay,

Watching the daylight's dying ray,

Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave,

An echo, that some sea-nymph gave

To Eden's distant harmony,

Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!

Quickly, however, to its source,

Tracking that music's melting course,

He saw upon the golden sands

Of the sea-shore a maiden stand,

Before whose feet the expiring waves

Flung their last offering with a sigh—

As, in the East, exhausted slaves

Lay down the far-brought gift and die—

And while her lute hung by her hushed

As if unequal to the tide

Of song that from her lips still gushed,

She raised, like one beatified,

Those eyes whose light seemed rather given

To be adored than to adore—

Such eyes as may have lookt from heaven

But ne'er were raised to it before!

Oh Love, Religion, Music—all

That's left of Eden upon earth—

The only blessings, since the fall

Of our weak souls, that still recall

A trace of their high, glorious birth—

How kindred are the dreams you bring!

How Love tho' unto earth so prone,

Delights to take Religion's wing,

When time or grief hath stained his own!

How near to Love's beguiling brink

Too oft entranced Religion lies!

While Music, Music is the link

They both still hold by to the skies,

The language of their native sphere

Which they had else forgotten here.

How then could ZARAPH fail to feel

That moment's witcheries?—one, so fair,

Breathing out music, that might steal

Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer

That seraphs might be proud to share!

Oh, he did feel it, all too well—

With warmth, that far too dearly cost—

Nor knew he, when at last he fell,

To which attraction, to which spell,

Love, Music, or Devotion, most

His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, tho' dearly won,

And pure, as aught of earth could be,

For then first did the glorious sun

Before religion's altar see

Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie

Self-pledged, in love to live and die.

Blest union! by that Angel wove,

And worthy from such hands to come;

Safe, sole, asylum, in which Love,

When fallen or exiled from above,

In this dark world can find a home.

And, tho' the Spirit had transgrest,

Had, from his station 'mong the blest

Won down by woman's smile, allow'd

Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er

The mirror of his heart, and cloud

God's image there so bright before—

Yet never did that Power look down

On error with a brow so mild;

Never did Justice wear a frown,

Thro' which so gently Mercy smiled.

For humble was their love—with awe

And trembling like some treasure kept,

That was not theirs by holy law—

Whose beauty with remorse they saw

And o'er whose preciousness they wept.

Humility, that low, sweet root,

From which all heavenly virtues shoot,

Was in the hearts of both—but most

In NAMA'S heart, by whom alone

Those charms, for which a heaven was lost.

Seemed all unvalued and unknown;

And when her Seraph's eyes she caught,

And hid hers glowing on his breast,

Even bliss was humbled by the thought—

"What claim have I to be so blest"?

Still less could maid, so meek, have nurst

Desire of knowledge—that vain thirst,

With which the sex hath all been curst

From luckless EVE to her who near

The Tabernacle stole to hear

The secrets of the Angels: no—

To love as her own Seraph loved,

With Faith, the same thro' bliss and woe—

Faith that were even its light removed,

Could like the dial fixt remain

And wait till it shone out again;—

With Patience that tho' often bowed

By the rude storm can rise anew;

And Hope that even from Evil's cloud

See sunny Good half breaking thro'!

This deep, relying Love, worth more

In heaven than all a Cherub's lore—

This Faith more sure than aught beside

Was the sole joy, ambition, pride

Of her fond heart—the unreasoning scope

Of all its views, above, below—

So true she felt it that to hope,

To trust, is happier than to know.

And thus in humbleness they trod,

Abasht but pure before their God;

Nor e'er did earth behold a sight

So meekly beautiful as they,

When with the altar's holy light

Full on their brows they knelt to pray,

Hand within hand and side by side,

Two links of love awhile untied

From the great chain above, but fast

Holding together to the last!—

Two fallen Splendors from that tree[19]

Which buds with such eternally,

Shaken to earth yet keeping all

Their light and freshness in the fall.

Their only punishment, (as wrong,

However sweet, must bear its brand.)

Their only doom was this—that, long

As the green earth and ocean stand,

They both shall wander here—the same,

Throughout all time, in heart and frame—

Still looking to that goal sublime,

Whose light remote but sure they see;

Pilgrims of Love whose way is Time,

Whose home is in Eternity!

Subject the while to all the strife

True Love encounters in this life—

The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain;

The chill that turns his warmest sighs

To earthly vapor ere they rise;

The doubt he feeds on and the pain

That in his very sweetness lies:—

Still worse, the illusions that betray

His footsteps to their shining brink;

That tempt him on his desert way

Thro' the bleak world, to bend and drink,

Where nothing meets his lips, alas!—

But he again must sighing pass

On to that far-off home of peace,

In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear but not the less

Have moments rich in happiness—

Blest meetings, after many a day

Of widowhood past far away,

When the loved face again is seen

Close, close, with not a tear between—

Confidings frank, without control,

Poured mutually from soul to soul;

As free from any fear or doubt

As is that light from chill or strain

The sun into the stars sheds out

To be by them shed back again!—

That happy minglement of hearts,

Where, changed as chymic compounds are,

Each with its own existence parts

To find a new one, happier far!

Such are their joys—and crowning all

That blessed hope of the bright hour,

When, happy and no more to fall,

Their spirits shall with freshened power

Rise up rewarded for their trust

In Him from whom all goodness springs,

And shaking off earth's soiling dust

From their emancipated wings,

Wander for ever thro' those skies

Of radiance where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth,

These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell,

God and the Angels who look forth

To watch their steps, alone can tell.

But should we in our wanderings

Meet a young pair whose beauty wants

But the adornment of bright wings

To look like heaven's inhabitants—

Who shine where'er they tread and yet

Are humble in their earthly lot,

As is the way-side violet,

That shines unseen, and were it not

For its sweet breath would be forgot

Whose hearts in every thought are one,

Whose voices utter the same wills—

Answering, as Echo doth some tone

Of fairy music 'mong the hills,

So like itself we seek in vain

Which is the echo, which the strain—

Whose piety is love, whose love

Tho' close as 'twere their souls' embrace.

Is not of earth but from above—

Like two fair mirrors face to face,

Whose light from one to the other thrown,

Is heaven's reflection, not their own—

Should we e'er meet with aught so pure,

So perfect here, we may be sure

'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see;

And call young lovers round to view

The pilgrim pair as they pursue

Their pathway towards eternity.

[1] "To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so often as the Blessed wish for music."—See Sale's Koran, Prelim. Dissert.

[2] The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels that encircled it. The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred and sixty-five orders of angels.

[3] It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel means also a messenger.

[4] The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which, they say, the angel Tabliek presides.

[5] The Kerubilna, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are designated.

[6] A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits, was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets.

[7] According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The names of these four Sentinel stars are, according to the Boundesh, Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and Haftorang. for the north.

[8] Chavah, or, as it is Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the woman after their transgression), means "Life".

[9] Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf—a sort of wall or partition which, according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise, and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period, alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side presented to them.

[10] I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human lover.

[11] According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, "There was no rain before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the novelty of this sight after the Deluge."

[12] In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final "Seal," or consummation of them all.

[13] The Zodiacal Light.

[14] Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors, that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or in the sea, but of angels also, must necessarily taste of death.

[15] The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of that select number of animals [including also the ant of Solomon, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, etc.] which were thought by the Prophet worthy of admission into Paradise.

[16] "Mohammed [says Sale], though a prophet, was not able to bear the sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would others be able to support it."

[17] Seth is a favorite personage among the Orientals, and acts a conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, etc. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph Sheit, or the Book of Seth.

[18] The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love.

[19] An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY,

1819.

The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an old calêche for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been lately called "a psychological curiosity," it is to be hoped that verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honored with some appellation equally Greek.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.—Bayes, Henry Stevens, Herodotus, etc.—Writing in Bed—in the Fields.—Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.—Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.—Madame de Staël.—Rhyming on the Road, in an old Calêche.

What various attitudes and ways

And tricks we authors have in writing!

While some write sitting, some like BAYES

Usually stand while they're inditing,

Poets there are who wear the floor out,

Measuring a line at every stride;

While some like HENRY STEPHENS pour out

Rhymes by the dozen while they ride.

HERODOTUS wrote most in bed;

And RICHERAND, a French physician,

Declares the clock-work of the head

Goes best in that reclined position.

If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on

The subject, 'tis their joint opinion

That Thought its richest harvest yields

Abroad among the woods and fields,

That bards who deal in small retail

At home may at their counters stop;

But that the grove, the hill, the vale,

Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.

And verily I think they're right—

For many a time on summer eves,

Just at that closing hour of light,

When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves

For distant war his Haram bowers,

The Sun bids farewell to the flowers,

Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing

Mid all the glory of his going!—

Even I have felt, beneath those beams,

When wandering thro' the fields alone,

Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,

Which, far too bright to be my own,

Seemed lent me by the Sunny Power

That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must they feel,

The few whom genuine Genius warms,

Upon whose soul he stamps his seal,

Graven with Beauty's countless forms;—

The few upon this earth, who seem

Born to give truth to PLATO'S dream,

Since in their thoughts, as in a glass,

Shadows of heavenly things appear.

Reflections of bright shapes that pass

Thro' other worlds, above our sphere!

But this reminds me I digress;—

For PLATO, too, produced, 'tis said,

(As one indeed might almost guess),

His glorious visions all in bed.[1]

'Twas in his carriage the sublime

Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE used to rhyme;

And (if the wits dont do him wrong)

Twixt death and epics past his time,[2]

Scribbling and killing all day long—

Like Phoebus in his car, at ease,

Now warbling forth a lofty song,

Now murdering the young Niobes.

There was a hero 'mong the Danes,

Who wrote, we're told, mid all the pains

And horrors of exenteration,

Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look,

You'll find preserved with a translation

By BARTHOLINOS in his book.

In short 'twere endless to recite

The various modes in which men write.

Some wits are only in the mind.

When beaus and belles are round them prating;

Some when they dress for dinner find

Their muse and valet both in waiting

And manage at the self-same time

To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.

Some bards there are who cannot scribble

Without a glove to tear or nibble

Or a small twig to whisk about—

As if the hidden founts of Fancy,

Like wells of old, were thus found out

By mystic trick of rhabdomancy.

Such was the little feathery wand,[3]

That, held for ever in the hand

Of her who won and wore the crown[4]

Of female genius in this age,

Seemed the conductor that drew down

Those words of lightning to her page.

As for myself—to come, at last,

To the odd way in which I write—

Having employ'd these few months past

Chiefly in travelling, day and night,

I've got into the easy mode

Of rhyming thus along the road—

Making a way-bill of my pages,

Counting my stanzas by my stages—

'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost—

In short, in two words, writing post.

[1] The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says:—

Lucifer Herodotum vidit Vesperque cubantem, desedit totos heic Plato saepe dies.

[2] Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, as well as a bad poet.

[3] Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather.

[4] Madame de Staël.

EXTRACT I.

Geneva.

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.[1]—Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.—Obliged to proceed on Foot.—Alps.—Mont Blanc.—Effect of the Scene.

'Twas late—the sun had almost shone

His last and best when I ran on

Anxious to reach that splendid view

Before the daybeams quite withdrew

And feeling as all feel on first

Approaching scenes where, they are told,

Such glories on their eyes will burst

As youthful bards in dreams behold.

'Twas distant yet and as I ran

Full often was my wistful gaze

Turned to the sun who now began

To call in all his out-posts rays,

And form a denser march of light,

Such as beseems a hero's flight.

Oh, how I wisht for JOSHUA'S power,

To stay the brightness of that hour?

But no—the sun still less became,

Diminisht to a speck as splendid

And small as were those tongues of flame,

That on the Apostles' heads descended!

'Twas at this instant—while there glowed

This last, intensest gleam of light—

Suddenly thro' the opening road

The valley burst upon my sight!

That glorious valley with its Lake

And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling,

Mighty and pure and fit to make

The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling.

I stood entranced—as Rabbins say

This whole assembled, gazing world

Will stand, upon that awful day,

When the Ark's Light aloft unfurled

Among the opening clouds shall shine,

Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me

That minute, with thy brow in heaven,

As sure a sign of Deity

As e'er to mortal gaze was given.

Nor ever, were I destined yet

To live my life twice o'er again,

Can I the deep-felt awe forget,

The dream, the trance that rapt me then!

'Twas all that consciousness of power

And life, beyond this mortal hour;—

Those mountings of the soul within

At thoughts of Heaven—as birds begin

By instinct in the cage to rise,

When near their time for change of skies;—

That proud assurance of our claim

To rank among the Sons of Light,

Mingled with shame—oh bitter shame!—

At having riskt that splendid right,

For aught that earth thro' all its range

Of glories offers in exchange!

'Twas all this, at that instant brought

Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought—

'Twas all this, kindled to a glow

Of sacred zeal which could it shine

Thus purely ever man might grow,

Even upon earth a thing divine,

And be once more the creature made

To walk unstained the Elysian shade!

No, never shall I lose the trace

Of what I've felt in this bright place.

And should my spirit's hope grow weak,

Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power,

This mighty scene again I'll seek,

At the same calm and glowing hour,

And here at the sublimest shrine

That Nature ever reared to Thee

Rekindle all that hope divine

And feel my immortality!

[1] Between Vattay and Gex.

EXTRACT II.

Geneva.

FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782.

A FRAGMENT.

Yes—if there yet live some of those,

Who, when this small Republic rose,

Quick as a startled hive of bees,

Against her leaguering enemies—[1]

When, as the Royal Satrap shook

His well-known fetters at her gates,

Even wives and mothers armed and took

Their stations by their sons and mates;

And on these walls there stood—yet, no,

Shame to the traitors—would have stood

As firm a band as e'er let flow

At Freedom's base their sacred blood;

If those yet live, who on that night

When all were watching, girt for fight,

Stole like the creeping of a pest

From rank to rank, from breast to breast,

Filling the weak, the old with fears,

Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,—

Betraying Honor to that brink,

Where, one step more, and he must sink—

And quenching hopes which tho' the last,

Like meteors on a drowning mast,

Would yet have led to death more bright,

Than life e'er lookt, in all its light!

Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms

Throughout the embattled thousands ran,

And the high spirit, late in arms,

The zeal that might have workt such charms,

Fell like a broken talisman—

Their gates, that they had sworn should be

The gates of Death, that very dawn,

Gave passage widely, bloodlessly,

To the proud foe—nor sword was drawn,

Nor even one martyred body cast

To stain their footsteps, as they past;

But of the many sworn at night

To do or die, some fled the sight,

Some stood to look with sullen frown,

While some in impotent despair

Broke their bright armor and lay down,

Weeping, upon the fragments there!—

If those, I say, who brought that shame,

That blast upon GENEVA'S name

Be living still—tho' crime so dark

Shall hang up, fixt and unforgiven,

In History's page, the eternal mark

For Scorn to pierce—so help me, Heaven,

I wish the traitorous slaves no worse,

No deeper, deadlier disaster

From all earth's ills no fouler curse

Than to have *********** their master!

[1] In the year 1782, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in 1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic-struck or betrayed, to the surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and submitted without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties—See an account of this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland.

EXTRACT III.

Geneva.

Fancy and Truth—Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.—Clouds.

Even here in this region of wonders I find

That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind;

Or at least like Hippomenes turns her astray

By the golden illusions he flings in her way.

What a glory it seemed the first evening I gazed!

MONT BLANC like a vision then suddenly raised

On the wreck of the sunset—and all his array

Of high-towering Alps, touched still with a light

Far holier, purer than that of the Day,

As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!

Then the dying at last of these splendors away

From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,

One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly,

O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,

Like the last sunny step of ASTRAEA, when high,

From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!

And those infinite Alps stretching out from the sight

Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,

Stood lofty and lifeless and pale in the sky,

Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!

That scene—I have viewed it this evening again,

By the same brilliant light that hung over it then—

The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms—

MONT BLANC in his awfullest pomp—and the whole

A bright picture of Beauty, reclined in the arms

Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!

But where are the mountains that round me at first

One dazzling horizon of miracles burst?

Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on

Like the waves of eternity—where are they gone?

Clouds—clouds—they were nothing but clouds, after all![1]

That chain of MONT BLANC'S, which my fancy flew o'er,

With a wonder that naught on this earth can recall,

Were but clouds of the evening and now are no more.

What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night,

Drop thy curtain at once and hide all from my sight.

[1] It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.

EXTRACT IV.

Milan.

The Picture Gallery.—Albano's Rape of Proserpine.—Reflections.— Universal Salvation.—Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.—Genius.

Went to the Brera—saw a Dance of Loves

By smooth ALBANO! him whose pencil teems

With Cupids numerous as in summer groves

The leaflets are or motes in summer beams.

'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth,

These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth

Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath—

Those that are nearest linkt in order bright,

Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath;

And those more distant showing from beneath

The others' wings their little eyes of light.

While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother

But just flown up tells with a smile of bliss

This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother

Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!

Well might the Loves rejoice—and well did they

Who wove these fables picture in their weaving

That blessed truth, (which in a darker day

ORIGEN lost his saintship for believing,[1])—

That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray

Nor time nor death nor sin can overcast,

Even to the depths of hell will find his way,

And soothe and heal and triumph there at last!

GUERCINO'S Agar—where the bondmaid hears

From Abram's lips that he and she must part,

And looks at him with eyes all full of tears

That seem the very last drops from her heart.

Exquisite picture!—let me not be told

Of minor faults, of coloring tame and cold—

If thus to conjure up a face so fair,[2]

So full of sorrow; with the story there

Of all that woman suffers when the stay

Her trusting heart hath leaned on falls away—

If thus to touch the bosom's tenderest spring,

By calling into life such eyes as bring

Back to our sad remembrance some of those

We've smiled and wept with in their joys and woes,

Thus filling them with tears, like tears we've known,

Till all the pictured grief becomes our own—

If this be deemed the victory of Art—

If thus by pen or pencil to lay bare

The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart

Before all eyes be Genius—it is there!

[1] The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the regions of the damned.

[2] It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Carnuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.

EXTRACT V.

Padua.

Fancy and Reality.—Rain-drops and Lakes.—Plan of a Story.—Where to place the Scene of it.—In some unknown Region.—Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.

The more I've viewed this world the more I've found,

That, filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare.

Fancy commands within her own bright round

A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.

Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from Nature won,

No more than rainbows in their pride can wear

A single hue unborrowed from the sun—

But 'tis the mental medium it shines thro'

That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;

As the same light that o'er the level lake

One dull monotony of lustre flings,

Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make

Colors as gay as those on Peris' wings!

And such, I deem, the difference between real,

Existing Beauty and that form ideal

Which she assumes when seen by poets' eyes,

Like sunshine in the drop—with all those dyes

Which Fancy's variegating prism supples.

I have a story of two lovers, filled

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,

And the sad, doubtful bliss that ever thrilled

Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.

But where to choose the region of my vision

In this wide, vulgar world—what real spot

Can be found out sufficiently Elysian

For two such perfect lovers I know not.

Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he,

The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea,

By nothing but its name of Beauty known,

And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,

Her fairy kingdom—take its people, lands,

And tenements into her own bright hands,

And make at least one earthly corner fit

For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!

EXTRACT VI.

Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented—Former Glory.—Expedition against Constantinople.—Giustinianis.—Republic.—Characteristics of the old Government.—Golden Book.—Brazen Mouths.—Spies.—Dungeons.—Present Desolation.

Mourn not for VENICE—let her rest

In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,

Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,

Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.

No—let us keep our tears for them,

Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been

Not from a blood-stained diadem,

Like that which deckt this ocean-queen,

But from high daring in the cause

Of human Rights—the only good

And blessed strife, in which man draws

His mighty sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for VENICE; tho' her fall

Be awful, as if Ocean's wave

Swept o'er her, she deserves it all,

And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.

Thus perish every King and State

That run the guilty race she ran,

Strong but in ill and only great

By outrage against God and man!

True, her high spirit is at rest,

And all those days of glory gone,

When the world's waters, east and west,

Beneath her white-winged commerce shone;

When with her countless barks she went

To meet the Orient Empire's might.[1]

And her Giustinianis sent

Their hundred heroes to that fight.

Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true,

But mourn them not—for vanisht too

(Thanks to that Power, who soon or late,

Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)

Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,

The chains, the rapine, and the blood,

That filled each spot, at home, abroad,

Where the Republic's standard stood.

Desolate VENICE! when I track

Thy haughty course thro' centuries back;

Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst—

The stern machinery of thy State,

Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,

Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;—

Thy perfidy, still worse than aught

Thy own unblushing SARPI[2] taught;—

Thy friendship which, o'er all beneath

Its shadow, rained down dews of death;[3]—

Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,

Closed against humble Virtue's name,

But opened wide for slaves who sold

Their native land to thee and shame;[4]—

Thy all-pervading host of spies

Watching o'er every glance and breath,

Till men lookt in each others' eyes,

To read their chance of life or death;—

Thy laws that made a mart of blood,

And legalized the assassin's knife;[5]—

Thy sunless cells beneath the flood,

And racks and Leads that burnt out life;—

When I review all this and see

The doom that now hath fallen on thee;

Thy nobles, towering once so proud,

Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,—

A yoke by no one grace redeemed,

Such as of old around thee beamed,

But mean and base as e'er yet galled

Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,—

I feel the moral vengeance sweet.

And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:—

"Thus perish every King and State

"That tread the steps which VENICE trod,

"Strong but in ill and only great,

"By outrage against man and God!"

[1] Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.

[2] The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collections of Maxims which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued.

[3] Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.

[4] Among those admitted to the honor of being inscribed in the Libro d'oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.

[5] By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.

EXTRACT VII.

Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.—Reflections, when about to read them.

Let me a moment—ere with fear and hope

Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope—

As one in fairy tale to whom the key

Of some enchanter's secret halls is given,

Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven—

Let me a moment think what thousands live

O'er the wide earth this instant who would give,

Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow

Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know—and where is he unknown?

To what far region have his songs not flown,

Like PSAPHON'S birds[1] speaking their master's name,

In every language syllabled by Fame?—

How all who've felt the various spells combined

Within the circle of that mastermind,—

Like spells derived from many a star and met

Together in some wondrous amulet,—

Would burn to know when first the Light awoke

In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke

From that Aurora of his genius, raised

Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed;

Would love to trace the unfolding of that power,

Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour;

And feel in watching o'er his first advance

As did the Egyptian traveller[2] when he stood

By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance

The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell

In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams,—

As if the Star of Bitterness which fell

On earth of old,[3] had touched them with its beams,—

Can track a spirit which tho' driven to hate,

From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;

And which even now, struck as it is with blight,

Comes out at times in love's own native light;—

How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays

Of a bright, ruined spirit thro' his lays,

Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,

What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven

That noble nature into cold eclipse;

Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven.

And born not only to surprise but cheer

With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,

Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts

Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

Of scene and clime—the adventures bold and strange—

The griefs—the frailties but too frankly told—

The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,

If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks

His virtues as his failings, we shall find

The record there of friendships held like rocks,

And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned;

Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill,

In those who served him, young, and serve him still;

Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art

Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart;

Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught

Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud,

"Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd,

This gifted Being wraps himself in night;

And keeping all that softens and adorns

And gilds his social nature hid from sight,

Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.

[1] Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions; whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves."

[2] Bruce.

[3] "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood."—Rev. viii.

EXTRACT VIII.

Venice.

Female Beauty at Venice.—No longer what it was in the time of Titian.— His mistress.—Various Forms in which he has painted her.—Venus.—Divine and profane Love.—La Fragilita d'Amore—Paul Veronese.—His Women.— Marriage of Cana.—Character of Italian Beauty.—Raphael's Fornarina.— Modesty.

Thy brave, thy learned have passed away:

Thy beautiful!—ah, where are they?

The forms, the faces that once shone,

Models of grace, in Titian's eye,

Where are they now, while flowers live on

In ruined places, why, oh! why

Must Beauty thus with Glory die?

That maid whose lips would still have moved,

Could art have breathed a spirit through them;

Whose varying charms her artist loved

More fondly every time he drew them,

(So oft beneath his touch they past,

Each semblance fairer than the last);

Wearing each shape that Fancy's range

Offers to Love—yet still the one

Fair idol seen thro' every change,

Like facets of some orient stone,—

In each the same bright image shown.

Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed

But in her beauty[1]—sometimes deckt

In costly raiment, as a maid

That kings might for a throne select.[2]

Now high and proud, like one who thought

The world should at her feet be brought;

Now with a look reproachful sad,[3]—

Unwonted look from brow so glad,—

And telling of a pain too deep

For tongue to speak or eyes to weep.

Sometimes thro' allegory's veil,

In double semblance seemed to shine,

Telling a strange and mystic tale

Of Love Profane and Love Divine[4]—

Akin in features, but in heart

As far as earth and heaven apart.

Or else (by quaint device to prove

The frailty of all worldly love)

Holding a globe of glass as thin

As air-blown bubbles in her hand,

With a young Love confined therein,

Whose wings seem waiting to expand—

And telling by her anxious eyes

That if that frail orb break he flies.[5]

Thou too with touch magnificent,

PAUL of VERONA!—where are they?

The oriental forms[6] that lent

Thy canvas such a bright array?

Noble and gorgeous dames whose dress

Seems part of their own loveliness;

Like the sun's drapery which at eve

The floating clouds around him weave

Of light they from himself receive!

Where is there now the living face

Like those that in thy nuptial throng[7]

By their superb, voluptuous grace,

Make us forget the time, the place,

The holy guests they smile among,—

Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine

We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream,

There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,—

Gone like the face that in the stream

Of Ocean for an instant shone,

When Venus at that mirror gave

A last look ere she left the wave.

And tho', among the crowded ways,

We oft are startled by the blaze

Of eyes that pass with fitful light.

Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8]

'Tis not that nobler beauty given

To show how angels look in heaven.

Even in its shape most pure and fair,

'Tis Beauty with but half her zone,

All that can warm the sense is there,

But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:—

'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,—warm,

Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined;

A flower round which the noontide swarm

Of young Desires may buzz and wind,

But where true Love no treasure meets

Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.

Ah no,—for this and for the hue

Upon the rounded cheek, which tells

How fresh within the heart this dew

Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells,

We must go back to our own Isles,

Where Modesty, which here but gives

A rare and transient grace to smiles,

In the heart's holy centre lives;

And thence as from her throne diffuses

O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign,

That not a thought or feeling loses

Its freshness in that gentle chain.

[1] In the Tribune at Florence.

[2] In the Palazzo Pitti.

[3] Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.

[4] The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) "Sacred and Profane Love," in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.

[5] This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.

[6] As Paul Veronese gave but little into the beau idéal, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

[7] The Marriage of Cana.

[8] "Certain it is [as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says] one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy."

EXTRACT IX.

Venice.

The English to be met with everywhere.—Alps and Threadneedle Street.—The Simplon and the Stocks.—Rage for travelling.—Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.—Parasols and Pyramids.—Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China.

And is there then no earthly place,

Where we can rest in dream Elysian,

Without some curst, round English face,

Popping up near to break the vision?

Mid northern lakes, mid southern vines,

Unholy cits we're doomed to meet;

Nor highest Alps nor Apennines

Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind,

Fancying we leave this world behind,

Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear

As—"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear—

"The funds—(phew I curse this ugly hill)—

"Are lowering fast—(what, higher still?)—

"And—(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)—

"Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may—rest where we will.

Eternal London haunts us still.

The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch—

And scarce a pin's head difference which—

Mixes, tho' even to Greece we run,

With every rill from Helicon!

And if this rage for travelling lasts,

If Cockneys of all sects and castes,

Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,

Will leave their puddings and coal fires,

To gape at things in foreign lands

No soul among them understands;

If Blues desert their coteries,

To show off 'mong the Wahabees;

If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids

Young ladies with pink parasols

To glide among the Pyramids—

Why, then, farewell all hope to find

A spot that's free from London-kind!

Who knows, if to the West we roam,

But we may find some Blue "at home"

Among the Blacks of Carolina—

Or flying to the Eastward see

Some Mrs. HOPKINS taking tea

And toast upon the Wall of China!

EXTRACT X.

Mantua.

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest

Of every fair and brilliant throng;

No wit like thine to wake the jest,

No voice like thine to breathe the song.

And none could guess, so gay thou art,

That thou and I are far apart.

Alas, alas! how different flows,

With thee and me the time away!

Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows—

Still if thou canst, be light and gay;

I only know that without thee

The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare

Thou'st always loved to see me wear?

Do I perfume the locks that thou

So oft hast braided o'er my brow,

Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run,

And all the assembled world to see,—

All but the one, the absent one,

Worth more than present worlds to me!

No, nothing cheers this widowed heart—

My only joy from thee apart,

From thee thyself, is sitting hours

And days before thy pictured form—

That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers

Have made with all but life-breath warm!

And as I smile to it, and say

The words I speak to thee in play,

I fancy from their silent frame,

Those eyes and lips give back the same:

And still I gaze, and still they keep

Smiling thus on me—till I weep!

Our little boy too knows it well,

For there I lead him every day

And teach his lisping lips to tell

The name of one that's far away.

Forgive me, love, but thus alone

My time is cheered while thou art gone.

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No—'tis not the region where Love's to be found—

They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,

They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,

When she warbled her best—but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,

Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made—

Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant

Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,

Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,

Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,

The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,

With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,

Grow wreathed into one—like the column, combined

Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers.

Of this—bear ye witness, ye wives, everywhere,

By the ARNO, the PO, by all ITALY'S streams—

Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share,

Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.

But it is not this only;—born full of the light

Of a sun from whose fount the luxuriant festoons

Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright

That beside him our suns of the north are but moons,—

We might fancy at least, like their climate they burned;

And that Love tho' unused in this region of spring

To be thus to a tame Household Deity turned,

Would yet be all soul when abroad on the wing.

And there may be, there are those explosions of heart

Which burst when the senses have first caught the flame;

Such fits of the blood as those climates impart,

Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame.

But that Passion which springs in the depth of the soul;

Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source

Of some small mountain rivulet destined to roll

As a torrent ere long, losing peace in its course—

A course to which Modesty's struggle but lends

A more headlong descent without chance of recall;

But which Modesty even to the last edge attends,

And then throws a halo of tears round its fall!

This exquisite Passion—ay, exquisite, even

Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made,

As it keeps even then a bright trace of the heaven,

That heaven of Virtue from which it has strayed—

This entireness of love which can only be found,

Where Woman like something that's holy, watched over,

And fenced from her childhood with purity round,

Comes body and soul fresh as Spring to a lover!

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses,

Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move;

And the Senses asleep in their sacred recesses

Can only be reached thro' the temple of Love!—

This perfection of Passion-how can it be found,

Where the mystery Nature hath hung round the tie

By which souls are together attracted and bound,

Is laid open for ever to heart,

ear and eye;—

Where naught of that innocent doubt can exist,

That ignorance even than knowledge more bright,

Which circles the young like the morn's sunny mist,

And curtains them round in their own native light;—

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal,

Or for Fancy in visions to gleam o'er the thought:

But the truths which alone we would die to conceal

From the maiden's young heart are the only ones taught.

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh,

Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray,

Or adore, like Sabaeans, each light of Love's sky,

Here is not the region to fix or to stray.

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross,

Without honor to guard, to reserve, to restrain,

What have they a husband can mourn as a loss?

What have they a lover can prize as a gain?

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

Music in Italy.—Disappointed by it.—Recollections or other Times and Friends.—Dalton.—Sir John Stevenson.—His Daughter.—Musical Evenings together.

If it be true that Music reigns,

Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades,

'Tis like that Harmony so famous,

Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS

Declared had such transcendent merit

That not a soul on earth could hear it;

For, far as I have come—from Lakes,

Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,

Thro' MILAN and that land which gave

The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]—

By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave,

Which made VERONA'S bard so blest—

Places that (like the Attic shore,

Which rung back music when the sea

Struck on its marge) should be all o'er

Thrilling alive with melody—

I've heard no music—not a note

Of such sweet native airs as float

In my own land among the throng

And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, even in higher walks, where Art

Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,

And richer if not sweeter makes

The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes—

Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear,

No taste hath won my perfect praise,

Like thine, dear friend[2]—long, truly dear—

Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays.

She, always beautiful, and growing

Still more so every note she sings—

Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing

With her own bright imaginings!

And thou, most worthy to be tied

In music to her, as in love,

Breathing that language by her side,

All other language far above,

Eloquent Song—whose tones and words

In every heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past,

Singing or listening all daylong,

Till Time itself seemed changed at last

To music, and we lived in song!

Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er,

As quick beneath her master hand

They opened all their brilliant store,

Like chambers, touched by fairy wand;

Or o'er the page of MOZART bending,

Now by his airy warblings cheered,

Now in his mournful Requiem blending

Voices thro' which the heart was heard.

And still, to lead our evening choir,

Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]—

He who if aught of grace there be

In the wild notes I write or sing,

First smoothed their links of harmony,

And lent them charms they did not bring;—

He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,

With whom, employed in his sweet art,

(That art which gives this world of ours

A notion how they speak in heaven.)

I've past more bright and charmed hours

Than all earth's wisdom could have given.

Oh happy days, oh early friends,

How Life since then hath lost its flowers!

But yet—tho' Time some foliage rends,

The stem, the Friendship, still is ours;

And long may it endure, as green

And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wandered from my theme!

But where is he, that could return

To such cold subjects from a dream,

Thro' which these best of feelings burn?—

Not all the works of Science, Art,

Or Genius in this world are worth

One genuine sigh that from the heart

Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.

[1] Bermago—the birthplace, it is said, of Harlequin.

[2] Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

[3] Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazza Borghese, at the Capitol, etc.

[4] Sir John Stevenson.

EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.—The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.—Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.—Rienzi's Speech.

'Twas a proud moment—even to hear the words

Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed,

And see once more the Forum shine with swords

In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed—

That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day

For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be,

Short as it was, worth ages past away

In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon

Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune

The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell

From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell—

The sound of the church clock near ADRIAN'S Tomb

Summoned the warriors who had risen for ROME,

To meet unarmed,—with none to watch them there,

But God's own eye,—and pass the night in prayer.

Holy beginning of a holy cause,

When heroes girt for Freedom's combat pause

Before high Heaven, and humble in their might

Call down its blessing on that coming fight.

At dawn, in arms went forth the patriot band;

And as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fanned

Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see

The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven—

Types of the justice, peace and liberty,

That were to bless them when their chains were riven.

On to the Capitol the pageant moved,

While many a Shade of other times, that still

Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved,

Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill

And heard its mournful echoes as the last

High-minded heirs of the Republic past.

'Twas then that thou, their Tribune,[1] (name which brought

Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,)

Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek

To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:—

"ROMANS, look round you—on this sacred place

"There once stood shrines and gods and godlike men.

"What see you now? what solitary trace

"Is left of all that made ROME'S glory then?

"The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft

"Even of its name—and nothing now remains

"But the deep memory of that glory, left

"To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains!

"But shall this be?—our sun and sky the same,—

"Treading the very soil our fathers trod,—

"What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame,

"What visitation hath there come from God

"To blast our strength and rot us into slaves,

"Here on our great forefathers' glorious graves?

"It cannot be—rise up, ye Mighty Dead,—

"If we, the living, are too weak to crush

"These tyrant priests that o'er your empire tread,

"Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush!

"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes

"Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss;

"And thou whose pillars are but silent homes

"For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS!

"Thrice happy both, that your extinguisht race

"Have left no embers—no half-living trace—

"No slaves to crawl around the once proud spot,

"Till past renown in present shame's forgot.

"While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks,

"If lone and lifeless thro' a desert hurled,

"Would wear more true magnificence than decks

"The assembled thrones of all the existing world—

"ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst,

"Thro' every spot her princely TIBER laves,

"By living human things—the deadliest, worst,

"This earth engenders—tyrants and their slaves!

"And we—oh shame!—we who have pondered o'er

"The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;[2]

"Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore,

"Tracking our country's glories all the way—

"Even we have tamely, basely kist the ground

"Before that Papal Power,—that Ghost of Her,

"The World's Imperial Mistress—sitting crowned

"And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre![3]

"But this is past:—too long have lordly priests

"And priestly lords led us, with all our pride

"Withering about us—like devoted beasts,

"Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.

"'Tis o'er—the dawn of our deliverance breaks!

"Up from his sleep of centuries awakes

"The Genius of the Old Republic, free

"As first he stood, in chainless majesty,

"And sends his voice thro' ages yet to come,

"Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"

[1] Rienzi.

[2] The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning "Spirto gentil," is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome.

[3] This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:—"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"

EXTRACT XIV.

Rome.

Fragment of a Dream.—The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.—The

Beginnings of the Art.—Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.—

Improvements under Giotto, etc.—The first Dawn of the true Style in

Masaccio.—Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.—Leonardo da

Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.—His Knowledge of

Mathematics and of Music.—His female heads all like each other.—

Triangular Faces.—Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.—Picture of Vanity and

Modesty.—His chef-d'oeuvre, the Last Supper.—Faded and almost

effaced.

Filled with the wonders I had seen

In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,

I felt the veil of sleep serene

Come o'er the memory of each scene,

As twilight o'er the landscape falls.

Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,

But such as suits a poet's rest—

That sort of thin, transparent sleep,

Thro' which his day-dreams shine the best.

Methought upon a plain I stood,

Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said,

With strange, miraculous power endued,

Were coming each in turn to shed

His art's illusions o'er the sight

And call up miracles of light.

The sky above this lonely place,

Was of that cold, uncertain hue,

The canvas wears ere, warmed apace,

Its bright creation dawns to view.

But soon a glimmer from the east

Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1]

And as the feeble light increased,

Strange figures moved across the sky,

With golden glories deckt and streaks

Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2]

And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks,

But naught of life was in their eyes;—

Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets,

Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.

But soon these figures past away;

And forms succeeded to their place

With less of gold in their array,

But shining with more natural grace,

And all could see the charming wands

Had past into more gifted hands.

Among these visions there was one,[3]

Surpassing fair, on which the sun,

That instant risen, a beam let fall,

Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled.

And reached at length the spot where all

Those great magicians stood assembled.

And as they turned their heads to view

The shining lustre, I could trace

The bright varieties it threw

On each uplifted studying face:[4]

While many a voice with loud acclaim

Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name

Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised

This miracle on which all gazed.

'Twas daylight now—the sun had risen

From out the dungeon of old Night.—

Like the Apostle from his prison

Led by the Angel's hand of light;

And—as the fetters, when that ray

Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5]

So fled the clouds at touch of day!

Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6]

Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand,

To trace upon the dusky earth

Strange learned figures with his wand;

And oft he took the silver lute

His little page behind him bore,

And waked such music as, when mute,

Left in the soul a thirst for more!

Meanwhile his potent spells went on,

And forms and faces that from out

A depth of shadow mildly shone

Were in the soft air seen about.

Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed,

Yet all like living sisters seemed,

So close in every point resembling

Each other's beauties—from the eyes

Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling,

Yet soft as if suffused with sighs,

To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin,

Lovelily tapering, less and less,

Till by this very charm's excess,

Like virtue on the verge of sin,

It touched the bounds of ugliness.

Here lookt as when they lived the shades

Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids—

Such maids as should alone live on

In dreams thus when their charms are gone:

Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes

A painter for whole years might gaze,[7]

Nor find in all his pallet's dyes

One that could even approach their blaze!

Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one,

With her white fingers to the sun

Outspread as if to ask his ray

Whether it e'er had chanced to play

On lilies half so fair as they!

This self-pleased nymph was Vanity—

And by her side another smiled,

In form as beautiful as she,

But with that air subdued and mild,

That still reserve of purity,

Which is to beauty like the haze

Of evening to some sunny view,

Softening such charms as it displays

And veiling others in that hue,

Which fancy only can see thro'!

This phantom nymph, who could she be,

But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

Long did the learned enchanter stay

To weave his spells and still there past,

As in the lantern's shifting play

Group after group in close array,

Each fairer, grander, than the last.

But the great triumph of his power

Was yet to come:—gradual and slow,

(As all that is ordained to tower

Among the works of man must grow,)

The sacred vision stole to view,

In that half light, half shadow shown,

Which gives to even the gayest hue

A sobered, melancholy tone.

It was a vision of that last,[9]

Sorrowful night which Jesus past

With his disciples when he said

Mournfully to them—"I shall be

"Betrayed by one who here hath fed

"This night at the same board with me."

And tho' the Saviour in the dream

Spoke not these words, we saw them beam

Legibly in his eyes (so well

The great magician workt his spell),

And read in every thoughtful line

Imprinted on that brow divine.

The meek, the tender nature, grieved,

Not angered to be thus deceived—

Celestial love requited ill

For all its care, yet loving still—

Deep, deep regret that there should fall

From man's deceit so foul a blight

Upon that parting hour—and all

His Spirit must have felt that night.

Who, soon to die for human-kind,

Thought only, mid his mortal pain,

How many a soul was left behind

For whom he died that death in vain!

Such was the heavenly scene—alas!

That scene so bright so soon should pass

But pictured on the humid air,

Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10]

And storms came on, that, cold and rough,

Scattered its gentlest glories all—

As when the baffling winds blow off

The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,—

Till one by one the vision's beams

Faded away and soon it fled.

To join those other vanisht dreams

That now flit palely 'mong the dead,—

The shadows of those shades that go.

Around Oblivion's lake below!

[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

[3] The works of Masaccio.—For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

[5] "And a light shined in the prison … and his chains fell off from his hands."—Acts.

[6] Leonardo da Vinci.

[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.

EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.—Correggio—Guido —Raphael, etc.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen. —Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story

Touches all hearts—for there we see thee.

The soul's corruption and its glory,

Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find

Thy spirit haunted by a swarm

Of dark desires,—like demons shrined

Unholily in that fair form,—

Till when by touch of Heaven set free,

Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold

(So oft the gaze of BETHANY),

And covering in their precious fold

Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears

As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—

Thence on thro' all thy course of love

To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him

Whose bitter death-cup from above

Had yet this cordial round the brim,

That woman's faith and love stood fast

And fearless by Him to the last:—

Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine!

Thou wert of all the chosen one,

Before whose eyes that Face Divine

When risen from the dead first shone;

That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,

Had past away its mortal shroud,

And make that bright revealment known

To hearts less trusting than thy own.

All is affecting, cheering, grand;

The kindliest record ever given,

Even under God's own kindly hand,

Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face,

In all its touching light of tears,

Should meet us in each holy place,

Where Man before his God appears,

Hopeless—were he not taught to see

All hope in Him who pardoned thee!

No wonder that the painter's skill

Should oft have triumpht in the power

Of keeping thee all lovely still

Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;

That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse

His melting shadows round thy form;

That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues

Should in portraying thee grow warm;

That all—from the ideal, grand,

Inimitable Roman hand,

Down to the small, enameling touch

Of smooth CARLINO—should delight

In picturing her, "who loved so much,"

And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

But MARY, 'mong these bold essays

Of Genius and of Art to raise

A semblance of those weeping eyes—

A vision worthy of the sphere

Thy faith has earned thee in the skies,

And in the hearts of all men here,—

None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace,

CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face,

In those bright sculptured forms, more bright

With true expression's breathing light,

Than ever yet beneath the stroke

Of chisel into life awoke.

The one,[1] portraying what thou wert

In thy first grief,—while yet the flower

Of those young beauties was unhurt

By sorrow's slow, consuming power;

And mingling earth's seductive grace

With heaven's subliming thoughts so well,

We doubt, while gazing, in which place

Such beauty was most formed to dwell!—

The other, as thou look'dst, when years

Of fasting, penitence and tears

Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art

With half such speaking power express

The ruin which a breaking heart

Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness.

Those wasting arms, that keep the trace,

Even still, of all their youthful grace,

That loosened hair of which thy brow

Was once so proud,—neglected now!—

Those features even in fading worth

The freshest bloom to others given,

And those sunk eyes now lost to earth

But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine—

Tho' springing from a soul that feels

Deep worship of those works divine

Where Genius all his light reveals—

How weak 'tis to the words that came

From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2]

Whom I have known, by day, by night,

Hang o'er thy marble with delight;

And while his lingering hand would steal

O'er every grace the taper's rays[3]

Give thee with all the generous zeal

Such master spirits only feel,

That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.

EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.— Their Menage.—Its Grossness.—Claude Anet.—Reverence with which the spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.—Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.—Impostures of Men of Genius.—Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw

Round all that's vicious, weak, and low,

Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes

As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

* * * * *

'Tis worse than weak—'tis wrong, 'tis shame,

This mean prostration before Fame;

This casting down beneath the car

Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,

Life's purest, holiest decencies,

To be careered o'er as they please.

No—give triumphant Genius all

For which his loftiest wish can call:

If he be worshipt, let it be

For attributes, his noblest, first;

Not with that base idolatry

Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold;—may want that glow

Of high romance which bards should know;

That holy homage which is felt

In treading where the great have dwelt;

This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

I fear, I feel, I have it not:—

For here at this still hour, to me

The charms of this delightful spot,

Its calm seclusion from the throng,

From all the heart would fain forget,

This narrow valley and the song

Of its small murmuring rivulet,

The flitting to and fro of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once

In Eden ere the startling words

Of man disturbed their orisons,

Those little, shadowy paths that wind

Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined

And lighted only by the breaks

The gay wind in the foliage makes,

Or vistas here and there that ope

Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches

Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope

Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!—

All this, which—could I once but lose

The memory of those vulgar ties

Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues

Of Genius can no more disguise

Than the sun's beams can do away

The filth of fens o'er which they play—

This scene which would have filled my heart

With thoughts of all that happiest is;—

Of Love where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss;

Of solitude secure and sweet.

Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet.

Which while it shelters never chills

Our sympathies with human woe,

But keeps them like sequestered rills

Purer and fresher in their flow;

Of happy days that share their beams

'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ;

Of tranquil nights that give in dreams

The moonlight of the morning's joy!—

All this my heart could dwell on here,

But for those gross mementoes near;

Those sullying truths that cross the track

Of each sweet thought and drive them back

Full into all the mire and strife

And vanities of that man's life,

Who more than all that e'er have glowed

With fancy's flame (and it was his,

In fullest warmth and radiance) showed

What an impostor Genius is;

How with that strong, mimetic art

Which forms its life and soul, it takes

All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,

Nor feels itself one throb it wakes;

How like a gem its light may smile

O'er the dark path by mortals trod,

Itself as mean a worm the while

As crawls at midnight o'er the sod;

What gentle words and thoughts may fall

From its false lip, what zeal to bless,

While home, friends, kindred, country, all,

Lie waste beneath its selfishness;

How with the pencil hardly dry

From coloring up such scenes of love

And beauty as make young hearts sigh

And dream and think thro' heaven they rove,

They who can thus describe and move,

The very workers of these charms,

Nor seek nor know a joy above

Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast

Of their false tongues they want the most;

And while with freedom on their lips,

Sounding their timbrels, to set free

This bright world, laboring in the eclipse

Of priestcraft and of slavery,—

They may themselves be slaves as low

As ever Lord or Patron made

To blossom in his smile or grow

Like stunted brushwood in his shade.

Out on the craft!—I'd rather be

One of those hinds that round me tread,

With just enough of sense to see

The noonday sun that's o'er his head,

Than thus with high-built genius curst,

That hath no heart for its foundation,

Be all at once that's brightest, worst,

Sublimest, meanest in creation!

CORRUPTION,

AND

INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS.

ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.

PREFACE.

The practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of writing very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to me a rather happy invention, as it supplies us with a mode of turning dull poetry to account; and as horses too heavy for the saddle may yet serve well enough to draw lumber, so Poems of this kind make excellent beasts of burden and will bear notes though they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in such cases are so little under the necessity of paying any servile deference to the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic, "quod supra nos nihil ad nos."

In the first of the two following Poems, I have ventured to speak of the Revolution of 1688, in language which has sometimes been employed by Tory writers and which is therefore neither very new nor popular. But however an Englishman might be reproached with ingratitude for depreciating the merits and results of a measure which he is taught to regard as the source of his liberties—however ungrateful it might appear in Alderman Birch to question for a moment the purity of that glorious era to which he is indebted for the seasoning of so many orations—yet an Irishman who has none of these obligations to acknowledge, to whose country the Revolution brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recollects that the book of Molyneux was burned by order of William's Whig Parliament for daring to extend to unfortunate Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was professedly founded—an Irishman may be allowed to criticise freely the measures of that period without exposing himself either to the imputation of ingratitude or to the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish remains of Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for ever than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James had weakened and degraded the national character. The bold notions of popular right which had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the First and his Parliament were gradually supplanted by those slavish doctrines for which Lord Hawkesbury eulogizes the churchmen of that period, and as the Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the Revolution came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages accordingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By rendering unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative,—that unwieldy power which cannot move a step without alarm,—it diminished the only interference of the Crown, which is singly and independently exposed before the people, and whose abuses therefore are obvious to their senses and capabilities. Like the myrtle over a celebrated statue in Minerva's temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from the public eye the only obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, however, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute, it amply compensated by the substitution of a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it is more secret in its operations. In the disposal of an immense revenue and the extensive patronage annexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the Crown were laid; the innovation of a standing army at once increased and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act of Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually removed during the Whiggish reigns that succeeded; till at length this spirit of influence has become the vital principle of the state,—an agency, subtle and unseen, which pervades every part of the Constitution, lurks under all its forms and regulates all its movements, and, like the invisible sylph or grace which presides over the motions of beauty,

"illam, quicquid agit, quoquo westigia flectit, componit furlim subsequiturque."

The cause of Liberty and the Revolution are so habitually associated in the minds of Englishmen that probably in objecting to the latter I may be thought hostile or indifferent to the former. But assuredly nothing could be more unjust than such a suspicion. The very object indeed which my humble animadversions would attain is that in the crisis to which I think England is now hastening, and between which and foreign subjugation she may soon be compelled to choose, the errors and omissions of 1688 should be remedied; and, as it was then her fate to experience a Revolution without Reform, so she may now endeavor to accomplish a Reform without Revolution.

In speaking of the parties which have so long agitated England, it will be observed that I lean as little to the Whigs as to their adversaries. Both factions have been equally cruel to Ireland and perhaps equally insincere in their efforts for the liberties of England. There is one name indeed connected with Whiggism, of which I can never think but with veneration and tenderness. As justly, however, might the light of the sun be claimed by any particular nation as the sanction of that name be monopolized by any party whatsoever. Mr. Fox belonged to mankind and they have lost in him their ablest friend.

With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, which I have subjoined, they are but the imperfect beginning of a long series of Essays with which I here menace my readers upon the same important subject. I shall look to no higher merit in the task than that of giving a new form to claims and remonstrances which have often been much more eloquently urged and which would long ere now have produced their effect, but that the minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light is shed upon them.

CORRUPTION,

AN EPISTLE.

Boast on, my friend—tho' stript of all beside,

Thy struggling nation still retains her pride:

That pride which once in genuine glory woke

When Marlborough fought and brilliant St. John spoke;

That pride which still, by time and shame unstung,

Outlives even Whitelocke's sword and Hawkesbury's tongue!

Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle[1]

Where Honor mourns and Freedom fears to smile,

Where the bright light of England's fame is known

But by the shadow o'er our fortunes thrown;

Where, doomed ourselves to naught but wrongs and slights,[2]

We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights,

As wretched slaves that under hatches lie

Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky!

Boast on, while wandering thro' my native haunts,

I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts;

And feel, tho' close our wedded countries twine,

More sorrow for my own than pride from thine.

Yet pause a moment—and if truths severe

Can find an inlet to that courtly ear,

Which hears no news but Ward's gazetted lies,

And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,—

If aught can please thee but the good old saws

Of "Church and State," and "William's matchless laws,"

And "Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"—

Things which tho' now a century out of date

Still serve to ballast with convenient words,

A few crank arguments for speeching lords,—

Turn while I tell how England's freedom found,

Where most she lookt for life, her deadliest wound;

How brave she struggled while her foe was seen,

How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen;

How strong o'er James and Popery she prevailed,

How weakly fell when Whigs and gold assailed.

While kings were poor and all those schemes unknown

Which drain the people to enrich the throne;

Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied

Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied,

Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep

With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep,

Frankly avowed his bold enslaving plan

And claimed a right from God to trample man!

But Luther's schism had too much roused mankind

For Hampden's truths to linger long behind;

Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low,

Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.[3]

That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow

To the light talisman of influence now),

Too gross, too visible to work the spell

Which modern power performs, in fragments fell:

In fragments lay, till, patched and painted o'er

With fleurs-de-lis, it shone and scourged once more.

'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaft

Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught

Of passive, prone obedience—then took flight

All sense of man's true dignity and right;

And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain

That Freedom's watch-voice called almost in vain.

Oh England! England! what a chance was thine,

When the last tyrant of that ill-starred line

Fled from his sullied crown and left thee free

To found thy own eternal liberty!

How nobly high in that propitious hour

Might patriot hands have raised the triple tower[4]

Of British freedom on a rock divine

Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine!

But no—the luminous, the lofty plan,

Like mighty Babel, seemed too bold for man;

The curse of jarring tongues again was given

To thwart a work which raised men nearer heaven.

While Tories marred what Whigs had scarce begun,

While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done.

The hour was lost and William with a smile

Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinisht pile!

Hence all the ills you suffer,—hence remain

Such galling fragments of that feudal chain[5]

Whose links, around you by the Norman flung,

Tho' loosed and broke so often, still have clung.

Hence sly Prerogative like Jove of old

Has turned his thunder into showers of gold,

Whose silent courtship wins securer joys,

Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise.

While parliaments, no more those sacred things

Which make and rule the destiny of kings.

Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown,

And each new set of sharpers cog their own.

Hence the rich oil that from the Treasury steals

Drips smooth o'er all the Constitution's wheels,

Giving the old machine such pliant play[6]

That Court and Commons jog one joltless way,

While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car,

So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far;

And the duped people, hourly doomed to pay

The sums that bribe their liberties away,[7]—

Like a young eagle who has lent his plume

To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,—

See their own feathers pluckt, to wing the dart

Which rank corruption destines for their heart!

But soft! methinks I hear thee proudly say,

"What! shall I listen to the impious lay

"That dares with Tory license to profane

"The bright bequests of William's glorious reign?

"Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires,

"Whom Hawkesbury quotes and savory Birch admires,

"Be slandered thus? shall honest Steele agree

"With virtuous Rose to call us pure and free,

"Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair

"Of wise state-poets waste their words in air,

"And Pye unheeded breathe his prosperous strain,

"And Canning take the people's sense in vain?"

The people!—ah! that Freedom's form should stay

Where Freedom's spirit long hath past away!

That a false smile should play around the dead

And flush the features when the soul hath fled![8]

When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights,

When her foul tyrant sat on Capreae's heights,[9]

Amid his ruffian spies and doomed to death

Each noble name they blasted with their breath,—

Even then, (in mockery of that golden time,

When the Republic rose revered, sublime,

And her proud sons, diffused from zone to zone,

Gave kings to every nation but their own,)

Even then the senate and the tribunes stood,

Insulting marks, to show how high the flood

Of Freedom flowed, in glory's bygone day,

And how it ebbed,—for ever ebbed away![10]

Look but around—tho' yet a tyrant's sword

Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o'er our board,

Tho' blood be better drawn, by modern quacks,

With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe;

Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power

Or a mock senate in Rome's servile hour

Insult so much the claims, the rights of man,

As doth that fettered mob, that free divan,

Of noble tools and honorable knaves,

Of pensioned patriots and privileged slaves;—

That party-colored mass which naught can warm

But rank corruption's heat—whose quickened swarm

Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky,

Buzz for a period, lay their eggs and die;—

That greedy vampire which from Freedom's tomb

Comes forth with all the mimicry of bloom

Upon its lifeless cheek and sucks and drains

A people's blood to feel its putrid veins!

Thou start'st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark—

"Is there no light?"—thou ask'st—"no lingering spark

"Of ancient fire to warm us? Lives there none,

"To act a Marvell's part?"[11]—alas! not one.

To place and power all public spirit tends,

In place and power all public spirit ends;

Like hardy plants that love the air and sky,

When out, 'twill thrive—but taken in, 'twill die!

Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung

From Sidney's pen or burned on Fox's tongue,

Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night,

While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light;

While debts at home excite their care for those

Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes,

And loud and upright, till their prize be known,

They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own.

But bees on flowers alighting cease their hum—

So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.

And, tho' most base is he who, 'neath the shade

Of Freedom's ensign plies corruption's trade,

And makes the sacred flag he dares to show

His passport to the market of her foe,

Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear

Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear,

That I enjoy them, tho' by traitors sung,

And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue.

Nay, when the constitution has expired,

I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired

To chant old "Habeas Corpus" by its side,

And ask in purchased ditties why it died?

See yon smooth lord whom nature's plastic pains

Would seem to've fashioned for those Eastern reigns

When eunuchs flourisht, and such nerveless things

As men rejected were the chosen of kings;—[12]

Even he, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst!)

Dared to assume the patriot's name at first—

Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes;

Thus devils when first raised take pleasing shapes.

But oh, poor Ireland! if revenge be sweet

For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit

And withering insult—for the Union thrown

Into thy bitter cup when that alone

Of slavery's draught was wanting[13]—if for this

Revenge be sweet, thou hast that daemon's bliss;

For sure 'tis more than hell's revenge to fee

That England trusts the men who've ruined thee:—

That in these awful days when every hour

Creates some new or blasts some ancient power,

When proud Napoleon like the enchanted shield

Whose light compelled each wondering foe to yield,

With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free

And dazzles Europe into slavery,—

That in this hour when patriot zeal should guide,

When Mind should rule and—Fox should not have died,

All that devoted England can oppose

To enemies made fiends and friends made foes,

Is the rank refuse, the despised remains

Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains

Drove Ireland first to turn with harlot glance

Towards other shores and woo the embrace of France;—

Those hacked and tainted tools, so foully fit

For the grand artisan of mischief, Pitt,

So useless ever but in vile employ,

So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy—

Such are the men that guard thy threatened shore,

Oh England! sinking England! boast no more.

[1] England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her dependencies. "The severity of her government [says Macpherson] contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family of the Plantagenet than the arms of France."—See his History, vol. i.

[2] "By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691[says Burke], the ruin of the native Irish, and in a great measure, too, of the first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English interested was settled with as solid a stability as anything in human affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke." Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us for "invaluable blessings," etc.

[3] The drivelling correspondence between James I and his "dog Steenie" (the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such illustration, into what doting, idiotic brains the plan at arbitrary power may enter.

[4] Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British constitution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, "a system more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would certainly not prove permanent;" and, in truth, a review of England's annals would dispose us to agree with the great historian's remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the three estates existed; that the nobles predominated till the policy of Henry VII, and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal system of property; that the power of the Crown became then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the fabric altogether; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration; and that lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded court- influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British constitution has never perhaps existed but in mere theory.

[5] The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the 12th of Charles II, which abolished the tenure of knight's service in capite, and which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty.

[6] "They drove so fast [says Wellwood of the ministers of Charles I.], that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke."—(Memoirs p. 86.)

[7] Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1688 marshalled on the side of the Throne, the bugbear of Popery has not been the least convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants, Charles and James, instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power and moreover connected their designs upon the Church so undisguisedly with their attacks upon the Constitution that they identified in the minds of the people the interests of their religion and their liberties. During those times therefore "No Popery" was the watchword of freedom and served to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prerogative.

[8] "It is a scandal [said Sir Charles Sedley in William's reign] that a government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face."

[9] The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage all the business of the public: the money was then and long after coined by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction.

[10] There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already began "bona libertatis incassum disserere."

[11] Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to the ancient mode, took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, since then, much changed their pay-masters.

[12] According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which recommended these creatures to the service of Eastern princes was the ignominious station they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice alone they derived consideration, and in whose favor they might seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind.

[13] Among the many measures, which, since the Revolution, have contributed to increase the influence of the Throne, and to feed up this "Aaron's serpent" of the constitution to its present healthy and respectable magnitude, there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch and Irish Unions.

INTOLERANCE,

A SATIRE.

"This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.

Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain

Her classic fingers with the dust profane

Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls

Which took such freedom once with royal souls,[1]

When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,

And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,

No, no—let Duigenan search the papal chair

For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;

And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks

That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,

Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale

Which wizard Duigenan's gathered sweets exhale.

Enough for me whose heart has learned to scorn

Bigots alike in Rome or England born,

Who loathe the venom whence-soe'er it springs,

From popes or lawyers,[2] pastrycooks or kings,—

Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,

As mirth provokes or indignation burns,

As Canning Vapors or as France succeeds,

As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days,

When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays

So near a precipice, that men the while

Look breathless on and shudder while they smile—

If in such fearful days thou'lt dare to look

To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook

Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain,

While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen remain—

If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got

To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot,

Whose wrongs tho' blazoned o'er the world they be,

Placemen alone are privileged not to see—

Oh! turn awhile, and tho' the shamrock wreathes

My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes

Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes

Live when the memory of her tyrant foes

Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn,

Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn.

When Castlereagh in sleep still more profound

Than his own opiate tongue now deals around,

Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day

Which even his practised hand can't bribe away.

Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now,

To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow

Smiles that shine out unconquerably fair

Even thro' the blood-marks left by Camden there,—[3]

Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod

Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,

And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,

That warms the soul of each insulted slave,

Who tired with struggling sinks beneath his lot

And seems by all but watchful France forgot—[4]

Thy heart would burn—yes, even thy Pittite heart

Would burn to think that such a blooming part

Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms

And filled with social souls and vigorous arms,

Should be the victim of that canting crew,

So smooth, so godly,—yet so devilish too;

Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips,

Blood on their hands and Scripture on their lips,

Tyrants by creed and tortures by text,

Make this life hell in honor of the next!

Your Redesdales, Percevals,—great, glorious Heaven,

If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven,

When here I swear by my soul's hope of rest,

I'd rather have been born ere man was blest

With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,

Yes,—rather plunge me back in Pagan night,

And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,[5]

Than be the Christian of a faith like this,

Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway

And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;

Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,—

Like Danäe's lover mixing god and gold,[6]—

Corrupts both state and church and makes an oath

The knave and atheist's passport into both;

Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know

Nor bliss above nor liberty below,

Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,

And lest he 'scape hereafter racks him here!

But no—far other faith, far milder beams

Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;

His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,

By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;

He weeps to see abused Religion twine

Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine;

And he, while round him sects and nations raise

To the one God their varying notes of praise,

Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,

That serves to swell the general harmony.[7]

Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright,

That filled, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light;

While free and spacious as that ambient air

Which folds our planet in its circling care,

The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind

Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.

Last of the great, farewell!—yet not the last—

Tho' Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,

Ierne still one ray of glory gives

And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

[1] The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty, by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants and asserting the will of the people to be the only true fountain of power.

[2] When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the controversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he answered, that "he had been bred a lawyer, and had therefore nothing to do with divinity." It were to be wished that some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as Pope Innocent X.

[3] Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:—"To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded with more favorable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.'"

[4] The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice: just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, "because," as they say, "the devil has white ones."

[5] In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, "upon the Souls of the Pagans," the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher might calculate. Consigning to perdition without much difficulty Plato, Socrates, etc., the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many miracles which he performed. But having balanced a little his claims and finding reason to father all these miracles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon damning him also.

[6] Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus condemns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of a state:—"What purpose [he asks] can it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other."

[7] Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause if they had written in an age less distracted by religious prejudices.

THE SCEPTIC,

A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE.

PREFACE.

The Sceptical Philosophy of the Ancients has been no less misrepresented than the Epicurean. Pyrrho may perhaps have carried it to rather an irrational excess;—but we must not believe with Beattie all the absurdities imputed to this philosopher; and it appears to me that the doctrines of the school, as explained by Sextus Empiricus, are far more suited to the wants and infirmities of human reason as well as more conducive to the mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of those systems of philosophy which preceded the introduction of Christianity. The Sceptics may be said to have held a middle path between the Dogmatists and Academicians; the former of whom boasted that they had attained the truth while the latter denied that any attainable truth existed. The Sceptics however, without either asserting or denying its existence, professed to be modestly and anxiously in search of it; or, as St. Augustine expresses it, in his liberal tract against the Manichaeans, "nemo nostrum dicat jam se invenisse veritatem; sic eam quoeramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur." From this habit of impartial investigation and the necessity which it imposed upon them of studying not only every system of philosophy but every art and science which professed to lay its basis in truth, they necessarily took a wider range of erudition and were far more travelled in the regions of philosophy than those whom conviction or bigotry had domesticated in any particular system. It required all the learning of dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learning; and the Sceptics may be said to resemble in this respect that ancient incendiary who stole from the altar the fire with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage over all the other sects is allowed to them even by Lipsius, whose treatise on the miracles of the Virgo Hallensis will sufficiently save him from all suspicion of scepticism. "labore, ingenio, memoria," he says, "supra omnes pene philosophos fuisse.—quid nonne omnia aliorum secta tenere debuerunt et inquirere, si poterunt refellere? res dicit nonne orationes varias, raras, subtiles inveniri ad tam receptas, claras, certas (ut videbatur) sententias evertendas?" etc.—"Manuduct. ad Philosoph. Stoic." Dissert. 4.

Between the scepticism of the ancients and the moderns the great difference is that the former doubted for the purpose of investigating, as may be exemplified by the third book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, while the latter investigate for the purpose of doubting, as may be seen through most of the philosophical works of Hume. Indeed the Pyrrhonism of latter days is not only more subtle than that of antiquity, but, it must be confessed, more dangerous in its tendency. The happiness of a Christian depends so essentially upon his belief, that it is but natural he should feel alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it should steal by degrees into that region from which he is most interested in excluding it, and poison at last the very spring of his consolation and hope. Still however the abuses of doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from indulging mildly and rationally in its use; and there is nothing surely more consistent with the meek spirit of Christianity than that humble scepticism which professes not to extend its distrust beyond the circle of human pursuits and the pretensions of human knowledge. A follower of this school may be among the readiest to admit the claims of a superintending Intelligence upon his faith and adoration: it is only to the wisdom of this weak world that he refuses or at least delays his assent;—it is only in passing through the shadow of earth that his mind undergoes the eclipse of scepticism. No follower of Pyrrho has ever spoken more strongly against the dogmatists than St. Paul himself, in the First Epistle to the Corinthians; and there are passages in Ecclesiastes and other parts of Scripture, which justify our utmost diffidence in all that human reason originates. Even the Sceptics of antiquity refrained carefully from the mysteries of theology, and in entering the temples of religion laid aside their philosophy at the porch. Sextus Empiricus declares the acquiescence of his sect in the general belief of a divine and foreknowing Power:—In short it appears to me that this rational and well-regulated scepticism is the only daughter of the Schools that can safely be selected as a handmaid for Piety. He who distrusts the light of reason will be the first to follow a more luminous guide; and if with an ardent love for truth he has sought her in vain through the ways of this life, he will but turn with the more hope to that better world where all is simple, true and everlasting: for there is no parallax at the zenith;—it is only near our troubled horizon that objects deceive us into vague and erroneous calculations.

THE SCEPTIC

As the gay tint that decks the vernal rose[1]

Not in the flower but in our vision glows;

As the ripe flavor of Falernian tides

Not in the wine but in our taste resides;

So when with heartfelt tribute we declare

That Marco's honest and that Susan's fair,

'Tis in our minds and not in Susan's eyes

Or Marco's life the worth or beauty lies:

For she in flat-nosed China would appear

As plain a thing as Lady Anne is here;

And one light joke at rich Loretto's dome

Would rank good Marco with the damned at Rome.

There's no deformity so vile, so base,

That 'tis not somewhere thought a charm, a grace;

No foul reproach that may not steal a beam

From other suns to bleach it to esteem.

Ask who is wise?—you'll find the self-same man

A sage in France, a madman in Japan;

And here some head beneath a mitre swells,

Which there had tingled to a cap and bells:

Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be,

Unknown to Cook and from Napoleon free,

Where Castlereagh would for a patriot pass

And mouthing Musgrave scarce be deemed an ass!

"List not to reason (Epicurus cries),

"But trust the senses, there conviction lies:"[2]—

Alas! they judge not by a purer light,

Nor keep their fountains more untinged and bright:

Habit so mars them that the Russian swain

Will sigh for train-oil while he sips Champagne;

And health so rules them, that a fever's heat

Would make even Sheridan think water sweet.

Just as the mind the erring sense[3] believes,

The erring mind in turn the sense deceives;

And cold disgust can find but wrinkles there,

Where passion fancies all that's smooth and fair.

P * * * *, who sees, upon his pillow laid,

A face for which ten thousand pounds were paid,

Can tell how quick before a jury flies

The spell that mockt the warm seducer's eyes.

Self is the medium thro' which Judgment's ray

Can seldom pass without being turned astray.

The smith of Ephesus[4] thought Dian's shrine,

By which his craft most throve, the most divine;

And even the true faith seems not half so true,

When linkt with one good living as with two.

Had Wolcot first been pensioned by the throne,

Kings would have suffered by his praise alone;

And Paine perhaps, for something snug per ann.,

Had laught like Wellesley at all Rights of Man.

But 'tis not only individual minds,—

Whole nations too the same delusion blinds.

Thus England, hot from Denmark's smoking meads,

Turns up her eyes at Gallia's guilty deeds;

Thus, self-pleased still, the same dishonoring chain

She binds in Ireland she would break in Spain;

While praised at distance, but at home forbid,

Rebels in Cork are patriots at Madrid.

If Grotius be thy guide, shut, shut the book,—

In force alone for Laws of Nations look.

Let shipless Danes and whining Yankees dwell

On naval rights, with Grotius and Vattel.

While Cobbet's pirate code alone appears

Sound moral sense to England and Algiers.

Woe to the Sceptic in these party days

Who wafts to neither shrine his puffs of praise!

For him no pension pours its annual fruits,

No fertile sinecure spontaneous shoots;

Not his the meed that crowned Don Hookham's rhyme,

Nor sees he e'er in dreams of future time

Those shadowy forms of sleek reversions rise,

So dear to Scotchmen's second-sighted eyes.

Yet who that looks to History's damning leaf,

Where Whig and Tory, thief opposed to thief,

On either side in lofty shame are seen,[5]

While Freedom's form lies crucified between—

Who, Burdett, who such rival rogues can see,

But flies from both to Honesty and thee?

If weary of the world's bewildering maze,[6]

Hopeless of finding thro' its weedy ways

One flower of truth, the busy crowd we shun,

And to the shades of tranquil learning run,

How many a doubt pursues! how oft we sigh

When histories charm to think that histories lie!

That all are grave romances, at the best,

And Musgrave's but more clumsy than the rest.

By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled,

We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild;[7]

And Fox himself with party pencil draws

Monmouth a hero, "for the good old cause!"

Then rights are wrongs and victories are defeats,

As French or English pride the tale repeats;

And when they tell Corunna's story o'er,

They'll disagree in all but honoring Moore:

Nay, future pens to flatter future courts

May cite perhaps the Park-guns' gay reports,

To prove that England triumphs on the morn

Which found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn.

In science too—how many a system, raised

Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed

With lights of fancy and with forms of pride,

Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide!

Now Earth usurps the centre of the sky,

Now Newton puts the paltry planet by;

Now whims revive beneath Descartes's[8] pen,

Which now, assailed by Locke's, expire again.

And when perhaps in pride of chemic powers,

We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours,

Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles,

And turns at once our alkalis to metals.

Or should we roam in metaphysic maze

Thro' fair-built theories of former days,

Some Drummond from the north, more ably skilled,

Like other Goths, to ruin than to build,

Tramples triumphant thro' our fanes o'erthrown,

Nor leaves one grace, one glory of its own.

Oh! Learning, whatsoe'er thy pomp and boast,

_Un_lettered minds have taught and charmed men most.

The rude, unread Columbus was our guide

To worlds, which learned Lactantius had denied;

And one wild Shakespeare following Nature's lights

Is worth whole planets filled with Stagyrites.

See grave Theology, when once she strays

From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays;

What various heavens,—all fit for bards to sing,—

Have churchmen dreamed, from Papias,[9] down to King![10]

While hell itself, in India naught but smoke[11]

In Spain's a furnace and in France—a joke.

Hail! modest Ignorance, thou goal and prize,

Thou last, best knowledge of the simply wise!

Hail! humble Doubt, when error's waves are past,

How sweet to reach thy sheltered port at last,

And there by changing skies nor lured nor awed.

Smile at the battling winds that roar abroad.

There gentle Charity who knows how frail

The bark of Virtue, even in summer's gale,

Sits by the nightly fire whose beacon glows

For all who wander, whether friends or foes.

There Faith retires and keeps her white sail furled,

Till called to spread it for a better world;

While Patience watching on the weedy shore,

And mutely waiting till the storm be o'er,

Oft turns to Hope who still directs her eye

To some blue spot just breaking in the sky!

Such are the mild, the blest associates given

To him who doubts,—and trusts in naught but Heaven!

[1] "The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts of fire or snow are really in them, whether any one perceives them or not, and therefore they may be called real qualities because they really exist in those bodies; but light, heat, whiteness or coldness are no more really in them than sickness or pain is in manna. Take away the sensation of them; let not the eye see light or colors, nor the ears hear sounds; let the palate not taste nor the nose smell, and all colors, tastes, odors and sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and cease."—Locke, book ii. chap 8.

[2] This was the creed also of those modern Epicureans, whom Ninon de l'Enclos collected around her in the Rue des Tournelles, and whose object seems to have been to decry the faculty of reason, as tending only to embarrass our wholesome use of pleasures, without enabling us, in any degree, to avoid their abuse. Madame des Houlières, the fair pupil of Des Barreaux in the arts of poetry and gallantry, has devoted most of her verses to this laudable purpose, and is even such a determined foe to reason, that, in one of her pastorals, she congratulates her sheep on the want of it.

[3] Socrates and Plato were the grand sources of ancient scepticism. According to Cicero ("de Orator," lib. iii.), they supplied Arcesilas with the doctrines of the Middle Academy; and how closely these resembled the tenets of the Sceptics, may be seen even in Sextus Empiricus (lib. i. cap. 33), who with all his distinctions can scarcely prove any difference. It appears strange that Epicurus should have been a dogmatist; and his natural temper would most probably have led him to the repose of scepticism had not the Stoics by their violent opposition to his doctrines compelled him to be as obstinate as themselves.

[4] Acts, chap. xix. "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made silver shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen."

[5] "Those two thieves," says Ralph, between whom the nation is crucified."—"Use and Abuse of Parliaments."

[6] The agitation of the ship is one of the chief difficulties which impede the discovery of the longitude at sea; and the tumult and hurry of life are equally unfavorable to that calm level of mind which is necessary to an inquirer after truth.

[7] He defends Stafford's conduct as "innocent and even laudable." In the same spirit, speaking of the arbitary sentences of the Star Chamber, he says,—"The severity of the Star Chamber, which was generally ascribed to Laud's passionate disposition, was perhaps in itself somewhat blamable."

[8] Descartes, who is considered as the parent of modern scepticism, says, that there is nothing in the whole range of philosophy which does not admit of two opposite opinions, and which is not involved in doubt and uncertainty. Gassendi is likewise to be added to the list of modern Sceptics, and Wedderkopff, has denounced Erasmus also as a follower of Pyrrho, for his opinions upon the Trinity, and some other subjects. To these if we add the names of Bayle, Malebranche, Dryden, Locke, etc., I think there is no one who need be ashamed of insulting in such company.

[9] Papias lived about the time of the apostles, and is supposed to have given birth to the heresy of the Chiliastae, whose heaven was by no means of a spiritual nature, but rather an anticipation of the Prophet of Hera's elysium.

[10] King, in his "Morsels of Criticisms," vol. i., supposes the sun to be the receptacle of blessed spirits.

[11] The Indians call hell "the House of Smoke."

TWOPENNY POST-BAG,

BY

THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.

elapsae manibus secidere tabellae.—OVID.

DEDICATION.

TO

STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ.

MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,—

It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?

If you continue, however, to be as much interested about me and my pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hear that doggerel is not my only occupation; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans of the Temple of Immortality, leaving it of course to the said Swans to determine whether they ever will take the trouble of picking it from the stream.

In the meantime, my dear Woolriche, like an orthodox Lutheran, you must judge of me rather by my faith than my works; and however trifling the tribute which I here offer, never doubt the fidelity with which I am and always shall be

Your sincere and attached friend,

THE AUTHOR.

March 4, 1813.

PREFACE.

The Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, who supposing it might materially assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee,"[1] those venerable Suppressors almost fought with each other for the honor and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination that the discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions of society which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle with.—In consequence they gained but very few victims by their prize, and after lying for a week or two under Mr. Hatchard's counter the Bag with its violated contents was sold for a trifle to a friend of mine.

It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post Epistles turned into easy verse would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select for a commencement. I did not, however, think it prudent to give too many Letters at first and accordingly have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some of those trifles, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought I might manage to remedy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them.

Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out how many living instances might be found of Muses that have suffered very severely in their heads from taking rather too early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!—in the former, your doggerel without either company or shelter must stand shivering in the middle of a bleak page by itself; whereas in the latter it is comfortably backed by advertisements and has sometimes even a Speech of Mr. Stephen's, or something equally warm, for a chauffe-pieds—so that, in general, the very reverse of "laudatur et alget" is its destiny.

Ambition, however, must run some risks and I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me to the Post-Bag for more.

[1] Herrick.

INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC.

LETTER I.

FROM THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES TO THE LADY BARBARA ASHLER.[1]

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shockt I'm afraid,

When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made;

Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date),

No nags ever made such a stir in the state.

Lord Eldon first heard—and as instantly prayed he

To "God and his King"—that a Popish young Lady

(For tho' you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year,

It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,)

Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,

Two priest-ridden ponies just landed from Rome,

And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks

That the dome of St. Paul was scarce safe from their kicks.

Off at once to Papa in a flurry he flies—

For Papa always does what these statesmen advise

On condition that they'll be in turn so polite

As in no case whate'er to advise him too right—

"Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,

While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)—

"'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God!

"To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod—

"Excuse, Sir, my tears—they're from loyalty's source-

"Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sackt by a Horse,

"But for us to be ruined by Ponies still worse!"

Quick a Council is called—the whole Cabinet sits—

The Archbishops declare, frightened out of their wits,

That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger,

From that awful moment the Church is in danger!

As, give them but stabling and shortly no stalls

Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.

The Doctor,[2] and he, the devout man of Leather,[3]

Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together,

Declare that these skittish young abominations

Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations—

Nay, they verily think they could point out the one

Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.

Lord Harrowby hoping that no one imputes

To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,

Protests on the word of himself and his cronies

That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies,

The Court would have started no sort of objection,

As Asses were, there, always sure of protection.

"If the Princess will keep them (says Lord Castlereagh),

"To make them quite harmless, the only true way

"Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives)

"To flog them within half an inch of their lives.

"If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,

"This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out."

Should this be thought cruel his Lordship proposes

"The new Veto snaffle[4] to bind down their noses—

"A pretty contrivance made out of old chains,

"Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains;

"Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks

"(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!"

This proposal received pretty general applause

From the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clause

Had a vigor about it, which soon reconciled

Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild.

So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con.,

And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone

In the fettering line, is to buckle them on.

I shall drive to your door in these Vetoes some day,

But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry away

To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her

For just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater.

CHARLOTTE.

[1] This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of some beautiful Ponies to the Princess.

[2] Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.

[3] Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.

[4] The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally and actively agitated.

LETTER II.

FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ.

DEAR SIR—

I've just had time to look

Into your very learned Book,

Wherein—as plain as man can speak.

Whose English is half modern Greek—

You prove that we can ne'er intrench

Our happy isles against the French,

Till Royalty in England's made

A much more independent trade;—

In short until the House of Guelph

Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,

And boldly sets up for itself.

All that can well be understood

In this said Book is vastly good;

And as to what's incomprehensible,

I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.

But to your work's immortal credit

The Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it

(The only Book, himself remarks,

Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).

Last levee-morn he lookt it thro',

During that awful hour or two

Of grave tonsorial preparation,

Which to a fond, admiring nation

Sends forth, announced by trump and drum,

The best-wigged Prince in Christendom.

He thinks with you, the imagination

Of partnership in legislation

Could only enter in the noddles

Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,

Whose heads on firms are running so,

They even must have a King and Co.,

And hence most eloquently show forth

On checks and balances and so forth.

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a

Far more royal, loyal era;

When England's monarch need but say,

"Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!"

Or, "Hang me up those Papists, Eldon,"

And 'twill be done—ay, faith, and well done.

With view to which I've his command

To beg, Sir, from your travelled hand,

(Round which the foreign graces swarm)[1]

A Plan of radical Reform;

Compiled and chosen as best you can,

In Turkey or at Ispahan,

And quite upturning, branch and root,

Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot.

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write

Somewhat more brief than Major Cartwright:

Else, tho' the Prince be long in rigging,

'Twould take at least a fortnight's wigging,—

Two wigs to every paragraph—

Before he well could get thro' half.

You'll send it also speedily—

As truth to say 'twixt you and me,

His Highness, heated by your work,

Already thinks himself Grand Turk!

And you'd have laught, had you seen how

He scared the Chancellor just now,

When (on his Lordship's entering puft) he

Slapt his back and called him "Mufti!"

The tailors too have got commands

To put directly into hands

All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,

With Sashes, Turbans and Paboutches,

(While Yarmouth's sketching out a plan

Of new Moustaches à l'Ottomane)

And all things fitting and expedient

To turkify our gracious Regent!

You therefore have no time to waste—

So, send your System.—

Yours in haste.

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away,

I seize a moment just to say

There's some parts of the Turkish system

So vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em.

For instance—in Seraglio matters—

Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters,

Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)

With tittering, red-cheekt things from school.

But here (as in that fairy land,

Where Love and Age went hand in hand;[2]

Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,

And Grandams were worth any money,)

Our Sultan has much riper notions—

So, let your list of she-promotions

Include those only plump and sage,

Who've reached the regulation-age;

That is, (as near as one can fix

From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.

This rule's for favorites—nothing more—

For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,

Tho' not decidedly without them,

Need never care one curse about them.

[1] "The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language, Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a foreigner."—Edinburgh Review.

[2] The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.—"A score of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles."—And again, "There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely wrinkles."—See "Tales of the East," vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.

LETTER III.

FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.[1]

We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's,"

Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners;

His soups scientific, his fishes quite prime—

His pâtés superb, and his cutlets sublime!

In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a

Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough,

Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,

And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "a He-Cook, of course!—

"While you live—(what's there under that cover? pray, look)—

"While you live—(I'll just taste it)—ne'er keep a She-Cook.

"'Tis a sound Salic Law—(a small bit of that toast)—

"Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;

"For Cookery's a secret—(this turtle's uncommon)—

"Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!"

The dinner you know was in gay celebration

Of my brilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation;

A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge

For his Speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudge

Turtle soup tho' it came to five guineas a bowl,

To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?

We were all in high gig—Roman Punch and Tokay

Travelled round till our heads travelled just the same way;

And we cared not for Juries or Libels—no—damme! nor

Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!

More good things were eaten than said—but Tom Tyrrhitt

In quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit;

And hearing the sturdy Judiciary Chief

Say—sated with turtle—"I'll now try the beef"—

Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)

"I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!"

And Camden was there, who that morning had gone

To fit his new Marquis's coronet on;

And the dish set before him—oh! dish well-devised!—

Was what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calf's head surprised!"

The brains were near Sherry and once had been fine,

But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine,

That tho' we from courtesy still chose to call

These brains very fine they were no brains at all.

When the dinner was over, we drank, every one

In a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con.;"

At which Headfort with warm reminiscences gloated,

And Ellenb'rough chuckled to hear himself quoted.

Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new,

For we drank—and you'll own 'twas benevolent too—

To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons or peers,

Whom we've any time honored by courting their dears:

This museum of wittols was comical rather;

Old Headfort gave Massey, and I gave your father.

In short, not a soul till this morning would budge—

We were all fun and frolic, and even the Judge

Laid aside for the time his juridical fashion,

And thro' the whole night wasn't once in a passion!

I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing,

And Mac[2] has a sly dose of jalap preparing

For poor Tommy Tyrrhitt at breakfast to quaff—

As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,

And there's nothing so good as old Tommy kept close

To his Cornwall accounts after taking a dose.

[1] This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the Marquis of Headfort.

[2] Colonel M'Mahon.

LETTER IV.

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL.

Last week, dear Nichol, making merry

At dinner with our Secretary,

When all were drunk or pretty near

(The time for doing business here),

Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom!

"These Papist dogs—hiccup—'od rot 'em!—

"Deserve to be bespattered—hiccup—

"With all the dirt even you can pick up.

"But, as the Prince (here's to him—fill—

"Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still

"To humbug them with kind professions,

"And as you deal in strong expressions—

"Rogue"—"traitor"—hiccup—and all that—

"You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!—

"You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat."—

Yes—"muzzled" was the word Sir John—

These fools have clapt a muzzle on

The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er

With slaver of the times of yore![1]—

Was it for this that back I went

As far as Lateran and Trent,

To prove that they who damned us then

Ought now in turn be damned again?

The silent victim still to sit

Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit,

To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on,

Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon!

Oh! 'tis too much—who now will be

The Nightman of No-Popery?

What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop

Such learned filth will ever fish up?

If there among our ranks be one

To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John;

Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon.

Like me too art a Lawyer Civil

That wishes Papists at the devil.

To whom then but to thee, my friend,

Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send?

Take it—'tis thine—his learned Port-folio,

With all its theologic olio

Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman—

Of Doctrines now believed by no man—

Of Councils held for men's salvation,

Yet always ending in damnation—

(Which shows that since the world's creation

Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,

Have always had a taste for damning,)

And many more such pious scraps,

To prove (what we've long proved, perhaps,)

That mad as Christians used to be

About the Thirteenth Century,

There still are Christians to be had

In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!

Farewell—I send with this, dear Nichol,

A rod or two I've had in pickle

Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.—

The rest shall go by Monday's packet.

P. D.

Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following "Unanswerable Argument against the Papists."

We're told the ancient Roman nation

Made use of spittle in lustration;

(Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"[3]—

i. e. you need not read but see 'em;)

Now Irish Papists—fact surprising—

Make use of spittle in baptizing;

Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,

Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans.

This fact's enough; let no one tell us

To free such sad, salivous fellows.—

No, no—the man, baptized with spittle,

Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!

[1] In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the "muzzle" has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse.

[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him for once correct.

LETTER V.

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY—-.

My dear Lady—-! I've been just sending out

About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—

(By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?—this moment got mine—

The "Mail-Coach Edition"—prodigiously fine!)

But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather

I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;

As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,

One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.

(Apropos—you'd have thought to see Townsend last night,

Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,

The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright;

Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,

Supervisor of thieves and chief-usher of ghosts!)

But, my dear Lady——, can't you hit on some notion,

At least for one night to set London in motion?—

As to having the Regent, that show is gone by—

Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I)

The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,

Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;

Which—considering, you know, dear, the size of the two—

Makes a block that one's company cannot get thro';

And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small,

Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—

(Apropos, tho', of love-work—you've heard it, I hope,

That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,—

"What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout,

'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.

Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived?

No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived?

No Russian whose dissonant consonant name

Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?

I remember the time three or four winters back,

When—provided their wigs were but decently black—

A few Patriot monsters from Spain were a sight

That would people one's house for one, night after night.

But—whether the Ministers pawed them too much—

(And you—know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)

Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town)

Has by dint of bad poetry written them down.

One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage;

And the only stray Patriot seen for an age

Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)

As old Mrs. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool's.

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff

Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off:

So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor—

If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.

And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup

Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!

Au revoir, my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste—

Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the by, have you found any friend that can conster

That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?[1]

If we can't get a Russian, and that think in Latin

Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.

[1] Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a lusus Naturae in the Newspapers lately.

LETTER VI.

FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)

Dost daily bend thy loyal brow

Before our King—our Asia's treasure!

Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!—

And bearest as many kicks and bruises

As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;

Thy head still near the bowstring's borders.

And but left on till further orders—

Thro' London streets with turban fair,

And caftan floating to the air,

I saunter on, the admiration

Of this short-coated population—

This sewed-up race—this buttoned nation—

Who while they boast their laws so free

Leave not one limb at liberty,

But live with all their lordly speeches

The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.

Yet tho' they thus their knee-pans fetter

(They're Christians and they know no better)

In some things they're a thinking nation;

And on Religious Toleration.

I own I like their notions quite,

They are so Persian and so right!

You know our Sunnites,[2] hateful dogs!

Whom every pious Shiite flogs

Or longs to flog—'tis true, they pray

To God, but in an ill-bred way;

With neither arms nor legs nor faces

Stuck in their right, canonic places.[3]

'Tis true, they worship Ali's name—

Their heaven and ours are just the same—

(A Persian's Heaven is easily made,

'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.)

Yet tho' we've tried for centuries back—

We can't persuade this stubborn pack,

By bastinadoes, screws or nippers,

To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.[4]

Then, only think, the libertines!

They wash their toes—they comb their chins,

With many more such deadly sins;

And what's the worst, (tho' last I rank it)

Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!

Yet spite of tenets so flagitious,

(Which must at bottom be seditious;

Since no man living would refuse

Green slippers but from treasonous views;

Nor wash his toes but with intent

To overturn the government,)—

Such is our mild and tolerant way,

We only curse them twice a day

(According to a Form that's set),

And, far from torturing, only let

All orthodox believers beat 'em,

And twitch their beards where'er they meet 'em.

As to the rest, they're free to do

Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,

Provided they make nothing of it

Towards rank or honor, power or profit;

Which things we naturally expect,

Belong to US, the Establisht sect,

Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)

The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.

The same mild views of Toleration

Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation,

Whose Papists (full as given to rogue,

And only Sunnites with a brogue)

Fare just as well, with all their fuss,

As rascal Sunnites do with us.

The tender Gazel I enclose

Is for my love, my Syrian Rose—

Take it when night begins to fall,

And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,—

That hour the happiest and the last?

Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn

To summer bees at break of morn,

Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell,

To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,

As is the soothing memory

Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart?

Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,

United live and die—

Like those sweet birds, that fly together,

With feather always touching feather,

Linkt by a hook and eye![5]

[1] I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to assist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.—See the second of these letters.—How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.

[2] Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breasts, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc.—Forster's Voyage.

[4] "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination."—Mariti.

[5] This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson:—"A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together."

LETTER VII.

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.—look it thro'—

Very sorry—but can't undertake—'twouldn't do.

Clever work, Sir!—would get up prodigiously well—

Its only defect is—it never would sell.

And tho' Statesmen may glory in being unbought,

In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.

Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read—

Tho' the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled,

Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,

Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)

Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it!

However, Sir—if you're for trying again,

And at somewhat that's vendible—we are your men.

Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately,

The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly—

No job, Sir, more easy—your Country once planned,

A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land

Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.

An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell—

And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.

Or—supposing you've nothing original in you—

Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,

You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2]

(Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse

Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)

Or—in case nothing else in this world you can do—

The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not review!

Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,

We've a Scheme to suggest—Mr. Scott, you must know,

(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row.[3])

Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown,

Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town;

And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay)

Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.

Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him)

To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to meet him;

Who by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches—

May do a few Villas before Scott approaches.

Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,

He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey.

Such, Sir, is our plan—if you're up to the freak,

'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.

At present, no more—in reply to this Letter,

A line will oblige very much

Yours, et cetera.

Temple of the Muses.

[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc.

[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

[3] Paternoster Row.

LETTER VIII.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO —— SKEFFINGTON, ESQ.

Come to our Fête and bring with thee

Thy newest, best embroidery.

Come to our Fête and show again

That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,

Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it;

When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"—

When Cits came wondering from the East

And thought thee Poet Pye at least!

Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week

For looking pale,) with paly cheek;

Tho' more we love thy roseate days,

When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze

Full o'er thy face and amply spread,

Tips even thy whisker-tops with red—

Like the last tints of dying Day

That o'er some darkling grove delay.

Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,

(That lace, like Harry Alexander,

Too precious to be washt,) thy rings,

Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things!

Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,

And yield in frogs and fringe to none

But the great Regent's self alone;

Who—by particular desire—

For that night only, means to hire

A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1]

Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents!

Born for each other's fond allegiance!

Both gay Lotharios—both good dressers—

Of serious Farce both learned Professors—

Both circled round, for use or show,

With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2]

Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore!

It takes to chalk a ball-room floor—

Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day!

It takes to dance that chalk away.[3]

The Ball-room opens—far and nigh

Comets and suns beneath us lie;

O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk,

And the floor seems one sky of chalk!

But soon shall fade that bright deceit,

When many a maid, with busy feet

That sparkle in the lustre's ray,

O'er the white path shall bound and play

Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:—

With every step a star hath fled,

And suns grow dim beneath their tread,

So passeth life—(thus Scott would write,

And spinsters read him with delight,)—

Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,

Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!

But, hang this long digressive flight!—

I meant to say, thou'lt see that night

What falsehood rankles in their hearts,

Who say the Prince neglects the arts—

Neglects the arts?—no, Strahlweg,[4] no;

Thy Cupids answer "'tis not so;"

And every floor that night shall tell

How quick thou daubest and how well.

Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion,

Thou'rt best beneath a French cotillion;

And still comest off, whate'er thy faults,

With flying colors in a Waltz.

Nor needest thou mourn the transient date

To thy best works assigned by fate.

While some chef-d'oeuvres live to weary one,

Thine boast a short life and a merry one;

Their hour of glory past and gone

With "Molly put the kettle on!"[5]

But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf

Of paper left—so must be brief.

This festive Fête, in fact, will be

The former Fête's facsimile;[6]

The same long Masquerade of Rooms,

All trickt up in such odd costumes,

(These, Porter,[7] are thy glorious works!)

You'd swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks,

Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,

Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;

And each to make the olio pleasant

Had sent a State-Room as a present.

The same fauteuils and girondoles—

The same gold Asses,[8]pretty souls!

That in this rich and classic dome

Appear so perfectly at home.

The same bright river 'mong the dishes,

But not—ah! not the same dear fishes—

Late hours and claret killed the old ones—

So 'stead of silver and of gold ones,

(It being rather hard to raise

Fish of that specie now-a-days)

Some sprats have been by Yarmouth's wish,

Promoted into Silver Fish,

And Gudgeons (so Vansittart told

The Regent) are as good as Gold!

So, prithee, come—our Fête will be

But half a Fête if wanting thee.

[1] An amateur actor of much risible renown.

[2] The crest of Mr. Coates, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, etc. covered wit this ornament.

[3] To those who neither go to balls nor read The Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ballrooms, in general, are chalked for safety and for ornament with various fanciful devices.

[4] A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

[5] The name of a popular country-dance.

[6] "Carleton House will exhibit a complete facsimile in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid draperies," etc.—Morning Post.

[7] Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carletone House.

[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.

* * * * *

APPENDIX.

LETTER IV. PAGE 584.

Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. Duigenan's Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others of Germany,) who at an early age disguised herself in male attire and followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens where she studied with such effect that upon her arrival at Rome she was thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.

She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens—when, as she says,

—"by Ilissus' stream

"We whispering walkt along, and learned to speak

"The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek;

"Ah! then how little did we think or hope,

"Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope![1]

"That I, the humble Joan, whose housewife art

"Seemed just enough to keep thy house and heart,

"(And those, alas! at sixes and at sevens,)

"Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!"

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them—that she

"Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum,

"And let a little Pope pop out before 'em—

"Pope Innocent! alas, the only one

"That name could e'er be justly fixt upon."

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell forever:—

"But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over—

"Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover!

"I made thee Cardinal—thou madest me—ah!

"Thou madest the Papa of the world Mamma!"

I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now, because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (eheu posteri negabitis!) emancipatus FOEMINAE fert vallum!

[1] Spanheim attributes the unanimity with which Joan was elected to that innate and irresistible charm by which her sex, though latent, operated upon the instinct of the Cardinals.

LETTER VII. PAGE 588.

The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book,"[1] of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. Lackington and Co. This rejected Drama however possesses considerable merit and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner—Time, three o'clock in the morning—Scene, the Bourbon Chamber[2] in Carleton House— Enter the Prince Regent solus—After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:—

Away—Away—

Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,

I meet thee—trace thee, whereso'er I look.

I see thy damned ink in Eldon's brows—

I see thy foolscap on my Hertford's Spouse—

Vansittart's head recalls thy leathern case,

And all thy blank-leaves stare from R—d—r's face!

While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart,)

I find, ah wretched elf,

Thy List of dire Errata in myself.

(Walks the stage in considerable agitation.)

Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa!

Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!

Delicious drams! why have you not the art

To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart?

He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and "by the light of two magnificent candelabras" discovers the following unconnected words, "Wife neglected"—"the Book"—"Wrong Measures"—"the Queen"—"Mr. Lambert"—"the Regent."

Ha! treason in my house!—Curst words, that wither My princely soul, (shaking the papers violently) what Demon brought you hither? "My Wife;"—"the Book" too!—stay—a nearer look— (holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras) Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book— Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, "to maintain the becoming splendor of his office."[3] The Regent produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream:

'Tis scarcely two hours since

I had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!—

Methought I heard thee midst a courtly crowd

Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,

"Worship my whiskers!"—(weeps) not a knee was there

But bent and worshipt the Illustrious Pair,

Which curled in conscious majesty! (pulls out his handkerchief)—

while cries

Of "Whiskers; whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.—

Just in that glorious hour, me-thought, there came,

With looks of injured pride, a Princely Dame

And a young maiden, clinging by her side,

As if she feared some tyrant would divide

Two hearts that nature and affection tied!

The Matron came—within her right hand glowed

A radiant torch; while from her left a load

Of Papers hung—(wipes his eyes) collected in her veil—

The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,

The wounding hint, the current lies that pass

From Post to Courier, formed the motley mass;

Which with disdain before the Throne she throws,

And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose.

(Weeps.)

Heavens, how it blazed!—I'd ask no livelier fire,

(With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!—

But ah! the Evidence—(weeps again) I mourned to see—

Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee:

And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung,

And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;

While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame,

Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame.

When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,

Now singes one now lights the other whisker.

Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurls

Her fairy standard in defence of curls?

Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke,

The watchman cried "Past One," and—I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held— all the Servants, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine clinquant in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]—but as this forms the under plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "exeunt severally" to Prison:—

Go to your prisons—tho' the air of Spring

No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;

Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away,

And all your portion of the glorious day

May be some solitary beam that falls

At morn or eve upon your dreary walls—

Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed,

To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!

Yet go—for thoughts as blessed as the air

Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there;

Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crew

In rich conservatories never knew;

Pure self-esteem—the smiles that light within—

The Zeal, whose circling charities begin

With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near,

And spread till all Mankind are in its sphere;

The Pride that suffers without vaunt or plea.

And the fresh Spirit that can warble free

Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board—Their task evidently of a royal nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, etc., that lie about—They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down."

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees,

For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,

While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers),

The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors!

Derry down, down, down

derry down.

Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,

While His short cut to fame is—the cut of his coat;

Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul,

But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole.

Derry down, etc.

Look thro' all Europe's Kings—those, at least, who go loose—

Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose.

So, God keep him increasing in size and renown,

Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town!

Derry down, etc.

During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its development—the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced and skilfully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result of their juxtaposition,

Honored Colonel—my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns,

Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns.

She sent the wrong Measures too—shamefully wrong—

They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young;

But, bless you! they wouldnt go half round the Regent—

So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery—the Regent resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all parties.

[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled, "Liber de tribus impostoribus." (See Morhof. Cap. "de Libris damnatis.")

[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all "for the Deliverance of Europe") with fleurs de-lys.

[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to maintain it in becoming splendor." (A loud laugh.)—Lord CASTLEREAGH'S Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill.

[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person

from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it."

—Lord CASTLEREAGH'S Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment,

April 14, 1812.

Last night I tost and turned in bed,

But could not sleep—at length I said,

"I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh,

"And of his speeches—that's the way."

And so it was, for instantly

I slept as sound as sound could be.

And then I dreamt—so dread a dream!

Fuseli has no such theme;

Lewis never wrote or borrowed

Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the Prince in whiskered state

Before me at his breakfast sate;

On one side lay unread Petitions,

On t'other, Hints from five Physicians!

Here tradesmen's bills,—official papers,

Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors

There plans of Saddles, tea and toast.

Death-warrants and The Morning Post.

When lo! the Papers, one and all.

As if at some magician's call.

Began to flutter of themselves

From desk and table, floor and shelves,

And, cutting each some different capers,

Advanced, oh jacobinic papers!

As tho' they said, "Our sole design is

"To suffocate his Royal Highness!"

The Leader of this vile sedition

Was a huge Catholic Petition,

With grievances so full and heavy,

It threatened worst of all the bevy;

Then Common-Hall Addresses came

In swaggering sheets and took their aim

Right at the Regent's well-drest head,

As if determined to be read.

Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly,

And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high;

Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best

Be lively too and join the rest.

But, oh the basest of defections!

His letter about "predilections"!—

His own dear letter, void of grace,

Now flew up in its parent's face!

Shocked with this breach of filial duty,

He just could murmur "et Tu Brute?"

Then sunk, subdued upon the floor

At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked—and prayed, with lifted hand,

"Oh! never may this Dream prove true;

"Tho' paper overwhelms the land,

"Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!"

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night

When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;

And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do

Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better To wait till the Irish affairs are decided— (That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, With all due appearance of thought and digestion)— For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, I thought it but decent, between me and you, That the two other Houses should settle it too.

I need not remind you how cursedly bad

Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2]

A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,

A more limited Monarchy could not well be.

I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle.

To choose my own Minister—just as they muzzle

A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster

By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,

Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3]

So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,

The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching:

For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4]

Would loose all their beauty if purified once;

And think—only think—if our Father should find.

Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5]

That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser—

That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser—

That R—d—r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter—

Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter—

What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!

No!—far were such dreams of improvement from me:

And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6]

There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,[7]

That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,

And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy.

You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,

By the law of last sessions I might have done good.

I might have withheld these political noodles

From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;

I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,

Might have soothed her with hope—but you know I did not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows

Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,

But find that while he has been laid on the shelf

We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.

You smile at my hopes—but the Doctors and I

Are the last that can think the King ever will die.[8]

A new era's arrived[9]—tho' you'd hardly believe it—

And all things of course must be new to receive it.

New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends)—

New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?

* * * * *

I repeat it, "New Friends"—for I cannot describe

The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe.

Such capering!—Such vaporing!—Such rigor!—Such vigor!

North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,

That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,

And leave us no friends—but Old Nick and Algiers.

When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains,

'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains.

It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,

But think how we find our Allies in new breeches!

We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,

But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,

To put the last lingering few who remain,

Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.

Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother!

For Papists the one and with Papists the other;

One crushing Napoleon by taking a City,

While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee.

Oh deeds of renown!—shall I boggle or flinch,

With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.

No—let England's affairs go to rack, if they will,

We'll look after the affairs of the Continent still;

And with nothing at home but starvation and riot,

Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet.

I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10]

My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections

Are just danced about for a moment or two,

And the finer they are, the more sure to run thro';

Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill

To mortal—except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel,

Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion,

To cut me and bring the old King into fashion.

This is all I can lay to my conscience at present;

When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,

So royally free from all troublesome feelings,

So little encumbered by faith in my dealings

(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,

What I was at Newmarket the same I am now).

When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),

I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking,

"To meet with the generous and kind approbation

"Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation."

By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter,

(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,)

'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11]

With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong,

Would a few of them join me—mind, only a few—

To let too much light in on me never would do;

But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid,

While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade;

Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,

While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm.

As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it.

Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it!

Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit,

And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit:

And against all the pure public feeling that glows

Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose!

So in short if they wish to have Places, they may,

And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12]

Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose)

By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;

And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection),

Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13]

Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!

[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13, 1812.

[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.—Prince's Letter.

[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."— Ibid.

[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.— Prince's Letter.

[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment," etc—Ibid.

[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon.

[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."—Prince's Letter.

[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction," etc.—Ibid.

[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,—no resentments to gratify."— Prince's Letter.

[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government"— Prince's Letter.

[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."— Prince's Letter.

[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."- Prince's Letter.

ANACREONTIC

TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan,

Best of Plumists (if you can

With your art so far presume)

Make for me a Prince's Plume—

Feathers soft and feathers rare,

Such as suits a Prince to wear.

First thou downiest of men,

Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;

Such a Hen, so tall and grand,

As by Juno's side might stand,

If there were no cocks at hand.

Seek her feathers, soft as down,

Fit to shine on Prince's crown;

If thou canst not find them, stupid!

Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due,

Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;

Emblem of the happy fates

Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.

Pluck him well—be sure you do—

Who wouldnt be an old Cuckoo,

Thus to have his plumage blest,

Beaming on a Royal crest?

Bravo, Plumist!—now what bird

Shall we find for Plume the third?

You must get a learned Owl,

Bleakest of black-letter fowl—

Bigot bird that hates the light,[1]

Foe to all that's fair and bright.

Seize his quills, (so formed to pen

Books[2] that shun the search of men;

Books that, far from every eye,

In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,)

Stick them in between the two,

Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.

Now you have the triple feather,

Bind the kindred stems together

With a silken tie whose hue

Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;

Sullied now—alas, how much!

Only fit for Yarmouth's touch.

There—enough—thy task is done;

Present, worthy George's Son;

Now, beneath, in letters neat,

Write "I SERVE," and all's complete.

[1] Perceval.

[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that period.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

Wednesday.

Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now—

Met the old yellow chariot[1] and made a low bow.

This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,

But got such a look—oh! 'twas black as the devil!

How unlucky!—incog. he was travelling about,

And I like a noodle, must go find him out.

Mem.—when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,

To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.

At Levee to-day made another sad blunder—

What can be come over me lately, I wonder?

The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life

He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife—

"Fine weather," says he—to which I, who must prate,

Answered, "Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late."

He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff,

And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,

That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off,

And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff!

Mem.—to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion To nourish his whiskers—sure road to promotion![3]

Saturday.

Last night a Concert—vastly gay—

Given by Lady Castlereagh.

My Lord loves music, and we know

Has "two strings always to his bow."[4]

In choosing songs, the Regent named

"Had I a heart for falsehood framed."

While gentle Hertford begged and prayed

For "Young I am and sore afraid."

[1] The incog. vehicle of the Prince.

[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?—"Oh! worse and worse—

"Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"—

The Prince's Purse! no, no, you fool,

You mean the Prince's Ridicule.

[1] Colonel M'Mahon.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings,

(At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)

But Crack now and then would do heterodox things,

And at last took to worshipping Images sadly.

Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed

In his father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much,

That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'—such was his taste!—

They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch.

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!—

But his People disdaining to worship such things

Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack—

"You'll not do for us, tho' you may do for Kings."

Then trampling these images under their feet,

They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar!

"We're willing to worship; but only entreat

"That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these are."

"I'll try," says King Crack—so they furnisht him models

Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back;

Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles,

In short they were all much too godlike for Crack.

So he took to his darling old Idols again,

And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,

In open defiance of Gods and of man,

Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.

[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his,

"Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?"

"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,

"You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"

[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!

Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers—

Or, (if sweeter that abode)

From the King's well-odored Road,

Where each little nursery bud

Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.

Hither come and gayly twine

Brightest herbs and flowers of thine

Into wreaths for those who rule us,

Those who rule and (some say) fool us—

Flora, sure, will love to please

England's Household Deities![1]

First you must then, willy-nilly,

Fetch me many an orange lily—

Orange of the darkest dye

Irish Gifford can supply;—

Choose me out the longest sprig,

And stick it in old Eldon's wig.

Find me next a Poppy posy,

Type of his harangues so dozy,

Garland gaudy, dull and cool,

To crown the head of Liverpool.

'Twill console his brilliant brows

For that loss of laurel boughs,

Which they suffered (what a pity!)

On the road to Paris City.

Next, our Castlereagh to crown,

Bring me from the County Down,

Withered Shamrocks which have been

Gilded o'er to hide the green—

(Such as Headfort brought away

From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]—

Stitch the garland thro' and thro'

With shabby threads of every hue—

And as, Goddess!—entre nous—

His Lordship loves (tho' best of men)

A little torture now and then,

Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,

Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough—away, away—

Had I leisure, I could say

How the oldest rose that grows

Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose—

How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile

Crowned with wreaths of camomile.

But time presses—to thy taste

I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!

[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods.

[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day.

[3] The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth.

EPIGRAM.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S FETE.

"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look

"If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."—

"We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book.

"Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!"

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1]

Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains,

About what your old crony,

The Emperor Boney,

Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:

Should there come famine,

Still plenty to cram in

You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.

Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;

For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,

And then people get fat,

And infirm, and—all that,

And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,

That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;

Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!—alas, even they,

Tho' so rosy they burn,

Too quickly must turn

(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget

Your mind about matters you dont understand?

Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,

Because "you," forsooth, "have the pen in your hand!"

Think, think how much better

Than scribbling a letter,

(Which both you and I

Should avoid by the by,)

How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust

Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one;

While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just

As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.

To Crown us, Lord Warden,

In Cumberland's garden

Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs:

While Otto of Roses

Refreshing all noses

Shall sweetly exhale from our

whiskers and wigs.

What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau

In that streamlet delicious,

That down midst the dishes,

All full of gold fishes,

Romantic doth flow?—

Or who will repair

Unto Manchester Square,

And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

Go—bid her haste hither,

And let her bring with her

The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going—

Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,

All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,

In the manner of—Ackerman's Dresses for May!

[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public—entitled "Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion."

[2] Charles Fox.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON.

The man who keeps a conscience pure,

(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)

Thro' toil and danger walks secure,

Looks big and black and never winces.

No want has he of sword or dagger,

Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb;

Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger,

He doesnt care one single damn.

Whether midst Irish chairmen going.

Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim,

Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,

No matter, 'tis all one to him.

For instance, I, one evening late,

Upon a gay vacation sally,

Singing the praise of Church and State,

Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

When lo! an Irish Papist darted

Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big—

I did but frown and off he started,

Scared at me even without my wig.

Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog

Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,

Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,

Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.

Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,

The ragged royal-blood of Tara;

Or place me where Dick Martin rules

The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1]

Of Church and State I'll warble still,

Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble;

Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,

So lovingly upon a hill—

Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2]

[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "malus Jupiter" of him.

[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

Jack fell down,

And broke his Crown,

And Jill came tumbling after.

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

—nova monstra creavit.

OVID. "Metamorph." 1. i. v. 417.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac,

With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back.

And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any

Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni—

"Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext

With the duties of empire,) "whom shall I dress next?"

He looks in the glass—but perfection is there,

Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;[1]

Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces—

For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is,

The falser they are, the more firm in their places.

His coat he next views—but the coat who could doubt?

For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out;

Every pucker and seam were made matters of state,

And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.

Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother,

Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other?

And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes

For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes.

Ah! no—here his ardor would meet with delays,

For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays,

So complete for the winter, he saw very plain

'Twould be devilish hard work to _un_pack him again.

So what's to be done?—there's the Ministers, bless 'em!—

As he made the puppets, why shouldnt he dress 'em?

"An excellent thought!—call the tailors—be nimble—

"Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble;

"While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers,

"The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors."

So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest

Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest.

While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition,

Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition

In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!")

And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eldon.

[1] That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW[1] ON ONE'S SIDE."

The Gentleman's Proposal.

Legge aurea,

S'ei piace, ei lice."

Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy

To one frigid owner be tied;

Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy,

But, dearest, we've Law on our side.

Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial,

Whom no dull decorums divide;

Their error how sweet and their raptures how venial,

When once they've got Law on their side.

'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too:

Then why should it now be decried?

If the Father has done it why shouldnt the Son too?

For so argues Law on our side.

And even should our sweet violation of duty

By cold-blooded jurors be tried,

They can but bring it in "misfortune," my beauty,

As long as we've Law on our side.

The Lady's Answer.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly;

For grant me so faithless a bride,

Such sinners as we, are a little too lovely,

To hope to have Law on our side.

Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em

The People should look for their guide,

Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum—

You'd always have Law on your side.

Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary,

Whose heart tho' it long ago died

To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory—

You still would have Law on your side.

But for you, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles;

By my advice therefore abide,

And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles

Who have such a Law on their side.

[1] In allusion to Lord Ellenborough.

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

This day a New House for your edification

We open, most thinking and right-headed nation!

Excuse the materials—tho' rotten and bad,

They're the best that for money just now could be had;

And if echo the charm of such houses should be,

You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.

As for actors, we've got the old Company yet,

The same motley, odd, tragicomical set;

And considering they all were but clerks t'other day,

It is truly surprising how well they can play.

Our Manager,[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst,

And sung Erin go Bragh for the galleries first,

But on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing,

Changed his note of a sudden to God save the King,)

Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever,

Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever.

Here offers you still the full use of his breath,

Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.

You remember last season, when things went perverse on.

We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on)

One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person,

Who's also employed for this season to play,

In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."[2]

We expect too—at least we've been plotting and planning—

To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning;

And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts

Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,

If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham,

Get up new diversions and Canning should stop 'em,

Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers,

"Grand fight—second time—with additional capers."

Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,

There is plenty of each in this House to be had.

Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,

For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;

And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,

Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.

His powers poor Ireland will never forget,

And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.

So much for the actors;—for secret machinery,

Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,

Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find,

To transact all that trickery business behind.

The former's employed too to teach us French jigs,

Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs.

In taking my leave now, I've only to say,

A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away,

May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh.

[1] Lord Castlereagh.

[2] He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

Instrumenta regni.—TACITUS.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies,

They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;

(Except it be Cabinet-making;—no doubt,

In that delicate service they're rather worn out;

Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will,

Would have bungled away with them joyously still.)

You see they've been pretty well hackt—and alack!

What tool is there job after job will not hack?

Their edge is but dullish it must be confest,

And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best;

But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying,

Were't but for their brass they are well worth the buying;

They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,

And are some of them excellent turning machines.

The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor),

Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller.

Tho' made of pig iron yet worthy of note 'tis,

'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.[1]

Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest;

'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist;

Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall

Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;

Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,)

A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem.

Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir—

Once, twice,—going, going,—thrice, gone!—it is yours, Sir.

To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest,

As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

Come, where's the next Tool?—

Oh! 'tis here in a trice—

This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a Vice;

(A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let

Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;)

But it since has received a new coating of Tin,

Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in.

Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on,

We'll the sooner get rid of it—going—quite gone.

God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down,

Might at last cost their owner—how much? why, a Crown!

The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or

Trial as yet and is also a Chancellor—

Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;

Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to shave close,

And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,

This blade first began by a flourish on leather.[2]

You shall have it for nothing—then, marvel with me

At the terrible tinkering work there must be,

Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it)

Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!

[1] An allusion to Lord Eldon's lachrymose tendencies.

[2] Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."—Ann. Register.

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

A BALLAD.

To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid."

DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT.

arcades ambo et cantare pares

1813.

There was a little Man and he had a little Soul,

And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try.

"Whether it's within our reach

"To make up a little Speech,

"Just between little you and little I, I, I,

"Just between little you and little I!"

Then said his little Soul,

Peeping from her little hole,

"I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,

"But, if it's not uncivil,

"Pray tell me what the devil,

"Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,

"Must our little, little speech be about?"

The little Man lookt big,

With the assistance of his wig,

And he called his little Soul to order, order, order,

Till she feared he'd make her jog in

To jail, like Thomas Croggan,

(As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her,

As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.

The little Man then spoke,

"Little Soul, it is no joke,

"For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup,

"I will tell the Prince and People

"What I think of Church and Steeple.

"And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,

"And my little patent plan to prop them up."

Away then, cheek by jowl,

Little Man and little Soul

Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,

And the world all declare

That this priggish little pair

Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little.

Never yet in all their lives lookt so little!

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites. VERGIL.

1813.

As recruits in these times are not easily got

And the Marshal must have them—pray, why should we not,

As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,

Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?

There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,

Any men we could half so conveniently spare;

And tho' they've been helping the French for years past,

We may thus make them useful to England at last.

Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces,

Being used to the taking and keeping of places;

And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining,

Might show off his talent for sly under-mining.

Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,

Old Headfort at horn-works again might be tried,

And as Chief Justice make a bold charge at his side:

While Vansittart could victual the troops upon tick,

And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself

Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf:

Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,

Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?

And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove,

Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1]

Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,

Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.

In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment:

At present no more, but—good luck to the shipment!

[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

odi profanum, valgus et arceo;

favete linguis: carmina non prius

audila Musarum sacerdos

virginibus puerisque canto.

regum timendorum in proprios greges,

reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

1813.

I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;

To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,

Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,

And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses.

Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,

Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:

Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,

Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT.

persico odi, puer, adparatus;

displicent nexae philyra coronae;

mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum

sera moretur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries.

Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries—

Six by the Horse-Guards!—old Georgy is late—

But come—lay the table-cloth—zounds! do not wait,

Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,

At which of his places Old Rose is delaying!

* * * * *

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,

Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign,

That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,

While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,

While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,

That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child

With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield

Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;

For while they're in the Council and you in the Field.

We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!

The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this volume.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

effare causam nominis, utrumne mores hoc tui nomen dedere, an nomen hoc secuta morum regula. AUSONIUS.

1816.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low,

(By name, and ah! by nature so)

As thou art fond of persecutions,

Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated,

How Captain Gulliver was treated,

When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down—these little men did—

And having valiantly ascended

Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance,

They did so strut!—upon my soul,

It must have been extremely droll

To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins

Amused themselves with sticking pins

And needles in the great man's breeches:

And how some very little things,

That past for Lords, on scaffoldings

Got up and worried him with speeches,

Alas, alas! that it should happen

To mighty men to be caught napping!—

Tho' different too these persecutions;

For Gulliver, there, took the nap,

While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap,

Is taken by the Lilliputians!

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

1826.

BANK.

Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks

You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;

When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks,

And enjoyed the endearing advances I made!

When left to ourselves, unmolested and free,

To do all that a dashing young couple should do,

A law against paying was laid upon me,

But none against owing, dear helpmate, on you.

And is it then vanisht?—that "hour (as Othello

So happily calls it) of Love and Direction?"

And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow,

Grow good in our old age and cut the connection?

GOVERNMENT.

Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be;

This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing:

We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee

There must soon be a stop to our _bill_ing and cooing.

Propagation in reason—a small child or two—

Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to;

The issue of some folks is moderate and few—

But ours, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to!

So—hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already

Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence;

And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1]

So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense—

The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus,

When—high as we once used to carry our capers—

Those soft billet-doux we're now passing between us,

Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers:

And when—if we still must continue our love,

(After all that has past)—our amour, it is clear,

Like that which Miss Danäe managed with Jove,

Must all be transacted in bullion, my dear!

February, 1826.

[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson.

[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or Golden Venus.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres agna lupos, capreaeque leones."—HOR.

Said a Sovereign to a Note,

In the pocket of his coat,

Where they met in a neat purse of leather,

"How happens it, I prithee,

"That, tho' I'm wedded with thee,

"Fair Pound, we can never live together?

"Like your sex, fond of change

"With Silver you can range,

"And of lots of young sixpences be mother;

"While with me—upon my word,

"Not my Lady and my Lord

"Of Westmouth see so little of each other!"

The indignant Note replied

(Lying crumpled by his side),

"Shame, shame, it is yourself that roam, Sir—

"One cannot look askance,

"But, whip! you're off to France,

"Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir.

"Your scampering began

"From the moment Parson Van,

"Poor man, made us one in Love's fetter;

"'For better or for worse'

"Is the usual marriage curse,

"But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.'

"In vain are laws past,

"There's nothing holds you fast,

"Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you—

"At the smallest hint in life,

"You forsake your lawful wife,

"As other Sovereigns did before you.

"I flirt with Silver, true—

"But what can ladies do,

"When disowned by their natural protectors?

"And as to falsehood, stuff!

"I shall soon be false enough,

"When I get among those wicked Bank Directors."

The Sovereign, smiling on her,

Now swore upon his honor,

To be henceforth domestic and loyal;

But, within an hour or two,

Why—I sold him to a Jew,

And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?" VERGIL.

1826.

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all

The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1]

When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,

'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,

On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?

A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"—

At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;

But Peers and such animals, fed up for show,

(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,)

Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest

Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,

When the force of the agony wrung even a jest

From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2]

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave

A humor endowed with effects so provoking,

That when the whole House looks unusually grave

You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth—

Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms

Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,

'Twixt those who have _heir_looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk now of starving!"—as great Athol said[3]—

(And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,)

"When some years ago he and others had fed

"Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence—and the Duke's very words

Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are—

That weavers, once rescued from starving by Lords,

Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians

Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row;

But not so the plan of our noble physicians,

"No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,

As I shall my poetry—neither convinces;

And all we have spoken and written but shows,

When you tread on a nobleman's corn,[4]

how he winces.

[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for making so many speeches against the Corn Laws.

[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the 'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex."

[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported 1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition against the persons who had fed them."

[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund—these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?" —The Times.

Take your bell, take your bell,

Good Crier, and tell

To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned,

That, lost or stolen,

Or fallen thro' a hole in

The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund!

O yes! O yes!

Can anybody guess

What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder?

It has Pitt's name on't,

All brass, in the front,

And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under.

Folks well knew what

Would soon be its lot,

When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1]

And said to each other,

"Suppose, dear brother,

"We make this funny old Fund worth robbing."

We are come, alas!

To a very pretty pass—

Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay,

With but Five in the till,

To discharge the bill,

And even that Five, too, whipt away!

Stop thief! stop thief!—

From the Sub to the Chief,

These Gemmen of Finance are plundering cattle—

Call the watch—call Brougham,

Tell Joseph Hume,

That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle.

Whoever will bring

This aforesaid thing

To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin,

Shall be paid, with thanks,

In the notes of banks,

Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking."

O yes! O yes!

Can anybody guess

What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder?

It has Pitt's name on't,

All brass, in the front,

And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under.

[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new taxes to the sum of five millions.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE.

"legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."—VERGIL.

Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,

(Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,)

Adorned with somniferous poppies to show

Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess.

Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee

An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches.

Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesnt bore thee),

Thou'lt read o'er the last of his—never-last speeches.

Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn

Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted;

Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn,

'Tis the growers of Corn that are now, alas! roasted.

In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us—

Reviewers, economists—fellows no doubt

That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus

And Gods of high fashion, know little about.

There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,—

Who thinks just as little of settling a nation

As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking

(What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2]

There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading

Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;—

And whereas Mill Senior makes war on good breeding,

Mill Junior makes war on all breeding whatever!

In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided

Between ultra blockheads and superfine sages;—

With which of these classes we landlords have sided

Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages.

For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction

And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting

That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction

To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating.

On the contrary, such the "chaste notions"[3] of food

That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart,

They would scorn any law, be it ever so good,

That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art!

And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day,

Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination

(Like Sulky and Silky, that pair in the play,)[5]

Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation!

Long life to the Minister!—no matter who,

Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he

Keeps the ports shut—and the people's mouths too—

We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity,

And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn

To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us,

Had England but One to stand by thee, Dear Corn,

That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas!

[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee.

[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk.

[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches.

[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of foreign silk.

[5] "Road to Ruin."

[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the Bos and the Asinus, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, has a particular liking for everything "chaste."

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."

And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er—

Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!

Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain!

The short eclipse of April-Day

Having (God grant it!) past away,

Collective Wisdom, shine again!

Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,—

With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,—

Whate'er the job, prepared to back it;

Come, voters of Supplies—bestowers

Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers,

At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1]

Come—free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares—

Ye Senators of many Shares,

Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary;

So fond of aught like Company,

That you would even have taken tea

(Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2]

Come, matchless country-gentlemen;

Come, wise Sir Thomas—wisest then

When creeds and corn-lords are debated;

Come, rival even the Harlot Red,

And show how wholly into bread

A 'Squire is transubstantiated,

Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world,

That—surely as thy scratch is curled

As never scratch was curled before—

Cheap eating does more harm than good,

And working-people spoiled by food,

The less they eat, will work the more.

Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence

(Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence)

Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter;

Two pipes of port (old port, 'twas said

By honest _New_port)[3] bought and paid

By Papists for the Orange Altar![4]

Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry

For peopling Canada from Kerry—

Not so much rendering Ireland quiet,

As grafting on the dull Canadians

That liveliest of earth's contagions,

The bull-pock of Hibernian riot!

Come all, in short, ye wondrous men

Of wit and wisdom, come again;

Tho' short your absence, all deplore it—

Oh, come and show, whate'er men say,

That you can after April-Day,

Be just as—sapient as before it.

[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:— trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "bene vestiti."

[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his Joint-Stock Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te solo adoro."

[3] Sir John Newport.

[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine."

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826.

The Budget—quite charming and witty—no hearing,

For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;—

Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't cheering,

That all its gay auditors were every minute.

What, still more prosperity!—mercy upon us,

"This boy'll be the death of me"—oft as, already,

Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,

For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.

TUESDAY.

Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers,

Lest—calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts—

The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,

Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1]

WEDNESDAY.

Little doing—for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art

To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table—

When the Members all meet, to make much of that part,

With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.

It appeared, tho', to-night, that—as church-wardens yearly,

Eat up a small baby—those cormorant sinners.

The Bankrupt Commissioners, bolt very nearly

A moderate-sized bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]

Nota bene—a rumor to-day, in the city, "Mr. Robinson just has resigned"—what a pity!

The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,

When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin:

While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,

A murmuring Stock-dove breathed her ditty:—

Alas, poor Robin, he crowed as long

And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;

But his note was small and the gold-finch's song

Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.

Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank,

"While I have a rag, poor Rob shall be rolled in't,

"With many a pound I'll paper him round,

"Like a plump rouleau—without the gold in it."

[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a greater number of highway robberies."—Debate in the Lords.

[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the Commissioners of Bankrupts.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD.

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.)

"The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves itself into a Family Account."—Sir Robert Peel's Letter.

Tune—My banks are all furnisht with bees.

My banks are all furnisht with rags,

So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em;

I've torn up my old money-bags,

Having little or nought to put in 'em.

My tradesmen are smashing by dozens,

But this is all nothing, they say;

For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,—

So, it's all in the family way.

My Debt not a penny takes from me.

As sages the matter explain;—

Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy

Just owes it to Bob back again.

Since all have thus taken to owing,

There's nobody left that can pay;

And this is the way to keep going,—

All quite in the family way.

My senators vote away millions,

To put in Prosperity's budget;

And tho' it were billions or trillions,

The generous rogues wouldnt grudge it.

'Tis all but a family hop,

'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;

Hands round!—why the deuce should we stop?

'Tis all in the family way.

My laborers used to eat mutton,

As any great man of the State does;

And now the poor devils are put on

Small rations of tea and potatoes.

But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy,

The King is your father, they say;

So even if you starve for your Daddy,

'Tis all in the family way.

My rich manufacturers tumble,

My poor ones have nothing to chew;

And even if themselves do not grumble

Their stomachs undoubtedly do.

But coolly to fast en famille,

Is as good for the soul as to pray;

And famine itself is genteel,

When one starves in a family way.

I have found out a secret for Freddy,

A secret for next Budget day;

Tho' perhaps he may know it already,

As he too's a sage in his way.

When next for the Treasury scene he

Announces "the Devil to pay,"

Let him write on the bills, "nota bene,

"'Tis all in the family way."

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of

proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that

whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest, should

give way to the other."

—Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn.

Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too,

No one e'er the fact denied;—

Which is "weakest" of the two,

Cambridge can alone decide.

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is,

Bankes, as much afraid as he;

Never yet did two old ladies

On this point so well agree.

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,

Which is weakest. Cambridge, say.

Each a different mode pursues,

Each the same conclusion reaches;

Bankes is foolish in Reviews,

Goulbourn foolish in his speeches.

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Each a different foe doth damn,

When his own affairs have gone ill;

Bankes he damneth Buckingham,

Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell.

Choose between them, Cambridge, pray,

Which is weakest, Cambridge, say.

Once we know a horse's neigh

Fixt the election to a throne,

So whichever first shall bray

Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own.

Choose him, choose him by his bray,

Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray.

June, 1826.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

1826.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

Sir—Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, where he had remained, bien frappe, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.—Yours, etc.

Laudator Temporis Acti.

What a lucky turn-up!—just as Eldon's withdrawing,

To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year

Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing

To serve for our times quite as well as the Peer;—

To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone

Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves,

But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown,

To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves!

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home—

Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way;

With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come,

And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!"

What a God-send to them!—a good, obsolete man,

Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;—

Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can,

And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader.

Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou shalt be their chosen;

And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men,

To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen,

So altered thou hardly wilt know it again.

And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation

Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he

Has been also laid up in a long congelation,

And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY.

St. James's Street, July 1, 1826.

Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch

An official young demon, preparing to go,

Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch

From the Hell here at Crockford's, to our Hell below—

I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic,

To say that first having obeyed your directions

And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic,"

My next special care was to help the Elections.

Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul,

When every good Christian tormented his brother,

And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal,

From all coming down, ready grilled by each other;

Remembering besides how it pained thee to part

With the old Penal Code—that chef-d'oeuvre of Law,

In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art)

We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw;

I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive,

(Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,)

'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive,

Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;—

That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics,

So like is to ours, in its spirit and tone.

That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics,

To think that Religion should make it her own.

So, having sent down for the original notes

Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir

With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats

Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1]

Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command

"Such audience, tho' yelled by a Sans-culotte crew

"What wonders shall we do, who've men in our band,

"That not only wear breeches but petticoats too."

Such then were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness,

I'm forced to confess—be the cause what it will,

Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,—

Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill.

The truth is no placeman now knows his right key,

The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various;

And certain base voices, that lookt for a fee

At the York music-meeting now think it precarious.

Even some of our Reverends might have been warmer,—

Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had;

Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer,

And Huntingdon Maberley's yell was not bad!

Altogether however the thing was not hearty;—

Even Eldon allows we got on but so so;

And when next we attempt a No-Popery party,

We must, please your Highness, recruit from below.

But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip—

Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;—

The next opportunity shan't be let slip,

But, till then,

I'm, in haste, your most dutiful

DEVIL.

July, 1826

[1] Con fuoco—a music-book direction.

[2] This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election.

THE MILLENNIUM.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY."

1826

A millennium at hand!—I'm delighted to hear it—

As matters both public and private now go,

With multitudes round us all starving or near it.

A good, rich Millennium will come à-propos.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,

Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags,

A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold,

Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags—

A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound—

A celestial Cocaigne on whose buttery shelves

We may swear the best things of this world will be found,

As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian,

Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach

Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision

Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;—

Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we

May even in our own times a Jubilee share.

Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee,

And so often postponed, we began to despair.

There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene

For the man who must bring the Millennium about;

There's Faber whose pious productions have been

All belied ere his book's first edition was out;—

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P.,

Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat,

And, each day of his life sat expecting to see

A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3]

There was also—but why should I burden my lay

With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving,

When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way

To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving.

Go on, mighty man,—doom them all to the shelf,—

And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce,

Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself

Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once.

[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny."—Rev. vi.

[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had ever had honor of being known to St. John".

[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in Revelation.

THE THREE DOCTORS.

doctoribus loetamur tribus.

1826.

Tho' many great Doctors there be,

There are three that all Doctors out-top,

Doctor Eady, that famous M. D.,

Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1]

The purger, the proser, the bard—

All quacks in a different style;

Doctor Southey writes books by the yard.

Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2]

Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone

By his scribbling or physicking brother,

Can dose us with stuff like the one.

Ay, and doze us with stuff like the other.

Doctor Eady good company keeps

With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls;

Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps

With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls.

Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine,

Such bedlamite slaver lets drop,

Taat if Eady should take the mad line,

He'll be sure of a patient in Slop.

Seven millions of Papists, no less,

Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk;

Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess,

Attacks but his maid-of-all-work

Doctor Southey, for his grand attack,

Both a laureate and pensioner is;

While poor Doctor Eady, alack,

Has been had up to Bow-street for his!

And truly, the law does so blunder,

That tho' little blood has been spilt, he

May probably suffer as, under

The Chalking Act, known to be guilty.

So much for the merits sublime

(With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop)

Of the three greatest lights of our time,

Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop!

Should you ask me, to which of the three

Great Doctors the preference should fall,

As a matter of course I agree

Doctor Eady must go to the wall.

But as Southey with laurels is crowned,

And Slop with a wig and a tail is,

Let Eady's bright temples be bound

With a swingeing "Corona Muralis!"[3]

[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed.

[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the walls round the metropolis.

[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering them, etc.—No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, would equally establish a claim to the honor.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard,

Put mourning round thy page, Debrett,

For here lies one who ne'er preferred

A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside him place the God of Wit,

Before him Beauty's rosiest girls,

Apollo for a star he'd quit,

And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford,

He took of course to peers' relations;

And rather than not sport a Lord

Put up with even the last creations;

Even Irish names could he but tag 'em

With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call;

And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum

Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,

For rest his soul! he'd rather be

Genteelly damned beside a Duke,

Than saved in vulgar company.

ODE TO A HAT.

—altum aedificat caput." JUVENAL

1826.

Hail, reverent Hat!—sublime mid all

The minor felts that round thee grovel;—

Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call

While meaner mortals call the "shovel."

When on thy shape (like pyramid,

Cut horizontally in two)[1]

I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid

Of stalls and mitres bless my view!

That brim of brims so sleekly good—

Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down,

But looking (as all churchmen's should)

Devoutly upward—towards the crown.

Gods! when I gaze upon that brim,

So redolent of Church all over,

What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,—

Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim,

With ducklings' wings—around it hover!

Tenths of all dead and living things,

That Nature into being brings,

From calves and corn to chitterlings.

Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks,

The very cock most orthodox.

To which of all the well-fed throng

Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong?

Thou'rt not Sir Harcourt Lees's—no-

For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em:

And hats, on heads like his, would grow

Particularly harum-scarum.

Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate

Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te,

(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand

On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,)

Who changed so quick from blue to yellow,

And would from yellow back to blue,

And back again, convenient fellow,

If 'twere his interest so to do.

Or haply smartest of triangles,

Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen;

The hat that, to his vestry wrangles,

That venerable priest doth go in,—

And then and there amid the stare

Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair

And quotes with phiz right orthodox

The example of his reverend brothers,

To prove that priests all fleece their flocks

And he must fleece as well as others.

Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be)

Thus low I take off mine to thee,

The homage of a layman's castor,

To the spruce delta of his pastor.

Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest,

Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter,

Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest

Thy sleek possessor to a mitre!

[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:—"A Delta hat like the horizontal section of a pyramid."—GRANT'S "History of the English Church."

[2] Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of Ireland "the little Zion."

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper,

When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper,

But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends

As you chance to pick up from political friends-

Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down

To transmit you the last newest news that's in town.

As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better—

His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster)

Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter

To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master;

Engaging to change the old name, if he can,

From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;—

Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim)

Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him.

From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar—

Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are,

And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose)

Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]—

Is now busy collecting with brotherly care

The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing

One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare)

On all the distinguisht old ladies now going.

(While I write, an arrival from Riga—the "Brothers"—

Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.)

Last advices from India—Sir Archy, 'tis thought,

Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught

In N. Lat. 2l.)—and his Highness Burmese,

Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees,

And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant

To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment.

(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose

Can establish a running account with the Jews!)

The security being what Rothschild calls "goot,"

A loan will be shortly, of course, set on foot;

The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co.

With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe,

And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us leg-bail,

As he did once before) to pay down on the nail.

* * * * *

This is all for the present—what vile pens and paper!

Yours truly, dear Cousin—best love to Miss Draper.

September, 1826.

[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe by his successor.

[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot.

A VISION.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL."

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray

One hasty orison, whirled me away

To a Limbo, lying—I wist not where—

Above or below, in earth or air;

For it glimmered o'er with a doubtful light,

One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night;

And 'twas crost by many a mazy track,

One didn't know how to get on or back;

And I felt like a needle that's going astray

(With its one eye out) thro' a bundle of hay;

When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me,

"Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!"

Around me flitted unnumbered swarms

Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;

(Like bottled-up babes that grace the room

Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)—

All of them, things half-killed in rearing;

Some were lame—some wanted hearing;

Some had thro' half a century run,

Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon.

Others, more merry, as just beginning,

Around on a point of law were spinning;

Or balanced aloft, 'twixt Bill and Answer,

Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer.

Some were so cross that nothing could please 'em;-

Some gulpt down affidavits to ease 'em—

All were in motion, yet never a one,

Let it move as it might, could ever move on,

"These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see,

"Are what they call suits in Chancery!"

I heard a loud screaming of old and young,

Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung;

Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ")

At an amateur concert screamed in score;—

So harsh on my ear that wailing fell

Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!

It seemed like the dismal symphony

Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see;

Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook

Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,

To cry all night, till life's last dregs,

"Give us our legs!—give us our legs!"

Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,

I askt what all this yell might mean,

When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,

"'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"

I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1]

With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.

In his aged hand he held a wand,

Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,

And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er,

But they never get on one inch the more.

And still they kept limping to and fro,

Like Ariels round old Prospero—

Saying, "Dear Master, let us go,"

But still old Prospero answered "No."

And I heard the while that wizard elf

Muttering, muttering spells to himself,

While o'er as many old papers he turned,

As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned.

He talkt of his virtue—"tho' some, less nice,

(He owned with a sigh) preferred his Vice"—

And he said, "I think"—"I doubt"—"I hope,"

Called God to witness, and damned the Pope;

With many more sleights of tongue and hand

I couldn't for the soul of me understand.

Amazed and posed, I was just about

To ask his name, when the screams without,

The merciless clack of the imps within,

And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din,

That, startled, I woke—leapt up in my bed—

Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled,

And blest my stars, right pleased to see,

That I wasn't as yet in Chancery.

[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

1826.

To the people of England, the humble Petition

Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing—

That sad, very sad, is our present condition;—

Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;—

That forming one seventh, within a few fractions,

Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts,

We hold it the basest of all base transactions

To keep us from murdering the other six parts;—

That as to laws made for the good of the many,

We humbly suggest there is nothing less true;

As all human laws (and our own, more than any)

Are made by and for a particular few:—

That much it delights every true Orange brother

To see you in England such ardor evince,

In discussing which sect most tormented the other,

And burned with most gusto some hundred years since;—

That we love to behold, while old England grows faint,

Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows,

To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint,

Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose;

Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw—

Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother—

And many such points, from which Southey can draw

Conclusions most apt for our hating each other.

That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation

Has now for some ages, gone happily on

Believing in two kinds of Substantiation,

One party in Trans and the other in Con;[1]

That we, your petitioning Cons, have in right

Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands

And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night,

Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for Trans;—

That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages,

For keeping us still in the same state of mind;

Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages,

When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;—

When the words ex and per[2] served as well to annoy

One's neighbors and friends with, as con and trans now;

And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for oi,

Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for ou.[3]

That relying on England whose kindness already

So often has helpt us to play this game o'er,

We have got our red coats and our carabines ready,

And wait but the word to show sport as before.

That as to the expense—the few millions or so,

Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay—

'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know

That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way.

For which your petitioners ever will pray,

Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

[1] Consubstantiation—the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also.

[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute between "ex" and "per" was going on), he found the Turks, we are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such insignificant particles."

[3] The Arian controversy.—Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or particles of speech they used."

COTTON AND CORN.

A DIALOGUE.

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,

As they met and exchanged a salute—

(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,

Poor Cotton half famished on foot):

"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil

"To hint at starvation before you,

"Look down on a poor hungry devil,

"And give him some bread, I implore you!"

Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton,

Perceiving he meant to make free—

"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten

"The distance between you and me!

"To expect that we Peers of high birth

"Should waste our illustrious acres,

"For no other purpose on earth

"Than to fatten curst calico-makers!—

"That Bishops to bobbins should bend—

"Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,

"Great dealers in lawn, to befriend

"Such contemptible dealers in dimity!

"No—vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor

"A hope to be fed at our boards;—

"Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,

"What claim canst thou have upon Lords?

"No—thanks to the taxes and debt,

"And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,

"Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,

"May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"

So saying—whip, crack, and away

Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng,

So headlong, I heard them all say,

"Squire Corn will be down before long."

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

"A Christian of the best edition."—RABELAIS.

Canonize him!—yea, verily, we'll canonize him,

Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,

Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him,

He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this.

Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread

The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea,

Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head,

Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P.

Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere.

And bring little Shiloh—if 'tisn't too far—

Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear,

His conceptions and thine being much on a par.

Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold

A world thou hast honored by cheating so many;

Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old,

Who also by tricks and the Seals[1] makes a penny.

Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2]

Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign;

Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he,

One hallowing Fleet Street, and t'other Toad Lane![3]

The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood,

And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;—

Old women and Butterworths make just as good

As any the Pope ever bookt as Ethereals.

Stand forth, Man of Bibles!—not Mahomet's pigeon,

When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say,

Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion

Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day.

Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams

Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again,

Bolus on bolus, good man!—and then damns

Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again.

How well might his shop—as a type representing

The creed of himself and his sanctified clan—

On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting,"

Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!"

Canonize him!—by Judas, we will canonize him;

For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss;

And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him,

He'll make but the better shop-saint for all this.

Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters,

Convoke all the serious Tag-rag of the nation;

Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters

To witness their Butterworth's Canonization!

Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint,

Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray,

And they form a sum-total for making a Saint.

That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay.

Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar,

While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes,

Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar,

With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies!

[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers.

[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all the children of regeneration."

[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester."

AN INCANTATION.

SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT.

Air.—Come with me, and we will go

Where the rocks of coral grow.

Come with me and we will blow

Lots of bubbles as we go;

Bubbles bright as ever Hope

Drew from fancy—or from soap;

Bright as e'er the South Sea sent

From its frothy element!

Come with me and we will blow

Lots of bubbles as we go.

Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks,

Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1]

Mix the lather—who can be

Fitter for such tasks than thee,

Great M. P. for _Suds_bury!

Now the frothy charm is ripe,

Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,—

Thou whom ancient Coventry

Once so dearly loved that she

Knew not which to her was sweeter,

Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;—

Puff the bubbles high in air,

Puff thy best to keep them there.

Bravo, bravo, Peter More!

Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar.

Glittering all with golden hues

Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;—

Some reflecting mines that lie

Under Chili's glowing sky,

Some, those virgin pearls that sleep

Cloistered in the southern deep;

Others, as if lent a ray

From the streaming Milky Way,

Glistening o'er with curds and whey

From the cows of Alderney.

Now's the moment—who shall first

Catch the bubbles ere they burst?

Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,

Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;—

John Wilks junior runs beside ye!

Take the good the knaves provide ye!

See, with upturned eyes and hands,

Where the _Share_man, Brogden, stands,

Gaping for the froth to fall

Down his gullet—lye and all.

See!—

But, hark, my time is out—

Now, like some great water-spout,

Scattered by the cannon's thunder,

Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!

[Here the stage darkens—a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra —the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Personae_, and the scene drops, leaving the bubble-hunters—all in the suds_.]

[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton."

[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry.

[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus apostrophizes him—"thou rainbow ruffian!"

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

BY SIR W. CURTIS.

1826.

'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet

I sailed along, when—whom should I meet

But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea,

"On the service of his Majesty."[1]

When spying him first thro' twilight dim,

I didn't know what to make of him;

But said to myself, as slow he plied

His fins and rolled from side to side

Conceitedly o'er the watery path—

"'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath,

"And I hear him now, among the fishes,

"Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!"

But, no—'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide

And plump as ever these eyes descried;

A turtle juicy as ever yet

Glued up the lips of a Baronet!

And much did it grieve my soul to see

That an animal of such dignity,

Like an absentee abroad should roam,

When he ought to stay and be ate at home.

But now "a change came o'er my dream,"

Like the magic lantern's shifting slider;

I lookt and saw by the evening beam

On the back of that Turtle sat a rider—

A goodly man with an eye so merry,

I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2]

Who there at his ease did sit and smile,

Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3]

Cracking such jokes, at every motion,

As made the Turtle squeak with glee

And own they gave him a lively notion

Of what his forced-meat balls would be.

So, on the Sec. in his glory went.

Over that briny element,

Waving his hand as he took farewell

With graceful air, and bidding me tell

Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he

Were gone on a foreign embassy—

To soften the heart of a Diplomat,

Who is known to dote upon verdant fat,

And to let admiring Europe see,

That calipash and calipee

Are the English forms of Diplomacy.

[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him as "on his majesty's service."

[2] Mr. Canning.

[3] Wanderings in South America. "It was the first and last time [says Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back."

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

A FABLE.

—"fessus jam sudat asellus, "parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus." VERGIL. Copa.

A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous,

So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,

One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous,

That—down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze

What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,

So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways

For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1]

Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown

For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other—

When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down!

But how to upraise him?—one shouts, t'other whistles,

While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all,

Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]—

(Here Ned gave a stare)—was the cause of his fall."

Another wise Solomon cries as he passes—

"There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease;

"The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,

"And this is his mode of 'transition to peace.'"

Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces

Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone—

"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis,"

(The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on."

Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear

Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan;

And—what was still dolefuller—lending an ear

To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far

As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past—

"Quick—off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,

"Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"

October, 1826.

[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and beginning, "I hail thee, brother!"

[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what food the gentleman meant?"—"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

1826.

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions!

And oh! above all I admire that Decree,

In which thou command'st that all she politicians

Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea.

'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster—

A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts,

Who talks with a lisp of "the last new West_minster_,"

And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;"

Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is,

How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;—

And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is

In Jeremy's school, of no sort of utility.

To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing—

ART. 1.—"On the Needle's variations," by Pl—ce;[1]

ART. 2.—By her Favorite Funblank[2]—"so amusing!

"Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a Law case."

ART. 3.—"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own—

(Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);-

ART. 4.—"Upon Honesty," author unknown;—

ART. 5.—(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders."

Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag

And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call—

Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag,

I would bag this she Benthamite first of them all!

And lest she should ever again lift her head

From the watery bottom, her clack to renew—

As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead,

I would hang around her neck her own darling Review.

[1] A celebrated political tailor.

[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "Life of Sheridan," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235— and some fractions.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

utrum horum dirius borun? Incerti Auctoris.

What! still those two infernal questions,

That with our meals our slumbers mix—

That spoil our tempers and digestions—

Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores?

Nothing else talkt of night or morn—

Nothing in doors or out of doors,

But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests—

While Ministers, still worse than either,

Skilled but in feathering their nests,

Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet

Popery and Corn that oft I doubt,

Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat,

Or bonded Papists, they let out.

Here, landlords, here polemics nail you,

Armed with all rubbish they can rake up;

Prices and Texts at once assail you—

From Daniel these, and those from Jacob,

And when you sleep, with head still torn

Between the two, their shapes you mix,

Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn—

Then Corn again seems Catholics.

Now Dantsic wheat before you floats—

Now Jesuits from California—

Now Ceres linkt with Titus Oats,

Comes dancing thro' the "Porta _Corn_ea."[1]

Oft too the Corn grows animate,

And a whole crop of heads appears,

Like Papists, bearding Church and State—

Themselves, together by the ears!

In short these torments never cease,

And oft I wish myself transferred off

To some far, lonely land of peace

Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of.

Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole;

For—if my fate is to be chosen

'Twixt bores and icebergs—on my soul,

I'd rather, of the two, be frozen!

[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel."

A certain Sprite, who dwells below,

('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)

Came up incog. some years ago

To try for a change the London air.

So well he lookt and drest and talkt,

And hid his tail and horns so handy,

You'd hardly have known him as he walkt

From C——e, or any other Dandy.

(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew;

So he has but to take them out of the socket,

And—just as some fine husbands do—

Conveniently clap them into his pocket.)

In short, he lookt extremely natty,

And even contrived—to his own great wonder—

By dint of sundry scents from Gattie,

To keep the sulphurous hogo under.

And so my gentleman hoofed about,

Unknown to all but a chosen few

At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt

He had many post-obits falling due.

Alike a gamester and a wit,

At night he was seen with Crockford's crew,

At morn with learned dames would sit—

So past his time 'twixt black and blue.

Some wisht to make him an M. P.,

But, finding Wilks was also one, he

Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he

"Would ever sit in one house with Johnny."

At length as secrets travel fast,

And devils, whether he or she,

Are sure to be found out at last,

The affair got wind most rapidly.

The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs

Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers—

Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's,

Fired off a squib in the morning papers:

"We warn good men to keep aloof

"From a grim old Dandy seen about

"With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof

"Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out."

Now,—the Devil being gentleman,

Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,—

You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran,

How much they hurt and shockt his feelings.

Away he posts to a Man of Law,

And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em,

As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw,

And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em.

Straight an indictment was preferred—

And much the Devil enjoyed the jest,

When, asking about the Bench, he heard

That, of all the Judges, his own was Best.[1]

In vain Defendant proffered proof

That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil—

Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof

And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil.

The Jury (saints, all snug and rich,

And readers of virtuous Sunday papers)

Found for the Plaintiff—on hearing which

The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers.

For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies

(As this wily fiend is named in the Bible)

To find it settled by laws so wise,

That the greater the truth, the worse the libel!

[1] A celebrated Judge, so named.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted—Authors of all-work to job for the season,

No matter which party, so faithful to neither;

Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.

Can manage, like ******, to do without either.

If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics;

Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat;

They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics,

And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet.

For a dramatist too the most useful of schools—

He can study high life in the King's Bench community;

Aristotle could scarce keep him more within rules,

And of place he at least must adhere to the unity.

Any lady or gentleman, come to an age

To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher)

Will meet with encouragement—so much, per page,

And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer.

No matter with what their remembrance is stockt,

So they'll only remember the quantum desired;—

Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, oct.,

Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required.

They may treat us, like Kelly, with old jeu-d'esprits,

Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic;

Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1]

That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic.

Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn

By "Farmers" and "Landholders"—(worthies whose lands

Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn,

Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands).

No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein,

Sure of a market;—should they too who pen 'em

Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2]

Something extra allowed for the additional venom.

Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance,

All excellent subjects for turning a penny;—

To write upon all is an author's sole chance

For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of any.

Nine times out of ten, if his title is good,

The material within of small consequence is;—

Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,

Why—that's the concern of the reader, not his.

Nota Bene—an Essay, now printing, to show,

That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)

Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago,

When he wrote thus—"Quodcunque in Fund is, assess it."

[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "comme pour elle."

[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the Irish Committees.

THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

1827.

I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,

"He is dead—he is dead," the rumor flew;

And I raised my chain and turned me round,

And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass;

Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!

For never came joy to them alas!

That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,

And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?

"Is it he—that Doubter of law and right,

"Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide—

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,

"Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt

"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,

"Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out—

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,

"Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea

"Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance

"Of shaking him off—is't he? is't he?"

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,

And thrusting me back to my den of woe,

With a laughter even more fierce and wild

Than their funeral howling, answered "No."

But the cry still pierced my prison-gate,

And again I askt, "What scourge is gone?

"Is it he—that Chief, so coldly great,

"Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon—

"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words

"They link with hate on his native plains;

"And why?—they lent him hearts and swords,

"And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired,

When, hark!—there sounded a Royal knell;

And I knew what spirit had just expired,

And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,

He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,

But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,

And he now was dead and—I couldn't rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands

Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;

He had armed anew my torturers' hands,

And them did I curse—but sighed for him.

For, his was the error of head not heart;

And—oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,

Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,

And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends

For the fatal fault of an erring head—

Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,

In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile,

To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,

For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,

And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,

I calmly sunk in my chains again;

While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!"

My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"

January, 1827.

[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York.

[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks."—Story of Sinbad.

ODE TO FERDINAND.

1827.

Quit the sword, thou King of men,

Grasp the needle once again;

Making petticoats is far

Safer sport than making war;

Trimming is a better thing,

Than the being trimmed, oh King!

Grasp the needle bright with which

Thou didst for the Virgin stitch

Garment, such as ne'er before

Monarch stitched or Virgin wore,

Not for her, oh semster nimble!

Do I now invoke thy thimble;

Not for her thy wanted aid is,

But for certain grave old ladies,

Who now sit in England's cabinet,

Waiting to be clothed in tabinet,

Or whatever choice étoffe is

Fit for Dowagers in office.

First, thy care, oh King, devote

To Dame Eldon's petticoat.

Make it of that silk whose dye

Shifts for ever to the eye,

Just as if it hardly knew

Whether to be pink or blue.

Or—material fitter yet—

If thou couldst a remnant get

Of that stuff with which, of old,

Sage Penelope, we're told,

Still by doing and undoing,

Kept her suitors always wooing—

That's the stuff which I pronounce, is

Fittest for Dame Eldon's flounces.

After this, we'll try thy hand,

Mantua-making Ferdinand,

For old Goody Westmoreland;

One who loves, like Mother Cole,

Church and State with all her soul;

And has past her life in frolics

Worthy of our Apostolics.

Choose, in dressing this old flirt,

Something that won't show the dirt,

As, from habit, every minute

Goody Westmoreland is in it.

This is all I now shall ask,

Hie thee, monarch, to thy task;

Finish Eldon's frills and borders,

Then return for further orders.

Oh what progress for our sake,

Kings in millinery make!

Ribands, garters, and such things,

Are supplied by other Kings—

Ferdinand his rank denotes

By providing petticoats.

HAT VERSUS WIG.

1827.

"At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eldon, in order to guard against the effects of the damp, stood upon his hat during the whole of the ceremony."

—metus omnes et inexorabile fatum

subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis

avari.

'Twixt Eldon's Hat and Eldon's Wig

There lately rose an altercation,—

Each with its own importance big,

Disputing which most serves the nation.

Quoth Wig, with consequential air,

"Pooh! pooh! you surely can't design,

"My worthy beaver, to compare

"Your station in the state with mine.

"Who meets the learned legal crew?

"Who fronts the lordly Senate's pride?

"The Wig, the Wig, my friend—while you

"Hang dangling on some peg outside.

"Oh! 'tis the Wig, that rules, like Love,

"Senate and Court, with like éclat—

"And wards below and lords above,

"For Law is Wig and Wig is Law!

"Who tried the long, Long WELLESLEY suit,

"Which tried one's patience, in return?

"Not thou, oh Hat!—tho' couldst thou do't,

"Of other brims[1] than thine thou'dst learn.

"'Twas mine our master's toil to share;

"When, like 'Truepenny,' in the play,[2]

"He, every minute, cried out 'Swear,'

"And merrily to swear went they;—[3]

"When, loath poor WELLESLEY to condemn, he

"With nice discrimination weighed,

"Whether 'twas only 'Hell and Jemmy,'

Or 'Hell and Tommy' that he played.

"No, no, my worthy beaver, no—

"Tho' cheapened at the cheapest hatter's,

"And smart enough as beavers go

"Thou ne'er wert made for public matters."

Here Wig concluded his oration,

Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise;

While thus, full cockt for declamation,

The veteran Hat enraged replies:—

"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget

"What thou, what England owes to me?

"Ungrateful Wig!—when will a debt,

"So deep, so vast, be owed thee?

"Think of that night, that fearful night,

"When, thro' the steaming vault below,

"Our master dared, in gout's despite,

"To venture his podagric toe!

"Who was it then, thou boaster, say

"When thou hadst to thy box sneaked off,

"Beneath his feet protecting lay,

"And saved him from a mortal cough?

"Think, if Catarrh had quenched that sun,

"How blank this world had been to thee!

"Without that head to shine upon,

"Oh Wig, where would thy glory be?

"You, too, ye Britons,—had this hope

"Of Church and State been ravisht from ye,

"Oh think, how Canning and the Pope

"Would then have played up 'Hell and Tommy'!

"At sea, there's but a plank, they say,

"'Twixt seamen and annihilation;

"A Hat, that awful moment, lay

"'Twixt England and Emancipation!

"Oh!!!—"

At this "Oh!!!" The Times Reporter

Was taken poorly, and retired;

Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter,

Than justice to the case required.

On his return, he found these shocks

Of eloquence all ended quite;

And Wig lay snoring in his box,

And Hat was—hung up for the night.

[1] "Brim—a naughty woman."—GROSE.

[2]"Ghost[beneath].—Swear! "Hamlet.—Ha, ha! say'st thou so! Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on."

[3] His Lordship's demand for fresh affidavits was incessant.

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN.

"To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was

yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the

Locusts and Periwinkles, amounting one year with another

to the value of 2,485,768," etc.—RABELAIS.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,

And they cheered and shouted all the way,

As the Laird of Salmagundi went.

To open in state his Parliament.

The Salmagundians once were rich,

Or thought they were—no matter which—

For, every year, the Revenue

From their Periwinkles larger grew;

And their rulers, skilled in all the trick

And legerdemain of arithmetic,

Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4,

5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10,

Such various ways, behind, before,

That they made a unit seem a score,

And proved themselves most wealthy men!

So, on they went, a prosperous crew,

The people wise, the rulers clever—

And God help those, like me and you,

Who dared to doubt (as some now do)

That the Periwinkle Revenue

Would thus go flourishing on for ever.

"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say,

And they cheered and shouted all the way,

As the Great Panurge in glory went

To open his own dear Parliament.

But folks at length began to doubt

What all this conjuring was about;

For, every day, more deep in debt

They saw their wealthy rulers get:—

"Let's look (said they) the items thro'

"And see if what we're told be true

"Of our Periwinkle Revenue,"

But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle

Of truth in aught they heard before;

For they gained by Periwinkles little

And lost by Locusts ten times more!

These Locusts are a lordly breed

Some Salmagundians love to feed.

Of all the beasts that ever were born,

Your Locust most delights in corn;

And tho' his body be but small,

To fatten him takes the devil and all!

"Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry,

As they saw the gaudy show go by,

As the Laird of Salmagundi went

To open his Locust Parliament!

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

BATCH THE FIRST.

"His 'prentice han'

He tried on man,

And then he made the lasses."

1827.

"And now," quoth the Minister, (eased of his panics,

And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,)

"Having had our full swing at destroying mechanics,

"By way of set-off, let us make a few Lords.

"'Tis pleasant—while nothing but mercantile fractures,

"Some simple, some compound, is dinned in our ears—

"To think that, tho' robbed all coarse manufactures,

"We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;—

"Those Gotielin productions which Kings take a pride

"In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of;

"Choice tapestry things very grand on one side,

"But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of.

The plan being fixt, raw material was sought,—

No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be;

And first, to begin with, Squire W—-, 'twas thought,

For a Lord was as raw a material as need be.

Next came with his penchant for painting and pelf

The tasteful Sir Charles,[1] so renowned far and near

For purchasing pictures and selling himself—

And both (as the public well knows) very dear.

Beside him Sir John comes, with equal éclat, in;—

Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye;

Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of drawing,

Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury.

But, bless us!—behold a new candidate come—

In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written:

He poiseth a pill-box 'twixt finger and thumb,

And he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Britain!

"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls!

"Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted,

"If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls,

"And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted!

"No—ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford—

"If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life,

"And young Master Holford as yet is too small for't,

"Sweet Doctor, we'll make a she Peer of thy wife.

"Next to bearing a coronet on our own brows

"Is to bask in its light from the brows of another;

"And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse,

"As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine thro' his mother."[2]

Thus ended the First Batch—and Jenky, much tired

(It being no joke to make Lords by the heap),

Took a large dram of ether—the same that inspired

His speech 'gainst the Papists—and prosed off to sleep.

[1] Created Lord Farnborough.

[2] Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc.

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

BY LORD ELDON.

1827.

"vos inumbrelles video."—Ex Juvenil.

GEORGII CANNINGII.[2]

My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is

The last into which at my age I could fall—

Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses,

Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all.

My Lords, on the question before us at present,

No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow,

"That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant,

"Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!"

God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me;

I am ancient—but were I as old as King Priam,

Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be,

To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am.

I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous,

And long as God spares me will always maintain,

That once having taken men's rights, or umbrellas,

We ne'er should consent to restore them again.

What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers,

If thus you give back Mr. Bell's parapluie,

That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears,

And then—where would your Protestant periwigs be?

No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day,

Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow,

"For God's sake"—at that awful moment I'd say—

"For God's sake, don't give Mr. Bell his umbrella."

["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has produced so remarkable an impression."]

[1] A case which interested the public very much at this period. A gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, which may be considered as a pendant to that of the Learned Earl on the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction.

[2] From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's—

"I say, my good fellows,

As you've no umbrellas."

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

BY JOHN BULL.

Dublin, March 12, 1827.—Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.—Freeman's Journal.

I have found out a gift for my Erin,

A gift that will surely content her:—

Sweet pledge of a love so endearing!

Five millions of bullets I've sent her.

She askt me for Freedom and Right,

But ill she her wants understood;—

Ball cartridges, morning and night,

Is a dose that will do her more good.

There is hardly a day of our lives

But we read, in some amiable trials,

How husbands make love to their wives

Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials.

One thinks, with his mistress or mate

A good halter is sure to agree—

That love-knot which, early and late,

I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee.

While another, whom Hymen has blest

With a wife that is not over placid,

Consigns the dear charmer to rest,

With a dose of the best Prussic acid.

Thus, Erin! my love do I show—

Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed!

And, as poison and hemp are too slow,

Do thy business with bullets instead.

Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken,

Ask Roden, that mildest of saints;

He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken,

Alone can remove thy complaints;—

That, blest as thou art in thy lot,

Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant

But being hanged, tortured and shot,

Much oftener than thou art at present.

Even Wellington's self hath averred

Thou art yet but half sabred and hung,

And I loved him the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from his tongue.

So take the five millions of pills,

Dear partner, I herewith inclose;

'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill,

From Cromwell to Eldon, propose.

And you, ye brave bullets that go,

How I wish that, before you set out,

The Devil of the Freischütz could know

The good work you are going about.

For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead.

Into such supernatural wit.

That you'd all of you know, as you sped,

Where a bullet of sense ought to hit.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

regnis EX sul ademptis.—Verg. 1827.

To Swanage—that neat little town in whose bay

Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers—

Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day,

To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers.

There—learned as he is in conundrums and laws—

Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on),

"Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"—"Because

Their suits are put off, till they haven't a rag on."

Thus on he went chatting—but, lo! while he chats,

With a face full of wonder around him he looks;

For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats,

Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks.

"How is this, Lady Bags?—to this region aquatic

"Last year they came swarming to make me their bow,

"As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic,

"Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s—where the devil are they now?"

"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "can you doubt?

"I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant;

"But don't you perceive, dear, the Church have found out

"That you're one of the people called Ex's, at present?"

"Ah, true—you have hit it—I am, indeed, one

"Of those ill-fated Ex's (his Lordship replies),

"And with tears, I confess—God forgive me the pun!—

"We X's have proved ourselves not to be Y's."

[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, till this season, much frequented also by gentlemen of the church.

[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon.

WO! WO![1]

Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it—

That beautiful Light which is now on its way;

Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet,

Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray!

Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee!

How formed to all tastes are thy various employs.

The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee;

The young, as an amateur scourger of boys.

Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!—

On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy!

With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other,

Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee."

Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way;

Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition,

Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day,

Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's Velluti edition.

Come, Roden, who doubtest—so mild are thy views—

Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation;

Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose

'Twixt good old Rebellion and new Reformation.

What more from her Saints can Hibernia require?

St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter

Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2]

And Saints keep her now in eternal hot water.

Wo, wo to the man who would check their career,

Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us,

When blest with an orthodox crop every year,

We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes.

In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know,

Had been trying their talent for many a day;

Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show,

Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way."

And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;—

"Catch your Catholic, first—soak him well in poteen,

"Add salary sauce,[3] and the thing is complete.

"You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean."

"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!"

Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4]

Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery

Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!"

[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress.

[2] The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare.

[3] "We understand that several applications have lately been made to the Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they giving a head for converts?'"—Wexford Post.

[4] Of the rook species—Corvus frugilegus, i.e. a great consumer of corn.

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."—Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16.

1827.

Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium,

When "civil advantages" are to be gained,

What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,

Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.

In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular)

All the good things to good hypocrites fall;

And he who in swallowing creeds is particular,

Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.

Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot)

Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow,

And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got,

I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.

Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god,

Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places,

I own I should feel it unchristian and odd

Not to find myself also in Vishnu's good graces.

For among all the gods that humanely attend

To our wants in this planet, the gods to my wishes

Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend

In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1]

So take my advice—for if even the devil

Should tempt men again as an idol to try him,

'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil,

As nobody doubts we should get something by him.

[1] Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"—his first Avatar being in the shape of a fish.

ENIGMA.

monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.

Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,

And tell me what my name may be.

I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,

And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;—

Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),

I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes:

Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand,

That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,

It would take every morsel of scrip in the land

But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.

Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,

To cover me nothing but rags will supply;

And the doctors declare that in due course of nature

About the year 30 in rags I shall die.

Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,

An object of interest most painful to all;

In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found,

Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall.

Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,

Come tell me what my name may be.

When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,

Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,

O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look,

And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw!

When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,

And expects thro' another to caper and prank it,

You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!"

How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.

When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall

His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow,

Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall,

And the cup falls to earth and—the gout to his toe!

But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram

My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres,

And knowing who made me the thing that I am,

Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.

Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,

And tell, if thou know'st, who I may be.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN.

"vox clamantis in deserto."

1827.

Said Malthus one day to a clown

Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,—

"What's the number of souls in this town?"—

"The number! Lord bless you, there's none.

"We have nothing but dabs in this place,

"Of them a great plenty there are;—

But the soles, please your reverence and grace,

"Are all t'other side of the bar."

And so 'tis in London just now,

Not a soul to be seen up or down;—

Of dabs? a great glut, I allow,

But your soles, every one, out of town.

East or west nothing wondrous or new,

No courtship or scandal worth knowing;

Mrs. B—-, and a Mermaid[1] or two,

Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers

That some weeks ago kept us merry?

Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears?

And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?

Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor,

In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled!—

It being his task to take care

That such animals shan't go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils

Are so worthy a captain of horse—

Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle's)

Are "amendments, that make matters worse;"[3]

Great Chieftain, who takest such pains

To prove—what is granted, nem. con.—

With how moderate a portion of brains

Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where

Is the peer with a star at his button,

Whose quarters could ever compare

With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?[4]

Why, why have ye taken your flight,

Ye diverting and dignified crew?

How ill do three farces a night,

At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee,

My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big

Or where's the burletta can be

Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig?

I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could

(Tho' Griffin's a comical lad)

Invent any joke half so good

As that precious one, "This is too bad!"

Then come again, come again Spring!

Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train;

And—of all things the funniest—bring

These exalted Grimaldis again!

[1] One of the shows of London.

[2] More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register for A. D. 1827.

[3] From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons.

[4] The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's "fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten.

[5] The nom de guerre under which Colman has written some of his best farces.

THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION."

1828.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage)

The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange,

Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage

Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change.

Tho' the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad,"

'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends;

And few dogs have such opportunities had

Of knowing how Lions behave—among friends;

How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks,

Is all noted down by this Boswell so small;

And 'tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks

That the Lion was no such great things after all.

Tho' he roared pretty well—this the puppy allows—

It was all, he says, borrowed—all second-hand roar;

And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows

To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a Cynic could ask,

To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits

Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task,

And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case)

With sops every day from the Lion's own pan,

He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass.

And does all a dog so diminutive can.

However, the book's a good book, being rich in

Examples and warnings to lions high-bred,

How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen,

Who'll feed on them living and foul them when dead.

T. PIDCOCK

Exeter 'Change,

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

Et tu, Brute!

1828.[1]

What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!

After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;

First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,

And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]

I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;—

Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!

Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,—

And now to turn absolute Don after all!!

Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter

Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine,

Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,

And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.

That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;—

Great Despots on bouilli served up à la Russe,[3]

Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,

And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.

Some Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)

A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;—

Not content with the common hot meat on a table,

They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it![4]

No wonder a Don of such appetites found

Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;

Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round

Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup à la Reine.

Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,

Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,

And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings

Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!

The Bulls, in hysterics—the Bears just as bad—

The few men who have, and the many who've not tick,

All shockt to find out that that promising lad,

Prince Metternich's pupil, is—not patriotic!

[1] At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun more openly to declare themselves.

[2] Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the year 1827.

[3] Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits—a favorite dish of the Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman.

[4] This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars—the hiding the body under the dinner-table, etc.—is, no doubt, well known to the reader.

THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

1828.

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride,

Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride

Two stately steeds—standing, with graceful straddle,

Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle,

While to soft tunes—some jigs and some andantes—

He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes.

So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant,

That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;—

Papist and Protestant the coursers twain,

That lend their necks to his impartial rein,

And round the ring—each honored, as they go,

With equal pressure from his gracious toe—

To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day"

And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way,

While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks

His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks.

Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art!

How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;—

If Protestant's old restive tricks were gone,

And Papist's winkers could be still kept on!

But no, false hopes—not even the great Ducrow

'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow:

If solar hacks played Phaëton a trick,

What hope, alas, from hackneys lunatic?

If once my Lord his graceful balance loses,

Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses;

If Peel but gives one extra touch of whip

To Papist's tail or Protestant's ear-tip—

That instant ends their glorious horsmanship!

Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free.

And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea!

THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

A DREAM.

"Cio che si perde qui, là si raguna." ARIOSTO.

"—-a valley, where he sees Things that on earth were lost." MILTON.

1828.

Knowest thou not him[1] the poet sings,

Who flew to the moon's serene domain,

And saw that valley where all the things,

That vanish on earth are found again—

The hopes of youth, the resolves of age,

The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage,

The golden visions of mining cits,

The promises great men strew about them;

And, packt in compass small, the wits

Of monarchs who rule as well without them!—

Like him, but diving with wing profound,

I have been to a Limbo underground,

Where characters lost on earth, (and cried,

In vain, like Harris's, far and wide,)

In heaps like yesterday's orts, are thrown

And there, so worthless and flyblown

That even the imps would not purloin them,

Lie till their worthy owners join them.

Curious it was to see this mass

Of lost and torn-up reputations;—

Some of them female wares, alas!

Mislaid at innocent assignations;

Some, that had sighed their last amen

From the canting lips of saints that would be;

And some once owned by "the best of men,"

Who had proved-no better than they should be.

'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,

Once shining fair, now soakt and black—

"No wonder" (an imp at my elbow cried),

"For I pickt it out of a butt of sack!"

Just then a yell was heard o'er head,

Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons;

And lo! a devil right downward sped,

Bringing within his claws so red

Two statesmen's characters, found, he said,

Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons;

The which, with black official grin,

He now to the Chief Imp handed in;—

Both these articles much the worse

For their journey down, as you may suppose;

But one so devilish rank—"Odd's curse!".

Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.

"Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well

"From whom these two stray matters fell;"—

Then, casting away, with loathful shrug,

The uncleaner waif (as he would a drug

The Invisible's own dark hand had mixt),

His gaze on the other[2] firm he fixt,

And trying, tho' mischief laught in his eye,

To be moral because of the young imps by,

"What a pity!" he cried—"so fresh its gloss,

"So long preserved—'tis a public loss!

"This comes of a man, the careless blockhead,

"Keeping his character in his pocket;

"And there—without considering whether

"There's room for that and his gains together—

"Cramming and cramming and cramming away,

"Till—out slips character some fine day!

"However"—and here he viewed it round—

"This article still may pass for sound.

"Some flaws, soon patched, some stains are all

"The harm it has had in its luckless fall.

"Here, Puck!" and he called to one of his train—

"The owner may have this back again.

"Tho' damaged for ever, if used with skill,

"It may serve perhaps to trade on still;

"Tho' the gem can never as once be set,

"It will do for a Tory Cabinet."

[1] Astolpho.

[2] Huskisson.

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

qui facit per alium facit per se.

'Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time

When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes

Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,

But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters;—

And one day a Bishop, addressing a Blue,

Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?"

To which the Blue answered—"No, Bishop, have you?"

The same is now done by our privileged class;

And to show you how simple the process it needs,

If a great Major-General[1] wishes to pass

For an author of History, thus he proceeds:—

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well

As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,

He settles his neckcloth—takes snuff—rings the bell,

And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

The Subaltern comes—sees his General seated,

In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;—

"There look," saith his Lordship, "my work is completed,—

"It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling."

Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads

Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more;

And tho' often condemned to see breaking of heads,

He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.

However, the job's sure to pay—that's enough—

So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,

Convinced that there never was job half so tough

As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.

But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view—

New toil for the Sub.—for the Lord new expense:

'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do,

As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!

At last—even this is achieved by his aid;

Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and—the story;

Drums beat—the new Grand March of Intellect's played—

And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!

[1] Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."

Inferno, canto 5.

I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng

Of ghosts came fluttering towards me—blown along,

Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,

By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms

Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,

And puft as—tho' they'd never puff enough.

"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired

Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired

With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand

On their lean legs while answering my demand.

"We once were authors"—thus the Sprite, who led

This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said—

"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,

"Who, early smit with love of praise and—pewter,[1]

"On C—lb—n's shelves first saw the light of day,

"In —-'s puffs exhaled our lives away—

"Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace,

"When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease.

"Ah! little knew we then what ills await

"Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state;

"Bepuft on earth—how loudly Str—t can tell—

"And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!"

Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew,

Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro'

In mournful prose,—such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost

Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast,

Sighs thro' the columns of the Morning Post,—

Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood

Foremost of all that flatulential brood,

Singling a she-ghost from the party, said,

"Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3]

"One of our lettered nymphs—excuse the pun—

"Who gained a name on earth by—having none;

"And whose initials would immortal be,

"Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.

"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat,

"Wrapt in his own dead rhymes—fit winding-sheet—

"Still marvels much that not a soul should care

"One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'—

"While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew

A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro',

As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre

For the whole Row's soft _trade_winds to inspire,)

"This modest genius breathed one wish alone,

"To have his volume read, himself unknown;

"But different far the course his glory took,

"All knew the author, and—none read the book.

"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun,

"Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington;—

"In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent,

"And now the wind returns the compliment.

"This lady here, the Earl of —-'s sister,

"Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister—

"Beg pardon—Honorable Mister Lister,

"A gentleman who some weeks since came over

"In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover.

"Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey,

"Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away—

"Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind

"No further purchase for a puff can find."

"And thou, thyself"—here, anxious, I exclaimed—

"Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named."

"Me, Sir!" he blushing cried—"Ah! there's the rub—

"Know, then—a waiter once at Brooks's Club,

"A waiter still I might have long remained,

"And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drained;

"But ah! in luckless hour, this last December,

"I wrote a book,[4] and Colburn dubbed me 'Member'—

"'Member of Brooks's!'—oh Promethean puff,

"To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!

"With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits,

"And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits,

"To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;—

"With such ingredients served up oft before,

"But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er,

"I managed for some weeks to dose the town,

"Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down;

"And ready still even waiters' souls to damn,

"The Devil but rang his bell, and—here I am;—

"Yes—'Coming up, Sir,' once my favorite cry,

"Exchanged for 'Coming down, Sir,' here am I!"

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop,

When, lo! a breeze—such as from —-'s shop

Blows in the vernal hour when puffs prevail,

And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale—

Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop,

And whirling him and all his grisly group

Of literary ghosts—Miss X. Y. Z.—

The nameless author, better known than read—

Sir Jo—the Honorable Mr. Lister,

And last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister—

Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes

And sins about them, far into those climes

"Where Peter pitched his waistcoat"[5] in old times,

Leaving me much in doubt as on I prest,

With my great master, thro' this realm unblest,

Whether Old Nick or Colburn puffs the best.

[1] The classical term for money.

[2] Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to preside—"regnat Rosa"—over its pages.

[3] Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

[4] "History of the Clubs of London," announced as by "a Member of Brooks's."

[5]A Dantesque allusion to the old saying "Nine miles beyond Hell, where Peter pitched his waistcoat."

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S TAIL.[1]

All in again—unlookt for bliss!

Yet, ah! one adjunct still we miss;—

One tender tie, attached so long

To the same head, thro' right and wrong.

Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off

That memorable tail of thine?

Why—as if one was not enough—

Thy pig-tie with thy place resign,

And thus at once both cut and run?

Alas! my Lord, 'twas not well done,

'Twas not, indeed,—tho' sad at heart,

From office and its sweets to part,

Yet hopes of coming in again,

Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain;

But thus to miss that tail of thine,

Thro' long, long years our rallying sign—

As if the State and all its powers

By tenancy in tail were ours—

To see it thus by scissors fall,

This was "the unkindest cut of all!"

It seemed as tho' the ascendant day

Of Toryism had past away,

And proving Samson's story true,

She lost her vigor with her queue.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said—

The tail directs them, not the head;

Then how could any party fail,

That steered its course by Bathurst's tail?

Not Murat's plume thro' Wagram's fight

E'er shed such guiding glories from it,

As erst in all true Tories sight,

Blazed from our old Colonial comet!

If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As Wellington will be anon)

Thou mightst have had a tail to spare;

But no! alas! thou hadst but one,

And that—like Troy, or Babylon,

A tale of other times—is gone!

Yet—weep ye not, ye Tories true—

Fate has not yet of all bereft us;

Though thus deprived of Bathurst's queue,

We've Ellenborough's curls still left us:—

Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious,

His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues;

Grand, glorious curls, which in debate

Surcharged with all a nation's fate,

His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,[2]

And oft in thundering talk comes near him;

Except that there the speaker nodded

And here 'tis only those who hear him.

Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fat cranium may ye flourish,

With plenty of Macassar oil

Thro' many a year your growth to nourish!

And ah! should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,

Still dear to Tories even in death,

Their last loved relics we'll bequeath,

A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

[1] The noble Lord, as is well known, cut off this much-respected appendage on his retirement from office some months since.

[2] "Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod."—Pope's Homer.

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.[1]

1838.

See those cherries, how they cover

Yonder sunny garden wall;—

Had they not that network over,

Thieving birds would eat them all.

So to guard our posts and pensions,

Ancient sages wove a net,

Thro' whose holes of small dimensions

Only certain knaves can get.

Shall we then this network widen;

Shall we stretch these sacred holes,

Thro' which even already slide in

Lots of small dissenting souls?

"God forbid!" old Testy crieth;

"God forbid!" so echo I;

Every ravenous bird that flieth

Then would at our cherries fly.

Ope but half an inch or so,

And, behold! what bevies break in;—

Here some curst old Popish crow

Pops his long and lickerish beak in;

Here sly Arians flock unnumbered,

And Socinians, slim and spare,

Who with small belief encumbered

Slip in easy anywhere;—

Methodists, of birds the aptest,

Where there's pecking going on;

And that water-fowl, the Baptist—

All would share our fruits anon;

Every bird of every city,

That for years with ceaseless din,

Hath reverst the starling's ditty,

Singing out "I can't get in."

"God forbid!" old Testy snivels;

"God forbid!" I echo too;

Rather may ten thousand devils

Seize the whole voracious crew!

If less costly fruits won't suit 'em,

Hips and haws and such like berries,

Curse the cormorants! stone 'em, shoot 'em,

Anything—to save our cherries.

[1] Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.[1]

1828.

Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong,

If we must run the gantlet thro' blood and expense;

Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong,

Be content with success and pretend not to sense.

If the words of the wise and the generous are vain,

If Truth by the bowstring must yield up her breath,

Let Mutes do the office—and spare her the pain

Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death.

Chain, persecute, plunder—do all that you will—

But save us, at least, the old womanly lore

Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill,

Is at once the two instruments, AUGUR[2] and BORE.

Bring legions of Squires—if they'll only be mute—

And array their thick heads against reason and right,

Like the Roman of old, of historic repute,[3]

Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight;

Pour out from each corner and hole of the Court

Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves,

Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort,

Have their consciences tackt to their patents and staves.

Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings,

Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim;

With all the base, time-serving toadies of Kings,

Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship even him;

And while on the one side each name of renown

That illumines and blesses our age is combined;

While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down,

And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind;

Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other,

And, counting of noses the quantum desired,

Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother,

"Come forward, my jewels"—'tis all that's required.

And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter—

Thus honestly persecute, outlaw and chain;

But spare even your victims the torture of laughter,

And never, oh never, try reasoning again!

[1] During the discussion of the Catholic question in the House of Commons last session.

[2] This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

[3] Fabius, who sent droves of bullock against the enemy.

ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

BY ONE OF THE BOARD.

1828.

Let other bards to groves repair,

Where linnets strain their tuneful throats;

Mine be the Woods and Forests where

The Treasury pours its sweeter notes.

No whispering winds have charms for me,

Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask;

To raise the wind for Royalty

Be all our Sylvan zephyr's task!

And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods,

And all such vulgar irrigation,

Let Gallic rhino thro' our Woods

Divert its "course of liquidation."

Ah, surely, Vergil knew full well

What Woods and Forests ought to be,

When sly, he introduced in hell

His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree;[1]—

Nor see I why, some future day,

When short of cash, we should not send

Our Herries down—he knows the way—

To see if Woods in hell will lend.

Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts,

Beneath whose "branches of expense"

Our gracious King gets all he wants,—

Except a little taste and sense.

Long, in your golden shade reclined.

Like him of fair Armida's bowers,

May Wellington some wood-nymph find,

To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours;

To rest from toil the Great Untaught,

And soothe the pangs his warlike brain

Must suffer, when, unused to thought,

It tries to think and—tries in vain.

Oh long may Woods and Forests be

Preserved in all their teeming graces,

To shelter Tory bards like me

Who take delight in Sylvan places!

[1] Called by Vergil, botanically, "species aurifrondentis."

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1]

1828.

"Take back the virgin page."

MOORE'S Irish Melodies.

No longer dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy

At hearing it said by the Treasury brother,

That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my Vesey,

And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another.[2]

For lo! what a service we Irish have done thee;—

Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more;

By St. Patrick, we've scrawled such a lesson upon thee

As never was scrawled upon foolscap before.

Come—on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke,

(Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend you,)

Read Vesey all o'er (as you can't read a book)

And improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send you;

A lesson, in large Roman characters traced,

Whose awful impressions from you and your kin

Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced—

Unless, 'stead of paper, you're mere asses' skin.

Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods,

Could I risk a translation, you should have a rare one;

But pen against sabre is desperate odds,

And you, my Lord Duke (as you hinted once), wear one.

Again and again I say, read Vesey o'er;—

You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus

That Egypt e'er filled with nonsensical lore,

Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us.

All blank as he was, we've returned him on hand,

Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes,

Whose plain, simple drift if they won't understand,

Tho' carest at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's.

Talk of leaves of the Sibyls!—more meaning conveyed is

In one single leaf such as now we have spelled on,

Than e'er hath been uttered by all the old ladies

That ever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon.

[1] These verses were suggested by the result of the Clare election, in the year 1828, when the Right Honorable W. Vesey Fitzgerald was rejected, and Mr. O'Connell returned.

[2] Some expressions to this purport, in a published letter of one of these gentlemen, had then produced a good deal of amusement.

THE ANNUAL PILL.

Supposed to be sung by OLD PROSY, the Jew, in the character of Major

CARTWRIGHT.

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill,

Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay?

Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill,

Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say.

'Tis so pretty a bolus!—just down let it go,

And, at vonce, such a radical shange you vill see,

Dat I'd not be surprished, like de horse in de show,

If your heads all vere found, vere your tailsh ought to be!

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc.

'Twill cure all Electors and purge away clear

Dat mighty bad itching dey've got in deir hands—

'Twill cure too all Statesmen of dulness, ma tear,

Tho' the case vas as desperate as poor Mister VAN'S.

Dere is noting at all vat dis Pill vill not reach—

Give the Sinecure Ghentleman van little grain,

Pless ma heart, it vill act, like de salt on de leech,

And he'll throw de pounds, shillings, and pence, up again!

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc.

'Twould be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paint—

"But, among oder tings fundamentally wrong,

It vill cure de Proad Pottom[1]—a common complaint

Among M.P.'s and weavers—from sitting too long.

Should symptoms of speeching preak out on a dunce

(Vat is often de case), it vill stop de disease,

And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce,

Dat else vould, like tape-worms, come by degrees!

Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill,

Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay?

Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let me say vat I vill,

Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say!

[1] Meaning, I presume, Coalition Administrations.

"IF" AND "PERHAPS."[1]

Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope!

Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea,

And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,

From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee.

"If mutely the slave will endure and obey,

"Nor clanking his fetters nor breathing his pains,

"His masters perhaps at some far distant day

"May think (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains."

Wise "if" and "perhaps!"—precious salve for our wounds,

If he who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes,

Could check the free spring-tide of Mind that resounds,

Even now at his feet, like the sea at Canute's.

But, no, 'tis in vain—the grand impulse is given—

Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will claim;

And if ruin must follow where fetters are riven,

Be theirs who have forged them the guilt and the shame.

"If the slave will be silent!"—vain Soldier, beware—

There is a dead silence the wronged may assume,

When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair,

But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;—

When the blush that long burned on the suppliant's cheek,

Gives place to the avenger's pale, resolute hue;

And the tongue that once threatened, disdaining to speak,

Consigns to the arm the high office—to do.

If men in that silence should think of the hour

When proudly their fathers in panoply stood,

Presenting alike a bold front-work of power

To the despot on land and the foe on the flood:—

That hour when a Voice had come forth from the west,

To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms;

And a lesson long lookt for was taught the opprest,

That kings are as dust before freemen in arms!

If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall

That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet day

At length seemed to break thro' a long night of thrall,

And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;—

If Fancy should tell him, that Dayspring of Good,

Tho' swiftly its light died away from his chain,

Tho' darkly it set in a nation's best blood,

Now wants but invoking to shine out again;

If—if, I say—breathings like these should come o'er

The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come,

Then,—perhaps—ay, perhaps—but I dare not say more;

Thou hast willed that thy slaves should be mute—I am dumb.

[1] Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 1828, when the motion in favor of Catholic Emancipation, brought forward by the Marquis of Lansdowne, was rejected by the House of Lords.

WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

A BALLAD.

Air.—"Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear.

salvete, fratres Asini. ST. FRANCIS.

Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,

Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;

The good we've sought for many a year

Your quills will bring at last.

One letter more, Newcastle, pen,

To match Lord Kenyon's two,

And more than Ireland's host of men,

One brace of Peers will do.

Write on, write on, etc.

Sure never since the precious use

Of pen and ink began,

Did letters writ by fools produce

Such signal good to man.

While intellect, 'mong high and low,

Is marching on, they say,

Give me the Dukes and Lords who go

Like crabs, the other way.

Write on, write on, etc.

Even now I feel the coming light—

Even now, could Folly lure

My Lord Mountcashel too to write,

Emancipation's sure.

By geese (we read in history),

Old Rome was saved from ill;

And now to quills of geese we see

Old Rome indebted still.

Write on, write on, etc.

Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,

Nor beat for sense about—

Things little worth a Noble's while

You're better far without.

Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,

Such miracles were done;

For, write but four such letters more,

And Freedom's cause is won!

SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE.

"The parting Genius is with sighing sent."

MILTON.

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er;

I hear a Voice, from shore to shore,

From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore,

And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone,

"Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!"

Even now I behold your vanishing wings,

Ye Tenths of all conceivable things,

Which Adam first, as Doctors deem,

Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,[1]

After the feast of fruit abhorred—

First indigestion on record!—

Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks,

Ye pigs which, tho' ye be Catholics,

Or of Calvin's most select depraved,

In the Church must have your bacon saved;—

Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves,

And, whatsoever himself believes,

Must bow to the Establisht Church belief,

That the tenth is always a Protestant sheaf;—

Ye calves of which the man of Heaven

Takes Irish tithe, one calf in seven;[2]

Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax,

Eggs, timber, milk, fish and bees' wax;

All things in short since earth's creation,

Doomed, by the Church's dispensation,

To suffer eternal decimation—

Leaving the whole lay-world, since then,

Reduced to nine parts out of ten;

Or—as we calculate thefts and arsons—

Just ten per cent. the worse for Parsons!

Alas! and is all this wise device

For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?—

The whole put down, in the simplest way,

By the souls resolving not to pay!

And even the Papist, thankless race

Who have had so much the easiest case—

To pay for our sermons doomed, 'tis true,

But not condemned to hear them, too—

(Our holy business being, 'tis known,

With the ears of their barley, not their own,)

Even they object to let us pillage

By right divine their tenth of tillage,

And, horror of horrors, even decline

To find us in sacramental wine![3]

It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er,

Ah! never shall rosy Rector more,

Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat,

And make of his flock "a prey and meat."[4]

No more shall be his the pastoral sport

Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court,

Thro' various steps, Citation, Libel—

Scriptures all, but not the Bible;

Working the Law's whole apparatus,

To get at a few predoomed potatoes,

And summoning all the powers of wig,

To settle the fraction of a pig!—

Till, parson and all committed deep

In the case of "Shepherds versus Sheep,"

The Law usurps the Gospel's place,

And on Sundays meeting face to face,

While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station,

Defendants form the congregation.

So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's,

For tenths thus all at sixes and sevens,

Seeking what parsons love no less

Than tragic poets—a good distress.

Instead of studying St. Augustin,

Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin

(Books fit only to hoard dust in),

His reverence stints his evening readings

To learned Reports of Tithe Proceedings,

Sipping the while that port so ruddy,

Which forms his only ancient study;—

Port so old, you'd swear its tartar

Was of the age of Justin Martyr,

And, had he sipt of such, no doubt

His martyrdom would have been—to gout.

Is all then lost?—alas, too true—

Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu!

My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er—

Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more."

[1] A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the Church of England, has assigned the origin of Tithes to "some unrecorded revelation made to Adam."

[2] "The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are seven he shall have one."—REES'S Cyclopaedia, art. "Tithes."

[3] Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Church rates levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for sacramental wine.

[4] Ezekiel, xxxiv., 10.—"Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be meat for them."

THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If

it be so why not let us die in peace?"

—LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent.

Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,

Ye curst improvements, cease;

And let poor Nick Vansittart drop

Into his grave in peace.

Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun,

Young Freedom, veil thy head;

Let nothing good be thought or done,

Till Nick Vansittart's dead!

Take pity on a dotard's fears,

Who much doth light detest;

And let his last few drivelling years

Be dark as were the rest.

You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes,

Speed not so fast away—

Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats,

A few months longer stay.

Together soon, or much I err,

You both from life may go—

The notes unto the scavenger,

And Nick—to Nick below.

Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan,

Be all reforms suspended;

In compliment to dear old Van,

Let nothing bad be mended.

Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings,

Your cry politely cease,

And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings

That Van may die in peace.

So shall he win a fame sublime

By few old rag-men gained;

Since all shall own, in Nicky's time,

Nor sense nor justice reigned.

So shall his name thro' ages past,

And dolts ungotten yet,

Date from "the days of Nicholas,"

With fond and sad regret;—

And sighing say, "Alas, had he

"Been spared from Pluto's bowers,

"The blessed reign of Bigotry

"And Rags might still be ours!"

TO THE REVEREND ——.

ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM.

1828.

What, you, too, my ******, in hashes so knowing,

Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest!

Are you, too, my savory Brunswicker, going

To make an old fool of yourself with the rest?

Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts;

And—if you want something to tease—for variety,

Go study how Ude, in his "Cookery," treats

Live eels when he fits them for polisht society.

Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire,

He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals,[1]

In a manner that Horner himself would admire,

And wish, 'stead of eels, they were Catholic souls.

Ude tells us the fish little suffering feels;

While Papists of late have more sensitive grown;

So take my advice, try your hand at live eels,

And for once let the other poor devils alone.

I have even a still better receipt for your cook—

How to make a goose die of confirmed hepatitis;[2]

And if you'll, for once, fellow-feelings o'erlook,

A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is.

First, catch him, alive—make a good steady fire—

Set your victim before it, both legs being tied,

(As if left to himself he might wish to retire,)

And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side.

There roasting by inches, dry, fevered, and faint,

Having drunk all the cream you so civilly laid, off,

He dies of as charming a liver complaint

As ever sleek person could wish a pie made of.

Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen,

What an emblem this bird, for the epicure's use meant.

Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been

Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren's amusement:

Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver,

A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees—

No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver,

No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease.

[1] The only way, Monsieur Ude assures us, to get rid of the oil so objectionable in this fish.

[2] A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are enlarged for the famous Pates de foie d'oie.

IRISH ANTIQUITIES.

According to some learned opinions

The Irish once were Carthaginians;

But trusting to more late descriptions

I'd rather say they were Egyptians.

My reason's this:—the Priests of Isis,

When forth they marched in long array,

Employed, 'mong other grave devices,

A Sacred Ass to lead the way;

And still the antiquarian traces

'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan,

For still in all religious cases

They put Lord Roden in the van.

A CURIOUS FACT.

The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters,

For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors)

Hath one little oddity well worth reciting,

Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing.

Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold

A cold Apple-pie—mind, the pie must be cold—

His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why),

And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie.

This idolatrous act in so "vital" a Peer,

Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer—

Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head

(Vide Crustium, chap, iv.) of the Worship of Bread.

Some think 'tis a tribute, as author he owes

For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose;—

The only good things in his pages, they swear,

Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes put there.

Others say, 'tis a homage, thro' piecrust conveyed,

To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honored shade;

As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please)

Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green pease,[1]

And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that,

My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat.

While others account for this kind salutation;"—

By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation;"

A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties,

'Twixt old Apple-women and Orange-men lies.

But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises,

For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises:

Lord Kenyon's respected old father (like many

Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny;

And loved so to save,[2] that—there's not the least question—

His death was brought on by a bad indigestion,

From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship would stuff in

At breakfast to save the expense of hot muffin.

Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies

Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes—

Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff

To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off—

And while filial piety urges so many on,

'Tis pure apple-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon.

[1] See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, a whole dish of green peas—the first of the season—while the poor Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by vainly entreating with her eyes for a share.

[2] The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is well known) would not even go to the expense of a diphthong on his father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, thus:—"mors janua vita"

NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

Sir,—

Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel.

As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.

Yours, etc. S.

1828

huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, coeamus, retulit echo. OVID.

There are echoes, we know, of all sorts,

From the echo that "dies in the dale,"

To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports

Up the tide of the torrent her "tale."

There are echoes that bore us, like Blues,

With the latest smart mot they have heard;

There are echoes extremely like shrews

Letting nobody have the last word.

In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too.

Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell,

Who on being askt, "How do you do?"

Politely reply, Pretty well,"

But why should I talk any more

Of such old-fashioned echoes as these,

When Britain has new ones in store,

That transcend them by many degrees?

For of all repercussions of sound

Concerning which bards make a pother,

There's none like that happy rebound

When one blockhead echoes an other;—

When Kenyon commences the bray,

And the Borough-Duke follows his track;

And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay

Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!—

And while, of most echoes the sound

On our ear by reflection doth fall,

These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round,

Without any reflection at all.

Oh Scott, were I gifted like you,

Who can name all the echoes there are

From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue,

From Benledi to wild Uamvar;

I might track thro' each hard Irish name

The rebounds of this asinine strain,

Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came

To the chief Neddy, Kenyon, again;

Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne,

How from Dawson it died off genteelly—

How hollow it hung from the crown

Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely;

How on hearing my Lord of Glandine,

Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way,

Outdone in their own special line

By the forty-ass power of his bray!

But, no—for so humble a bard

'Tis a subject too trying to touch on;

Such noblemen's names are too hard,

And their noddles too soft to dwell much on.

Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill,

Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves;

If in spite of Narcissus you still

Take to fools who are charmed with themselves,

Who knows but, some morning retiring,

To walk by the Trent's wooded side,

You may meet with Newcastle, admiring

His own lengthened ears in the tide!

Or, on into Cambria straying,

Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf,

In his love of ass-cendency, braying

A Brunswick duet with himself!

[1] "Let us from Clubs."

[2] Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes".

[3] Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Clubs, were at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland.

INCANTATION.

FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF "THE BRUNSWICKERS."

SCENE.—Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.— Enter three Brunswickers.

1st Bruns.—Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,

2d Bruns.—Once hath fool Newcastle bawled,

3d Bruns.—Bexley snores:—'tis time, 'tis time,

1st Bruns.—Round about the caldron go;

In the poisonous nonsense throw.

Bigot spite that long hath grown

Like a toad within a stone,

Sweltering in the heart of Scott,

Boil we in the Brunswick pot.

All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,

Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.—Slaver from Newcastle's quill

In the noisome mess distil,

Brimming high our Brunswick broth

Both with venom and with froth.

Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill,

Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel,

With that malty stuff which Chandos

Drivels as no other man does.

Catch (i. e. if catch you can)

One idea, spick and span,

From my Lord of Salisbury,—

One idea, tho' it be

Smaller than the "happy flea"

Which his sire in sonnet terse

Wedded to immortal verse.[1]

Tho' to rob the son is sin,

Put his one idea in;

And, to keep it company,

Let that conjuror Winchelsea

Drop but half another there,

If he hath so much to spare.

Dreams of murders and of arsons,

Hatched in heads of Irish parsons,

Bring from every hole and corner,

Where ferocious priests like Horner

Purely for religious good

Cry aloud for Papist's blood,

Blood for Wells, and such old women,

At their ease to wade and swim in.

All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,

Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

3d Bruns.—Now the charm begin to brew;

Sisters, sisters, add thereto

Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches,

Mixt with leather from his breeches,

Rinsings of old Bexley's brains,

Thickened (if you'll take the pains)

With that pulp which rags create,

In their middle nympha state,

Ere, like insects frail and sunny,

Forth they wing abroad as money.

There—the Hell-broth we've enchanted—

Now but one thing more is wanted.

Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice,

Castlereagh keeps corkt for use,

Which, to work the better spell, is

Colored deep with blood of ——,

Blood, of powers far more various,

Even than that of Januarius,

Since so great a charm hangs o'er it,

England's parsons bow before it,

All.—Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble,

Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble.

2d Bruns.—Cool it now with ——'s blood,

So the charm is firm and good.

[exeunt.

[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

Whene'er you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew,

'Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue,

Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise,

Do the very reverse and you're sure to be wise.

Of the same use as guides the Brunswicker throng;

In their thoughts, words and deeds, so instinctively wrong,

That whatever they counsel, act, talk or indite,

Take the opposite course and you're sure to be right.

So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you

The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you—

Were you even more doltish than any given man is,

More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than Van is.

I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions,

To make you the soundest of sound politicians.

Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory—

Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,—

Watch well how he dines, during any great Question—

What makes him feel gayly, what spoils his digestion—

And always feel sure that his joy o'er a stew

Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to you.

Read him backwards, like Hebrew—whatever he wishes

Or praises, note down as absurd or pernicious.

Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about,

When he's out be an In-when he's in be an Out.

Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night and day,

Like an Irish barometer turned the wrong way:—

If he's up you may swear that foul weather is nigh;

If he's down you may look for a bit of blue sky.

Never mind what debaters or journalists say,

Only ask what he thinks and then think t'other way.

Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely

The Small-note Bill's a blessing, tho' you don't know why.

Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man.

Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan.

Is he all for the Turks? then at once take the whole

Russian Empire (Tsar, Cossacks and all) to your soul.

In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks or is,

Be your thoughts, words and essence the contrast of his.

Nay, as Siamese ladies—at least the polite ones,—

All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white ones-

If even by the chances of time or of tide

Your Tory for once should have sense on his side,

Even then stand aloof—for be sure that Old Nick

When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick.

Such my recipe is—and, in one single verse,

I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse,

Be all that a Brunswicker is not nor could be,

And then—youll be all that an honest man should be.

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE.

FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD.

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs!

How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights!

Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,

Nor must you any more work to death little whites.

Both forced to submit to that general controller

Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion,

No more shall you beat with a big billy-roller.

Nor I with the cart-whip assert my dominion.

Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please

With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let,

We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys,

And between us thump out a good piebald duet.

But this fun is all over;—farewell to the zest

Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip;

Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best,

And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip.

Farewell too the Factory's white pickaninnies—

Small, living machines which if flogged to their tasks

Mix so well with their namesakes, the "Billies" and "Jennies,"

That which have got souls in 'em nobody asks;—

Little Maids of the Mill, who themselves but ill-fed,

Are obliged, 'mong their other benevolent cares,

To "keep feeding the scribblers,"[1]—and better, 'tis said,

Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs.

All this is now o'er and so dismal my loss is,

So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the throng,

That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process),

To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.

[1] One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator.

OVID.

The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,

And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,

And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame,

"If ever the sound of Marathon's name

Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow,

"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"

The Benthamite yawning left his bed—

Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,

And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,

That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye,

And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see,

For never was Greek more Greek than he!

And still as the premium higher went,

His ecstasy rose—so much per cent.

(As we see in a glass that tells the weather

The heat and the silver rise together,)

And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,

While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!"

The Ghost of Miltiades came again;—

He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain,

For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;

(And poor, dear ghost—how little he knew

The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)

"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,

Then melting away like a night-dream fled!

The Benthamite hears—amazed that ghosts

Could be such fools—and away he posts,

A patriot still? Ah no, ah no—

Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,

And warm and fond as thy lovers are,

Thou triest their passion, when under par,

The Benthamite's ardor fast decays,

By turns he weeps and swears and prays.

And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross,

Ere he had been forced to sell at a loss.

They quote him the Stock of various nations,

But, spite of his classic associations,

Lord! how he loathes the Greek quotations!

"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?"

Is now the theme of the patriot's lip,

As he runs to tell how hard his lot is

To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis,

And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake,

"Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break

"Those dark, unholy bonds of thine—

"If you'll only consent to buy up mine!"

The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;—

His brow like the night was lowering o'er,

And he said, with a look that flasht dismay,

"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they,

"Who turn to a trade her cause divine,

"And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!"

Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight,

Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite,

Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry—

And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry!

ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!

REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY—ONE GALT AT THE HEAD OF IT.

God preserve us!—there's nothing now safe from assault;—

Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer;

And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. Galt

Has declared open war against English and Grammar!

He had long been suspected of some such design,

And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at,

Had lately 'mong Colburn's troops of the line

(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private.

There schooled, with a rabble of words at command,

Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance.

He at length against Syntax has taken his stand,

And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance.

Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford:

In the mean time the danger most imminent grows,

He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord,

And whom he'll next murder the Lord only knows.

Wednesday evening.

Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene;

Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection,

Has seized a great Powder—no, Puff Magazine,

And the explosions are dreadful in every direction.

What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,

As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration)

Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2]

And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3]

Now, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet, Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4] Now, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet, With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5]

We shudder in tracing these terrible lines;

Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out;

For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs,

That they're all Anti-English no Christian can doubt.

[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."—GALT'S Life of Byron.

[2] "The gelatinous character of their effusions." Ibid.

[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."— Ibid.

[4] "Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate melody."—Ibid.

[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."— Ibid.

RESOLUTIONS

PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS.

Resolved—to stick to every particle

Of every Creed and every Article;

Reforming naught, or great or little,

We'll stanchly stand by every tittle,

And scorn the swallow of that soul

Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1]

Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius

In damning souls is rather spacious—

Tho' wide and far his curses fall,

Our Church "hath stomach for them all;"

And those who're not content with such,

May e'en be damned ten times as much.

Resolved—such liberal souls are we—

Tho' hating Nonconformity,

We yet believe the cash no worse is

That comes from Nonconformist purses.

Indifferent whence the money reaches

The pockets of our reverend breeches,

To us the Jumper's jingling penny

Chinks with a tone as sweet as any;

And even our old friends Yea and Nay

May thro' the nose for ever pray,

If also thro' the nose they'll pay.

Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3]

And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err,

In taking such a low-bred view

Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:—

All owing to the fact, poor men,

That Mother Church was modest then,

Nor knew what golden eggs her goose,

The Public, would in time produce.

One Pisgah peep at modern Durham

To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em.

Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords

Whose income just enough affords

To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey,

Are told by Antiquarians prosy

How ancient Bishops cut up theirs,

Giving the poor the largest shares—

Our answer is, in one short word,

We think it pious but absurd.

Those good men made the world their debtor,

But we, the Church reformed, know better;

And taking all that all can pay,

Balance the account the other way.

Resolved our thanks profoundly due are

To last month's Quarterly Reviewer,

Who proves by arguments so clear

(One sees how much he holds per year)

That England's Church, tho' out of date,

Must still be left to lie in state,

As dead, as rotten and as grand as

The mummy of King Osymandyas,

All pickled snug—the brains drawn out—

With costly cerements swathed about,—

And "Touch me not," those words terrific,

Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic.

[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was—"Whether the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks—"Surely they had a wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a tittle amiss, in it."

[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it were sufficient."—On the Commandments, p. 72.

[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, there is no work done, the people starve."—Lat. Serm.

[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.—Life of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix.

SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

"nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent." PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.

As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late,

In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate,

Being much too pious, as every one knows,

To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze,

He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man,

And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can.

He found himself, to his great amaze,

In Charles the First's high Tory days,

And just at the time that gravest of Courts

Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1]

Sunday Sports! what a thing for the ear

Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!—

It chanced to be too a Sabbath day

When the people from church were coming away;

And Andrew with horror heard this song.

As the smiling sinners flockt along;—

"Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!

"For a week of work and a Sunday of play

"Make the poor man's life run merry away."

"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess,"

And he grinned with conscious holiness.

But the song went on, and, to brim the cup

Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up!

"Come, take out the lasses—let's have a dance—

"For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill,

"Well knowing that no one's the more in advance

"On the road to heaven, for standing still.

"Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces

"Should sour the cream of a creed of love;

"Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces,

"Alone should sit among cherubs above.

"Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc.

"For Sunday fun we never can fail,

"When the Church herself each sport points out;—

"There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale,

"And a May-pole high to dance about.

"Or should we be for a pole hard driven,

"Some lengthy saint of aspect fell,

"With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven,

"Will do for a May-pole just as well.

"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah!

"A week of work and a Sabbath of play

"Make the poor man's life run merry away."

To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history,

This Sunday scene was a downright mystery;

And God knows where might have ended the joke,

But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke,

And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes)

That since that dream—which, one would suppose,

Should have made his godly stomach rise.

Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies—

He has viewed things quite with different eyes;

Is beginning to take, on matters divine,

Like Charles and his Bishops, the sporting line—

Is all for Christians jigging in pairs,

As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:—

Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley

To bring in a Bill enacting duly

That all good Protestants from this date

May freely and lawfully recreate,

Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody,

With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy.

[1] The Book of Sports drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May poles, or other sports therewith used." etc.

A BLUE LOVE SONG.

TO MISS——-.

Air-"Come live with me and be my love."

Come wed with me and we will write,

My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.

Chased from our classic souls shall be

All thoughts of vulgar progeny;

And thou shalt walk through smiling rows

Of chubby duodecimos,

While I, to match thy products nearly,

Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.

'Tis true, even books entail some trouble;

But live productions give one double.

Correcting children is such bother,—

While printers' devils correct the other.

Just think, my own Malthusian dear,

How much more decent 'tis to hear

From male or female—as it may be—

"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?"

And whereas physic and wet nurses

Do much exhaust paternal purses,

Our books if rickety may go

And be well dry-nurst in the Row;

And when God wills to take them hence,

Are buried at the Row's expense.

Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee,

In thy own Works, vol. 93.)

The march, just now, of population

So much outscrips all moderation,

That even prolific herring-shoals

Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]

Oh far more proper and well-bred

To stick to writing books instead;

And show the world how two Blue lovers

Can coalesce, like two book-covers,

(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)

Lettered at back and stitched together

Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em,

With naught but—literature betwixt 'em.

[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."—Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."

SUNDAY ETHICS.

A SCOTCH ODE.

Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell

That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true,

We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell,

A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel

Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.

So at least ye may reckon for one day entire

In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh,

As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,

An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire

Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,

He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;"

Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,

An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.

As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries,

"Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew!

"Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies,

"For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise

"In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!

Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad

To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too;

That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad

Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad—

But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.

If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right

To gang to the deevil—as maist o' 'em do—

To stop them our Andie would think na polite;

And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't)

But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.

[1] Servants in livery.

AWFUL EVENT.

Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it),

Winehelsea's Earl hath cut the British Senate—

Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,

"That for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff!

Disastrous news!—like that of old which spread,

From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead,"

O'er the cross benches (cross from being crost)

Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!"

Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget

The deep impression of that awful threat,

"I quit your house!!"—midst all that histories tell,

I know but one event that's parallel:—

It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night,

When the gay gods too blest to be polite

Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius,

Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious—

A well-drest member of the middle gallery,

Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie,

Rose in his place—so grand, you'd almost swear

Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there—

And like that Lord of dignity and nous,

Said, "Silence, fellows, or—I'll leave the house!!"

How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day,

That speech so fine should be so thrown away!

In vain did this mid-gallery grandee

Assert his own two-shilling dignity—

In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray

Of his own full-price countenance away—

Fun against Dignity is fearful odds,

And as the Lords laugh now, so giggled then the gods!

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE,

"COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."

"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."

Bishop of London's late Charge.

"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent."

Claudian in Eutrop.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,

For, richer no realm ever gave;

But why, ye unchristian objectors,

Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]

Oh there can't be too many rich Livings

For souls of the Pluralist kind,

Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings,

To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]

Count the cormorants hovering about,[3]

At the time their fish season sets in,

When these models of keen diners-out

Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,

Flock round when the harvest's in play,

And not minding the farmer's distresses,

Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4]

On the way to some titheable shore;

And when so many Parsons you've given,

We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye

Must leave us in peace to augment.

For the wretch who could number the Clergy,

With few will be ever content.

[1]

Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses,

For sweeter sure never girl gave;

But why, in the midst of my blisses,

Do you ask me how many I'd have?

[2]

For whilst I love thee above measure,

To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.

[3]

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,

Count the flowers that enamel its fields,

Count the flocks, etc.

[4]

Go number the stars in the heaven,

Count how many sands on the shore,

When so many kisses you've given,

I still shall be craving for more.

A SAD CASE.

"If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters?" —The Times, March 25.

How sad a case!—just think of it—

If Goulburn junior should be bit

By some insane Dissenter, roaming

Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming,

And with that aspect ultra crabbed

Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid!

God only knows what mischiefs might

Result from this one single bite,

Or how the venom, once suckt in,

Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin.

Mad folks of all denominations

First turn upon their own relations:

So that one Goulburn, fairly bit,

Might end in maddening the whole kit,

Till ah! ye gods! we'd have to rue

Our Goulburn senior bitten too;

The Hychurchphobia in those veins,

Where Tory blood now redly reigns;—

And that dear man who now perceives

Salvation only in lawn sleeves,

Might, tainted by such coarse infection,

Run mad in the opposite direction.

And think, poor man, 'tis only given

To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven!

Just fancy what a shock 'twould be

Our Goulburn in his fits to see,

Tearing into a thousand particles

His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles;

(Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1]

For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;)

Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers—

Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers—

Pelting the church with blasphemies,

Even worse than Parson Beverley's;—

And ripe for severing Church and State,

Like any creedless reprobate,

Or like that class of Methodists

Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!"

But 'tis too much—the Muse turns pale,

And o'er the picture drops a veil,

Praying, God save the Goulburns all

From mad Dissenters great and small!

[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of Christianity."

A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.

—risum tenaetis, amici

"The longer one lives, the more one learns,"

Said I, as off to sleep I went,

Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns,

And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1]

On the Irish Church Establishment.

But lo! in sleep not long I lay,

When Fancy her usual tricks began,

And I found myself bewitched away

To a goodly city in Hindostan—

A city where he who dares to dine

On aught but rice is deemed a sinner;

Where sheep and kine are held divine,

And accordingly—never drest for dinner.

"But how is this?" I wondering cried—

As I walkt that city fair and wide,

And saw, in every marble street,

A row of beautiful butchers' shops—

"What means, for men who don't eat meat,

"This grand display of loins and chops?"

In vain I askt—'twas plain to see

That nobody dared to answer me.

So on from street to street I strode:

And you can't conceive how vastly odd

The butchers lookt—a roseate crew,

Inshrined in stalls with naught to do;

While some on a bench, half dozing, sat,

And the Sacred Cows were not more fat.

Still posed to think what all this scene

Of sinecure trade was meant to mean,

"And, pray," askt I—"by whom is paid

The expense of this strange masquerade?"—

"The expense!—oh! that's of course defrayed

(Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers)

"By yonder rascally rice-consumers."

"What! they who mustn't eat meat!"—

No matter—

(And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,)

"The rogues may munch their Paddy crop,

"But the rogues must still support our shop,

"And depend upon it, the way to treat

"Heretical stomachs that thus dissent,

"Is to burden all that won't eat meat,

"With a costly MEAT ESTABLISHMENT."

On hearing these words so gravely said,

With a volley of laughter loud I shook,

And my slumber fled and my dream was sped,

And I found I was lying snug in bed,

With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS'S book.

[1] An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets.

THE BRUNSWICK CLUB.

A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy.

Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828.

Private,—Lord Belzebub presents

To the Brunswick Club his compliments.

And much regrets to say that he

Can not at present their Patron be.

In stating this, Lord Belzebub

Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club,

That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack

Of zeal or fire he thus holds back—

As even Lord Coal himself is not[1]

For the Orange party more red-hot:

But the truth is, still their Club affords

A somewhat decenter show of Lords,

And on its list of members gets

A few less rubbishy Baronets,

Lord Belzebub must beg to be

Excused from keeping such company.

Who the devil, he humbly begs to know,

Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo?

Or who, with a grain of sense, would go

To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo?

What living creature—except his nurse—

For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse,

Or think 'twould matter if Lord Muskerry

Were 'tother side of the Stygian ferry?

Breathes there a man in Dublin town,

Who'd give but half of half-a-crown

To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne,

Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in

Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn?

In short, tho' from his tenderest years,

Accustomed to all sorts of Peers,

Lord Belzebub much questions whether

He ever yet saw mixt together

As 'twere in one capacious tub.

Such a mess of noble silly-bub

As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club.

'Tis therefore impossible that Lord B.

Could stoop to such society,

Thinking, he owns (tho' no great prig),

For one in his station 'twere infra dig.

But he begs to propose, in the interim

(Till they find some properer Peers for him),

His Highness of Cumberland, as Sub

To take his place at the Brunswick Club—

Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub

Their obedient servant,

BELZEBUB.

It luckily happens, the Royal Duke

Resembles so much, in air and look,

The head of the Belzebub family,

That few can any difference see;

Which makes him of course the better suit

To serve as Lord B.'s substitute.

[1] Usually written Cole.

PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY.

ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING.

—"quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras." VERGIL.

As Whig Reform has had its range,

And none of us are yet content,

Suppose, my friends, by way of change,

We try a Female Parliament;

And since of late with he M.P.'s

We've fared so badly, take to she's—

Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells,

Burdetts in blonde and Broughams in bustles.

The plan is startling, I confess—

But 'tis but an affair of dress;

Nor see I much there is to choose

'Twixt Ladies (so they're thorough-bred ones)

In ribands of all sorts of hues,

Or Lords in only blue or red ones.

At least the fiddlers will be winners,

Whatever other trade advances

As then, instead of Cabinet dinners

We'll have, at Almack's, Cabinet dances;

Nor let this world's important questions

Depend on Ministers' digestions.

If Ude's receipts have done things ill,

To Weippert's band they may go better;

There's Lady **, in one quadrille,

Would settle Europe, if you'd let her:

And who the deuce or asks or cares

When Whigs or Tories have undone 'em,

Whether they've danced thro' State affairs,

Or simply, dully, dined upon 'em?

Hurrah then for the Petticoats!

To them we pledge our free-born votes;

We'll have all she, and only she—

Pert blues shall act as "best debaters,"

Old dowagers our Bishops be,

And termagants our agitators.

If Vestris to oblige the nation

Her own Olympus will abandon

And help to prop the Administration,

It can't have better legs to stand on.

The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show

Each evening, forth in learned oration;

Shall move (midst general cries of "Oh!")

For full returns of population:

And finally to crown the whole,

The Princess Olive, Royal soul,[1]

Shall from her bower in Banco Regis,

Descend to bless her faithful lieges,

And mid our Union's loyal chorus

Reign jollily for ever o'er us.

[1] A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at that period.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *.

Sir,

Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of his declared hostility to "anthems, solos, duets,"[1] etc., I took the liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning and lose no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained.

Yours, etc.

P. P.

[1] In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832.

LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA

—in Metii decenaat Judicis aures.

HORAT.

As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,

Revolving much his own renown,

And hoping to add thereto a ray

By putting duets and anthems down,

Sudden a strain of choral sounds

Mellifluous o'er his senses stole;

Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!"

For he loathed sweet music with all his soul.

Then starting up he saw a sight

That well might shock so learned a snorer—

Saint Cecilia robed in light

With a portable organ slung before her.

And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings,

Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting,

So begged they'd sit—but ah! poor things,

They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting.

"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns,

"And indeed that musical snore betrayed you,

"Myself and my choir of cherubims

"Are come for a while to serenade you."

In vain did the horrified Henley say

"'Twas all a mistake—she was misdirected;"

And point to a concert over the way

Where fiddlers and angels were expected.

In vain—the Saint could see in his looks

(She civilly said) much tuneful lore;

So at once all opened their music-books,

And herself and her Cherubs set off at score.

All night duets, terzets, quartets,

Nay, long quintets most dire to hear;

Ay, and old motets and canzonets

And glees in sets kept boring his ear.

He tried to sleep—but it wouldn't do;

So loud they squalled, he must attend to 'em.

Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew

Were like themselves and had no end to 'em.

Oh judgment dire on judges bold,

Who meddle with music's sacred strains!

Judge Midas tried the same of old

And was punisht like Henley for his pains.

But worse on the modern judge, alas!

Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne;

For Midas was given the ears of an ass,

While Henley is doomed to keep his own!

ADVERTISEMENT.[1]

1830.

Missing or lost, last Sunday night,

A Waterloo coin whereon was traced

The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright,

Tho' a little by rust of years defaced.

The metal thereof is rough and hard,

And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass;

But it bears the stamp of Fame's award,

And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass.

How it was lost God only knows,

But certain City thieves, they say,

Broke in on the owner's evening doze,

And filched this "gift of gods" away!

One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect,

If we hadn't that evening chanced to see,

At the robbed man's door a Mare elect

With an ass to keep her company.

Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows,

Is begged to state all facts about it,

As the owner can't well face his foes,

Nor even his friends just now without it.

And if Sir Clod will bring it back,

Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able,

He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2]

That's left in old King George's stable.

[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of dining with the Lord Mayor.

[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least conspicuous.

MISSING.

Carlton Terrace, 1832.

Whereas, Lord —— de ——

Left his home last Saturday,

And, tho' inquired for round and round

Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found;

And whereas, none can solve our queries

As to where this virtuous Peer is,

Notice is hereby given that all

May forthwith to inquiring fall,

As, once the thing's well set about,

No doubt but we shall hunt him out.

His Lordship's mind, of late, they say,

Hath been in an uneasy way,

Himself and colleagues not being let

To climb into the Cabinet,

To settle England's state affairs,

Hath much, it seems, _un_settled theirs;

And chief to this stray Plenipo

Hath been a most distressing blow.

Already,-certain to receive a

Well-paid mission to the Neva,

And be the bearer of kind words

To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,-

To fit himself for free discussion,

His Lordship had been learning Russian;

And all so natural to him were

The accents of the Northern bear,

That while his tones were in your ear, you

Might swear you were in sweet Siberia.

And still, poor Peer, to old and young,

He goes on raving in that tongue;

Tells you how much you would enjoy a

Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1]

Talks of such places by the score on

As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2]

And swears (for he at nothing sticks)

That Russia swarms with Raskolniks,

Tho' one such Nick, God knows, must be

A more than ample quantity.

Such are the marks by which to know

This strayed or stolen Plenipo;

And whosoever brings or sends

The unhappy statesman to his friends

On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks,

And—any paper but the Bank's.

P.S.—Some think the disappearance

Of this our diplomatic Peer hence

Is for the purpose of reviewing,

In person, what dear Mig is doing,

So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters

'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,—

The only "wretches" for whose aid[3]

Letters seem not to have been made.

[1] In the Government of Perm.

[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense.

[3] "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." POPE.

THE DANCE OF BISHOPS;

OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE.[1]

A DREAM.

1833.

"Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first Bishops were called praesules[2] for other reason than that they led off these dances."—"Cyclopaedia," art. Dances.

I've had such a dream—a frightful dream—

Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem,

By all who regard the Church, like us,

'Twill be thought exceedingly ominous!

As reading in bed I lay last night—

Which (being insured) is my delight—

I happened to doze off just as I got to

The singular fact which forms my motto.

Only think, thought I, as I dozed away,

Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay!

Clerks, curates and rectors capering all

With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball!

Scarce had my eyelids time to close,

When the scene I had fancied before me rose—

An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand

As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand.

For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees

To make it a Dance of Dignities,

And I saw—oh brightest of Church events!

A quadrille of the two Establishments,

Bishop to Bishop vis-à-vis,

Footing away prodigiously.

There was Bristol capering up to Derry,

And Cork with London making merry;

While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so,

Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe.

There was Chester, hatched by woman's smile,

Performing a chaine des Dames in style;

While he who, whene'er the Lords' House dozes,

Can waken them up by citing Moses,[3]

The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry

To set, en avant, to Canterbury.

Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets,

(All out of date like spent skyrockets,)

Our Exeter stood forth to caper,

As high on the floor as he doth on paper—

like a dapper Dancing Dervise,

Who pirouettes his whole church-service—

Performing, midst those reverend souls,

Such entrechats, such cabrioles,

Such balonnés, such—rigmaroles,

Now high, now low, now this, that,

That none could guess what the devil he'd be at;

Tho', watching his various steps, some thought

That a step in the Church was all he sought.

But alas, alas! while thus so gay.

These reverend dancers friskt away,

Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he

Of the Opera-house) could brisker be,

There gathered a gloom around their glee—

A shadow which came and went so fast,

That ere one could say "'Tis there," 'twas past—

And, lo! when the scene again was cleared,

Ten of the dancers had disappeared!

Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept

From the hallowed floor where late they stept,

While twelve was all that footed it still,

On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille!

Nor this the worst:—still danced they on,

But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone;

And again from time to time the same

Ill-omened darkness round them came—

While still as the light broke out anew,

Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two;

Till ah! at last there were only found

Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round;

And when I awoke, impatient getting,

I left the last holy pair poussetting!

N.B.—As ladies in years, it seems,

Have the happiest knack at solving dreams,

I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends

Of the Standard to say what this portends.

[1] Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics.

[2] Literally, First Dancers.

[3] "And what does Moses say?"—One of the ejaculations with which this eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question.

DICK * * * *

A CHARACTER.

Of various scraps and fragments built,

Borrowed alike from fools and wits,

Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt,

Made up of new, old, motley bits—

Where, if the Co. called in their shares,

If petticoats their quota got

And gowns were all refunded theirs,

The quilt would look but shy, God wot.

And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking,

Reversed ventriloquism's trick,

For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking,

'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick.

A Tory now, all bounds exceeding,

Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats;

One day with Malthus, foe to breeding,

The next with Sadler, all for brats.

Poor Dick!—and how else could it be?

With notions all at random caught,

A sort of mental fricassee,

Made up of legs and wings of thought—

The leavings of the last Debate, or

A dinner, yesterday, of wits,

Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter,

Had the scraps for perquisites.

A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES.

1834.

"Then I heard one saint speaking, and

another saint said unto that saint,"

St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth,

That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth.

He had hated priests the whole of his life,

For a priest was a man who had no wife,[1]

And, having no wife, the Church was his mother,

The Church was his father, sister and brother.

This being the case, he was sorry to say

That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,[2]

So deep and wide, scarce possible was it

To say even "how d' ye do?" across it:

And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas,

Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease,

'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make

Your proper, heavy-built Christian take.

No, no,—if a Dance of Sects must be,

He would set to the Baptist willingly,[3]

At the Independent deign to smirk,

And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk;

Nay even, for once, if needs must be,

He'd take hands round with all the three;

But as to a jig with Popery, no,—

To the Harlot ne'er would he point his toe.

St. Mandeville was the next that rose,—

A saint who round as pedler goes

With his pack of piety and prose,

Heavy and hot enough, God knows,—

And he said that Papists were much inclined

To extirpate all of Protestant kind,

Which he couldn't in truth so much condemn,

Having rather a wish to extirpate them;

That is,—to guard against mistake,—

To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake;

A distinction Churchman always make,—

Insomuch that when they've prime control,

Tho' sometimes roasting heretics whole,

They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth,

The spiritual Dogberry of the North,[4]

A right "wise fellow, and what's more,

An officer," like his type of yore;

And he asked if we grant such toleration,

Pray, what's the use of our Reformation?

What is the use of our Church and State?

Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate?

And still as he yelled out "what's the use?"

Old Echoes, from their cells recluse

Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose,

Yelling responsive, "What's the use?"

[1] "He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy bound by the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and brother."—Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, The Times, April 19.

[2] "It had always appeared to him that between the Catholic and Protestant a great gulf intervened, with rendered it impossible," etc.

[3] The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England to any of the other three; but the Catholic," etc.

[4] "Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his consent to a grant of money?" etc.

MORAL POSITIONS.

A DREAM.

"His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to

find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage

had been so long," etc.—Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial

Slavery, March 8.

T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration

(A treat that comes once a year as May-day does),

I dreamt that I saw—what a strange operation!

A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes.

The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes,

Packing the article tidy and neat;—

As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes

"Moral positions" don't keep very sweet.

There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass;

And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing,

There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass,"

Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting.

The freight was however stowed safe in the hold;

The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic,

While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled,

With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic.

Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made;

For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer,

By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed,

And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret,"

Delivered my goods in the primest condition.

And next morning read in the Bridge-town Gazette,

"Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position.

"The Captain"—here, startled to find myself named

As "the Captain"—(a thing which, I own it with pain,

I thro' life have avoided,) I woke—lookt ashamed,

Found I wasn't a captain and dozed off again.

THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT.

1832-3.

'mutantem regna cometem."

LUCAN.[1]

"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail,

"Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us,

"We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;—

"Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us?

"No—'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh;

"Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters;

"One whisk from that tail as it passes us by

"Will settle at once all political matters;—

"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers,

"(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;—

"Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours

"Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls!

"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock,

"Meet planets and suns in one general hustle!

"While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock

"That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell."

Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised,

His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set:

And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed,

Much hoped that there would before Parliament met.

And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass,

"Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries;

While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas!

From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:—

"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big!

"Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:—

"And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig,

"In its dusty aphelion fast fading away.

"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind,

"Londonderry, in vacuo, flaring about;—

"While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind,

"Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt.

"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet;

"So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale;

"The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it,

"And plenty of vapor, but—where is the tail?"

Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated—

For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed,

Which he took to be Cumberland, upwards translated,

Instead of his natural course, t'other road!

But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,—

Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces,

Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken,

And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases.

[1] Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of administrations.

[2] The Duke of Buckingham.

* * * * *

FROM THE HON. HENRY ——, TO LADY EMMA ——.

Paris, March 30,1833.

You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,

How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;

And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my sweet railer,—

There are two worthy persons I always feel loath

To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and tailor,—

As somehow one always has scenes with them both;

The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,

She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,—

Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,

A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.

That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,

'Pon honor you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle

As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears;

And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell,

To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1]

This deluge of coronets frightful to think of;

Which England is now for her sins on the brink of;

This coinage of nobles,—coined all of 'em, badly,

And sure to bring Counts to a dis-count most sadly.

Only think! to have Lords over running the nation,

As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;

No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,

And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,—

Things created in haste just to make a Court list of,

Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!

The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose

(My particular friend) says is perfectly true,

That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,

'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do;

And Sir George even doubts,—could he choose his disorder,—

'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.

This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma,

'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma;

And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain,

To've left idol mio without an addio,

Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan

I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out,

Things a tourist in Italy can't go without—

Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop,

Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.

Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles

The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles.

A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened

To think one knows Latin, when—one, perhaps, doesn't;

With some little book about heathen mythology,

Just large enough to refresh one's theology;

Nothing on earth being half such a bore as

Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras.

Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,

And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

HENRY.

[1] A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time.

TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY.

College.—We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car." Dublin Evening Post, Dec. 20, 1832.

Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car,

Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;-

Fleet chargers drew the God of War,

Great Cybele was drawn by lions,

And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream,

Drove four young panthers in his team.

Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is,

Thus, studious of a like turn-out,

He harnesses young sucking dunces,

To draw him as their Chief about,

And let the world a picture see

Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry:

Showing us how young College hacks

Can pace with bigots at their backs,

As tho' the cubs were born to draw

Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw,

Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift,

Bright spirits whom, in days of yore,

This Queen of Dulness sent adrift,

As aliens to her foggy shore;—-

Shade of our glorious Grattan, too,

Whose very name her shame recalls;

Whose effigy her bigot crew

Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]—

Bear witness (lest the world should doubt)

To your mute Mother's dull renown,

Then famous but for Wit turned out,

And Eloquence turned upside down;

But now ordained new wreaths to win,

Beyond all fame of former days,

By breaking thus young donkies in

To draw M.P.s amid the brays

Alike of donkies and M.A.s;—

Defying Oxford to surpass 'em

In this new "Gradus ad Parnassum."

[1] In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan's public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for some time.

TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

Scripta manet.

1833.

'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1]

In letters four and letters three;

And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by

But those awful letters scared his eye;

For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said,

"As long as those words by man were read,

"The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er

"One hour of peace or plenty share."

But years on years successive flew,

And the letters still more legible grew,—

At top, a T, an H, an E,

And underneath, D. E. B. T.

Some thought them Hebrew,—such as Jews

More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use;

While some surmised 'twas an ancient way

Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day

Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias,

Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)

And proved in books most learnedly boring,

'Twas called the Pon_tick_ way of scoring.

Howe'er this be there never were yet

Seven letters of the alphabet,

That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell,

Or scared a Land of Gulls so well,

As did this awful riddle-me-ree

Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

* * * * *

Hark!—it is struggling Freedom's cry;

"Help, help, ye nations, or I die;

"'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field

"Where I expire your doom is sealed."

The Gull-King hears the awakening call,

He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all,

And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we

"Stand basely by at the fall of the Free,

"Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?"

And they answer with voice of thunder, "No."

Out fly their flashing swords in the air!—

But,—why do they rest suspended there?

What sudden blight, what baleful charm,

Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm?

Alas! some withering hand hath thrown

The veil from off that fatal stone,

And pointing now with sapless finger,

Showeth where dark those letters linger,—

Letters four and letters three,

T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

At sight thereof, each lifted brand

Powerless falls from every hand;

In vain the Patriot knits his brow,—

Even talk, his staple, fails him now.

In vain the King like a hero treads,

His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads;

And to all his talk of "brave and free,"

No answer getteth His Majesty

But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T."

In short, the whole Gull nation feels

They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels;

And so, in the face of the laughing world,

Must e'en sit down with banners furled,

Adjourning all their dreams sublime

Of glory and war to-some other time.

[1] Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,—for which see Westminster Abbey.

NOTIONS ON REFORM.

BY A MODERN REFORMER.

Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass

By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches,

The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas!

It has caused between Wetherel's waistcoat and breeches.

Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity

Had oft broken out in that quarter before;

But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity,

Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more.

Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order,

Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past;

Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy's border,

When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast?

Make Wetherel yield to "some sort of Reform"

(As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;)

And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm

About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces.

Should those he now sports have been long in possession,

And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear,

Advise him at least as a prudent concession

To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair.

Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands,

With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's,

While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands

Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets—

Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough,

To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,—

But must grieve that there's any thing like falling off

In that great nether source of his wit and his sense?

Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair,

He began first to court—rather late in the season—

Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair

Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1]

That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted

All mongers in both wares to proffer their love;

Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted,

As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove;

Who in short would not grieve if a man of his graces

Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past,

The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces,

Till, some day,—he'll all fall to pieces at last.

[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this allegorical lady had occupied.

TORY PLEDGES.

I pledge myself thro' thick and thin,

To labor still with zeal devout

To get the Outs, poor devils, in,

And turn the Ins, the wretches, out.

I pledge myself, tho' much bereft

Of ways and means of ruling ill,

To make the most of what are left,

And stick to all that's rotten still.

Tho' gone the days of place and pelf,

And drones no more take all the honey,

I pledge myself to cram myself

With all I can of public money.

To quarter on that social purse

My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers,

Nor, so we prosper, care a curse

How much 'tis at the expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right

And Might on any point divide,

Not to ask which is black or white.

But take at once the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions,

I'm for the Reverend encroachers:-

I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,—

Am for the Squires, against the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor

I've not the slightest hesitation,—

The People must be starved, to insure

The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more

With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,—

I vote her grievances a bore,

So she may suffer and be damned.

Or if she kick, let it console us,

We still have plenty of red coats,

To cram the Church, that general bolus,

Down any given amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,—

Think newspapers the worst of crimes;

And would, to give some chance of quiet,

Hang all the writers of "The Times;"

Break all their correspondents' bones,

All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder,"

From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones,

To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.

Such are the Pledges I propose;

And tho' I can't now offer gold,

There's many a way of buying those

Who've but the taste for being sold.

So here's, with three times three hurrahs,

A toast of which you'll not complain,—

"Long life to jobbing; may the days

"Of Peculation shine again!"

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

FIRST VISIT.

1832.

As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,

Was sitting one day in the shades below,

"I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he,

"And shall now take a trip to earth to see

"How far they agree in their lives and ways

"With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learned—but learned without misgivings—

Their love for good living and eke good livings;

Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees)

That good living means claret and fricassees,

While its plural means simply—pluralities.

"From all I hear," said the innocent man,

"They are quite on the good old primitive plan.

"For wealth and pomp they little can care,

"As they all say 'No' to the Episcopal chair;

"And their vestal virtue it well denotes

"That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,

And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's.

The door was oped by a lackey in lace,

Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?"

"His Grace!" quoth Jerome—for posed was he,

Not knowing what sort this Grace could be;

Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular,

Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular—[1]

In short he rummaged his holy mind

The exact description of Grace to find,

Which thus could represented be

By a footman in full livery.

At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,

(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2]

And said—surveying, as sly he spoke,

The costly palace from roof to base—

"Well, it isn't, at least, a saving Grace!"

"Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words,

"The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."

"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son,

"For in my time at least there was but one;

Unless such many-fold priests as these

"Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3]

"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace:

Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face

With a curse to the single knockers all

Went to finish his port in the servants' hall,

And propose a toast (humanely meant

To include even Curates in its extent)

"To all as serves the Establishment."

[1] So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort.

[2] Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius.

[3] The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this passage.

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

SECOND VISIT.

"This much I dare say, that, since lording and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and lorded not; and now they lord and preach not…. Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve." —Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."

"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see

How the Church goes on,"—and off set he.

Just then the packet-boat which trades

Betwixt our planet and the shades

Had arrived below with a freight so queer,

"My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"—

For he saw, when nearer he explored,

They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard.

"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all,

"Once worn by nobs Episcopal.[1]

"For folks on earth, who've got a store

"Of cast off things they'll want no more,

"Oft send them down, as gifts, you know,

"To a certain Gentleman here below.

"A sign of the times, I plainly see,"

Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he

Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly.

Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more

"I'll affect a body as before;

"For I think I'd best, in the company

"Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be,

"And glide unseen from See to See."

But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,—

It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw.

For instance, he found Exeter,

Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,—

For love of God? for sake of King?

For good of people?—no such thing;

But to get for himself, by some new trick,

A shove to a better bishoprick.

He found that pious soul, Van Mildert,

Much with his money-bags bewildered;

Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese,

Because the rogues showed restlessness

At having too little cash to touch,

While he so Christianly bears too much.

He found old Sarum's wits as gone

As his own beloved text in John,—[2]

Text he hath prosed so long upon,

That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven,

His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7."

"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day,"

Said the weary Saint,—"I must away.

"Tho' I own I should like before I go

"To see for once (as I'm askt below

"If really such odd sights exist)

"A regular six-fold Pluralist."

Just then he heard a general cry—

"There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!"

"Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow,"

And off he sets with a loud view-hello,

At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can

A glimpse of this singular plural man.

But,—talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3]

To compare him with Hodgson is absurd.

"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"—

"He is now at his living at Hillingdon."—

"No, no,—you're out, by many a mile,

"He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."—

"Pardon me, sir; but I understand

"He's gone to his living in Cumberland."—

"God bless me, no,—he cant be there;

"You must try St. George's, Hanover Square."

Thus all in vain the Saint inquired,

From living to living, mockt and tired;—

'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there,

'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere;

Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er

And flitted away to the Stygian shore,

To astonish the natives underground

With the comical things he on earth had found.

[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with.

[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend scholar.

[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be in two places at once, unless he was a bird."

THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FÊTE.)[1]

1832.

What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised

'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses!

And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised

To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!"

What a pity we can't, by precautions like these,

Clear the air of that other still viler infection;

That radical pest, that old whiggish disease,

Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction.

Stead of barrels, let's light up an Auto da Fe

Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;"

They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away,

And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub.

How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out!

A volcano of nonsense in active display;

While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout

The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day.

And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,—

Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air!

Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look)

He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere.

[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fête.—From dread of cholera his Lordship had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction.

THE CONSULTATION.[1]

"When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful. The Critic.

1833.

Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the floor between them.

Dr. Whig.—This wild Irish patient does pester me so. That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know. I've promist him anodynes— Dr. Tory. Anodynes!—Stuff. Tie him down—gag him well—he'll be tranquil enough. That's my mode of practice. Dr Whig. True, quite in your line, But unluckily not much, till lately, in mine. 'Tis so painful— Dr. Tory.—Pooh, nonsense—ask Ude how he feels, When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, And letting them wriggle on there till they tire. He, too, says "'tis painful"—"quite makes his heart bleed"— But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."— He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No," And—in short—eels were born to be treated just so.[2] 'Tis the same with these Irish,—who're odder fish still,— Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:— But, in fact, my dear brother,—if I may make bold To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,— We, Doctors, must act with the firmness of Ude, And, indifferent like him,—so the fish is but stewed,— Must torture live Pats for the general good. [Here patient groans and kicks a little.] Dr. Whig.—But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse, That he won't be thus tortured? Dr. Tory. Coerce, sir, coerce. You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, You cant think how fast you may train your hand in: And (smiling) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, He's succeeded by one just as—bad as himself? Dr. Whig (looking flattered).— Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,— [Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat and gag.] And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again. Dr. Tory (embracing him). Oh, charming!-My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure, Next to torturing, myself, to help you is a pleasure. [Assisting Dr. Whig.] Give me leave—I've some practice in these mad machines; There—tighter—the gag in the mouth, by all means. Delightful!—all's snug—not a squeak need you fear,— You may now put your anodynes off till next year. [Scene closes.]

[1] These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion Act.

[2] This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it is the only proper mode of preparing eels for the table.

TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON,

CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK.

AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH.

1833.

Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned,

By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1]

If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight,

Only think, in a Rectory, how you would write!

Once fairly inspired by the "Tithe-crowned Apollo,"

(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow,

Having gotten, besides the old Nine's inspiration,

The Tenth of all eatable things in creation.)

There's nothing in fact that a poet like you,

So be-nined and be-tenthed, couldn't easily do.

Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian[2] they say,

While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay,

Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell

Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell.

Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt,

Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about;

Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation,

Came, shadowing forth his adult destination,

And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves,

Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves.

O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore,

Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er

Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on,

Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan,

Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall,

Without any effort of fancy, at all;

Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find

A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind,

But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce,

By gods yclept anser, by mortals a goose.

[1] "Your Lordship," says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to the Bishop of Chester," has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse will always be a 'Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David's was.'"

[2] Sophocles.

SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED "MATRICULATION."[1]

[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.—

Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

Doctor P.—There, my lad, lie the

Articles—(Boy begins to count them) just thirty nine—

No occasion to count—you've now only to sign.

At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we,

The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three.

Let's run o'er the items;—there 'a Justification,

Predestination, and Supererogation—

Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian,

Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification.

That is sufficient—now, sign—having read quite enough,

You "believe in the full and true meaning thereof?"

(Boy stares.)

Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief,—

A commodious and short make-believe of belief,

Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular

To keep out in general all who're particular.

But what's the boy doing? what! reading all thro',

And my luncheon fast cooling!—this never will do.

Boy (poring over the Articles).—

Here are points which—pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?"

Doctor P. (sharply).—You'll find out, young sir, when

you've more ingenuity.

At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely.

Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely,

Both in dining and signing we take the same plan,—

First, swallow all down, then digest—as we can.

Boy (still reading).—I've to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius's

Creed,

Which. I'm told, is a very tough morsel indeed;

As he damns—

Doctor P. (aside).—Ay, and so would I, willingly, too, All confounded particular young boobies, like you. This comes of Reforming!—all's o'er with our land, When people wont stand what they can't under-stand; Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine Were made not for men to believe but to sign. Exit Dr. P. in a passion.

[1] It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religious Belief.

LATE TITHE CASE.

"sic vos non vobis."

1833.

"The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage." —Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.

No, not for yourselves, ye reverend men,

Do you take one pig in every ten,

But for Holy Church's future heirs,

Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs;

The law supposing that such heirs male

Are already seized of the pig, in tail.

No, not for himself hath Birmingham's priest

His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced:

But it is that, before his prescient eyes,

All future Vicars of Birmingham rise,

With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces,

And 'tis for them the poor he fleeces.

He heareth their voices, ages hence

Saying, "Take the pig"—"oh take the pence;"

The cries of little Vicarial dears,

The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears;

And, did he resist that soft appeal,

He would not like a true-born Vicar feel.

Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington!

A rector true, if e'er there was one,

Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages,

Gripest the tenths of laborer's wages.[1]

'Tis true, in the pockets of thy small-clothes

The claimed "obvention"[2]of four-pence goes;

But its abstract spirit, unconfined,

Spreads to all future Rector-kind,

Warning them all to their rights to wake,

And rather to face the block, the stake,

Than give up their darling right to take.

One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes

(So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms,

And a single four-pence, pocketed well,

Thro' a thousand rectors' lives will tell.

Then still continue, ye reverend souls,

And still as your rich Pactolus rolls,

Grasp every penny on every side,

From every wretch, to swell its tide:

Remembering still what the Law lays down,

In that pure poetic style of its own.

"If the parson in esse submits to loss, he

"Inflicts the same on the parson in posse."

[1] Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and the best paid of the whole not more than 18_l_. annually) were all, in the course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of 4_d_. in the 1_l_. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of Lackington, etc.—The Times, August, 1833.

[2] One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc., are comprised.

FOOLS' PARADISE.

DREAM THE FIRST.

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice,

To a realm they call Fool's Paradise,

Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,

And seldom blest with a glimmer thence.

But they wanted not in this happy place,

Where a light of its own gilds every face;

Or if some wear a shadowy brow,

'Tis the wish to look wise,—not knowing how.

Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there,

The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air;

The well-bred wind in a whisper blows,

The snow, if it snows, is couleur de rose,

The falling founts in a titter fall,

And the sun looks simpering down on all.

Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace

The scenes I saw in that joyous place.

There were Lords and Ladies sitting together,

In converse sweet, "What charming weather!—

"You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure,

"Lord Charles has got a good sinecure;

"And the Premier says, my youngest brother

"(Him in the Guards) shall have another.

"Isnt this very, very gallant!—

"As for my poor old virgin aunt,

"Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist,

"We must quarter her on the Pension List."

Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled;

It seemed like an Age of real gold,

Where all who liked might have a slice,

So rich was that Fools' Paradise.

But the sport at which most time they spent,

Was a puppet-show, called Parliament

Performed by wooden Ciceros,

As large as life, who rose to prose,

While, hid behind them, lords and squires,

Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires;

And thought it the very best device

Of that most prosperous Paradise,

To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose

For them and their wooden Ciceros.

And many more such things I saw

In this Eden of Church and State and Law;

Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk

As those who had the best of the joke.

There were Irish Rectors, such as resort

To Cheltenham yearly, to drink—port,

And bumper, "Long may the Church endure,

"May her cure of souls be a sinecure,

"And a score of Parsons to every soul

"A moderate allowance on the whole."

There were Heads of Colleges lying about,

From which the sense had all run out,

Even to the lowest classic lees,

Till nothing was left but quantities;

Which made them heads most fit to be

Stuck up on a University,

Which yearly hatches, in its schools,

Such flights of young Elysian fools.

Thus all went on, so snug and nice,

In this happiest possible Paradise.

But plain it was to see, alas!

That a downfall soon must come to pass.

For grief is a lot the good and wise

Dont quite so much monopolize,

But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are)

Even blessed fools must have their share.

And so it happened:—but what befell,

In Dream the Second I mean to tell.

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;

OR, ONE POUND TWO.

"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."—Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons.

The account is balanced—the bill drawn out,—

The debit and credit all right, no doubt—

The Rector rolling in wealth and state,

Owes to his Curate six pound eight;

The Curate, that least well-fed of men,

Owes to his Rector seven pound ten,

Which maketh the balance clearly due

From Curate to Rector, one pound two.

Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven!

But sure to be all set right in heaven,

Where bills like these will be checkt, some day,

And the balance settled the other way:

Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum

Will back to his shade with interest come;

And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue

This tot, in his favor, of one pound two.

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

1833.

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,

That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,

Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,

As good raw material for settlers, abroad.

Some West-India island, whose name I forget,

Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic;

And such the success the first colony met,

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore,

Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,

And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came—

"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"

While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name

Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy!

Can it possibly be?—half amazement—half doubt,

Pat listens again—rubs his eyes and looks steady;

Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,

"Good Lord! only think,—black and curly already!"

Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears,

Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures,

And thought, what a climate, in less than two years,

To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers!

MORAL.

'Tis thus,—but alas! by a marvel more true

Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,—

Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two,

By a lusus naturae, all turn into Tories.

And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise,

Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady,

I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes,

"Good Lord! only think,—black and curly already!"

COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM.

FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS.

1833.

Fine figures of speech let your orators follow,

Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow.

Tho' famed for his rules Aristotle may be,

In but half of this Sage any merit I see,

For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "tottle" for me!

For instance, while others discuss and debate,

It is thus about Bishops I ratiocinate.

In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter,

'Tis certain our souls are lookt very well after,

Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered)

Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.—

Said number of parishes, under said teachers,

Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,—

So that each of said Bishops full ably controls

One million and five hundred thousands of souls.

And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we're told, Half a million includes the whole Protestant fold; If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded Two proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, 'Tis plain, for the Irish half million who want 'em, One-third of one Bishop is just the right quantum. And thus, by old Cocker's sublime Rule of Three, The Irish Church question's resolved to a T; Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too.

Nay, if—as St. Roden complains is the case—

The half million of soul is decreasing apace,

The demand, too, for bishop will also fall off,

Till the tithe of one, taken in kind be enough.

But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect,

And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object.

We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare,

Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair,

And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch.

We'll let her have Exeter, sole, as her Church.

LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

1834.

"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons."—"Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," chap. xii.

It being an object now to meet

With Parsons that dont want to eat,

Fit men to fill those Irish rectories,

Which soon will have but scant refectories,

It has been suggested,—lest that Church

Should all at once be left in the lurch

For want of reverend men endued

With this gift of never requiring food,—

To try, by way of experiment, whether

There couldnt be made of wood and leather,[1]

(Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,)

Jointed figures, not lay,[2] but clerical,

Which, wound up carefully once a week,

Might just like parsons look and speak,

Nay even, if requisite, reason too,

As well as most Irish parsons do.

The experiment having succeeded quite,

(Whereat those Lords must much delight,

Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food,

They think it isnt for her spiritual good

To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,)

The Patentees of this new invention

Beg leave respectfully to mention,

They now are enabled to produce

An ample supply for present use,

Of these reverend pieces of machinery,

Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery,

Or any such-like post of skill

That wood and leather are fit to fill.

N.B.—In places addicted to arson,

We cant recommend a wooden parson:

But if the Church any such appoints,

They'd better at least have iron joints.

In parts, not much by Protestants haunted,

A figure to look at's all that's wanted—

A block in black, to eat and sleep,

Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap.

P.S.—Should the Lords, by way of a treat,

Permit the clergy again to eat,

The Church will of course no longer need

Imitation-parsons that never feed;

And these wood creatures of ours will sell

For secular purposes just as well—

Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout,

May, 'stead of beating their own about,

Be knocking the brains of Papists out;

While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means,

Should transmigrate into turning machines.

[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man.

[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay figures".

HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1]

1834.

Choose some title that's dormant—the Peerage hath many—

Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any.

Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer,

And marry him, off hand, in some given year,

To the daughter of somebody,—no matter who,—

Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do;

For, the Medici pills still in heraldry tell,

And why shouldn't lollypops quarter as well?

Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin,

Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen;

And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em,

You can't somehow manage to prove yourself one of 'em.

Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory,

Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory,

I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular,

One grand rule of enterprise,—don't be particular.

A man who once takes such a jump at nobility,

Must not mince the matter, like folks of nihility,

But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility.

'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings,

Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things;

As oft, when the vision is near brought about,

Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out;

Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods,

And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds.

But there are ways—when folks are resolved to be lords—

Of expurging even troublesome parish records.

What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir

Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair,

As whate'er else the learned in such lore may invent,

Your scissors does wonders in proving descent.

Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears

With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers,

But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands

Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands

O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array,

And sweeps at each cut generations away.

By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted?

One snip,—and the urchin hath never existed!

Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere

With his one sublime object of being a Peer?

Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,—

No such people have ever lived, married or died!

Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves,

Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves.

Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage,

Take S—m for thy model and B—z for thy steerage,

Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does,

And—who knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos?

[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by the late Sir Egerinton Brydges.

THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

Air.—"A master I have, and I am his man,

Galloping dreary dun."

"Castle of Andalusia."

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass.

Galloping, dreary duke;

The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,

He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass,

With his charger prancing,

Grim eye glancing,

Chin, like a Mufti,

Grizzled and tufty,

Galloping, dreary Duke.

Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood

Of this galloping dreary Duke;

Avoid him, all who see no good

In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood.

For, surely, no nymph is

Fond of a grim phiz.

And of the married,

Whole crowds have miscarried

At sight of this dreary Duke.

EPISTLE

FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES.

Southampton.

As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started

By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted

To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,

Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,

And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,

To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,

I take up my pen, and with news of this earth

Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.

In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,

Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,

I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore

You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.

Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,

To discuss the rich merits of rôtis and stews,

And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy,

A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.

Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile,

I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle,

(A conveyance you ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully,

And therefore, per next, I'll describe it more fully,)

Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly,

That England's o'errun by idolaters lately,

Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone,

Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone.

Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black,

Who from sports continental was hurrying back,

To look after his tithes;—seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow,

That just as of old your great idol, Apollo,

Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question,

These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion,

And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises,

May eat up the tithe-pig which he idolizes.

London.

'Tis all but too true—grim Idolatry reigns

In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains!

On arriving just now, as my first thought and care

Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer,

Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on,

I was shown to—what think you?—a downright Pantheon!

A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls,

Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;—

Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew

Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue;

And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1]

That he ever carv'd stranger than these I much doubt.

Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces,

And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places,

I shouldnt much mind,—for in this classic dome

Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home.

But the gods they've got here!—such a queer omnium gatherum

Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;—

Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,—

Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,—

Father Nile, too,—a portrait, (in spite of what's said,

That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his head,)

And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't,

Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;—

Not to mention the et caeteras of Genii and Sphinxes,

Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;—

Sea Captains,[2]—the idols here most idolized;

And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized

Among ready-made Saints, as they died cannonized;

With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities,

Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis;

Nor know I what better the Rector could do

Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too;

As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is

A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.

But I'm called off to dinner—grace just has been said,

And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.

[1] Joshua xxiv 2.

[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.

LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1]

at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.

vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas.

OVID. Metam. lib. xiii. v. 202.

Go, Brothers in wisdom—go, bright pair of Peers,

And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!

The one, the best lover we have—of his years,

And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile

Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;

Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,

And all tailors but him who so well dandifies thee.

Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,

Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,

But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough

To translate "Amor Fortis" a love, about forty!

And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars,

From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't,

That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "My stars!"

And forget that the Moon, too, was some way concerned in't.

For not the great Regent himself has endured

(Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine,

Till he lookt like a house that was over insured)

A much heavier burden of glories than thine.

And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is,

Or any young ladies can so go astray,

As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies,

The stars are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!

Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories,

Thou Malaprop Cicero, over whose lips

Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories,"

And "nullidge," and "features," like syllabub slips.

Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation

Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours,

Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation

Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.

Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers,

And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!

The one, the best lover we have—of his years,

And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.

[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.

[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious transactions took place—we should read "at Vienna."

TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.

Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.

So may my Lady's prayers prevail,

And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,

And Eldon beg a favoring gale

From Eolus, that older Bags,

To speed thee on thy destined way,

Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,

Our gracious Regent's better half

And therefore quarter of a King—

(As Van or any other calf

May find without much figuring).

Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,

Waft this Lord of place and pelf,

Any where his Lordship pleases,

Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!

Oh, what a face of brass was his.

Who first at Congress showed his phiz—

To sign away the Rights of Man

To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;

And leave the sinking African

To fall without one saving struggle—

'Mong ministers from North and South,

To show his lack of shame and sense,

And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth"

For blunders and for eloquence!

In vain we wish our Secs, at home

To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,

If silly Secs, abroad will roam

And make such noodles of themselves.

But such hath always been the case—

For matchless impudence of face,

There's nothing like your Tory race!

First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her

A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.

Then came the Doctor, for our ease,

With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,

And other deadly maladies.

When each in turn had run their rigs,

Necessity brought in the Whigs:

And oh! I blush, I blush to say,

When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,

Illustrious TEMPLE flew away

With lots of pens he had no right to.[1]

In short, what will not mortal man do?

And now, that—strife and bloodshed past—

We've done on earth what harm we can do,

We gravely take to heaven at last

And think its favoring smile to purchase

(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by—building churches!

[1] This alludes to the 1200_l_. worth of stationery, which his Lordship is said to have ordered, when on the point of vacating his place.

SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.

"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose,

"Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose

"Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say,

"They've not known its equal for many a long day."

Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady,

And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready.

"So, now for the ingredients:—first, hand me that bishop;"

Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up

From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em

The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom;

And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze,

And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose)

In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews,

Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst

From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first!

"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame—

"He who's called after Harry the Older, by name."

"The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em—

"Why talk of one Ex, when your Mischief has two of 'em?"

"True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves,

"And a double-Ex dose they compose, in themselves."

This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly,

Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly.

So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising)

Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising;

While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted

With joy to see spirits so twin-like united—

Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather,

In one mess of venom thus spitted together.

Here a flashy imp rose—some connection, no doubt,

Of the young lord in question—and, scowling about,

"Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out;

"As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree,

"Loved mischief, pure mischief, more dearly than he."

But, no—the wise hag wouldnt hear of the whipster;

Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her,

And nature had given him, to keep him still young,

Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue;

But because she well knew that, for change ever ready,

He'd not even to mischief keep properly steady:

That soon even the wrong side would cease to delight,

And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the right;

While, on each, so at random his missiles he threw,

That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two.—

This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf,

There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself.

"And now," quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed.

And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside,

"There wants but some seasoning;—so, come, ere I stew 'em,

"By way of a relish we'll throw in John Tuam.'

"In cooking up mischief, there's no flesh or fish

"Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish."

Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama—

Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama.

[1] To lose no drop of the immortal man.

[2] The present Bishop of Exeter.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day,

Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet,

To say nothing of all the wonders done

By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson,

When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he

Up waves his arm, and—down drops Okey![1]

Tho' strange these things, to mind and sense,

If you wish still stranger things to see—

If you wish to know the power immense

Of the true magnetic influence,

Just go to her Majesty's Treasury,

And learn the wonders working there—

And I'll be hanged if you dont stare!

Talk of your animal magnetists,

And that wave of the hand no soul resists,

Not all its witcheries can compete

With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street,

Which a Premier gives to one who wishes

To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes.

It actually lifts the lucky elf,

Thus acted upon, above himself;—

He jumps to a state of clairvoyance,

And is placeman, statesman, all, at once!

These effects, observe (with which I begin),

Take place when the patient's motioned in;

Far different of course the mode of affection,

When the wave of the hand's in the out direction;

The effects being then extremely unpleasant,

As is seen in the case of Lord Brougham, at present;

In whom this sort of manipulation,

Has lately produced such inflammation,

Attended with constant irritation,

That, in short—not to mince his situation—

It has workt in the man a transformation

That puzzles all human calculation!

Ever since the fatal day which saw

That "pass" performed on this Lord of Law—

A pass potential, none can doubt,

As it sent Harry Brougham to the right about—

The condition in which the patient has been

Is a thing quite awful to be seen.

Not that a casual eye could scan

This wondrous change by outward survey;

It being, in fact, the interior man

That's turned completely topsy-turvy:—

Like a case that lately, in reading o'er 'em,

I found in the Acta Eruditorum,

Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed,

The whole order of things was found transposed;

By a lusus naturae, strange to see,

The liver placed where the heart should be,

And the spleen (like Brougham's, since laid on the shelf)

As diseased and as much out of place as himself.

In short, 'tis a case for consultation,

If e'er there was one, in this thinking nation;

And therefore I humbly beg to propose,

That those savans who mean, as the rumor goes,

To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case,

Should also Lord Parry's case embrace;

And inform us, in both these patients' states,

Which ism it is that predominates,

Whether magnetism and somnambulism,

Or, simply and solely, mountebankism.

[1] The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London Hospital.

THE SONG OF THE BOX.

Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans,

And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock;

They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins

Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box.

Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?—Oh, it isn't

By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;—

Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned,

She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box.

How snug!—'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions,

Blown this way and that, by the "populi vox,"

To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions,

And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box.

Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom—

So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes;

But mute be our troops, when to ambush we lead 'em,

"For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box.

Pure, exquisite Box! no corruption can soil it;

There's Otto of Rose in each breath it unlocks;

While Grote is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet,

And breathes all Arabia around from his Box.

'Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius

(A namesake of Grote's—being both of Dutch stocks),

Like Grote, too, a genius profound as precocious,

Was also, like him, much renowned for a Box;—

An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius

When suffering in prison for views heterodox,

Was packt up incog. spite of jailers ferocious,[1]

And sent to his wife,[2] carriage free, in a Box!

But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf,

Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks;—

That Grotius ingloriously saved but himself,

While ours saves the whole British realm by a Box!

And oh! when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes

Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,

May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes,"

And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box.

While long at his shrine, both from county and city,

Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks,

And sing, while they whimper, the appropriate ditty,

"Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep—in the Box."

[1] For the particulars of this escape of Grotius from the Castle of Louvenstein, by means of a box (only three feet and a half long, it is said) in which books used to be occasionally sent to him and foul linen returned, see any of the Biographical Dictionaries.

[2] This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to give him time for escape.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.

ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue

The terrible tale of Thalaba sung—

Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout

That grim divan of conjurors out,

Whose dwelling dark, as legends say,

Beneath the roots of the ocean lay,

(Fit place for deep ones, such as they,)

How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey,

Altho' bright genius all allow thee,

That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes

Should see a second Thalaba rise—

As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine,

Tho' his havoc lie in a different line,

And should find this new, improved Destroyer

Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer;

A sort of an "alien," alias man,

Whose country or party guess who can,

Being Cockney half, half Jonathan;

And his life, to make the thing completer,

Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre,

Loose and irregular as thy feet are;—

First, into Whig Pindarics rambling,

Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling;

Now love his theme, now Church his glory

(At once both Tory and ama-tory),

Now in the Old Bailey-lay meandering,

Now in soft couplet style philandering;

And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine,

Dragging his wounded length along,

When scourged by Holland's silken thong.

In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second

May fairly a match for the First be reckoned;

Save that your Thalaba's talent lay

In sweeping old conjurors clean away,

While ours at aldermen deals his blows,

(Who no great conjurors are, God knows,)

Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level,

Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil,

Bullies the whole Milesian race—

Seven millions of Paddies, face to face;

And, seizing that magic wand, himself,

Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf,

Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey

All into foreigners, in a jiffy—

Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em,

Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em?

Never in short did parallel

Betwixt two heroes gee so well;

And among the points in which they fit,

There's one, dear Bob, I cant omit.

That hacking, hectoring blade of thine

Dealt much in the Domdaniel line;

And 'tis but rendering justice due,

To say that ours and his Tory crew

Damn Daniel most devoutly too.

RIVAL TOPICS.[1]

AN EXTRAVAGANZA.

Oh Wellington and Stephenson,

Oh morn and evening papers,

Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,

When will ye cease our ears to stun

With these two heroes' capers?

Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington,"

The everlasting two!—

Still doomed, from rise to set of sun,

To hear what mischief one has done,

And t'other means to do:—

What bills the banker past to friends,

But never meant to pay;

What Bills the other wight intends,

As honest, in their way;—

Bills, payable at distant sight,

Beyond the Grecian kalends,

When all good deeds will come to light,

When Wellington will do what's right,

And Rowland pay his balance.

To catch the banker all have sought,

But still the rogue unhurt is;

While t'other juggler—who'd have thought?

Tho' slippery long, has just been caught

By old Archbishop Curtis;—

And, such the power of papal crook,

The crosier scarce had quivered

About his ears, when, lo! the Duke

Was of a Bull delivered!

Sir Richard Birnie doth decide

That Rowland "must be mad,"

In private coach, with crest, to ride,

When chaises could be had.

And t'other hero, all agree,

St. Luke's will soon arrive at,

If thus he shows off publicly,

When he might pass in private.

Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson,

Ye ever-boring pair,

Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,

Ye haunt me everywhere.

Tho' Job had patience tough enough,

Such duplicates would try it;

Till one's turned out and t'other off,

We Shan have peace or quiet.

But small's the chance that Law affords—

Such folks are daily let off;

And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords,

They both, I fear, will get off.

[1] The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9.

THE BOY STATESMAN.

BY A TORY.

"That boy will be the death of me."

Matthews at Home.

Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near,

With Stanley to help us, we cant but fall;

Already a warning voice I hear,

Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear,

"That boy—that boy'll be the death of you all."

He will, God help us!—not even Scriblerius

In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be;

And our case is growing exceeding serious,

For, all being in the same boat as he,

If down my Lord goes, down go we,

Lord Baron Stanley and Company,

As deep in Oblivion's swamp below

As such "Masters Shallow," well could go;

And where we shall all both low and high,

Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie

As already doth Graham of Netherby!

But that boy, that boy!—there's a tale I know,

Which in talking of him comes à_propos_.

Sir Thomas More had an only son,

And a foolish lad was that only one,

And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife,

"My dear, I cant but wish you joy.

"For you prayed for a boy, and you now have a boy,

"Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life."

Even such is our own distressing lot,

With the ever-young statesman we have got;

Nay even still worse; for Master More

Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before,

While ours such power of boyhood shows,

That the older he gets the more juvenile he grows,

And at what extreme old age he'll close

His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;—

Some century hence, should he reach so far,

And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn,

We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr,

A whipper-snapper Methusalem;

Nay, even should he make still longer stay of it,

The boy'll want judgment, even to the day of it!

Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction;

And day and night with awe I recall

The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction,

"That boy'll be the death, the death of you all."

LETTER

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN.

Arrah, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?—

Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf,

When that poor craythur, Bobby—as you were away—

Had to make twice as big a Tomfool of himself.

Troth, it wasnt at all civil to lave in the lurch

A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:—

Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church,

As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection.

If thus in two different directions you pull,

'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother

Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull,

Whose tails were joined one way, while they lookt

another![1]

Och blest be he, whosomdever he be,

That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther!

Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free

At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther.

To be sure, when a lad takes to forgin', this way,

'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly;

Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2]

Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey.

That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd,

And (as if somethin' "odd" in their names, too, must be,)

One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod,

"While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.[3]

But, no matther who did it all blessin's betide him,

For dishin' up Bob, in a manner so nate;

And there wanted but you, Murthagh 'vourneen, beside him,

To make the whole grand dish of bull-calf complate.

[1] "You will increase the enmity with which they are regarded by their associates in heresy, thus tying these foxes by the tails, that their faces may tend in opposite directions."—Bob's Bull read, at Exeter Hall, July 14.

[2] "An ingenious device of my learned friend."—Bob's Letter to Standard.

[3] Had I consulted only my own wishes, I should not have allowed this hasty at tack on Dr. Todd to have made its appearance in this Collection; being now fully convinced that the charge brought against that reverend gentleman of intending to pass off as genuine his famous mock Papal Letter was altogether unfounded. Finding it to be the wish, however, of my reverend friend—as I am now glad to be permitted to call him—that both the wrong and the reparation, the Ode and, the Palinode, should be thus placed in juxtaposition, I have thought it but due to him, to comply with his request.

MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.

Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age,

The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;—

Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star,

Did not get on exceedingly well as we are,

And perform all the functions of noodles by birth

As completely as any born noodles on earth.

How acres descend, is in law-books displayed,

But we as _wise_acres descend, ready made;

And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature,

Are all of us born legislators by nature;—

Like ducklings to water instinctively taking,

So we with like quackery take to lawmaking;

And God forbid any reform should come o'er us,

To make us more wise than our sires were before us.

The Egyptians of old the same policy knew—

If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too:

Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it,

Poisoners by right (so no more could be said of it),

The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it;

While, famed for conservative stomachs, the Egyptians

Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions.

It is true, we've among us some peers of the past,

Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast—

Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising

With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising.

Conserves, in whom—potted, for grandmamma uses—

'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices.

'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement,

Even our House, God help it, is doomed to improvement,

And all its live furniture, nobly descended

But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended.

With movables 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham,

No wonder even fixtures should learn to bestir 'em;

And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day,

When—as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say,

Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm—

So ours may be whipt off, some night, by Reform;

And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air,

Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear,

Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky,

Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by,"

While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians,

Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans.

[1] The Casa Santa, supposed to have been carried by angels through the air from Galilee to Italy.

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

A ROMANTIC BALLAD.

Oh, have you heard what hapt of late?

If not, come lend an ear,

While sad I state the piteous fate

Of the Reverend Pamphleteer.

All praised his skilful jockeyship,

Loud rung the Tory cheer,

While away, away, with spur and whip,

Went the Reverend Pamphleteer.

The nag he rode—how could it err?

'Twas the same that took, last year,

That wonderful jump to Exeter

With the Reverend Pamphleteer.

Set a beggar on horseback, wise men say,

The course he will take is clear:

And in that direction lay the way

Of the Reverend Pamphleteer,

"Stop, stop," said Truth, but vain her cry—

Left far away in the rear,

She heard but the usual gay "Good-by"

From her faithless Pamphleteer.

You may talk of the jumps of Homer's gods,

When cantering o'er our sphere—

I'd back for a bounce, 'gainst any odds,

This Reverend Pamphleteer.

But ah! what tumbles a jockey hath!

In the midst of his career,

A file of the Times lay right in the path

Of the headlong Pamphleteer.

Whether he tript or shyed thereat,

Doth not so clear appear:

But down he came, as his sermons flat—

This Reverend Pamphleteer!

Lord King himself could scarce desire

To see a spiritual Peer

Fall much more dead, in the dirt and mire,

Than did this Pamphleteer.

Yet pitying parsons many a day

Shall visit his silent bier,

And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say

"Poor dear old Pamphleteer!

"He has finisht at last his busy span,

"And now lies coolly here—

"As often he did in life, good man,

"Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!"

RECENT DIALOGUE.

1825.

A Bishop and a bold dragoon,

Both heroes in their way,

Did thus, of late, one afternoon,

Unto each other say:—

"Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar,

"As nobody denies

"That you a wise logician are,

"And I am—otherwise,

"'Tis fit that in this question, we

"Stick each to his own art—

"That yours should be the sophistry,

"And mine the fighting part.

"My creed, I need not tell you, is

"Like that of Wellington,

"To whom no harlot comes amiss,

"Save her of Babylon;

"And when we're at a loss for words,

"If laughing reasoners flout us,

"For lack of sense we'll draw our swords—

"The sole thing sharp about us."—

"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said,

"'Tis true for war thou art meant;

"And reasoning—bless that dandy head!

"Is not in thy department.

"So leave the argument to me—

"And, when my holy labor

"Hath lit the fires of bigotry,

"Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre.

"From pulpit and from sentrybox,

"We'll make our joint attacks,

"I at the head of my Cassocks,

"And you, of your Cossacks.

"So here's your health, my brave huzzar,

"My exquisite old fighter—

"Success to bigotry and war,

"The musket and the mitre!"

Thus prayed the minister of heaven—

While York, just entering then,

Snored out (as if some Clerk had given

His nose the cue) "Amen."

THE WELLINGTON SPA.

"And drink oblivion to our woes."

Anna Matilda.

1829.

Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs,

'Tis from Lethe we now our potations must draw;

Yon Lethe's a cure for—all possible things,

And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa.

Other physical waters but cure you in part;

One cobbles your gout—t'other mends your digestion—

Some settle your stomach, but this—bless your heart!—

It will settle for ever your Catholic Question.

Unlike too the potions in fashion at present,

This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth,

So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant,

That patients forget themselves into rude health.

For instance, the inventor—his having once said

"He should think himself mad if at any one's call,

"He became what he is"—is so purged from his head

That he now doesnt think he's a madman at all.

Of course, for your memories of very long standing—

Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted

To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing—

A devil of a dose of the Lethe is wanted.

But even Irish patients can hardly regret

An oblivion so much in their own native style,

So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget,

They may go on remembering it still all the while!

A CHARACTERLESS

1834.

Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things,

'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings;

A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst,

Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst—

The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer,

The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear:

The thirst for meddling, restless still to show

How Freedom's clock, repaired by Whigs, will go;

The alarm when others, more sincere than they,

Advance the hands to the true time of day.

By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame,

The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame;

Listening, she smiled, and blest the flippant tongue

On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung.

Ah! who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay,

When loose Reform enticed her boy away;

When shockt she heard him ape the rabble's tone,

And in Old Sarum's fate foredoom her own!

Groaning she cried, while tears rolled down her cheeks,

"Poor, glib-tongued youth, he means not what he speaks.

"Like oil at top, these Whig professions flow,

"But, pure as lymph, runs Toryism below.

"Alas! that tongue should start thus, in the race,

"Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace!—

"For, once outstript by tongue, poor, lagging mind,

"At every step, still further limps behind.

"But, bless the boy!—whate'er his wandering be,

"Still turns his heart to Toryism and me.

"Like those odd shapes, portrayed in Dante's lay.

"With heads fixt on, the wrong and backward way,

"His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track,

"While those march onward, these look fondly back."

And well she knew him—well foresaw the day,

Which now hath come, when snatched from Whigs away

The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore,

And rests, restored, in granny's arms once more.

But whither now, mixt brood of modern light

And ancient darkness, canst thou bend thy flight?

Tried by both factions and to neither true,

Feared by the old school, laught at by the new;

For this too feeble and for that too rash,

This wanting more of fire, that less of flash,

Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold,

Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old,

A small and "vext Bermoothes," which the eye

Of venturous seaman sees—and passes by.

A GHOST STORY.

To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY."

1835.

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain,

When, as his lamp burned dimly,

The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1]

Stood by his bedside grimly.

Dead aldermen who once could feast,

But now, themselves, are fed on,

And skeletons of mayors deceased,

This doleful chorus led on:—

Oh Lord Lyndhurst,

"Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst,

"Corpses we,

"All burkt by thee,

"Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!"

"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried,

"Ye look most glum and whitely."

"Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied,

"You've used us unpolitely.

"And now, ungrateful man! to drive

"Dead bodies from your door so,

"Who quite corrupt enough, alive,

"You've made by death still more so.

"Oh, Ex-Chancellor,

"Destructive Ex-Chancellor,

"See thy work,

"Thou second Burke,

"Destructive Ex-Chancellor!"

Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep

Awake or surely that would,

Cried "Curse you all"—fell fast asleep—

And dreamt of "Small v. Attwood."

While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs,

But courteous in their panic

Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors,

And corpses aldermanic,

Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst,

"That terrible Lord Lyndhurst,

"Not Old Scratch

"Himself could match

"That terrible Lord Lyndhurst."

[1] Referring to the line taken by Lord Lyndhurst, on the question of Municipal Reform.

THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.[1]

BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN.

1835.

I sat me down in my easy chair,

To read, as usual, the morning papers;

But—who shall describe my look of despair,

When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers!

That he—that, of all live men, Lefroy

Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!"

Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said,

On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,

And never, till now, a movement made

That wasnt manfully retrograde!

Only think—to sweep from the light of day

Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away;

To annihilate—never to rise again—

A whole generation of aldermen,

Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls,

To keep together their bodies and souls!—

At a time too when snug posts and places

Are falling away from us one by one,

Crash—crash—like the mummy-cases

Belzoni, in Egypt, sat upon,

Wherein lay pickled, in state sublime,

Conservatives of the ancient time;—

To choose such a moment to overset

The few snug nuisances left us yet;

To add to the ruin that round us reigns,

By knocking out mayors' and town-clerks' brains;

By dooming all corporate bodies to fall,

Till they leave at last no bodies at all—

Naught but the ghosts of by-gone glory,

Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!—

Where pensive criers, like owls unblest,

Robbed of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them:

Nor mayors shall know where to seek a nest,

Till Gaily Knight shall find one for them;—

Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em,

Shall perish all in one common plague;

And the sovereigns of Belfast and Tuam

Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague.

Thus mused I, in my chair, alone,

(As above described) till dozy grown,

And nodding assent to my own opinions,

I found myself borne to sleep's dominions,

Where, lo! before my dreaming eyes,

A new House of Commons appeared to rise,

Whose living contents, to fancy's survey,

Seemed to me all turned topsy-turvy—

A jumble of polypi—nobody knew

Which was the head or which the queue.

Here, Inglis, turned to a sansculotte,

Was dancing the hays with Hume and Grote;

There, ripe for riot, Recorder Shaw

Was learning from Roebuck "Çaira:"

While Stanley and Graham, as poissarde wenches,

Screamed "à-bas!" from the Tory benches;

And Peel and O'Connell, cheek by jowl,

Were dancing an Irish carmagnole.

The Lord preserve us!—if dreams come true,

What is this hapless realm to do?

[1] These verses were written in reference to the Bill brought in at this time, for the reform of Corporations, and the sweeping amendments proposed by Lord Lyndhurst and other Tory Peers, in order to obstruct the measure.

ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836.

1836

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig

On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig,

Or Perruquolithus—a specimen rare

Of those wigs made for antediluvian wear,

Which, it seems, stood the Flood without turning a hair—

Mr. Tomkins rose up, and requested attention

To facts no less wondrous which he had to mention.

Some large fossil creatures had lately been found,

Of a species no longer now seen above ground,

But the same (as to Tomkins most clearly appears)

With those animals, lost now for hundreds of years,

Which our ancestors used to call "Bishops" and "Peers,"

But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestowed on,

Having called the Peer fossil the Aris-tocratodon,[1]

And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax,

Has christened that creature the Episcopus Vorax.

Lest the savantes and dandies should think this all fable,

Mr. Tomkins most kindly produced, on the table,

A sample of each of these species of creatures,

Both tolerably human, in structure and features,

Except that the Episcopus seems, Lord deliver us!

To've been carnivorous as well as granivorous;

And Tomkins, on searching its stomach, found there

Large lumps, such as no modern stomach could bear,

Of a substance called Tithe, upon which, as 'tis said,

The whole Genus Clericum formerly fed;

And which having lately himself decompounded,

Just to see what 'twas made of, he actually found it

Composed of all possible cookable things

That e'er tript upon trotters or soared upon wings—

All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous,

Hordeaceous, fabaceous and eke farinaceous,

All clubbing their quotas, to glut the oesophagus

Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.[2]

"Admire," exclaimed Tomkins. "the kind dispensation

"By Providence shed on this much-favored nation,

"In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth,

"That might else have occasioned a general dearth—

"And thus burying 'em, deep as even Joe Hume would sink 'em,

"With the Ichthyosaurus and Paloeorynchum,

"And other queer ci-devant things, under ground—

"Not forgetting that fossilized youth,[3] so renowned,

"Who lived just to witness the Deluge—was gratified

"Much by the sight, and has since been found stratified!"

This picturesque touch—quite in Tomkins's way—

Called forth from the savantes a general hurrah;

While inquiries among them, went rapidly round,

As to where this young stratified man could be found.

The "learned Theban's" discourse next as livelily flowed on,

To sketch t'other wonder, the _Aris_tocratodon—

An animal, differing from most human creatures

Not so much in speech, inward structure or features,

As in having a certain excrescence, T. said,

Which in form of a coronet grew from its head,

And devolved to its heirs, when the creature was dead;

Nor mattered it, while this heirloom was transmitted,

How unfit were the heads, so the coronet fitted.

He then mentioned a strange zoölogical fact,

Whose announcement appeared much applause to attract.

In France, said the learned professor, this race

Had so noxious become, in some centuries' space,

From their numbers and strength, that the land was o'errun with 'em,

Every one's question being, "What's to be done with em?"

When, lo! certain knowing ones—savans, mayhap,

Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood trap,[4]

Slyly hinted that naught upon earth was so good

For _Aris_tocratodons, when rampant and rude,

As to stop or curtail their allowance of food.

This expedient was tried and a proof it affords

Of the effect that short commons will have upon lords;

For this whole race of bipeds, one fine summer's morn,

Shed their coronets, just as a deer sheds his horn,

And the moment these gewgaws fell off, they became

Quite a new sort of creature—so harmless and tame,

That zoölogists might, for the first time, maintain 'em

To be near akin to the genius humanum,

And the experiment, tried so successfully then,

Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again.

[1] A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, etc.

[2] The zoölogical term for a tithe-eater.

[3] The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the Deluge ("homo diluvii testis"), but who turned out, I am sorry to say, to be merely a great lizard.

[4] Particularly the formation called Transition Trap.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE CHURCH.

No. 1.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, 'leave us alone.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more:—let us alone." —Letter in The Times, Nov. 1838.

1838.

Come, list to my pastoral tones,

In clover my shepherds I keep;

My stalls are well furnisht with drones,

Whose preaching invites one to sleep.

At my spirit let infidels scoff,

So they leave but the substance my own;

For in sooth I'm extremely well off

If the world will but let me alone.

Dissenters are grumblers, we know;—

Tho' excellent men in their way,

They never like things to be so,

Let things be however they may.

But dissenting's a trick I detest;

And besides 'tis an axiom well known,

The creed that's best paid is the best,

If the _un_paid would let it alone.

To me, I own, very surprising

Your Newmans and Puseys all seem,

Who start first with rationalizing,

Then jump to the other extreme.

Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense,

A nice half-way concern, like our own,

Where piety's mixt up with pence,

And the latter are ne'er left alone.

Of all our tormentors, the Press is

The one that most tears us to bits;

And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses"

Have thrown all its imps into fits.

The devils have been at us, for weeks,

And there's no saying when they'll have done;—

Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks

Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone!

If any need pray for the dead,

'Tis those to whom post-obits fall;

Since wisely hath Solomon said,

'Tis "money that answereth all."

But ours be the patrons who live;-

For, once in their glebe they are thrown,

The dead have no living to give,

And therefore we leave them alone.

Tho' in morals we may not excel,

Such perfection is rare to be had;

A good life is, of course, very well,

But good living is also-not bad.

And when, to feed earth-worms, I go.

Let this epitaph stare from my stone,

"Here lies the Right Rev. so and so;

"Pass, stranger, and—leave him alone."

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London,

You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane,

No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read

What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said—

That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet,

Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street,

Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces,

Didnt burst out a laughing in each other's faces.

What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago,

Even we in the present times pretty well know;

Having soothsayers also, who—sooth to say, John—

Are no better in some points than those of days gone,

And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me),

Might laugh in their sleeves, too—all lawn tho' they be.

But this, by the way—my intention being chiefly

In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly,

That, seeing how fond you of Tuum[1] must be,

While Meum's at all times the main point with me,

We scarce could do better than form an alliance,

To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance:

You, John, recollect, being still to embark,

With no share in the firm but your title and mark;

Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined

To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldnt much mind;

While my church as usual holds fast by your Tuum,

And every one else's, to make it all Suum.

Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree,

As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we;

Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast,

(See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest:

Both mettlesome chargers, both brisk pamphleteers,

Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears;

And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer

By any given cause than I found it the stronger,

And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel,

When the tone ecclesiastic wont do, try the civil.

In short (not to bore you, even jure divino)

We've the same cause in common, John—all but the rhino;

And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be,

As you're not used to cash, John, you'd best leave to me.

And so, without form—as the postman wont tarry—

I'm, dear Jack of Tuain,

Yours,

EXETER HARRY.

[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand,

frequently chants:—

"Had every one Suum,

You wouldnt have Tuum,

But I should have Meum,

And sing Te Deum."

SONG OF OLD PUCK.

"And those things do best please me,

That befall preposterously."

PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night's Dream.

Who wants old Puck? for here am I,

A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky,

Ready alike to crawl or fly;

Now in the mud, now in the air,

And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where.

As to my knowledge, there's no end to't,

For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't:

And, 'stead of taking a learned degree

At some dull university,

Puck found it handier to commence

With a certain share of impudence,

Which passes one off as learned and clever,

Beyond all other degrees whatever;

And enables a man of lively sconce

To be Master of all the Arts at once.

No matter what the science may be—

Ethics, Physics, Theology,

Mathematics, Hydrostatics,

Aerostatics or Pneumatics—

Whatever it be, I take my luck,

'Tis all the same to ancient Puck;

Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares,

That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears

If I had but of law a little smattering,

I'd then be perfect—which is flattering.

My skill as a linguist all must know

Who met me abroad some months ago;

(And heard me abroad exceedingly,

In the moods and tenses of parlez vous)

When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute,

I spoke such French to the Institute

As puzzled those learned Thebans much,

To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch,

And might have past with the unobserving

As one of the unknown tongues of Irving.

As to my talent for ubiquity,

There's nothing like it in all antiquity.

Like Mungo (my peculiar care)

"I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where."

If any one's wanted to take the chair

Upon any subject, any where,

Just look around, and—Puck is there!

When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey

Is never known to be out of the way:

And wherever mischief's to be got,

There's Puck instanter, on the spot.

Only find me in negus and applause,

And I'm your man for any cause.

If wrong the cause, the more my delight;

But I dont object to it, even when right,

If I only can vex some old friend by't;

There's Durham, for instance;—to worry him

Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim!

(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.)

Those who are anxious to run a muck

Cant do better than join with Puck.

They'll find him bon diable—spite of his phiz—

And, in fact, his great ambition is,

While playing old Puck in first-rate style,

To be thought Robin Good-fellow all the while.

POLICE REPORTS.

CASE OF IMPOSTURE.

Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week,

Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected,

Who has lately been passing off coins as antique,

Which have proved to be sham ones, tho' long unsuspected.

The ancients, our readers need hardly be told,

Had a coin they called "Talents," for wholesale demands;

And 'twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold

As to fancy he'd got, God knows how, in his hands.

People took him, however, like fools, at his word;

And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,)

Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd

Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation.

Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised,

"Black swans"—"Queen Anne farthings"—or even "a child's caul"—

Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized,

"Stanley's talents" outdid them—swans, farthings and all!

At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad;

Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it;

Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud—

And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it.

Others, wishing to break the poor prodigy's fall,

Said 'twas known well to all who had studied the matter,

That the Greeks had not only great talents but small,

And those found on the youngster were clearly the latter.

While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin—

Seeing counterfeits pass thus for coinage so massy,

By way of a hint to the dolts taken in,

Appropriately quoted Budaeus "de Asse."

In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out,

And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call,

Proved a mere lackered article—showy, no doubt,

But, ye gods! not the true Attic Talent at all.

As the impostor was still young enough to repent,

And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection,

Their Worships—considerate for once—only sent

The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction.

REFLECTIONS.

ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review.

I'm quite of your mind;—tho' these Pats cry aloud

That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff;

For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed

That even too much of it's not quite enough.

Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;—

Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he

Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills,

Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity.

I verily think 'twould be worth England's while

To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether

'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle

To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether.

The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant;

The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1]

And now if King William would make them a present

To t'other chaste lady—ye Saints, just imagine it!

Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief,

Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches;

While colonels in black would afford some relief

From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's.

Think how fierce at a charge (being practised therein)

The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on!

How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin,

To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on!

For in one point alone do the amply fed race

Of bishops to beggars similitude bear—

That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase,

And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time—you know where.

But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much,

Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way;

And a good stanch Conservative's system is such

That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway.

I am therefore, dear Quarterly, quite of your mind;—

Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour:

And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind.

The more let's repeat it—"Black dose, as before."

Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand

With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother;

And, covering with prisons and churches the land,

All that won't go to one, we'll put into the other.

For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined

To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously,

Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined

(Or who ought to be so), and to church her prodigiously.

[1] Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian.

NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view

An exact and natural representation

(Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1])

Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation.

There they are—all cut out in cork—

The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see;

My eyes! when all them heads are at work,

What a vastly weighty consarn it must be.

As for the "wisdom,"—that may come anon;

Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see

(And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un)

A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T.

Our Lords are rather too small, 'tis true;

But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves;

And, besides,—what's a man with creeturs to do

That make such werry small figures themselves?

There—dont touch those lords, my pretty dears—(Aside.)

Curse the children!—this comes of reforming a nation:

Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers,

I must lay in more cork for a new creation.

Them yonder's our bishops—"to whom much is given,"

And who're ready to take as much more as you please:

The seers of old time saw visions of heaven,

But these holy seers see nothing but Sees.

Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,)

'Tis for so much per cent, they take heaven on their shoulders;

And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co.,

Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders.

There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away,

As we're having him filled with bumbustible stuff,

Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day,

When we annually fire his Right Reverence off.

'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by,

When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile,

Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry,

"How like the dear man, both in matter and style!"

Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow,

As presents to friends, we can recommend these:—

Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know,

And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s.

Those of bottle-corks made take most with the trade,

(At least 'mong such as my Irish writ summons,)

Of old whiskey corks our O'Connells are made,

But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are rum 'uns.

So, step in, gentlefolks, etc.

Da Capo.

[1] One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the day.

[2] The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.

Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times,

Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes,

A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan,

First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can,

Beg to say they've now ready, in full wind and speed,

Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed—

Such as not he who runs but who gallops may read—

And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt,

Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out.

It is true in these days such a drug is renown,

We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town;

And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply

Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die."

Still let England but once try our authors, she'll find

How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind;

And how truly the toils of Alcides were light,

Compared with his toil who can read all they write.

In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade,

How fast immortalities now may be made;

Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One,"

As long as the public continues a Buying One;

And the company hope yet to witness the hour.

When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power,

A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise,

May be written, launched, read and—forgot, in three days!

In addition to all this stupendous celerity,

Which—to the no small relief of posterity—

Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame,

Nor troubles futurity even with a name

(A project that wont as much tickle Tom Tegg as us,

Since 'twill rob him of his second-priced Pegasus);

We, the Company—still more to show how immense

Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, and pence;

And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day,

Could get up a lay without first an out-lay—

Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare,

In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware,

And it doesnt at all matter in either of these lines,

How sham is the article, so it but shines,—

We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand,

To write off, in any given style, at command.

No matter what bard, be he living or dead,

Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said:

There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts,

One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;—

Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens,

While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons.

Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call),

And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all).

In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be,

We've a Bottom who'll copy his roar[2] to a T,

And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em

Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom.

N. B.—The company, since they set up in this line,

Have moved their concern and are now at the sign

Of the Muse's Velocipede, Fleet Street, where all

Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call.

[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go."

[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any nightingale."

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

From tongue to tongue the rumor flew;

All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?"

But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable:

And still the unholy rumor ran,

From Tory woman to Tory man,

Tho' none to come at the truth was able—

Till, lo! at last, the fact came out,

The horrible fact, beyond all doubt,

That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table;

Had flesht his Popish knife and fork

In the heart of the Establisht mutton and pork!

Who can forget the deep sensation

That news produced in this orthodox nation?

Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed,

If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed,

'Twas clearly all up with the Protestant creed!

There hadnt indeed such an apparition

Been heard of in Dublin since that day

When, during the first grand exhibition

Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play,

There appeared, as if raised by necromancers,

An extra devil among the dancers!

Yes—every one saw with fearful thrill

That a devil too much had joined the quadrille;

And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall

A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball,

And the poor sham devils didnt like it at all;

For they knew from whence the intruder had come,

Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home.

This fact, we see, is a parallel case

To the dinner that some weeks since took place.

With the difference slight of fiend and man,

It shows what a nest of Popish sinners

That city must be, where the devil and Dan

May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners!

But mark the end of these foul proceedings,

These demon hops and Popish feedings.

Some comfort 'twill be—to those, at least,

Who've studied this awful dinner question—

To know that Dan, on the night of that feast,

Was seized with a dreadful indigestion;

That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest

To come and absolve the suffering sinner,

For eating so much at a heretic dinner;

And some good people were even afraid

That Peel's old confectioner—still at the trade—

Had poisoned the Papist with orangeade.

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

With all humility we beg

To inform the public, that Tom Tegg—

Known for his spunky speculations

In buying up dead reputations,

And by a mode of galvanizing

Which, all must own, is quite surprising,

Making dead authors move again,

As tho' they still were living men;—

All this too managed, in a trice,

By those two magic words, "Half Price,"

Which brings the charm so quick about,

That worn-out poets, left without

A second foot whereon to stand,

Are made to go at second hand;—

'Twill please the public, we repeat,

To learn that Tegg who works this feat,

And therefore knows what care it needs

To keep alive Fame's invalids,

Has oped an Hospital in town,

For cases of knockt-up renown—

Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic fits

(By some called Cantoes), stabs from wits;

And of all wounds for which they're nurst,

Dead cuts from publishers, the worst;—

All these, and other such fatalities,

That happen to frail immortalities,

By Tegg are so expertly treated,

That oft-times, when the cure's completed,

The patient's made robust enough

To stand a few more rounds of puff,

Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay

He's puft into thin air away!

As titled poets (being phenomenons)

Dont like to mix with low and common 'uns,

Tegg's Hospital has separate wards,

Express for literary lords,

Where prose-peers, of immoderate length,

Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength,

And poets, whom their friends despair of,

Are—put to bed and taken care of.

Tegg begs to contradict a story

Now current both with Whig and Tory,

That Doctor Warburton, M.P.,

Well known for his antipathy,

His deadly hate, good man, to all

The race of poets great and small—

So much, that he's been heard to own,

He would most willingly cut down

The holiest groves on Pindus' mount,

To turn the timber to account!—

The story actually goes, that he

Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary;

And oft not only stints for spite

The patients in their copy-right,

But that, on being called in lately

To two sick poets suffering greatly,

This vaticidal Doctor sent them

So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham,

That one of the poor bards but cried,

"Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died;

While t'other, tho' less stuff was given,

Is on his road, 'tis feared, to heaven!

Of this event, howe'er unpleasant,

Tegg means to say no more at present,—

Intending shortly to prepare

A statement of the whole affair,

With full accounts, at the same time,

Of some late cases (prose and rhyme),

Subscribed with every author's name,

That's now on the Sick List of Fame.

RELIGION AND TRADE.

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." —Church Extension, May 22, 1830.

Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty,

Who first in a statute this libel conveyed;

And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee,

As matters congenial, Religion and Trade?

Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed;

For none but thyself or some pluralist brother,

Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed,

Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other.

And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone,

One is forced to confess on maturer reflection

That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone

That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection.

Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land,

Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid;

And where the whole people, by royal command,

Buy their gods at the government mart, ready made;[1]—

There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is)

Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine,

To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses—

Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine.

But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood;

And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny

That priests love to do the least possible good

For the largest most possible quantum of money.

"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given,

"Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"—

"By me," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven—

"Give as much as you will—more will still be desired."

More money! more churches!—oh Nimrod, hadst thou

'Stead of Tower-extension, some shorter way gone—

Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to heaven now,

And tried Church-extension, the feat had been done!

[1] The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass but must purchase figures of the deity already made.—SYMES.

MUSINGS.

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT.

"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room

of her deceased husband."—Limerick Chronicle.

Whether as queens or subjects, in these days,

Women seem formed to grace alike each station:—

As Captain Flaherty gallantly says,

"You ladies, are the lords of the creation!"

Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float

Of all that matchless woman yet may be;

When hark! in rumors less and less remote,

Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea,

The important news—that Mrs. Nethercoat

Had been appointed jailer of Loughrea;

Yes, mark it, History—Nethercoat is dead,

And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead;

Hers the high task to wield the uplocking keys,

To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees!

Thus, while your blusterers of the Tory school

Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule,

One meek-eyed matron in Whig doctrines nurst

Is all that's askt to curb the maddest, worst!

Show me the man that dares with blushless brow

Prate about Erin's rage and riot now;

Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess;

When long-loved whiskey, fading from her sight,

"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"

Will soon like other spirits vanish quite;

When of red coats the number's grown so small,

That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes,

No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all,

Save that which she of Babylon supplies;—

Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be,

Of Ireland's red defence the sole remains;

While of its jails bright woman keeps the key,

And captive Paddies languish in her chains!

Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine!

Oh yes—if even this world, tho' bright it shine,

In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be,

At least let woman's hand our fetters twine,

And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free,

The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me!

INTENDED TRIBUTE

TO THE AUTHOR OF AN ARTICLE IN THE LAST NUMBER OF The Quarterly Review, ENTITLED "ROMANISM IN IRELAND."

It glads us much to be able to say,

That a meeting is fixt for some early day,

Of all such dowagers—he or she—

(No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,)

Whose opinions concerning Church and State

From about the time of the Curfew date—

Stanch sticklers still for days bygone,

And admiring them for their rust alone—

To whom if we would a leader give,

Worthy their tastes conservative,

We need but some mummy-statesman raise,

Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days;

For that's the man, if waked from his shelf,

To conserve and swaddle this world like himself.

Such, we're happy to state, are the old he-dames

Who've met in committee and given their names

(In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent

To pay some handsome compliment

To their sister author, the nameless he,

Who wrote, in the last new Quarterly,

That charming assault upon Popery;

An article justly prized by them

As a perfect antediluvian gem—

The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say,

Of some "fellow the Flood couldnt wash away."[1]

The fund being raised, there remained but to see

What the dowager-author's gift was to be.

And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue

Showed delicate taste and judgment too.

For finding the poor man suffering greatly

From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately—

So much so indeed to the alarm of all,

As to bring on a fit of what doctors call

The Antipapistico-monomania

(I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye),

They've acted the part of a kind physician,

By suiting their gift to the patient's condition;

And as soon as 'tis ready for presentation,

We shall publish the facts for the gratification

Of this highly-favored and Protestant nation.

Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors,

He still continues his Quarterly labors;

And often has strong No-Popery fits,

Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits.

Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play,[2]

"Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day;

Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens,

And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;[3]

Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter)

Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter.

'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's,

He will keep raving of "Irish Thuggists;"[4]

Tells us they all go murdering for fun

From rise of morn till set of sun,

Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun![5]

If askt, how comes it the gown and cassock are

Safe and fat, mid this general massacre—

How hap sit that Pat's own population

But swarms the more for this trucidation—

He refers you, for all such memoranda,

To the "archives of the Propaganda!"

This is all we've got, for the present, to say—

But shall take up the subject some future day.

[1] See Congreve's "Love for Love."

[2] "Beaux' Stratagem."

[3] "Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the north."— Quarterly Review.

[4] "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village of Irish Thuggists," etc.—Quarterly Review.

[5] "Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns."— Ibid.

GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.

A POOR POET'S DREAM.[1]

As I sate in my study, lone and still,

Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill,

And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made,

In spirit congenial, for "the Trade,"

Sudden I sunk to sleep and lo!

Upon Fancy's reinless nightmare flitting,

I found myself, in a second or so,

At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.

With a goodly group of diners sitting;—

All in the printing and publishing line,

Drest, I thought, extremely fine,

And sipping like lords their rosy wine;

While I in a state near inanition

With coat that hadn't much nap to spare

(Having just gone into its second edition),

Was the only wretch of an author there.

But think, how great was my surprise,

When I saw, in casting round my eyes,

That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks,

Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books;

Large folios—God knows where they got 'em,

In these small times—at top and bottom;

And quartos (such as the Press provides

For no one to read them) down the sides.

Then flasht a horrible thought on my brain,

And I said to myself, "'Tis all too plain,

"Like those well known in school quotations,

"Who ate up for dinner their own relations,

"I see now, before me, smoking here,

"The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;—

"Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse,

"All cut up in cutlets, or hasht in stews;

"Their works, a light thro' ages to go,—

"Themselves, eaten up by Type and Co.!"

While thus I moralized, on they went,

Finding the fare most excellent:

And all so kindly, brother to brother,

Helping the tidbits to each other:

"A slice of Southey let me send you"—

"This cut of Campbell I recommend you"—

"And here, my friends, is a treat indeed,

"The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!"

Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time,

Upon joints of poetry—all of the prime—

With also (as Type in a whisper averred it)

"Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferred it"—

They rested awhile, to recruit their force,

Then pounced, like kites, on the second course,

Which was singing-birds merely—Moore and others—

Who all went the way of their larger brothers;

And, numerous now tho' such songsters be,

'Twas really quite distressing to see

A whole dishful of Toms—Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,—

Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly!

Nor was this the worst—I shudder to think

What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink.

The warriors of Odin, as every one knows,

Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes:

And Type's old port, to my horror I found,

Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round.

And still as each well-filled cranium came,

A health was pledged to its owner's name;

While Type said slyly, midst general laughter,

"We eat them up first, then drink to them after."

There was no standing this—incensed I broke

From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke,

Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times,

"Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes,

"Could you e'er have foretold a day would be,

"When a dreamer of dreams should live to see

"A party of sleek and honest John Bulls

"Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!"

[1] Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright.

CHURCH EXTENSION.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Sir—A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;—a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

Second edition.

Important event for the rich and religious!

Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square;—

Church Extension, their object,—the excitement prodigious;—

Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair!

Third edition.

The Chairman still up, when our devil came away;

Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer,

That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day,

Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care.

Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines,

"When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?"

He manfully answered, "Let us build the shrines,[2]

"And we care not if flocks are found for them or not."

He then added—to show that the Silversmiths' Guild

Were above all confined and intolerant views—

"Only pay thro' the nose to the altars we build,

"You may pray thro' the nose to what altars you choose."

This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip

(Tho' a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till)—

So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip,

That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are re-echoing still.

Fourth edition.

Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus

Are going dog-cheap—may be had for a rebus.

Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest;—

But Venus's also are much in request.

[1] "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth[…to be completed…

[2] The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, adjoining to the great temples.

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare,

Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there,

We extract for our readers the intelligence given,

In our latest accounts from that ci-devant Heaven—

That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state

Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date.

Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er,

Seems to find immortality rather a bore;

Tho' he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes,

And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, the Times.

He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-peckt are,

And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar.

Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration,

And packt off to earth on a puff speculation.

The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim,

Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him.

So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags.

Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the Mags;

Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in't,

From which men could guess that the god had a finger in't.

There are other small facts, well deserving attention,

Of which our Olympic despatches make mention.

Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege,

Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge.

"What, the Irish!" he cried—"those I lookt to the most!

"If they give up the spirit, I give up the ghost:"

While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun,

Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none!

But these changes, tho' curious, are all a mere farce

Compared to the new "casus belli" of Mars,

Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet,

Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot!

In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow

Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow,

Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:"

But the joke wouldn't take—the whole world had got wiser;

Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser;

And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot,

Without very well knowing for whom or for what.

The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,

Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King;

While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain,

Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.

'Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy

Old Mars has been made by what's now on the tapis;

How much it delights him to see the French rally,

In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali;

Well knowing that Satan himself could not find

A confection of mischief much more to his mind

Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combined.

Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers,

Whatever their cause, that they didnt find backers;

While any slight care for Humanity's woes

May be soothed by that "Art Diplomatique," which shows

How to come in the most approved method to blows.

This is all for to-day—whether Mars is much vext

At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next.

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space,

Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny;

And poor human life runs the same sort of race,

Being sad on one side—on the other side, funny.

Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie,

To weep o'er the woes of Macready;—but scarce

Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye,

When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce.

And still let us laugh—preach the world as it may—

Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow;

Heroics are very grand things in their way,

But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow.

For instance, what sermon on human affairs

Could equal the scene that took place t'other day

'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs—

The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way!

Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied,

And whose worship not even among Christians declines,

In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died,

But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines.

Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits,

And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at!

Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits,

Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate?

And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave—

A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read;

While he laughs, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave,

We shall then think the Church is in danger indeed.

Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing

To teach other bishops to "seek the right way;"[1]

And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing,

Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day.

For our parts, gravity's good for the soul,

Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on,

We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll,"

Than coach it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun.

[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your

Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and

N. E. you had turned about," etc.—SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the

Bishop of London.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,

And, better still, a man of guineas,

To talk of "patrons," in these times,

When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,

And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page

Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no—those times are past away,

When, doomed in upper floors to star it.

The bard inscribed to lords his lay,—

Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.

No more he begs with air dependent.

His "little bark may sail attendant"

Under some lordly skipper's steerage;

But launched triumphant in the Row,

Or taken by Murray's self in tow.

Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail

Is whiskt from England by the gale.

But bears on board some authors, shipt

For foreign shores, all well equipt

With proper book-making machinery,

To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,

Of all such lands as they shall see,

Or not see, as the case may be:—

It being enjoined on all who go

To study first Miss Martineau,

And learn from her the method true,[too.

To do one's books—and readers,

For so this nymph of nous and nerve

Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"

And, lest mankind at all should swerve,

Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend—it cant be blinkt—

The Patron is a race extinct;

As dead as any Megatherion

That ever Buckland built a theory on.

Instead of bartering in this age

Our praise for pence and patronage,

We authors now more prosperous elves,

Have learned to patronize ourselves;

And since all-potent Puffing's made

The life of song, the soul of trade.

More frugal of our praises grown,

We puff no merits but our own.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise

Which critics blew in former days,

Our modern puffs are of a kind

That truly, really raise the wind;

And since they've fairly set in blowing,

We find them the best trade-winds going.

'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy

As her old haunts near Aganippe,

The Muse now taking to the till

Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill

(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,

As seen from bard's back attic windows):

And swallowing there without cessation

Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,

Touches the notes for each new theme,

While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."

What Steam is on the deep—and more—

Is the vast power of Puff on shore;

Which jumps to glory's future tenses

Before the present even commences;

And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us

Before the world has read one line of us.

In old times, when the God of Song

Drove his own two-horse team along,

Carrying inside a bard or two,

Bookt for posterity "all thro';"—

Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes,

(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times—

So slow the pull to Fame's abode,

That folks oft slept upon the road;—

And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,

Took to his night-cap on the way.

Ye Gods! how different is the story

With our new galloping sons of glory,

Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,

Dash to posterity in no time!

Raise but one general blast of Puff

To start your author—that's enough.

In vain the critics set to watch him

Try at the starting post to catch him:

He's off—the puffers carry it hollow—

The critics, if they please, may follow.

Ere they've laid down their first positions,

He's fairly blown thro' six editions!

In vain doth Edinburgh dispense

Her blue and yellow pestilence

(That plague so awful in my time

To young and touchy sons of rhyme)—

The Quarterly, at three months' date,

To catch the Unread One, comes too late;

And nonsense, littered in a hurry,

Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.

But bless me!—while I thus keep fooling,

I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."

That postman too (who, truth to tell,

'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)

Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally

That I must stop—

Yours sempiternally.

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

BY LORD STANLEY.

(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)

"Evil, be thou my good."

—MILTON.

How various are the inspirations

Of different men in different nations!

As genius prompts to good or evil,

Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.

Old Socrates, that pink of sages,

Kept a pet demon on board wages

To go about with him incog.,

And sometimes give his wits a jog.

So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know,

Keeps fresh relays of imps below,

To forward from that nameless spot;

His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings—

Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings—

Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,

I'd show you mischief prettier still;

Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks

With age's sourest politics;

The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,

Both duly mixt, and matchless all;

A compound naught in history reaches

But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,

Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm,

Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee—

No livelier lackey could they find thee.

And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,

So mischief's done, you care not where,

I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle

In Paddyland to play the Pickle;

Having got credit for inventing

A new, brisk method of tormenting—

A way they call the Stanley fashion,

Which puts all Ireland in a passion;

So neat it hits the mixture due

Of injury and insult too;

So legibly it bears upon't

The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means the land of Ire;

And why she's so, none need inquire,

Who sees her millions, martial, manly,

Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.

Already in the breeze I scent

The whiff of coming devilment;

Of strife, to me more stirring far

Than the Opium or the Sulphur war,

Or any such drug ferments are.

Yes—sweeter to this Tory soul

Than all such pests, from pole to pole,

Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got

By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"

And thanks to practice on that land

I stir it with a master-hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone

The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!"

How Caravats and Shanavests

Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,

With all their merry moonlight brothers,

To whom the Church (step-dame to others)

Hath been the best of nursing mothers.

Again o'er Erin's rich domain

Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;

And both, exempt from vulgar toil,

Between them share that titheful soil;

Puzzling ambition which to climb at,

The post of Captain, or of Primate.

And so, long life to Church and Co.—

Hurrah for mischief!—here we go.

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

Dear Lyndhurst,—you'll pardon my making thus free,—

But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we,

Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,

Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private—

Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,

Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet,

But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her

To love more than meat, drink, or clothing—hot water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,

Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;

And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two

Played so well into each other's hands as we do;

Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture,

Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture.

Not Birmingham's self—to her shame be it spoken—

E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken;

And hence, I confess, in this island religious,

The breakage of laws—and of heads is prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,—

Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by;

As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport,

Some rector—a cool hand at pistols and port,

Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself—

One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,

Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges,

Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges;

Except when some hero of this sort turned out,

Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs[1] about—

A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery,

Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery;

So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,

To have bit off so rich a receipt for a row;—

Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,

I was actually growing the dullest of men;

And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase,

Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace.

Like you, Reformation in Church and in State

Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate.

If once these curst Ministers do as they like,

All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike,

And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth,

Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.

But we must not despair—even already Hope sees

You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze

Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,

Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro',

And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,

So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows.

Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare

My own small resources with thine to compare:

Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst

Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.

But, hark, there's a shot!—some parsonic practitioner?

No—merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner;

The Courts having now, with true law erudition,

Put even Rebellion itself "in commission."

As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,

I'll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter.

In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks!

Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!

Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,

And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!

[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.—Chronicle.

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1]

Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more,

Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before:

For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew,

You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do;

So ready they're always, when dull we are growing,

To set our old concert of discord a-going,

While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face,

To play in such concert the true double-base.

I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning

To tire of his course of political sinning,

And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,

Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last.

But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides

All reform in himself as in most things besides;

And, by using two faces thro' life, all allow,

Has acquired face sufficient for any-thing now.

In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe,

My "Lord Harry" himself—who's the leader, we know,

Of another red-hot Opposition below—

If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares

Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs,

We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,

That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.

Even already—long life to such Bigwigs, say I,

For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die—

He has served our right riotous cause by a speech

Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach;

As it shows off both his and my merits alike,

Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike;

Mixes up, with a skill which one cant but admire,

The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire,

And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,

Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!

Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;

Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly;

Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered

By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered.

Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood,

But "You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;"

While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,

Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, "We are!"

And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it,

Still the echoes may quote Law authority for it,

And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion

So he, in the end, touches cash "for the opinion."

But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now,

Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_.

They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin,

They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in.

[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock.

POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,

Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend;

We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,

And wept for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,

And generous indeed were the tears that we shed,

When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,

And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead.

Even now if one harsher emotion intrude,

'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state,

Had known what he was—and, content to be good,

Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.

So, left thro' their own little orbit to move,

His years might have rolled inoffensive away;

His children might still have been blest with his love,

And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway.

TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."

Sir,—In order to explain the following Fragment, it is

necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the

Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, "FUM,

The Chinese Bird of Royalty," is a principal ornament.

I am, Sir, yours, etc.

MUM.

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM,

Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM,

In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)

Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.—

Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation

(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation);

Both, full-crawed Legitimates—both, birds of prey,

Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way

'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh.

While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea,

Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.—are sacred to thee

So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on

The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton,

The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome

Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"—

And when, turning, he saw Bishop L—GE, "Zooks, it is."

Quoth the Bird, "Yes—I know him—a Bonze, by his phiz-

"And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low

"Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!"

It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig

Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1]

Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head,

And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed,

Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye,

That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"

But a truce to digression;—these Birds of a feather

Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together;

(The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't,

His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,)

"I say, HUM," says FUM—FUM, of course, spoke Chinese,

But, bless you! that's nothing—at Brighton one sees

Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease—

"I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now?

"Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney-or how?"

(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree

Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L—E,)

"As for us in Pekin"—here, a devil of a din

From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin,

Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the Confucius of Prose),

Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose

To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.

(Nota bene—his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come,

In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM,

CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug—LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,)

The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH.

Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away!

Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby,

Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.

[1] In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal Highness.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

principibus placuisse viris!

—HORAT.

Yes, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear

Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those

Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career.

And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed

By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;—

Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead,

Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,

And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;

To think what a long line of titles may follow

The relics of him who died—friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funeral array

Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow:—

How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,

Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!

And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure's dream,

Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past,

Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam

Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:—

No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee

With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;—

No! not for the riches of all who despise thee,

Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;—

Would I suffer what—even in the heart that thou hast—

All mean as it is—must have consciously burned.

When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,

And which found all his wants at an end, was returned![1]

"Was this then the fate,"—future ages will say,

When some names shall live but in history's curse;

When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day

Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse;—

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,

"The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall,

"The orator,—dramatist,—minstrel,—who ran

"Thro' each mode of the lyre and was master of all;—

"Whose mind was an essence compounded with art

"From the finest and best of all other men's powers;-

"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,

"And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers;—

"Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light,

"Played round every subject and shone as it played;—

"Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,

"Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—

"Whose eloquence—brightening whatever it tried,

"Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,—

"Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide,

"As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"

Yes—such was the man and so wretched his fate;—

And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,

Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,

And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve.

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey

On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;[2]

Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,

First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die!

[1] The sum was two hundred pounds—offered when Sheridan could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.

[2] Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them,—History of Poland.

EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.[1]

CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.[2]

"Ahi, mio Ben!"

—METASTASIO.[3]

What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown?

Is this the new go?—kick a man when he's down!

When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then—

By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN!

"Foul! foul!" all the lads of the Fancy exclaim—

CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified—BELCHER spits flame—

And MOLYNEUX—ay, even BLACKY[4] cries "shame!"

Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied

'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side:

When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating)

His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating.

But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions,

Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions;

Your Noyaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what—

(One swig of Blue Ruin[5] is worth the whole lot!)

Your great and small crosses—my eyes, what a brood!

(A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good!)

Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise,

Of pure English claret is left in your corpus;

And (as JIM says) the only one trick, good or bad,

Of the Fancy you're up to, is fibbing, my lad.

Hence it comes,—BOXIANA, disgrace to thy page!—

Having floored, by good luck, the first swell of the age,

Having conquered the prime one, that milled us all round,

You kickt him, old BEN, as he gaspt on the ground!

Ay—just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any—

Kickt him and jawed him and lagged[6] him to Botany!

Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger![7] you, who, alas!

Doubled up by the dozen those Moun-seers in brass,

On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes,

When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes,

Look down upon BEN—see him, dung-hill all o'er,

Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more!

Out, cowardly spooney!—again and again,

By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN.

To show the white feather is many men's doom,

But, what of one feather?—BEN shows a whole Plume.

[1] A nickname given, at this time, to the Prince Regent.

[2] Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St. Helena.

[3] Tom, I suppose, was "assisted" to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going.

[4] Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time.

[5] Gin.

[6] Transported.

[7] A Life-Guardsman, one of the Fancy who distinguished himself and was killed in the memorable set-to at Waterloo.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

tu Regibus alas eripe

VERGIL, Georg. lib. iv.

—Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings.

DRYDEN'S Translation.

DEDICATION.

TO LORD BYRON.

Dear Lord Byron,—Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I am,

My dear Lord,

Ever faithfully yours,

T. B.

PREFACE.

Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume.

I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of the different members, etc.—but as I am at present preparing for the press the First Volume of the "Transactions of the Pococurante Society," I shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon."

It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to such assailants, than is contained in the three words "non curat Hippoclides" (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading dictum of the sect.

THOMAS BROWN.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I've had a dream that bodes no good

Unto the Holy Brotherhood.

I may be wrong, but I confess—

As far as it is right or lawful

For one, no conjurer, to guess—

It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood

A beautiful Ice Palace stood,

A dome of frost-work, on the plan

Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1]

Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is—

Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnisht all

And lighted as the best on land are,

I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,

Given by the Emperor Alexander,

To entertain with all due zeal,

Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a

Regard so kind for Europe's weal,

At Troppau, Laybach and Verona.

The thought was happy—and designed

To hint how thus the human Mind

May, like the stream imprisoned there,

Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear

The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet

E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.

And all were pleased and cold and stately,

Shivering in grand illumination—

Admired the superstructure greatly,

Nor gave one thought to the foundation.

Much too the Tsar himself exulted,

To all plebeian fears a stranger,

For, Madame Krudener, when consulted,

Had pledged her word there was no danger

So, on he capered, fearless quite,

Thinking himself extremely clever,

And waltzed away with all his might,

As if the Frost would last forever.

Just fancy how a bard like me,

Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled

To see that goodly company,

At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded

My loyal soul, at all unfounded—

For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy

Were seized with an ill-omened dripping,

And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,

Their Holinesses took to slipping.

The Tsar, half thro' a Polonaise,

Could scarce get on for downright stumbling;

And Prussia, tho' to slippery ways

Well used, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most,

Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.—

And now, to an Italian air,

This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;

Now—while old Louis, from his chair,

Intreated them his toes to spare—

Called loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,

At which they all set to, like mad!

Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is

Of wit among their Excellencies)

So out of all their princely senses,

But ah! that dance—that Spanish dance—

Scarce was the luckless strain begun,

When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance

Shot from an angry Southern sun,

A light thro' all the chambers flamed,

Astonishing old Father Frost,

Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed,

"A thaw, by Jove—we're lost, we're lost!

"Run, France—a second _Water_loo

"Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so

In palaces without foundations?—

Instantly all was in a flow,

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations—

Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice,

Cut out in the resplendent ice—

Those Eagles, handsomely provided

With double heads for double dealings—

How fast the globes and sceptres glided

Out of their claws on all the ceilings!

Proud Prussia's double bird of prey

Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;

While—just like France herself, when she

Proclaims how great her naval skill is—

Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys

Imagined themselves water-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,

But—still more fatal execution—

The Great Legitimates themselves

Seemed in a state of dissolution.

The indignant Tsar—when just about

To issue a sublime Ukase,

"Whereas all light must be kept out"—

Dissolved to nothing in its blaze.

Next Prussia took his turn to melt,

And, while his lips illustrious felt

The influence of this southern air,

Some word, like "Constitution"—long

Congealed in frosty silence there—

Came slowly thawing from his tongue.

While Louis, lapsing by degrees,

And sighing out a faint adieu

To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese

And smoking fondus, quickly grew,

Himself, into a fondu too;—

Or like that goodly King they make

Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake,

When, in some urchin's mouth, alas!

It melts into a shapeless mass!

In short, I scarce could count a minute,

Ere the bright dome and all within it,

Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone—

And nothing now was seen or heard

But the bright river, rushing on,

Happy as an enfranchised bird,

And prouder of that natural ray,

Shining along its chainless way—

More proudly happy thus to glide

In simple grandeur to the sea,

Than when, in sparkling fetters tied,

'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride

Could bring to light its slavery!

Such is my dream—and, I confess,

I tremble at its awfulness.

That Spanish Dance—that southern beam—

But I say nothing—there's my dream—

And Madame Krüdener, the she-prophet,

May make just what she pleases of it.

[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect."—PINKERTON.

FABLE II.

THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

PROEM.

Where Kings have been by mob-elections

Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see

What different and what odd perfections

Men have required in Royalty.

Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy,

Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;—

Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy,

Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1]

The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said,

Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2]

The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar,

So that their Kings had not red hair—

This fault not even the greatest stickler

For the blood-royal well could bear.

A thousand more such illustrations

Might be adduced from various nations.

But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,

Touching the acquired or natural right

Which some men have to rule their fellows,

There's one which I shall here recite:—

FABLE.

There was a land—to name the place

Is neither now my wish nor duty—

Where reigned a certain Royal race,

By right of their superior beauty.

What was the cut legitimate

Of these great persons' chins and noses,

By right of which they ruled the state,

No history I have seen discloses.

But so it was—a settled case—

Some Act of Parliament, past snugly,

Had voted them a beauteous race,

And all their faithful subjects ugly.

As rank indeed stood high or low,

Some change it made in visual organs;

Your Peers were decent—Knights, so so—

But all your common people, gorgons!

Of course, if any knave but hinted

That the King's nose was turned awry,

Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted—

The judges doomed that knave to die.

But rarely things like this occurred,

The people to their King were duteous,

And took it, on his Royal word,

That they were frights and He was beauteous.

The cause whereof, among all classes,

Was simply this—these island elves

Had never yet seen looking-glasses,

And therefore did not know themselves.

Sometimes indeed their neighbors' faces

Might strike them as more full of reason,

More fresh than those in certain places—

But, Lord, the very thought was treason!

Besides, howe'er we love our neighbor,

And take his face's part, 'tis known

We ne'er so much in earnest labor,

As when the face attackt's our own.

So on they went—the crowd believing—

(As crowds well governed always do)

Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving—

So old the joke, they thought 'twas true.

But jokes, we know, if they too far go,

Must have an end—and so, one day,

Upon that coast there was a cargo

Of looking-glasses cast away.

'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere,

Had laid their wicked heads together,

And forced that ship to founder there,—

While some believe it was the weather.

However this might be, the freight

Was landed without fees or duties;

And from that hour historians date

The downfall of the Race of Beauties.

The looking-glasses got about,

And grew so common thro' the land,

That scarce a tinker could walk out,

Without a mirror in his hand.

Comparing faces, morning, noon,

And night, their constant occupation—

By dint of looking-glasses, soon,

They grew a most reflecting nation.

In vain the Court, aware of errors

In all the old, establisht mazards,

Prohibited the use of mirrors

And tried to break them at all hazards:—

In vain—their laws might just as well

Have been waste paper on the shelves;

That fatal freight had broke the spell;

People had lookt—and knew themselves.

If chance a Duke, of birth sublime,

Presumed upon his ancient face,

(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,)

They popt a mirror to his Grace;—

Just hinting, by that gentle sign,

How little Nature holds it true,

That what is called an ancient line,

Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they past to regal phizzes,

Compared them proudly with their own,

And cried. "How could such monstrous quizzes

"In Beauty's name usurp the throne!"—

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,

Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy,

Which made the King try various looks,

But none improved his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court were levelled,

And small lampoons, so full of slynesses,

That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled

Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length—but here I drop the veil,

To spare some royal folks' sensations;—

Besides, what followed is the tale

Of all such late-enlightened nations;

Of all to whom old Time discloses

A truth they should have sooner known—

That kings have neither rights nor noses

A whit diviner than their own.

[1] The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their King.—Munster, "Cosmog." lib. iii. p. 164.

[2] "In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable."—Oriental Field Sports.

FABLE III.

THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.

I saw it all in Fancy's glass—

Herself, the fair, the wild magician,

Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,

And named each gliding apparition.

'Twas like a torch-race—such as they

Of Greece performed, in ages gone,

When the fleet youths, in long array,

Past the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant nations stand,

To catch the coming flame in turn;—

I saw, from ready hand to hand,

The clear tho' struggling glory burn.

And oh! their joy, as it came near,

'Twas in itself a joy to see;—

While Fancy whispered in my ear.

"That torch they pass is Liberty!"

And each, as she received the flame,

Lighted her altar with its ray;

Then, smiling, to the next who came,

Speeded it on its sparkling way.

From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine

Was furnisht with the fire already,

COLUMBIA caught the boon divine,

And lit a flame, like ALBION'S, steady.

The splendid gift then GALLIA took,

And, like a wild Bacchante, raising

The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,

As she would set the world a-blazing!

Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high

Her altar blazed into the air,

That ALBION, to that fire too nigh,

Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare!

Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her,

Leapt at the torch—but, ere the spark

That fell upon her shrine could stir,

'Twas quenched—and all again was dark.

Yet, no—not quenched—a treasure worth

So much to mortals rarely dies:

Again her living light lookt forth,

And shone, a beacon, in all eyes.

Who next received the flame? alas!

Unworthy NAPLES—shame of shames,

That ever thro' such hands should pass

That brightest of all earthly flames!

Scarce had her fingers touched the torch.

When, frighted by the sparks it shed,

Nor waiting even to feel the scorch,

She dropt it to the earth—and fled.

And fallen it might have long remained;

But GREECE, who saw her moment now,

Caught up the prize, tho' prostrate, stained,

And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er

Her altar, as its flame ascended,

Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar,

Who thus in song their voices blended:—

"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame,

"Divinest gift of Gods to men!

"From GREECE thy earliest splendor came,

"To GREECE thy ray returns again.

"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round,

"When dimmed, revive, when lost, return,

"Till not a shrine thro' earth be found,

"On which thy glories shall not burn."

FABLE IV.

THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

PROEM.

Of all that, to the sage's survey,

This world presents of topsy-turvy,

There's naught so much disturbs one's patience,

As little minds in lofty stations.

'Tis like that sort of painful wonder.

Which slender columns, laboring under

Enormous arches, give beholders;—

Or those poor Caryatides,

Condemned to smile and stand at ease,

With a whole house upon their shoulders.

If as in some few royal cases,

Small minds are born into such places—

If they are there by Right Divine

Or any such sufficient reason,

Why—Heaven forbid we should repine!—

To wish it otherwise were treason;

Nay, even to see it in a vision,

Would be what lawyers call misprision.

SIR ROBERT FILMER saith—and he,

Of course, knew all about the matter—

"Both men and beasts love Monarchy;"

Which proves how rational the latter.

SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right.

Entirely differed from the Knight:

Nay, hints a King may lose his head.

By slipping awkwardly his bridle:—

But this is treasonous, ill-bred,

And (now-a-days, when Kings are led

In patent snaffles) downright idle.

No, no—it isnt right-line Kings,

(Those sovereign lords in leading strings

Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,)

That move my wrath—'tis your pretenders,

Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,

Who—not, like t'others, bores by birth,

Establisht gratiâ Dei blockheads,

Born with three kingdoms in their pockets—

Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,

Push up into the loftiest stations,

And, tho' too dull to manage shops,

Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!

This class it is, that moves my gall,

And stirs up bile, and spleen and all.

While other senseless things appear

To know the limits of their sphere—

While not a cow on earth romances

So much as to conceit she dances—

While the most jumping frog we know of,

Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off—

Your ***s, your ***s dare,

Untrained as are their minds, to set them

To any business, any where,

At any time that fools will let them.

But leave we here these upstart things—

My business is just now with Kings;

To whom and to their right-line glory,

I dedicate the following story.

FABLE

The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies;

And even when they most condescended to teach,

They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies,

In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach.

They were also, good people, much given to Kings—

Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery;

But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things—

As will partly appear in this very short history.

A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say,

To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,)

Stept into a temple at Memphis one day,

To have a short peep at their mystical farces.

He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar,

Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine;

While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter,

Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine.

Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher—

"If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why

"Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature,

"Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?"

"No wonder"—said t'other—"you stare at the sight,

"But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it—

"That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right,

"And that Bullock, the People that's sacrificed to it."

FABLE V.

CHURCH AND STATE.

PROEM

"The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them." —SOAME JENYNS

Thus did SOAME JENYNS—tho' a Tory,

A Lord of Trade and the Plantations;

Feel how Religion's simple glory

Is stained by State associations.

When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles,

Appealed to the benign Divinity;

Then cut them up in protocols,

Made fractions of their very souls—

All in the name of the blest Trinity;

Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER,

That mighty Northern salamander,[1]

Whose icy touch, felt all about,

Puts every fire of Freedom out—

When he, too, winds up his Ukases

With God and the Panagia's praises—

When he, of royal Saints the type,

In holy water dips the sponge,

With which, at one imperial wipe,

He would all human rights expunge;

When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater,

Some name Dix-huit, and some Deshuitres.)

Calls down "St. Louis's God" to witness

The right, humanity, and fitness

Of sending eighty thousand Solons,

Sages with muskets and laced coats,

To cram instruction, nolens volens,

Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats—

I cant help thinking, (tho' to Kings

I must, of course, like other men, bow,)

That when a Christian monarch brings

Religion's name to gloss these things—

Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow![2]

Or—not so far for facts to roam,

Having a few much nearer home-

When we see Churchmen, who, if askt,

"Must Ireland's slaves be tithed, and taskt,

"And driven, like Negroes or Croats,

"That you may roll in wealth and bliss?"

Look from beneath their shovel hats

With all due pomp and answer "Yes!"

But then, if questioned, "Shall the brand

"Intolerance flings throughout that land,—

"Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow

'Betwixt her palaces and hovels,

"Be ever quenched?"—from the same shovels

Look grandly forth and answer "No."—

Alas, alas! have these a claim

To merciful Religion's name?

If more you seek, go see a bevy

Of bowing parsons at a levee—

(Choosing your time, when straw's before

Some apoplectic bishop's door,)

Then if thou canst with life escape

That rush of lawn, that press of crape,

Just watch their reverences and graces,

As on each smirking suitor frisks,

And say, if those round shining faces

To heaven or earth most turn their disks?

This, this it is—Religion, made,

Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade—

This most ill-matched, unholy Co.,

From whence the ills we witness flow;

The war of many creeds with one—

The extremes of too much faith and none—

Till, betwixt ancient trash and new,

'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy—the two

Rank ills with which this age is curst—

We can no more tell which is worst,

Than erst could Egypt, when so rich

In various plagues, determine which

She thought most pestilent and vile,

Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle,

Croaking their native mud-notes loud,

Or her fat locusts, like a cloud

Of pluralists, obesely lowering,

At once benighting and devouring!—

This—this it is—and here I pray

Those sapient wits of the Reviews.

Who make us poor, dull authors say,

Not what we mean, but what they choose;

Who to our most abundant shares

Of nonsense add still more of theirs,

And are to poets just such evils

As caterpillars find those flies,[3]

Which, not content to sting like devils,

Lay eggs upon their backs like wise—

To guard against such foul deposits

Of other's meaning in my rhymes,

(A thing more needful here because it's

A subject, ticklish in these times)—

I, here, to all such wits make known,

Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory,

'Tis this Religion—this alone—

I aim at in the following story:—

FABLE.

When Royalty was young and bold,

Ere, touched by Time, he had become—

If 'tisn't civil to say old,

At least, a ci-devant jeune homme;

One evening, on some wild pursuit

Driving along, he chanced to see

Religion, passing by on foot,

And took him in his vis-à-vis.

This said Religion was a Friar,

The humblest and the best of men,

Who ne'er had notion or desire

Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"—quoth Royalty, who rather

Enjoyed a masquerading joke—

"I say, suppose, my good old father,

"You lend me for a while your cloak."

The Friar consented—little knew

What tricks the youth had in his head;

Besides, was rather tempted too

By a laced coat he got instead.

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash,

Scampering like mad about the town;

Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash,

And knockt whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they, whose heads were broke,

Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore,"

Except that 'twas Religion's cloak

The gentleman, who crackt them, wore,

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned

By the laced coat, grew frisky too;

Lookt big—his former habits spurned—

And stormed about, as great men do:

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses—

Said "Damn you" often, or as bad—

Laid claim to other people's purses—

In short, grew either knaves or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting,

And flesh and blood no longer bore it,

The Court of Common Sense, then sitting,

Summoned the culprits both before it.

Where, after hours in wrangling spent

(As Courts must wrangle to decide well).

Religion to St. Luke's was sent,

And Royalty packt off to Bridewell.

With this proviso—should they be

Restored, in due time, to their senses,

They both must give security,

In future, against such offences—

Religion ne'er to lend his cloak,

Seeing what dreadful work it leads to;

And Royalty to crack his joke,—

But not to crack poor people's heads too.

[1] The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by its natural coldness and moisture.

[2] A well-known publisher of irreligious books.

[3] "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings into its body—at every dart they deposit an egg"—GOLDSMITH.

FABLE VI.

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

PROEM.

Novella, a young Bolognese,

The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1]

Who had with all the subtleties

Of old and modern jurists stockt her,

Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said,

And over hearts held such dominion,

That when her father, sick in bed,

Or busy, sent her, in his stead,

To lecture on the Code Justinian,

She had a curtain drawn before her,

Lest, if her charms were seen, the students

Should let their young eyes wander o'er her,

And quite forget their jurisprudence.

Just so it is with Truth, when seen,

Too dazzling far,—'tis from behind

A light, thin allegoric screen,

She thus can safest leach mankind.

FABLE.

In Thibet once there reigned, we're told,

A little Lama, one year old—

Raised to the throne, that realm to bless,

Just when his little Holiness

Had cut—as near as can be reckoned—

Some say his first tooth, some his second.

Chronologers and Nurses vary,

Which proves historians should be wary.

We only know the important truth,

His Majesty had cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted,—

As well all Lamas' subjects may be,

And would have given their heads, if wanted,

To make tee-totums for the baby.

Throned as he was by Right Divine—

(What Lawyers call Jure Divino,

Meaning a right to yours and mine

And everybody's goods and rhino.)

Of course, his faithful subjects' purses

Were ready with their aids and succors;

Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses;

And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet,

Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,

Ye Gods! what room for long debates

Upon the Nursery Estimates!

What cutting down of swaddling-clothes

And pinafores, in nightly battles!

What calls for papers to expose

The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!

But no—if Thibet had M.P.s,

They were far better bred than these;

Nor gave the slightest opposition,

During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm;—for, just when he,

Had reached the alarming age of three,

When Royal natures and no doubt

Those of all noble beasts break out—

The Lama, who till then was quiet,

Showed symptoms of a taste for riot;

And, ripe for mischief, early, late,

Without regard for Church or State,

Made free with whosoe'er came nigh;

Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose,

Turned all the Judges' wigs awry,

And trod on the old Generals' toes;

Pelted the Bishops with hot buns,

Rode cock-horse on the City maces,

And shot from little devilish guns,

Hard peas into the subjects' faces.

In short, such wicked pranks he played,

And' grew so mischievous, God bless him!

That his Chief Nurse—with even the aid

Of an Archbishop—was afraid.

When in these moods, to comb or dress him.

Nay, even the persons most inclined

Thro' thick and thin, for Kings to stickle,

Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind;

Which they did not) an odious pickle.

At length some patriot lords—a breed

Of animals they've got in Thibet,

Extremely rare and fit indeed

For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit—

Some patriot lords, who saw the length

To which things went, combined their strength,

And penned a manly, plain and free,

Remonstrance to the Nursery;

Protesting warmly that they yielded

To none that ever went before 'em,

In loyalty to him who wielded

The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em;

That, as for treason, 'twas a thing

That made them almost sick to think of—

That they and theirs stood by the King,

Throughout his measles and his chincough,

When others, thinking him consumptive,

Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!—

But, still—tho' much admiring Kings

(And chiefly those in leading-strings),

They saw, with shame and grief of soul,

There was no longer now the wise

And constitutional control

Of birch before their ruler's eyes;

But that of late such pranks and tricks

And freaks occurred the whole day long,

As all but men with bishoprics

Allowed, in even a King, were wrong.

Wherefore it was they humbly prayed

That Honorable Nursery,

That such reforms be henceforth made,

As all good men desired to see;—

In other words (lest they might seem

Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme

For putting all such pranks to rest,

And in its bud the mischief nipping—

They ventured humbly to suggest

His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read, no Congreve rocket,

Discharged into the Gallic trenches

E'er equalled the tremendous shock it

Produced upon the Nursery benches.

The Bishops, who of course had votes,

By right of age and petticoats,

Were first and foremost in the fuss—

"What, whip a Lama! suffer birch

"To touch his sacred—infamous!

"Deistical!—assailing thus

"The fundamentals of the Church!—

"No—no—such patriot plans as these,

"(So help them Heaven—and their Sees!)

"They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other

Grave ladies of the Nursery side,

Spread thro' the land, till, such a pother,

Such party squabbles, far and wide,

Never in history's page had been

Recorded, as were then between

The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.

Till, things arriving at a state,

Which gave some fears of revolution,

The patriot lords' advice, tho' late,

Was put at last in execution.

The Parliament of Thibet met—

The little Lama, called before it,

Did, then and there, his whipping get,

And (as the Nursery Gazette

Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And tho', 'mong Thibet Tories, some

Lament that Royal Martyrdom

(Please to observe, the letter D

In this last word's pronounced like B),

Yet to the example of that Prince

So much is Thibet's land a debtor,

That her long line of Lamas, since,

Have all behaved themselves much better.

[1] Andreas.

FABLE VII.

THE EXTINGUISHERS.

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports,

The natural allies of Courts,

Woe to the Monarch, who depends

Too much on his red-coated friends;

For even soldiers sometimes think—

Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,—

And reasoners, whether clad in pink

Or red or blue, are on the brink

(Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are

As fond of liberty as Mina;

Else—woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever

Once turns into a Scarletina!

For then—but hold—'tis best to veil

My meaning in the following tale:—

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,

Just come into a large estate,

Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,

Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers,

Whose fires, beneath his very nose,

In heretic combustion rose.

But Lords of Persia can, no doubt,

Do what they will—so, one fine morning,

He turned the rascal Ghebers out,

First giving a few kicks for warning.

Then, thanking Heaven most piously,

He knockt their Temple to the ground,

Blessing himself for joy to see

Such Pagan ruins strewed around.

But much it vext my Lord to find,

That, while all else obeyed his will,

The Fire these Ghebers left behind,

Do what he would, kept burning still.

Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown

Could scare the bright insurgent down;

But, no—such fires are headstrong things,

And care not much for Lords or Kings.

Scarce could his Lordship well contrive

The flashes in one place to smother,

Before—hey presto!—all alive,

They sprung up freshly in another.

At length when, spite of prayers and damns,

'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him,

His stewards came, with low salams,

Offering, by contract, to provide him

Some large Extinguishers, (a plan,

Much used, they said, at Ispahan,

Vienna, Petersburg—in short,

Wherever Light's forbid at court),

Machines no Lord should be without,

Which would at once put promptly out

All kinds of fires,—from staring, stark

Volcanoes to the tiniest spark;

Till all things slept as dull and dark,

As in a great Lord's neighborhood

'Twas right and fitting all things should.

Accordingly, some large supplies

Of these Extinguishers were furnisht

(All of the true Imperial size),

And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht,

Ready, where'er a gleam but shone

Of light or fire, to be clapt on.

But ah! how lordly wisdom errs,

In trusting to extinguishers!

One day, when he had left all sure,

(At least, so thought he) dark, secure—

The flame, at all its exits, entries,

Obstructed to his heart's content,

And black extinguishers, like sentries,

Placed over every dangerous vent—

Ye Gods, imagine his amaze,

His wrath, his rage, when, on returning,

He found not only the old blaze,

Brisk as before, crackling and burning,—

Not only new, young conflagrations,

Popping up round in various stations—

But still more awful, strange and dire,

The Extinguishers themselves on fire!![1]

They, they—those trusty, blind machines

His Lordship had so long been praising,

As, under Providence, the means

Of keeping down all lawless blazing,

Were now, themselves—alas, too true,

The shameful fact—turned blazers too,

And by a change as odd as cruel

Instead of dampers, served for fuel!

Thus, of his only hope bereft,

"What," said the great man, "must be done?"—

All that, in scrapes like this, is left

To great men is—to cut and run.

So run he did; while to their grounds,

The banisht Ghebers blest returned;

And, tho' their Fire had broke its bounds,

And all abroad now wildly burned,

Yet well could they, who loved the flame,

Its wandering, its excess reclaim;

And soon another, fairer Dome

Arose to be its sacred home,

Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined,

The living glory dwelt inshrined,

And, shedding lustre strong, but even,

Tho' born of earth, grew worthy heaven.

MORAL.

The moral hence my Muse infers

Is, that such Lords are simple elves,

In trusting to Extinguishers,

That are combustible themselves.

[1] The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant mots, which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters to Julia,"—a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age.

FABLE VIII.

LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG.

The money raised—the army ready—

Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy

Valiantly braying in the van,

To the old tune ""Eh, eh, Sire Àne!"[1]—

Naught wanting, but some coup dramatic,

To make French sentiment explode,

Bring in, at once, the goût fanatic,

And make the war "la dernière mode"—

Instantly, at the Pavillon Marsan,

Is held an Ultra consultation—

What's to be done, to help the farce on?

What stage-effect, what decoration,

To make this beauteous France forget,

In one, grand, glorious pirouette,

All she had sworn to but last week,

And, with a cry of Magnifique!"

Rush forth to this, or any war,

Without inquiring once—"What for?"

After some plans proposed by each.

Lord Chateaubriand made a speech,

(Quoting, to show what men's rights are,

Or rather what men's rights should be,

From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Tsar,

And other friends to Liberty,)

Wherein he—having first protested

'Gainst humoring the mob—suggested

(As the most high-bred plan he saw

For giving the new War éclat)

A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame,

To be got up at Notre Dame,

In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness!

Had by his hilt acquired such fame,

'Twas hoped that he as little shyness

Would show, when to the point he came,)

Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted,

Be christened Hero, ere he started;

With power, by Royal Ordonnance,

To bear that name—at least in France.

Himself—the Viscount Chateaubriand—

(To help the affair with more esprit on)

Offering, for this baptismal rite,

Some of his own famed Jordan water[2]—

(Marie Louise not having quite

Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her.)

The baptism, in this case, to be

Applied to that extremity,

Which Bourbon heroes most expose;

And which (as well all Europe knows)

Happens to be, in this Defender

Of the true Faith, extremely tender.

Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme

Too rash and premature should seem—

If thus discounting heroes, on tick—

This glory, by anticipation,

Was too much in the genre romantique

For such a highly classic nation,

He begged to say, the Abyssinians

A practice had in their dominions,

Which, if at Paris got up well.

In full costume, was sure to tell.

At all great epochs, good or ill,

They have, says BRUCE (and BRUCE ne'er budges

From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille

In public danced by the Twelve Judges[3]—

And he assures us, the grimaces,

The entre-chats, the airs and graces

Of dancers, so profound and stately,

Divert the Abyssinians greatly.

"Now (said the Viscount), there's but few

"Great Empires where this plan would do:

"For instance, England;—let them take

"What pains they would—'twere vain to strive—

"The twelve stiff Judges there would make

"The worst Quadrille-set now alive.

"One must have seen them, ere one could

"Imagine properly JUDGE WOOD,

"Performing, in hie wig, so gayly,

"A queue-de chat with JUSTICE BAILLY!

"French Judges, tho', are, by no means,

"This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines;

"And we, who've seen them at Saumur

"And Poitiers lately, may be sure

"They'd dance quadrilles or anything,

"That would be pleasing to the King—

"Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do,

"To please the little Duc de Bordeaux!"

After these several schemes there came

Some others—needless now to name,

Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself,

Soon doomed all others to the shelf,

And was received par acclamation

As truly worthy the Grande Nation.

It seems (as Monsieur told the story)

That LOUIS the Fourteenth,—that glory,

That Coryphée of all crowned pates,—

That pink of the Legitimates—

Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he

Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary

His marriage deeds, and cordon bleu,

Bequeathed to her his State Wig too—

(An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought,

The Virgin values as she ought)—

That Wig, the wonder of all eyes,

The Cynosure of Gallia's skies,

To watch and tend whose curls adored,

Re-build its towering roof, when flat,

And round its rumpled base, a Board

Of sixty barbers daily sat,

With Subs, on State-Days, to assist,

Well pensioned from the Civil List:—

That wondrous Wig, arrayed in which,

And formed alike to awe or witch.

He beat all other heirs of crowns,

In taking mistresses and towns,

Requiring but a shot at one,

A smile at t'other, and 'twas done!—

"That Wig" (said Monsieur, while his brow

Rose proudly,) "is existing now;—

"That Grand Perruque, amid the fall

"Of every other Royal glory,

"With curls erect survives them all,

"And tells in every hair their story.

"Think, think, how welcome at this time

"A relic, so beloved, sublime!

"What worthier standard of the Cause

"Of Kingly Right can France demand?

"Or who among our ranks can pause

"To guard it, while a curl shall stand?

"Behold, my friends"—(while thus he cried,

A curtain, which concealed this pride

Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside)

"Behold that grand Perruque—how big

"With recollections for the world—

"For France—for us—Great Louis's Wig,

"By HIPPOLYTE new frizzed and curled—

"New frizzed! alas, 'tis but too true,

"Well may you start at that word new—

"But such the sacrifice, my friends,

"The Imperial Cossack recommends;

"Thinking such small concessions sage,

"To meet the spirit of the age,

"And do what best that spirit flatters,

"In Wigs—if not in weightier matters.

"Wherefore to please the Tsar, and show

"That we too, much-wronged Bourbons, know

"What liberalism in Monarchs is,

"We have conceded the New Friz!

"Thus armed, ye gallant Ultras, say,

"Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray?

"With this proud relic in our van,

"And D'ANGOULEME our worthy leader,

"Let rebel Spain do all she can,

"Let recreant England arm and feed her,—

"Urged by that pupil of HUNT'S school,

"That Radical, Lord LIVERPOOL—

"France can have naught to fear—far from it—

"When once astounded Europe sees

"The Wig of LOUIS, like a Comet,

"Streaming above the Pyrenées,

"All's o'er with Spain—then on, my sons,

"On, my incomparable Duke,

"And, shouting for the Holy Ones,

"Cry Vive la Guerre—et la Perrugue!"

[1] They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this elegant anthem, "Eh, eh, eh, Sire Àne, eh, eh, eh. Sire Àne."— WARTEN'S Essay on Pope.

[2] Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon.

[3] "On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the figure-dance," etc.—Book. v.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non

sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo

travestimento.

CASTIGLIONE.

PREFACE.

In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE'S Second Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose Secret Services in Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend the training of that Delatorian Cohort which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his wisdom and benevolence, has organized.

Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to him, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of discoveries are now most anxiously directed.

I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE'S Third Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.; —but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery, which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision and had not returned when the last sheet was put to press.

It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY "was not the author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of me, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the "Twopenny Post- Bag"—such as it is—having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him.

I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall have the honor of assuring them, in propriâ personâ, that I am—his, or her,

Very obedient and very humble Servant,

April 17, 1818.

THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS

LETTER I.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——, OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND.

Amiens.

Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,

The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,

Into very bad French is as usual translating

His English resolve not to give a sou more,

I sit down to write you a line—only think!—

A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,

How delightful! tho', would you believe it, my dear?

I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;

No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,

But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home;

And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,

I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!

In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk

That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The Monk;"

In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass,

And remember the crust and the wallet—alas!

No monks can be had now for love or for money,

(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel BONEY;)

And, tho' one little Neddy we saw in our drive

Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive!

By the by, tho' at Calais, Papa had a touch

Of romance on the pier, which affected me much.

At the sight of that spot, where our darling DIXHUIT

Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,[1]

(Modelled out so exactly, and—God bless the mark!

'Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so Grand a Monarque).

He exclaimed, "Oh, mon Roi!" and, with tear-dropping eye,

Stood to gaze on the spot—while some Jacobin, nigh,

Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!)

"Ma foi, he be right—'tis de Englishman's King;

And dat gros pied de cochon—begar me vil say

Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way."

There's the pillar, too—Lord! I had nearly forgot—

What a charming idea!—raised close to the spot;

The mode being now, (as you've heard, I suppose,)

To build tombs over legs and raise pillars to toes.

This is all that's occurred sentimental as yet;

Except indeed some little flower-nymphs we've met,

Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views,

Flinging flowers in your path, and then—bawling for sous!

And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem

To recall the good days of the ancien regime,

All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn,

And as thin as they were in the time of poor STERNE.

Our party consists (in a neat Calais job)

Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB.

You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy,

But, Lord! he's quite altered—they've made him a Dandy;

A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced,

Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist;

Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars,

With beads so immovably stuck in shirt-collars,

That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them,

To twirl, when the creatures may wish, to look round them,

In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean,

And BOB's far the best of the genus I've seen:

An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious,

And goes now to Paris to study French dishes.

Whose names—think, how quick! he already knows pat,

À la braise, petits pâtés, and—what d' ye call that

They inflict on potatoes?—oh! maître d'hôtel—

I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well

As if nothing else all his life he had eat,

Tho' a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet;

But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,

As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books.

As to Pa, what d' ye think?—mind, it's all entre nous,

But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you—

Why, he's writing a book—what! a tale? a romance?

No, we Gods, would it were!—but his travels in France;

At the special desire (he let out t'other day)

Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH,

Who said, "My dear FUDGE"—I forget the exact words,

And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's;

But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow

A good orthodox work is much wanting just now,

To expound to the world the new—thingummie—science,

Found out by the—what's-its-name—Holy Alliance,

And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly,

Their freedom a joke (which it is, you know, DOLLY),

"There's none," said his Lordship, "if I may be judge,

Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!"

The matter's soon, settled—Pa flies to the Row

(The first stage your tourists now usually go),

Settles all for his quarto—advertisements, praises—

Starts post from the door, with his tablets—French phrases—

"SCOTT'S Visit" of course—in short, everything he has

An author can want, except words and ideas:—

And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year,

Is PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear!

But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better

Draw fast to a close:—this exceeding long letter

You owe to a déjeûner à la fourchette,

Which BOBBY would have, and is hard at it yet.—

What's next? oh? the tutor, the last of the party,

Young CONNOR:—they say he's so like BONAPARTE,

His nose and his chin—which Papa rather dreads,

As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads

That resemble old NAP'S, and who knows but their honors

May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR'S?

Au reste (as we say), the young lad's well enough,

Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue and stuff;

A third cousin of ours, by the way—poor as Job

(Tho' of royal descent by the side of Mamma),

And for charity made private tutor to BOB;

Entre nous, too, a Papist—how liberal of Pa!

This is all, dear,—forgive me for breaking off thus,

But BOB'S déjeûner's done, and Papa's in a fuss.

B. F.

P. S.

How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop

Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop;

And my début in Paris, I blush to think on it,

Must now, DOLL, be made in a hideous low bonnet.

But Paris, dear Paris!—oh, there will be joy,

And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le Roi![2]

[1] To commemorate the landing of Louis le Désiré from England, the impression of his foot is marked out on the pier at Calais, and a pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot.

[2] A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris.

LETTER II.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.

Paris.

At length, my Lord, I have the bliss

To date to you a line from this

"Demoralized" metropolis;

Where, by plebeians low and scurvy,

The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy,

And Kingship, tumbled from its seat,

"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet;

Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes)

The level of obedience slopes

Upward and downward, as the stream

Of hydra faction kicks the beam![1]

Where the poor Palace changes masters

Quicker than a snake its skin,

And LOUIS is rolled out on castors,

While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:—

But where, in every change, no doubt,

One special good your Lordship traces,—

That 'tis the Kings alone turn out,

The Ministers still keep their places.

How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH,

I've thought of thee upon the way,

As in my job (what place could be

More apt to wake a thought of thee?)—

Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting

Upon my dicky, (as is fitting

For him who writes a Tour, that he

May more of men and manners see.)

I've thought of thee and of thy glories,

Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories!

Reflecting how thy fame has grown

And spread, beyond man's usual share,

At home, abroad, till thou art known,

Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere!

And marvelling with what powers of breath

Your Lordship, having speeched to death

Some hundreds of your fellow-men,

Next speeched to Sovereign's ears,—and when

All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last

Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast.

Oh! mid the praises and the trophies

Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis;

Mid all the tributes to thy fame,

There's one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at—

That Ireland gives her snuff thy name,

And CASTLEREAGH'S the thing now sneezed at!

But hold, my pen!—a truce to praising—

Tho' even your Lordship will allow

The theme's temptations are amazing;

But time and ink run short, and now,

(As thou wouldst say, my guide and teacher

In these gay metaphorie fringes,

I must embark into the feature

On which this letter chiefly hinges;)

My Book, the Book that is to prove—

And will, (so help ye Sprites above,

That sit on clouds, as grave as judges,

Watching the labors of the FUDGES!)

Will prove that all the world, at present,

Is in a state extremely pleasant;

That Europe—thanks to royal swords

And bayonets, and the Duke commanding—

Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's,

Passeth all human understanding:

That France prefers her go-cart King

To such a coward scamp as BONEY;

Tho' round, with each a leading-string.

There standeth many a Royal crony,

For fear the chubby, tottering thing

Should fall, if left there loney-poney;—

That England, too, the more her debts,

The more she spends, the richer gets;

And that the Irish, grateful nation!

Remember when by thee reigned over,

And bless thee for their flagellation,

As HELOISA did her lover![2]—

That Poland, left for Russia's lunch

Upon the sideboard, snug reposes:

While Saxony's as pleased as Punch,

And Norway "on a bed of roses!"

That, as for some few million souls,

Transferred by contract, bless the clods!

If half were strangled—Spaniards, Poles,

And Frenchmen—'twouldn't make much odds,

So Europe's goodly Royal ones

Sit easy on their sacred thrones;

So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,[3]

And Louis eats his salmi daily;

So time is left to Emperor SANDY

To be half Caesar and half Dandy;

And GEORGE the REGENT (who'd forget

That doughtiest chieftain of the set?)

Hath wherewithal for trinkets new,

For dragons, after Chinese models,

And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo

Might come and nine times knock their noddles!—

All this my Quarto'll prove—much more

Than Quarto ever proved before:—

In reasoning with the Post I'll vie,

My facts the Courier shall supply,

My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense,

And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence!

My Journal, penned by fits and starts,

On BIDDY'S back or BOBBY'S shoulder,

(My son, my Lord, a youth of parts,

Who longs to be a small placeholder,)

Is—tho' I say't, that shouldnt say—

Extremely good; and, by the way,

One extract from it—only one—

To show its spirit, and I've done.

"Jul. thirty-first.—Went, after snack,

"To the Cathedral of St. Denny;

"Sighed o'er the Kings of ages back,

"And—gave the old Concierge a penny.

"(Mem.—Must see Rheims, much famed, 'tis said,

"For making Kings and ginger-bread.)

"Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately,

"A little Bourbon, buried lately,

"Thrice high and puissant, we were told,

"Tho' only twenty-four hours old!

"Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins:

"Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins!

"If Royalty, but aged a day,

"Can boast such high and puissant sway

"What impious hand its power would fix,

"Full fledged and wigged at fifty-six!"

The argument's quite new, you see,

And proves exactly Q. E. D.

So now, with duty to the KEGENT,

I am dear Lord,

Your most obedient,

P. F.

Hôtel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli.

Neat lodgings—rather dear for me;

But BIDDY said she thought 'twould look!

Genteeler thus to date my Book;

And BIDDY'S right—besides, it curries

Some favor with our friends at MURRAY'S,

Who scorn what any man can say,

That dates from Rue St. Honoré![4]

[1] This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor B——, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, "He put his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," etc.

[2] See her Letters.

[3] It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the, hog-mimicking of Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent!

[4] See the Quarterly Review for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is accused of having written his book "in a back street of the French capital."

LETTER III.

FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ——, ESQ.

Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading,

Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding;

And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog,

Of all places on earth—the headquarters of Prog!

Talk of England—her famed Magna Charta, I swear, is

A humbug, a flam, to the Carte[1] at old VÉRY'S;

And as for your Juries—who would not set o'er 'em

A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before 'em?

Give CARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year;

But those friends of short Commons would never do here;

And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question.

No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion!

By the by, DICK, I fatten—but n'importe for that,

'Tis the mode—your Legitimates always get fat.

There's the REGENT, there's LOUIS—and BONEY tried too,

But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do:—

He improved indeed much in this point when he wed,

But he ne'er grew right royally fat in the head.

DICK, DICK, what a place is this Paris!—but stay—

As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a Day,

As we pass it, myself and some comrades I've got,

All thorough-bred Gnostics, who know what is what.

After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,

That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,

Where for hail they have bon-bons, and claret for rain,

And the skaters in winter show off on cream-ice;

Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,

Macaroni au parmesan grows in the fields;

Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,

And the geese are all born with a liver complaint!

I rise—put on neck-cloth—stiff, tight, as can be—

For a lad who goes into the world, DICK, like me,

Should have his neck tied up, you know—there's no doubt of it—

Almost as tight as some lads who go out of it.

With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that "hold up

"The mirror to nature"—so bright you could sup

Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws

On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause!—

With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader,

And stays—devil's in them—too tight for a feeder,

I strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet

Beats the field at a déjeûner a la fourchette.

There, DICK, what a breakfast!—oh! not like your ghost

Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast;

But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about,

Like a turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out

One's pâté of larks, just to tune up the throat,

One's small limbs of chickens, done en papillote.

One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,

Or one's kidneys—imagine, DICK—done with champagne!

Then, some glasses of Beaune, to dilute—or, mayhap,

Chambertin,[2]which you know's the pet tipple of NAP,

And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,

Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.—

Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then DICK's

The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,

(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't,

I'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on't,)

A neat glass of parfait-amour, which one sips

Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one's lips.

This repast being ended, and paid for—(how odd!

Till a man's used to paying, there's something so queer in't!)—

The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,

And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in't,

We lounge up the boulevards, where—oh! DICK, the phizzes,

The turn-outs, we meet—what a nation of quizzes!

Here toddles along some old figure of fun,

With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.;

A laced hat, worsted stockings, and—noble old soul!

A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole;

Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads,

Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds.

Here trips a grisette, with a fond, roguish eye,

(Rather eatable things these grisettes, by the by);

And there an old demoiselle, almost as fond,

In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde.

There goes a French Dandy—ah, DICK! unlike some ones

We've seen about WHITE'S—the Mounseers are but rum ones;

Such hats!—fit for monkies—I'd back Mrs. DRAPER

To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper:

And coats—how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em,

They'd club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress 'em!

The collar sticks out from the neck such a space,

That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lopping nation,

To leave there behind them a snug little place

For the head to drop into, on decapitation.

In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs,

Some mummers by trade and the rest amateurs—

What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,

Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats,

And shoeblacks, reclining by statues in niches,

There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards—but hearken!—yes—as I'm a sinner,

The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner:

So no more at present—short time for adorning—

My Day must be finisht some other fine morning.

Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'S[3] larder, my boy!

And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy

Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge—

Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is

R. FUDGE.

[1] The Bill of Fare.—Véry, a well-known Restaurateur.

[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon.

[3] A celebrated restaurateur.

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ——

"Return!"—no, never, while the withering hand

Of bigot power is on that hapless land;

While, for the faith my fathers held to God,

Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,

I am proscribed, and—like the spot left bare

In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair

Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there[1]—

On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace

The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!

No!—let them stay, who in their country's pangs

See naught but food for factions and harangues;

Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors

And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:

Still let your . . . .[2]

. . . . .

Still hope and suffer, all who can!—but I,

Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.

But whither?—every where the scourge pursues—

Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,

In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,

Countless reflections of the Oppressor's face.

Every where gallant hearts and spirits true,

Are served up victims to the vile and few;

While England, every where—the general foe

Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow—

Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

Oh, England! could such poor revenge atone

For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one;

Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate

The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,

To hear his curses on such barbarous sway

Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;—

Could this content him, every lip he meets

Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;

Were this his luxury, never is thy name

Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame;

Hears maledictions ring from every side

Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,

Which vaunts its own and scorns all rights beside;

That low and desperate envy which to blast

A neighbor's blessings risks the few thou hast;—

That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed,

Which ever lurks behind thy proffered shield;—

That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,

Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,

Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gained,

Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained!

Worthy associate of that band of Kings,

That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings

O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,

And fan her into dreams of promist good,

Of hope, of freedom—but to drain her blood!

If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss

That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,

That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,

Made thee the fallen and tarnisht thing thou art;

That, as the centaur gave the infected vest

In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast,

We sent thee CASTLEREAGH:—as heaps of dead

Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,

So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim,

Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb,

Her worst infections all condensed in him!

* * * * *

When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when

Will that redeeming day shine out on men,

That shall behold them rise, erect and free

As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be!

When Reason shall no longer blindly bow

To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,

Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;

Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth;

Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO'S mirth,

Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;—

But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones

Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given—

Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven!

When will this be?—or, oh! is it, in truth,

But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,

In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,

'Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things!

And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,

Be all resigned?—and are they only right,

Who say this world of thinking souls was made

To be by Kings partitioned, truckt and weighed

In scales that, ever since the world begun,

Have counted millions but as dust to one?

Are they the only wise, who laugh to scorn

The rights, the freedom to which man was born?

Who . . . . .

. . . . .

Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power,

Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour;

Worship each would-be god, that o'er them moves,

And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE'S!

If this be wisdom, then farewell, my books,

Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks.

Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair,

Of living Truth that now must stagnate there!—

Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light,

Instead of Greece and her immortal fight

For Liberty which once awaked my strings,

Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings,

The High Legitimates, the Holy Band,

Who, bolder' even than He of Sparta's land,

Against whole millions, panting to be free,

Would guard the pass of right line tyranny.

Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade

Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed,

Welcome . . . .

. . . . .

And, stead of ARISTIDES—woe the day

Such names should mingle!—welcome Castlereagh!

Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.[3]

Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came.

My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell.

Thoughts that . . . .

. . . . .

Thoughts that—could patience hold—'twere wiser far

To leave still hid and burning where they are.

[1] "They used to leave a square yard of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore- mentioned verse of the Psalmist ('If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' etc.) or the words—'The memory of the desolation.'"—Leo of Modena.

[2] I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.

[3] The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;—he held that every man with three names was a Jacobin.

LETTER V.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.

What a time since I wrote!—I'm a sad, naughty girl—

For, tho' like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;—

Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum

Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.

But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses,

My gowns, so divine!—there's no language expresses,

Except just the two words "superbe, magnifique,"

The trimmings of that which I had home last week!

It is called—I forget—à la—something which sounded

Like alicampane—but in truth I'm confounded

And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's

(BOB'S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI'S:

What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,

Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,

One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillote,

And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,

I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,

Between beef à la Psyche and curls à la braise.—

But in short, dear, I'm trickt out quite à la Francaise,

With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,

Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights

Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights—

This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting

But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera—mercy, my ears!

Brother BOBBY'S remark, t'other night, was a true one:—

"This must be the music," said he, "of the spears,

For I'm curst if each note of it doesnt run thro' one!"

Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out

'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about)

That this passion for roaring has come in of late,

Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.—

What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!

What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it,

If, when of age, every man in the realm

Had a voice like old LAIS,[1] and chose to make use of it!

No—never was known in this riotous sphere

Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.

So bad too, you'd swear that the God of both arts,

Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic

For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,

And composing a fine rumbling bass to a cholic!

But, the dancing—ah parlez-moi, DOLLY, de ca—

There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.

Such beauty—such grace—oh ye sylphs of romance!

Fly, fly to TITANIA, and ask her if she has

One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance

Like divine BIGOTTINI and sweet FANNY BIAS!

FANNY BIAS in FLORA—dear creature!—you'd swear,

When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,

That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,

And she only par complaisance touches the ground.

And when BIGOTTINI in PSYCHE dishevels

Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven,

Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,

That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven?

Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,

So divinely—oh, DOLLY! between you and I,

It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh

To make love to me then—you've a soul, and can judge

What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE!

The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in)

They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;[2]

Quite charming—and very religious—what folly

To say that the French are not pious, dear DOLLY,

Where here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,

The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;[3]

And doubtless so fond they're of scriptural facts,

They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.

Here DANIEL, in pantomime,[4] bids bold defiance

To NEBUCHADNEZZAR and all his stuft lions,

While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,

In very thin clothing, and but little of it;—

Here BEGRAND,[5] who shines in this scriptural path,

As the lovely SUSANNA, without even a relic

Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath

In a manner that, BOB says, is quite Eve-angelic!

But in short, dear, 'twould take me a month to recite

All the exquisite places we're at, day and night;

And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad

Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where—I doubt

If its charms I can paint—there are cars, that set out

From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air,

And rattle you down, DOLL—you hardly know where.

These vehicles, mind me, in which you go thro'

This delightfully dangerous journey, hold two,

Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether

You'll venture down with him—you smile—'tis a match;

In an instant you're seated, and down both together

Go thundering, as if you went post to old scratch![6]

Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remarkt

On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embarkt,

The impatience of some for the perilous flight,

The forced giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,—

That, there came up—imagine, dear DOLL, if you can—

A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werterfaced man,

With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft)

The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft,

As Hyenas in love may be fancied to look, or

A something between ABELARD and old BLUCHER!

Up he came, DOLL, to me, and uncovering his head,

(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,

"Ah! my dear—if Ma'mselle vil be so very good—

Just for von littel course"—tho' I scarce understood

What he wisht me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set—and, tho' 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether

My head or my heels were the uppermost then,

For 'twas like heaven and earth, DOLLY, coming together,—

Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again.

And oh! as I gazed on the features and air

Of the man, who for me all this peril defied,

I could fancy almost he and I were a pair

Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side,

Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a

Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achieved, thro' the gardens we sauntered about,

Saw the fire-works, exclaimed "magnifique!" at each cracker,

And, when 'twas all o'er, the dear man saw us out

With the air I will say, of a Prince, to our fiacre.

Now, hear me—this Stranger,—it may be mere folly—

But who do you think we all think it is, DOLLY?

Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,

Who's here now incog.[7]—he, who made so much fuss, you

Remember, in London, with BLUCHER and PLATOF,

When SAL was near kissing old BLUCHER'S cravat off!

Pa says he's come here to look after his money,

(Not taking things now as he used under BONEY,)

Which suits with our friend, for BOB saw him, he swore,

Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.

Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen

(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)

Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,

Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.

Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief

Should—unless 'twould to utter despairing its folly push—

Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief

By rattling, as BOB says, "like shot thro' a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu;—only think, DOLLY, think

If this should be the King—I have scarce slept a wink

With imagining how it will sound in the papers,

And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,

When they read that Count RUPPIN, to drive away vapors,

Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss BIDDY FUDGE.

Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he—

For he knows the Legitimate cut and could see,

In the way he went poising and managed to tower

So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

[1] The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the French Opera.

[2] The Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin which was built when the Opera House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781.

[3] "The Old Testament," says the theatrical Critic in the Gazette de France, "is a mine of gold for the managers of our small play-houses. A multitude crowd round the Théâtre de la Gaieté every evening to see the Passage of the Red Sea."

[4] A piece very popular last year, called "Daniel, ou La Fosse aux Lions."

[5] Madame Bégrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in "Susanna and the Elders,"—"L'Amour et la Folie." etc.

[6] According to Dr. Cotterel the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles an hour.

[7] His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling name of Count Ruppin, is known to have gone down the Beaujon very frequently.

LETTER VI.

FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO HIS BROTHER TIM FUDGE, ESQ., BARRISTER AT LAW.

Yours of the 12th received, just now—

Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother!

'Tis truly pleasing to see how

We, FUDGES, stand by one another.

But never fear—I know my chap,

And he knows me too—verbum sap,

My Lord and I are kindred spirits,

Like in our ways as two young ferrets;

Both fashioned, as that supple race is,

To twist into all sorts of places;—

Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering,

Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.

As to my Book in 91,

Called "Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?"

Bless you! the Book's long dead and gone,—

Not even the Attorney-General bought it.

And tho' some few seditious tricks

I played in '95 and '6,

As you remind me in your letter,

His Lordship likes me all the better;—

We proselytes, that come with news full,

Are, as he says, so vastly useful!

REYNOLDS and I—(you know TOM REYNOLDS—

Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise—

Lucky the dog that first unkennels

Traitors and Luddites now-a-days;

Or who can help to bag a few,

When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;)

REYNOLDS and I and some few more,

All men like us of information,

Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store,

As under-saviors of the nation[1]—

Have, formed a Club this season, where

His Lordship sometimes takes the chair,

And gives us many a bright oration

In praise of our sublime vocation;

Tracing it up to great King MIDAS,

Who, tho' in fable typified as

A royal Ass, by grace, divine

And right of ears, most asinine,

Was yet no more, in fact historical,

Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant;

And these, his ears, but allegorical,

Meaning Informers, kept at high rent—

Gem'men, who touched the Treasury glisteners,

Like us, for being trusty listeners;

And picking up each tale and fragment,

For royal MIDAS'S Green Bag meant.

"And wherefore," said this best of Peers,

"Should not the REGENT too have ears,

"To reach as far, as long and wide as

"Those of his model, good King MIDAS?"

This speech was thought extremely good,

And (rare for him) was understood—

Instant we drank "The REGENT'S Ears,"

With three times three illustrious cheers,

Which made the room resound like thunder—

"The REGENT'S Ears, and may he ne'er

"From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear

"Old paltry wigs to keep them[2] under!"

This touch at our old friends, the Whigs,

Made us as merry all as grigs.

In short (I'll thank you not to mention

These things again), we get on gayly;

And thanks to pension and Suspension,

Our little Club increases daily.

CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such,

Who dont as yet full salary touch,

Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy

Houses and lands, like TOM and I,

Of course dont rank with us salvators,[3]

But merely serve the Club as waiters,

Like Knights, too, we've our collar days,

(For us, I own, an awkward phrase,)

When, in our new costume adorned,—

The REGENT'S buff-and-blue coats turned—

We have the honor to give dinners

To the chief Rats in upper stations:

Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,—half-fledged sinners,

Who shame us by their imitations;

Who turn, 'tis true—but what of that?

Give me the useful peaching Rat;

Not things as mute as Punch, when bought,

Whose wooden heads are all they've brought;

Who, false enough to shirk their friends,

But too faint-hearted to betray,

Are, after all their twists and bends,

But souls in Limbo, damned half way.

No, no, we nobler vermin are

A genus useful as we're rare;

Midst all the things miraculous

Of which your natural histories brag,

The rarest must be Rats like us,

Who let the cat out of the bag.

Yet still these Tyros in the cause

Deserve, I own, no small applause;

And they're by us received and treated

With all due honors—only seated

In the inverse scale of their reward,

The merely promised next my Lord;

Small pensions then, and so on, down,

Rat after rat, they graduate

Thro' job, red ribbon and silk gown,

To Chancellorship and Marquisate.

This serves to nurse the ratting spirit;

The less the bribe the more the merit.

Our music's good, you may be sure;

My Lord, you know, 's an amateur[4]—

Takes every part with perfect ease,

Tho' to the Base by nature suited;

And, formed for all, as best may please,

For whips and bolts, or chords and keys,

Turns from his victims to his glees,

And has them both well executed.[5]

HERTFORD, who, tho' no Rat himself,

Delights in all such liberal arts,

Drinks largely to the House of Guelph,

And superintends the Corni parts.

While CANNING, who'd be first by choice,

Consents to take an under voice;

And GRAVES,[6] who well that signal knows,

Watches the Volti Subitos.[7]

In short, as I've already hinted,

We take of late prodigiously;

But as our Club is somewhat stinted

For Gentlemen, like TOM and me,

We'll take it kind if you'll provide

A few Squireens[8] from t'other side;—

Some of those loyal, cunning elves

(We often tell the tale with laughter),

Who used to hide the pikes themselves,

Then hang the fools who found them after.

I doubt not you could find us, too,

Some Orange Parsons that might do:

Among the rest, we've heard of one,

The Reverend—something—HAMILTON,

Who stuft a figure of himself

(Delicious thought!) and had it shot at,

To bring some Papists to the shelf,

That couldn't otherwise be got at—

If he'll but join the Association,

We'll vote him in by acclamation.

And now, my brother, guide and friend,

This somewhat tedious scrawl must end.

I've gone into this long detail,

Because I saw your nerves were shaken

With anxious fears lest I should fail

In this new, loyal, course I've taken.

But, bless your heart! you need not doubt—

We FUDGES know what we're about.

Look round and say if you can see

A much more thriving family.

There's JACK, the Doctor—night and day

Hundreds of patients so besiege him,

You'd swear that all the rich and gay

Fell sick on purpose to oblige him.

And while they think, the precious ninnies,

He's counting o'er their pulse so steady,

The rogue but counts how many guineas

He's fobbed for that day's work already.

I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm,

When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he

Said, as he dropt her shrivelled arm,

"Damned bad this morning—only thirty!"

Your dowagers, too, every one,

So generous are, when they call him in,

That he might now retire upon

The rheumatisms of three old women.

Then whatsoe'er your ailments are,

He can so learnedly explain ye'em—

Your cold of course is a catarrh,

Your headache is a hemi-cranium:—

His skill too in young ladies' lungs,

The grace with which, most mild of men,

He begs them to put out their tongues.

Then bids them—put them in again;

In short, there's nothing now like JACK!—

Take all your doctors great and small,

Of present times and ages back,

Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all.

So much for physic—then, in law too,

Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow;

Not one of us gives more éclat to

The immortal name of FUDGE than thou.

Not to expatiate on the art

With which you played the patriot's part,

Till something good and snug should offer;—

Like one, who, by the way he acts

The enlightening part of candle-snuffer,

The manager's keen eye attracts,

And is promoted thence by him

To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!—

Who shall describe thy powers of face,

Thy well-fed zeal in every case,

Or wrong or right—but ten times warmer

(As suits thy calling) in the former—

Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight

In puzzling all that's clear and right,

Which, tho' conspicuous in thy youth,

Improves so with a wig and band on,

That all thy pride's to waylay Truth,

And leave her not a leg to stand on.

Thy patent prime morality,—

Thy cases cited from the Bible—

Thy candor when it falls to thee

To help in trouncing for a libel;—

"God knows, I, from my soul, profess

"To hate all bigots and be-nighters!

"God knows, I love, to even excess,

"The sacred Freedom of the Press,

"My only aim's to—crush the writers."

These are the virtues, TIM, that draw

The briefs into thy bag so fast;

And these, oh TIM—if Law be Law—

Will raise thee to the Bench at last.

I blush to see this letter's length—

But 'twas my wish to prove to thee

How full of hope, and wealth, and strength,

Are all our precious family.

And, should affairs go on as pleasant

As, thank the Fates, they do at present—

Should we but still enjoy the sway

Of SIDMOUTH and of CASTLEREAGH,

I hope, ere long, to see the day

When England's wisest statesmen, judges,

Lawyers, peers, will all be—FUDGES!

Good-by—my paper's out so nearly,

I've room only for

Yours sincerely.

[1] Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will long be remembered with equal credit to both.

[2] It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavored to conceal these appendages. The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, and the Prince Regent together.

[3] Mr. Fudge and his friends ought to go by this name—as the man who, some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was ever after called Salvator Rosa.

[4] His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial career, took lessons three times a week from a celebrated music-master, in glee-singing.

[5] How amply these two propensities of the Noble Lord would have been gratified among that ancient people of Etruria, who, as Aristotle tells us, used to whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes!

[6] The rapidity of this Noble Lord's transformation, at the same instant, into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was truly miraculous.

[7] Turn instantly—a frequent direction in music-books.

[8] The Irish diminutive of Squire.

LETTER VII.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO—.

Before we sketch the Present—let us cast

A few, short, rapid glances to the Past.

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,

Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;—

When, loosed as if by magic from a chain

That seemed like Fate's the world was free again,

And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,

The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;—

Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those

Who sighed for justice—liberty—repose,

And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest

Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.

All then was bright with promise;—Kings began

To own a sympathy with suffering Man,

And man was grateful; Patriots of the South

Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,

And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air,

Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!

Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,

When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,

Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;—

Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;

That that rapacious spirit, which had played

The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;

And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,

Would blush and deviate into right at last?

But no—the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair,

Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;

Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,

The only quite untameable are Kings!

Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,

The instinct of their race broke out anew;

Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,

And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again.

How quick they carved their victims, and how well,

Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;-

Let all the human stock that, day by day,

Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,—

The million souls that, in the face of heaven,

Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or given

To swell some despot Power, too huge before,

And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.

How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;—

Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;—

Her Press enthralled—her Reason mockt again

With all the monkery it had spurned in vain;

Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own

He thankt not France but England for his throne;

Her triumphs cast into the shade by those,

Who had grown old among her bitterest foes,

And now returned, beneath her conqueror's shields,

Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields;

To tread down every trophy of her fame,

And curse that glory which to them was shame!—

Let these—let all the damning deeds, that then

Were dared thro' Europe, cry aloud to men,

With voice like that of crashing ice that rings

Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;

And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear

The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare

The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,

Then and then only monarchs may be trusted.

It could not last—these horrors could not last—

France would herself have risen in might to cast

The insulters off—and oh! that then as now,

Chained to some distant islet's rocky brow,

NAPOLEON ne'er had come to force, to blight,

Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;—

To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,

And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;—

To rush into the list, unaskt, alone,

And make the stake of all the game of one!

Then would the world have seen again what power

A people can put forth in Freedom's hour;

Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;—

For every single sword, reluctant raised

In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,

Millions would then have leaped forth in her own;

And never, never had the unholy stain

Of Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again.

But fate decreed not so—the Imperial Bird,

That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred,

Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing,

Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;—

Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made

His own transgressions whiten in their shade;

Well might he hope a world thus trampled o'er

By clumsy tyrants would be his once more:—

Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light,

From steeple on to steeple[1] winged his flight,

With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne

From which a Royal craven just had flown;

And resting there, as in his eyry, furled

Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

What was your fury then, ye crowned array,

Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday

Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,

By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!

Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,—

"Assassinate, who will—enchain, who can,

"The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!"

"Faithless!"—and this from you—from you, forsooth,

Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,

Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;

Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side;

Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,

Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,

And lash your lordly tails and fume to see

Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!

Yes—yes—to you alone did it belong

To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong,—

The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate

Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;

But let some upstart dare to soar so high

In Kingly craft, and "outlaw" is the cry!

What, tho' long years of mutual treachery

Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves

With ghosts of treaties, murdered 'mong yourselves;

Tho' each by turns was knave and dupe—what then?

A holy League would set all straight again;

Like JUNO'S virtue, which a dip or two

In some blest fountain made as good as new!

Most faithful Russia—faithful to whoe'er

Could plunder best and give him amplest share;

Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends,

For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,[2]

And, deepening still by amiable gradations,

When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations![3]

Most mild and saintly Prussia—steeped to the ears

In persecuted Poland's blood and tears,

And now, with all her harpy wings outspread

O'er severed Saxony's devoted head!

Pure Austria too—whose history naught repeats

But broken leagues and subsidized defeats;

Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows,

Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!

And thou, oh England—who, tho' once as shy

As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,

Art now broke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,

In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits

The escape from Elba frightened into fits;—

Such were the saints, who doomed NAPOLEON'S life,

In virtuous frenzy, to the assassin's knife.

Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly

To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny,

To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,

From the false, juggling craft of men like these,

Their canting crimes and varnisht villanies;—

These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast

Of faith and honor, when they've stained them most;

From whose affection men should shrink as loath

As from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both;

Who, even while plundering, forge Religion's name

To frank their spoil, and without fear or shame

Call down the Holy Trinity[4] to bless

Partition leagues and deeds of devilishness!

But hold—enough—soon would this swell of rage

O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;—

So, here I pause—farewell—another day,

Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey,

Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine,

Deserve a lash—oh! weightier far than mine!

[1] Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.

[2] At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory.

[3] The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.

[4] The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles"; and commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!"

LETTER VIII.

FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ——, ESQ.

Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] mending my stays,—

Which I knew would go smash with me one of these days,

And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle,

We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle

Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back

Just to order another, by Jove, I went crack!—

Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase,

"Damn my eyes, BOB, in doubling the Cape you've missed

stays."[2]

So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them,

They're now at the Schneider's[3]—and, while he's about them,

Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop.

Let us see—in my last I was—where did I stop?

Oh! I know—at the Boulevards, as motley a road as

Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon;

With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas,

Its founts and old Counts sipping beer in the sun:

With its houses of all architectures you please,

From the Grecian and Gothic, DICK, down by degrees

To the pure Hottentot or the Brighton Chinese;

Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it,

Lunch at a mosque and see Punch from a minaret.

Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bowers.

Of foliage and frippery, fiacres and flowers,

Green-grocers, green gardens—one hardly knows whether

'Tis country or town, they're so messed up together!

And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees

Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees;

Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,

Enjoying their news and groseille[4] in those arbors;

While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,

And founts of red currant-juice[5] round them are purling.

Here, DICK, arm in arm as we chattering stray,

And receive a few civil "Goddems" by the way,—

For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,—tho' we've wasted our wealth

And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into a phthisic;—

To cram down their throats an old King for their health.

As we whip little children to make them take physic;—

Yet, spite of our good-natured money and slaughter,

They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water!

But who the deuce cares, DICK, as long as they nourish us

Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes—

Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties

May have our full fling at their salmis and pâtés?

And, truly, I always declared 'twould be pity

To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city.

Had Dad but his way, he'd have long ago blown

The whole batch to old Nick—and the people, I own,

If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks,

Well deserve a blow-up—but then, damn it, their Cooks!

As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage,

For aught that I care, you may knock them to spinage;

But think, DICK, their Cooks—what a loss to mankind!

What a void in the world would their art leave behind!

Their chronometer spits—their intense salamanders—

Their ovens—their pots, that can soften old ganders,

All vanisht for ever,—their miracles o'er,

And the Marmite Perpétuelle bubbling no more!

Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies!

Take whatever ye fancy—take statues, take money—

But leave them, oh leave them, their Perigueux pies,

Their glorious goose-livers and high pickled tunny!

Tho' many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,

Tho' Royalty's here on her very last legs,

Yet who can help loving the land that has taught us

Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs?

You see, DICK, in spite of them cries of "God-dam,"

"Coquin Anglais," et cetera—how generous I am!

And now (to return, once again, to my "Day,"

Which will take us all night to get thro' in this way.)

From the Boulevards we saunter thro' many a street,

Crack jokes on the natives—mine, all very neat—

Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops,

And find twice as much fun in the Signs of the Shops;—

Here, a Louis Dix-huit—there, a Martinmas goose,

(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)—

Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many,

But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:—

St. TONY, who used all temptations to spurn,

Here hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn;

While there St. VENECIA[6] sits hemming and frilling her

Holy mouchoir o'er the door of some milliner;—

Saint AUSTIN'S the "outward and visible sign

"Of an inward" cheap dinner, and pint of small wine;

While St. DENYS hangs out o'er some hatter of ton,

And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,[7]

Takes an interest in Dandies, who've got—next to none!

Then we stare into shops—read the evening's affiches—

Or, if some, who're Lotharios in feeding, should wish

Just to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick,

As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite, DICK.)

To the Passage des—what d'ye call't—des Panoramas[8]

We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram as

Seducing young pâtés, as ever could cozen

One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen.

We vary, of course—petits pâtés do one day,

The next we've our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais,[9]

That popular artist, who brings out, like SCOTT,

His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot;

Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,—

Divine maresquino, which—Lord, how one swallows!

Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or

Subscribe a few francs for the price of a fiacre,

And drive far away to the old Montagnes Russes,

Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use

To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners,

Who've lapst into snacks—the perdition of dinners.

And here, DICK—in answer to one of your queries,

About which we Gourmands have had much discussion—

I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's,

And think, for digestion,[10] there's none like the Russian;

So equal the motion—so gentle, tho' fleet—

It in short such a light and salubrious scamper is,

That take whom you please—take old Louis DIX-HUIT,

And stuff him—ay, up to the neck—with stewed lampreys,[11]

So wholesome these Mounts, such a solvent I've found them,

That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them,

The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away,

And the regicide lampreys[12] be foiled of their prey!

Such, DICK, are the classical sports that content us,

Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous,

That epoch—but whoa! my lad—here comes the Schneider,

And, curse him, has made the stays three inches wider—

Too wide by an inch and a half—what a Guy!

But, no matter—'twill all be set right by-and-by.

As we've MASSINOT's[13] eloquent carte to eat still up.

An inch and a half's but a trifle to fill up.

So—not to lose time, DICK—here goes for the task;

Au revoir, my old boy—of the Gods I but ask

That my life, like "the Leap of the German," may be,

"Du lit à la table, d'la table du lit!"

R. F.

[1] An English tailor at Paris.

[2] A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking.

[3] The dandy term for a tailor.

[4] "Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells, to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers."—See Lady Morgan's lively description of the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, book vi.

[5] These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille water is administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the streets of Paris.

[6] Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, is also, under the name of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of milliners.

[7] St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off.

[8] Off the Boulevards Italiens.

[9] In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamaud, so long celebrated for the moëlleux of his Gaufres.

[10] Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French Mountains.

[11] A dish so indigestible that a late novelist at the end of his book, could imagine no more summary mode of getting rid of all his heroes and heroines than by a hearty supper of stewed lampreys.

[12] They killed Henry I. of England:-"a food [says Hume, gravely], which always agreed better with his palate than his constitution."

[13] A famous Restaurateur—now Dupont.

LETTER IX.

PROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH.

My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day,

"I shall in all my best obey."

Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly!

And—whatsoe'er some wags may say—

Oh! not at all incomprehensibly.

I feel the inquiries in your letter

About my health and French most flattering;

Thank ye, my French, tho' somewhat better,

Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:—

Nothing, of course, that can compare

With his who made the Congress stare

(A certain Lord we need not name),

Who, even in French, would have his trope,

And talk of "batir un systême

"Sur l'équilibre de l'Europe!"

Sweet metaphor!—and then the Epistle,

Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,—

That tender letter to "Mon Prince"[1]

Which showed alike thy French and sense;—

Oh no, my Lord—there's none can do

Or say un-English things like you:

And, if the schemes that fill thy breast

Could but a vent congenial seek,

And use the tongue that suits them best,

What charming Turkish wouldst thou speak!

But as for me, a Frenchless grub,

At Congress never born to stammer,

Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub

Fallen Monarchs, out of CHAMBAUD'S grammar—

Bless you, you do not, can not, know

How far a little French will go;

For all one's stock, one need but draw

On some half-dozen words like toese—

Comme ça—par-là—là-bas—ah ha!

They'll take you all thro' France with ease.

Your Lordship's praises of the scraps

I sent you from my Journal lately,

(Enveloping a few laced caps

For Lady C,) delight me greatly.

Her flattering speech—"What pretty things

"One finds in Mr. FUDGE's pages!"

Is praise which (as some poet sings)

Would pay one for the toils of ages.

Thus flattered, I presume to send

A few more extracts by a friend;

And I should hope they'll be no less

Approved of than my last MS.—

The former ones, I fear, were creased,

As BIDDY round the caps would pin them;

But these will come to hand, at least

Unrumpled, for there's—nothing in them.

Extracts from Mr. Fudge's Journal, addressed to Lord C.

August 10.

Went to the Mad-house—saw the man[2]

Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend

Of Discord here full riot ran,

He, like the rest, was guillotined;—

But that when, under BONEY'S reign,

(A more discreet, tho' quite as strong one,)

The heads were all restored again,

He, in the scramble, got a wrong one.

Accordingly, he still cries out

This strange head fits him most unpleasantly;

And always runs, poor devil, about,

Inquiring for his own incessantly!

While to his case a tear I dropt,

And sauntered home, thought I—ye Gods!

How many heads might thus be swopt,

And, after all, not make much odds!

For instance, there's VANSITTART'S head—

("Tam carum" it may well be said)

If by some curious chance it came

To settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders,

The effect would turn out much the same

On all respectable cash-holders;

Except that while, in its new socket,

The head was planning schemes to win

A zig-zag way into one's pocket,

The hands would plunge directly in.

Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead

Of his own grave, respected head,

Might wear (for aught I see that bars)

Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S—

So while the hand signed Circulars,

The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"—

The REGENT'S brains could we transfer

To some robust man-milliner,

The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon

Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;

And, vice versa, take the pains

To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains,

One only change from thence would flow,

Ribbons would not be wasted so.

'Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord;

And, even at night, when laid in bed,

I found myself, before I snored,

Thus chopping, swopping head for head.

At length I thought, fantastic elf!

How such a change would suit myself.

'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,

With various pericraniums saddled,

At last I tried your Lordship's on,

And then I grew completely addled—

Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!

And slept, and dreamt that I was—BOTTOM.

August 21.

Walked out with daughter BID—was shown

The House of Commons and the Throne,

Whose velvet cushion's just the same

NAPOLEON sat on—what a shame!

Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers,

When LOUIS seated thus we see,

That France's "fundamental features"

Are much the same they used to be?

However,—God preserve the Throne,

And cushion too—and keep them free;

From accidents, which have been known

To happen even to Royalty![4]

August 28.

Read, at a stall (for oft one pops

On something at these stalls and shops,

That does to quote and gives one's Book

A classical and knowing look.—

Indeed, I've found, in Latin, lately,

A course of stalls improves me greatly)—

'Twas thus I read that in the East

A monarch's fat's a serious matter;

And once in every year, at least,

He's weighed—to see if he gets fatter:[5]

Then, if a pound or two he be

Increased, there's quite a jubilee![6]

Suppose, my Lord—and far from me

To treat such things with levity—

But just suppose the Regent's weight

Were made thus an affair of state;

And, every sessions, at the close,—

'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is

Heavy and dull enough, God knows—

We were to try how heavy he is.

Much would it glad all hearts to hear—

That, while the Nation's Revenue

Loses so many pounds a year,

The PRINCE, God bless him! gains a few.

With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,

I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—

But, for the REGENT, my advice is,

We should throw in much heavier things:

For instance——-'s quarto volumes,

Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them;

Dominie STODDART'S Daily columns,

"Prodigious!"—in, of course, we'd clap them—

Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites,

In which, with logical confusion,

The Major like a Minor writes,

And never comes to a Conclusion:—

Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet—or his head—

(Ah! that were worth its weight in lead!)

Along with which we in may whip, sly,

The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY;

That Baronet of many words,

Who loves so, in the House of Lords,

To whisper Bishops—and so nigh

Unto their wigs in whispering goes,

That you may always know him by

A patch of powder on his nose!—

If this wont do, we in must cram

The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM;

(A Book his Lordship means to write,

Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting":)

Or, should these prove too small and light,

His rump's a host—we'll bundle that in!

And, still should all these masses fail

To stir the REGENT'S pondrous scale,

Why, then, my Lord, in heaven's name,

Pitch in, without reserve or stint,

The whole of RAGLEY'S beauteous Dame—

If that wont raise him, devil's in it!

August 31.

Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS

About those famous spies at Rome,[8]

Whom certain Whigs—to make a fuss—

Describe as much resembling us,

Informing gentlemen, at home.

But, bless the fools, they can't be serious,

To say Lord SIDMOUTH'S like TIBERIUS!

What! he, the Peer, that injures no man,

Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!—

'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to

All sorts of spies—so doth the Peer, too.

'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs,

And deal in perjury—ditto TIB's.

'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid

His rogues from justice—ditto SID.

'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib

At moral speeches—ditto TIB.

'Tis true the feats the Tyrant did

Were in his dotage—ditto SID.

So far, I own, the parallel

'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well;

But there are points in TIB that strike

My humble mind as much more like

Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him,

Of the India Board—that soul of whim!

Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke,

On matters, too, where few can bear one;

E. g. a man cut up, or broke

Upon the wheel—a devilish fair one!

Your common fractures, wounds and fits,

Are nothing to such wholesale wits;

But, let the sufferer gasp for life,

The joke is then, worth any money;

And, if he writhe beneath a knife,—

Oh dear, that's something quite too funny.

In this respect, my Lord, you see

The Roman wag and ours agree:

Now as to your resemblance—mum—

This parallel we need not follow:

Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by some

Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow;

Whips, chains—but these are things too serious

For me to mention or discuss;

Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS,

PHIL. FUDGE'S part is Tacitus!

September 2.

Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got

Any good decent sort of Plot

Against the winter-time—if not,

Alas, alas, our ruin's fated;

All done up and spiflicated!

Ministers and all their vassals,

Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,—

Unless we can kick up a riot,

Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet!

What's to be done?—Spa-Fields was clever;

But even that brought gibes and mockings

Upon our heads—so, mem.—must never

Keep ammunition in old stockings;

For fear some wag should in his curst head

Take it to say our force was worsted.

Mem. too—when SID an army raises,

It must not be "incog." like Bayes's:

Nor must the General be a hobbling

Professor of the art of cobbling;

Lest men, who perpetrate such puns,

Should say, with Jacobinic grin,

He felt, from soleing Wellingtons,[9]

A Wellington's great soul within!

Nor must an old Apothecary

Go take the Tower, for lack of pence,

With (what these wags would call, so merry,)

Physical force and phial-ence!

No—no—our Plot, my Lord, must be

Next time contrived more skilfully.

John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing

So troublesomely sharp and knowing,

So wise—in short, so Jacobin—

'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.

September 6.

Heard of the fate of our Ambassador

In China, and was sorely nettled;

But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er

Till all this matter's fairly settled;

And here's the mode occurs to me:—

As none of our Nobility,

Tho' for their own most gracious King

(They would kiss hands, or—anything),

Can be persuaded to go thro'

This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou;

And as these Mandarins won't bend,

Without some mumming exhibition,

Suppose, my Lord, you were to send

GRIMALDI to them on a mission:

As Legate, JOE could play his part,

And if, in diplomatic art,

The "volto sciolto"'s meritorius,[10]

Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!

A title for him's easily made;

And, by the by, one Christmas time,

If I remember right, he played

Lord MORLEY in some pantomime:—[1]

As Earl of Morley then gazette him,

If t'other Earl of MORLEY'll let him,

(And why should not the world be blest

"With two such stars, for East and West?)

Then, when before the Yellow Screen

He's brought—and, sure, the very essence

Of etiquette would be that scene

Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!—

He thus should say:—"Duke Ho and Soo,

"I'll play what tricks you please for you,

"If you'll, in turn, but do for me

"A few small tricks you now shall see.

"If I consult your Emperor's liking,

"At least you'll do the same for my King."

He then should give them nine such grins,

As would astound even Mandarins;

And throw such somersets before

The picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!)

As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er,

Would, by CONFUCIUS, much distress him!

I start this merely as a hint,

But think you'll find some wisdom in't;

And, should you follow up the job,

My son, my Lord (you know poor BOB),

Would in the suite be glad to go

And help his Excellency, JOE:—

At least, like noble AMHERST'S son,

The lad will do to practise on.

[1] The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English) in which his Lordship, professing to see "no moral or political objection" to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as "not only the most devoted, but the most favored, of Bonaparte's vassals".

[2] This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicêtre. He imagines, exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that when the heads of those who had been guillotined were restored, he by mistake got some other person's instead of his own.

[3] A celebrated pickpocket.

[4] I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor Louis le Désiré, some years since, at one of the Regent's Fêtes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

[5] "The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care,"—F. Bernier's "Voyage to Surat," etc.

[6] "I remember," says Bernier, "that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding."— Another author tells us that "Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven." An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a Prince a joulter head is invaluable."—Oriental Field Sports.

[7] Major Cartwright.

[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo.

[9] Short boots so called.

[10] The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of "Lord Morley" in the Pantomime,—so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.

LETTER X.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.

Well, it isn't the King, after all, my dear creature!

But don't you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in't—

For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,

He might be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't.

At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own,

If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,—

(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here,

Showing off with such airs, and a real Cashmere,

While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!)

But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing,

"I am just as well pleased it should not be the King;

"As I think for my BIDDY, so gentille and jolie.

"Whose charms may their price in an honest way fetch,

"That a Brandenburgh"—(what is a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)—

"Would be, after all, no such very great catch.

"If the REGENT indeed"—added he, looking sly—

(You remember that comical squint of his eye)

But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how can you say so,

"When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!"

Which is fact, my dear DOLLY—we, girls of eighteen,

And so slim—Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen:

And would like us much better as old-as, as old

As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told

That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,

And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then!

What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,

Who, tho' not a King, is a hero I'll swear,—

You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over,

Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!

Let me see—'twas on Saturday—yes, DOLLY, yes—

From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;

When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,

Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage,

"Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly,

"And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"[1]

Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro';

And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,

With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,

I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT

Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,

Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois-

And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is,

Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!

The gardens seemed full—so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em,

'Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum,

And daphnes and vases and many a statue

There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!

The ponds, too, we viewed—stood awhile on the brink

To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—

"Live bullion," says merciless BOB, "which, I think,

"Would, if coined, with a little mint sauce, be delicious!"

But what, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove,

Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?

In vain did I wildly explore every chair

Where a thing like a man was—no lover sat there!

In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast

At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past,

To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,—

A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,

As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given,

For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"

Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,

And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!

Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"—

Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody,

Something about the "green spot of delight"

(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day):

Ah DOLLY, my "spot" was that Saturday night,

And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday!

We dined at a tavern—La, what do I say?

If BOB was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear;

Where your properest ladies go dine every day,

And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.

Fine BOB (for he's really grown super-fine)

Condescended for once to make one of the party;

Of course, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine,

And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty.

Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief,

I have always found eating a wondrous relief;

And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, quite—

"My sighs," said he, "ceased with the first glass I drank you;

"The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,

"And—now that all's o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!"

To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;

For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate

About singing and cookery—BOBBY, of course,

Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;

And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst,

"The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it—

"What with old LAÏ'S and VÉRY, I'm curst

"If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,

And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis,

When, sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul—

That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI'S![3]

We entered—and, scarcely had BOB, with an air,

For a grappe à la jardinière called to the waiters,

When, oh DOLL! I saw him—my hero was there

(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),

A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,[4]

And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!

Oh! DOLLY, these heroes—what creatures they are;

In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter!

As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car,

As when safe at TORTONI'S, o'er iced currant water!

He joined us—imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy—

Joined by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!

BOB wished to treat him with Punch à la glace,

But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my grâce,

And my ja-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirled)

Were to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."—

How pretty!—tho' oft (as of course it must be)

Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me.

But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did;

And happier still, when 'twas fixt, ere we parted,

That, if the next day should be pastoral weather.

We all would set off, in French buggies, together,

To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,

Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.

His card then he gave us—the name, rather creased—

But 'twas CALICOT—something—a Colonel, at least!

After which—sure there never was hero so civil—he

Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,

Where his last words, as, at parting, he threw

A soft look o'er his shoulders, were—"How do you do!"

But, lord!—there's Papa for the post—I'm so vext—

Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.

That dear Sunday night—I was charmingly drest,

And—so providential!—was looking my best;

Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills,

You've no notion how rich—(tho' Pa has by the bills)

And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,

Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear.

Then the flowers in my bonnet—but, la! it's in vain—

So, good-by, my sweet DOLL—I shall soon write again.

B. F.

Nota bene—our love to all neighbors about— Your Papa in particular—how is his gout?

P.S.—I've just opened my letter to say,

In your next you must tell me, (now do, DOLLY, pray,

For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,)

What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.

[1] The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.

[2] For this scrap of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's "Ruins:"

"It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise."

[3] A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards.

[4] "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian group."

LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ——.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great

As ever hero died to vindicate—

A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,

And own no power but of the Nation's choice!

Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now

Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow;

Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured,

In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,

A hallowing light, which never, since the day

Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates,

Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;

When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye.

As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1]

Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain,

Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—

Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track

Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back;

When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined

But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined,

Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind,

Gathered around, with hosts from every shore,

Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more,

And, in that coming strife, appalled to see

The world yet left one chance for liberty!—

No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net

Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret

Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,

When every hope was in his speed and might—

To waste the hour of action in dispute,

And coolly plan how freedom's boughs should shoot,

When your Invader's axe was at the root!

No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws,

Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows

How well I love thee and how deeply hate

All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate—

Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,

I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,

NAPOLEON, NERO—ay, no matter whom—

To snatch my country from that damning doom,

That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits—

A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!

True, he was false—despotic—all you please—

Had trampled down man's holiest liberties—

Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things

Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,

But raised the hopes of men—as eaglets fly

With tortoises aloft into the sky—

To dash them down again more shatteringly!

All this I own—but still

* * * * *

[1] See Aellan, lib. v. cap. 29.,—who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles.

LETTER XII.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.

At last, DOLLY,—thanks to potent emetic,

Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic,

Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss,

Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'écrevisses—

I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down

To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.

How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!

Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear,

If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'S

Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.

But Love, DOLLY, Love is the theme I pursue;

With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do—

Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies

Any imps of that color in certain blue eyes,

Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at his do the same;

Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,

If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, Sir, for shame!"

Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress

For the happy occasion—the sunshine express—

Had we ordered it, dear, of the best poet going,

It scarce could be furnisht more golden and glowing.

Tho' late when we started, the scent of the air

Was like GATTIE'S rose-water,—and, bright, here and there,

On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,

Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet!

While the birds seemed to warble as blest on the boughs,

As if each a plumed Calicot had for her spouse;

And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,

And—in short, need I tell you wherever one goes

With the creature one loves, 'tis couleur de rose;

And ah! I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see

A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

There was but one drawback—at first when we started,

The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;

How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!

He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB:

And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know

That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.

For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S—

Served with him of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies.

So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can trace

Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face

As you do on that pillar of glory and brass,[1]

Which the poor DUC DE BERRI must hate so to pass!

It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—

About English affairs an odd blunder or two.

For example misled by the names, I dare say—

He confounded JACK CASTLES with LORD CASTLEREAGH;

And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—

Fancied the present Lord CAMDEN the clever one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;

'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.

And oh! had you heard, as together we walkt

Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt;

And how perfectly well he appeared, DOLL, to know

All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU?—

"'Twas there," said he—not that his words I can state—

'Twas a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;—

But "there," said he, (pointing where, small and remote,

The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,—

"Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure;

"Then sauded it over with silver and azure,

"And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do!—

"Tied the leaves up together with nonpareille blue!"

What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions

From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!

Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions

Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

"'Twas here too perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said—

As down the small garden he pensively led—

(Tho' once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle

With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)

"'Twas here he received from the fair D'ÉPINAY

"(Who called him so sweetly her Bear, every day,)

"That dear flannel petticoat, pulled off to form

"A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pondered,

As, full of romance, thro' that valley we wandered.

The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!)

Led us to talk about other commodities,

Cambric, and silk, and—I ne'er shall forget,

For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set.

And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,

When he askt me, with eagerness,—who made my gown?

The question confused me—for, DOLL, you must know,

And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,

That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ[2]

That enchanting couturière, Madame LE ROI;

But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who—deuce take her!—

It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker—

I mean of his party—and, tho' much the smartest,

LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.[3]

Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt—so well knowing

The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;

I stammered out something—nay, even half named

The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed,

"Yes; yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen

"It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!"

What a word for a hero!—but heroes will err,

And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were.

Besides tho' the word on good manners intrench,

I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

But this cloud, tho' embarrassing, soon past away,

And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,

The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,—

The nothings that then, love, are—everything to us—

That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,

And what BOB calls the "Two-penny-post of the Eyes"—

Ah, DOLL! tho' I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain,

To a heart so unpractised these things to explain.

They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,

By her who has wandered, at evening's decline,

Thro' a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish—for BOB, my dear DOLLY,

Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,

Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections;

And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections,

Is just setting off for Montmartre—"for there is,"

Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VÉRYS![4]

"Long, long have I wisht as a votary true,

"O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;

"And, to-day—as my stomach is not in good cue

"For the flesh of the VÉRYS—I'll visit their bones!"

He insists upon my going with him—how teasing!

This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie

Unsealed in my drawer, that, if anything pleasing

Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-by.

B.F.

Four o'clock.

Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruined for ever—

I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never!

To think of the wretch—what a victim was I!

'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die—

"My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—

I shall die or at least be exceedingly sick!

Oh! what do you think? after all my romancing,

My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,

This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper—

This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!

'Tis true as I live—I had coaxt brother BOB so,

(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,)

For some little gift on my birthday—September

The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—

That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach,

(Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,)

To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,

Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love—

(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—

And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!)

Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop.

But—ye Gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—

There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt—

There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,

With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out,

And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!

Oh!—Papa, all along, knew the secret,' is clear—

'Twas a shopman he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear!

The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,

And, when that too delightful illusion was past,

As a hero had worshipt—vile, treacherous thing—

To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!

My head swam around—the wretch smiled, I believe,

But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive—

I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seemed to wither—

And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!

I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,

With cruel facetiousness said, "Curse the Kiddy!

"A stanch Revolutionist always I've thought him,

"But now I find out he's a Counter one, BIDDY!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known

To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE!

What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever!

What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!

It will spread thro' the country—and never, oh! never

Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear—

And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,

One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge

To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend, BIDDY FUDGE.

Nota bene—I am sure you will hear, with delight,

That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night.

A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. COX

(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

[1] The column in the Place Vendôme.

[2] Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "Le Roi."

[3] LE ROI, who was the Couturière of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE.

[4] It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Monmartre.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE

"FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."

PREFACE.

The name of the country town, in England—a well-known fashionable watering-place—in which the events that gave rise to the following correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons, suppressed. The interest attached, however, to the facts and personages of the story, renders it independent of all time and place; and when it is recollected that the whole train of romantic circumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has passed during the short period which has now elapsed since the great Meetings in Exeter Hall, due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the Editor for the rapidity with which he has brought the details before the Public; while, at the same time any errors that may have been the result of such haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be pardoned.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

LETTER I.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ——; CURATE OF ——, IN IRELAND.

Who d' ye think we've got here?—quite reformed from the giddy.

Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise—

Why, the famous Miss Fudge—that delectable Biddy,

Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,

In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs—

Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;

Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,

And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off—gone, as charity judges,

To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;

And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations

From some much revered and much palsied relations,

Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,—

Age, thirty, or thereabouts—stature six feet,

And warranted godly—to make all complete.

Nota bene—a Churchman would suit, if he's high,

But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, Dick? doesnt this tempt your ambition?

The whole wealth of Fudge, that renowned man of pith.

All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,—

Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith.

Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch!

While, instead of the thousands of souls you now watch,

To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;

And her purse will meanwhile be the saving of you.

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf,

Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self,

Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf,

When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet

So much lackt an old spinster to rid him from debt,

Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her

With tender love-suit—at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend,

Which thus to your reverend breast I commend:

Miss Fudge hath a niece—such a creature!—with eyes

Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies

At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight

To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure—oh! bring all the gracefullest things

That are borne thro' the light air by feet or by wings,

Not a single new grace to that form could they teach,

Which combines in itself the perfection of each;

While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall,

The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er in short was there creature more formed to bewilder

A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial

(And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;

Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,

And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,

Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth—even she,

This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;

Talks learning—looks wise (rather painful to see),

Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;

And raves—the sweet, charming, absurd little dear,

About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year.

In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends

Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;

A fit which, tho' lasting but one short edition,

Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.

However, let's hope for the best—and, meanwhile,

Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile;

While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant

(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt.

Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,

Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie.

What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back,

An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye!

Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin,

What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents?

While her aeres!—oh Dick, it dont matter one pin

How she touches the affections, so you touch the rents;

And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he

Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,

Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.

'Tis rumored our Manager means to bespeak

The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week;

And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set

Throw, for the amusement of Christians, a summerset.

'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C—ke, cannot come,

Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home;

And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity

Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;—

His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately

Having pleased Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.

'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,

As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;

And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em

Ever yet reckoned a point of wit one of 'em.

But even tho' deprived of this comical elf,

We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself.

Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,

And Coke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the

Sublime;[1]

And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time.

[1] In the language of the play-bills, "Ground and Lofty Tumbling."

LETTER II.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MRS. ELIZABETH ——.

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy,

With godly concernments—and worldly ones, too;

Things carnal and spiritual mixt, my dear Lizzy,

In this little brain till, bewildered and dizzy,

'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do.

First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town,

Which our favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down.

Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise), à la

folle,

Charming hats, pou de soie—tho' the shape rather droll.

But you cant think how nicely the caps of tulle lace,

With the mentonnières look on this poor sinful face;

And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right,

To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night.

The silks are quite heavenly:—I'm glad too to say

Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day;

Hath had sweet experience—yea, even doth begin

To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin—

And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.

What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf,

Should thus "walk in newness," as well as one's self!

So much for the blessings, the comforts of Spirit

I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!—

Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect,

Tho' ordained (God knows why) to be one of the Elect.

But now for the picture's reverse.—You remember

That footman and cook-maid I hired last December;

He a Baptist Particular—she, of some sect

Not particular, I fancy, in any respect;

But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word,

And "to wait," as she said, "on Miss Fudge and the Lord."

Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist

At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;

And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in

Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen.

He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall,

He preached to the chambermaids, scullions and all.

All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,

But above all, the cook-maid:—oh, ne'er would she tire—

Tho', in learning to save sinful souls from the fire,

She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.

(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!—

A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.)

But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;

Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil—

Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale!

* * * * *

* * * * *

In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,

Chosen "vessels of mercy," as I thought they were,

Have together this last week eloped; making bold

To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold—

Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,

Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,

And besides, from the drawer—I neglecting to lock it—

My neat "Morning Manna, done up for the pocket."[1]

Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz?

It has made me quite ill:-and the worst of it is,

When rogues are all pious, 'tis hard to detect

Which rogues are the reprobate, which the elect.

This man "had a call," he said—impudent mockery!

What call had he to my linen and crockery?

I'm now and have been for this week past in chase

Of some godly young couple this pair to replace.

The enclosed two announcements have just met my eyes

In that venerable Monthly where Saints advertise

For such temporal comforts as this world supplies;

And the fruits of the Spirit are properly made

An essential in every craft, calling and trade.

Where the attorney requires for his 'prentice some youth

Who has "learned to fear God and to walk in the truth;"

Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declares

That pay is no object, so she can have prayers;

And the Establisht Wine Company proudly gives out

That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout.

Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages,

Where Saints are so much more abundant than sages;

Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf,

As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself,

And the serious frequenters of market and dock

All lay in religion as part of their stock.[2]

Who can tell to what lengths we may go on improving,

When thus thro' all London the Spirit keeps moving,

And heaven's so in vogue that each shop adver_tise_ment

Is now not so much for the earth as the skies meant?

P. S.

Have mislaid the two paragraphs—cant stop to look,

But both describe charming—both Footman and Cook.

She, "decidedly pious"—with pathos deplores

The increase of French cookery and sin on our shores;

And adds—(while for further accounts she refers

To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,)

That "tho' some make their Sabbaths mere matter-of-fun days,

She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays."

The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge;—

Has late been to Cambridge—to Trinity College;

Served last a young gentleman, studying divinity,

But left—not approving the morals of Trinity.

P. S.

I enclose, too, according to promise, some scraps

Of my Journal—that Day-book I keep of my heart;

Where, at some little items, (partaking, perhaps,

More of earth than of heaven,) thy prudery may start,

And suspect something tender, sly girl as thou art.

For the present, I'm mute—but, whate'er may befall,

Recollect, dear, (in Hebrews, xiii. 4,) St. Paul

Hath himself declared, "marriage is honorable in all."

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Monday.

Tried a new chälé gown on—pretty.

No one to see me in it—pity!

Flew in a passion with Fritz, my maid;—

The Lord forgive me!—she lookt dismayed;

But got her to sing the 100th Psalm,

While she curled my hair, which made me calm.

Nothing so soothes a Christian heart

As sacred music—heavenly art!

Tuesday

At two a visit from Mr. Magan—

A remarkably handsome, nice young man;

And, all Hibernian tho' he be,

As civilized, strange to say, as we!

I own this young man's spiritual state

Hath much engrossed my thoughts of late;

And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone,

To have some talk with him thereupon.

At present I naught can do or say,

But that troublesome child is in the way;

Nor is there, I think, a doubt that he

Would also her absence much prefer,

As oft, while listening intent to me,

He's forced, from politeness, to look at her.

Heigho!—what a blessing should Mr. Magan

Turn out, after all, a "renewed" young man;

And to me should fall the task, on earth,

To assist at the dear youth's second birth.

Blest thought! and ah! more blest the tie,

Were it Heaven's high will, that he and I—

But I blush to write the nuptial word—

Should wed, as St. Paul says, "in the Lord";

Not this world's wedlock—gross, gallant,

But pure—as when Amram married his aunt.

Our ages differ—but who would count

One's natural sinful life's amount,

Or look in the Register's vulgar page

For a regular twice-born Christian's age,

Who, blessed privilege! only then

Begins to live when he's born again?

And, counting in this way—let me see—

I myself but five years old shall be.

And dear Magan, when the event takes place,

An actual new-born child of grace—

Should Heaven in mercy so dispose—

A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.

Wednesday.

Finding myself, by some good fate,

With Mr. Magan left téte-à-téte,

Had just begun—having stirred the fire,

And drawn my chair near his—to inquire,

What his notions were of Original Sin,

When that naughty Fanny again bounced in;

And all the sweet things I had got to say

Of the Flesh and the Devil were whiskt away!

Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan

Is actually pleased and, amused with Fan!

What charms any sensible man can see

In a child so foolishly young as she—

But just eighteen, come next Mayday,

With eyes, like herself, full of naught but play—

Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

[1] "Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket," and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse Association, whose design is, we are told, "to induce the inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa, are every morning learning the same verse."

[2] According to the late Mr. Irving, there is even a peculiar form of theology got up expressly for the money-market, "I know how far wide," he says, "of the mark my views of Christ's work in the flesh will be viewed by those who are working with the stock-jobbing theology of the religious world." "Let these preachers." he adds, "(for I will not call them theologians), cry up, brother like, their article,"—Morning Watch."— No. iii, 442. 443.

LETTER III.

FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ——.

STANZAS ENCLOSED.

TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?—WHAT?—HOW?

Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky

Thus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed,

Why in this bright hour, walkst thou ever nigh;

Blackening my footsteps, with thy length of shade—

Dark comrade, WHY?

Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,

Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,

Saddening them as thou goest—say, what means

So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot—

Grim goblin, WHAT?

Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,

Thou bendest, too—then risest when I rise;—

Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is't that thou

Thus comest between me and those blessed skies—

Dim shadow, HOW?

(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.)

Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge

Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,

Oh Why? What? How?—a Voice, that one might judge

To be some Irish echo's, faint replied,

Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!

You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;

And, with it, that odious "additional stanza,

Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,

And which, you'll at once see, is Mr. Magan's;—a

Most cruel and dark-designed extravaganza,

And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are

To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-eyed strain,

Just so did they taunt him;—but vain, critics, vain

All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain!

To blot out the splendor of Fancy's young stream,

Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!!

Thou perceivest, dear, that, even while these lines I indite,

Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,

And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!

That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards

Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards—

That she should make light of my works I cant blame;

But that nice, handsome, odious Magan—what a shame!

Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,

I'm really afraid—after all, I—must hate him,

He is so provoking—naught's safe from his tongue;

He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.

Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou

Once shone as contributor, Lord! how he'd quiz you!

He laughs at all Monthlies—I've actually seen

A sneer on his brow at The Court Magazine!—

While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he peruses,

And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.

But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,

One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;

And tho' tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn as

Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!

(I suspect the word "crucified" must be made "crucible,"

Before this fine image of mine is producible.)

And now, dear—to tell you a secret which, pray

Only trust to such friends as with safety you may—

You know and indeed the whole country suspects

(Tho' the Editor often my best things rejects),

That the verses signed so,[symbol: hand], which you now and then see

In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.

But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes

The vile country Press in one's prosody makes.

For you know, dear—I may, without vanity, hint—

Tho' an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print;

And you cant think what havoc these demons sometimes

Choose to make of one's sense, and what's worse, of one's rhymes.

But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring,

Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing,

Where I talkt of the "dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,"

The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown noses!"

And once when to please my cross Aunt, I had tried

To commemorate some saint of her cligue, who'd just died,

Having said he "had taken up in heaven his position,"

They made it, he'd "taken up to heaven his physician!"

This is very disheartening;—but brighter days shine,

I rejoice, love, to say both for me and the Nine;

For what do you think?—so delightful! next year,

Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare—

I'm to write in "The Keepsake"—yes, Kitty, my dear.

To write in "The Keepsake," as sure as you're there!!

T' other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance

With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,

Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught.

Was the author of something—one couldnt tell what;

But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt

It was something that Colburn had lately brought out.

We conversed of belles-lettres thro' all the quadrille,—

Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;

Talkt of Intellect's march—whether right 'twas or wrong—

And then settled the point in a bold en avant.

In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hinted

That I too had Poems which—longed to be printed,

He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,

I was actually born in "The Keepsake" to write.

"In the Annals of England let some," he said, "shine,

"But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!

"Even now future 'Keepsakes' seem brightly to rise,

"Thro' the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,—

"All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!"

How un_like_ that Magan, who my genius would smother,

And how we true geniuses find out each other!

This and much more he said with that fine frenzied glance

One so rarely now sees, as we slid thro' the dance;

Till between us 'twas finally fixt that, next year,

In this exquisite task I my pen should engage;

And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt in my ear

These mystical words, which I could but just hear,

"Terms for rhyme—if it's prime—ten and sixpence per page."

Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,

What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;

If for nothing to write is itself a delight,

Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!

Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound,

Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;

And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've found

That he's quite a new species of literary man;

One, whose task is—to what will not fashion accustom us?—

To edit live authors, as if they were posthumous.

For instance—the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!—

If any young he or she author feels modest

In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher

Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher;

Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,

Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,

And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.

My Aunt says—tho' scarce on such points one can credit her—

He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.

'Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;

And quick as the change of all things and all names is,

Who knows but as authors like girls are presented,

We girls may be edited soon at St. James's?

I must now close my letter—there's Aunt, in full screech,

Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.

God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say,

To go and sit still to be preached at to-day.

And besides—'twill be all against dancing, no doubt,

Which my poor Aunt abhors with such hatred devout,

That so far from presenting young nymphs with a head,

For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,

She'd wish their own heads in the platter instead.

There again—coming, Ma'am!—I'll write more, if I can,

Before the post goes,

Your affectionate Fan.

Four o'clock.

Such a sermon!—tho' not about dancing, my dear;

'Twas only on the end of the world being near.

Eighteen Hundred and Forty's the year that some state

As the time for that accident—some Forty Eight[1]

And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter,

As then I shall be an old maid, and 'twon't matter.

Once more, love, good-by—I've to make a new cap;

But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap

Of the end of the world that I must take a nap.

[1] With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a difference only of about two or three years among the respective calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit. et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847.

LETTER IV.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ——.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore

Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er

With hot effusions—hot and weak;

Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,

He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms

To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,[1]

Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!

Journals reserved for realms of bliss,

Being much too good to sell in this,

Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,

Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;

And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,

Blow all your little penny trumpets.

He comes, the reverend man, to tell

To all who still the Church's part take,

Tales of parsonic woe, that well

Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:—

Of ten whole bishops snatched away

For ever from the light of day;

(With God knows, too, how many more,

For whom that doom is yet in store)—

Of Rectors cruelly compelled

From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home,

Because the tithes, by Pat withheld,

Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come;

Nor will the flocks consent to pay

Their parsons thus to stay away;—

Tho' with such parsons, one may doubt

If 'tisn't money well laid out;—

Of all, in short, and each degree

Of that once happy Hierarchy,

Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly;

But now, alas! is doomed to see

Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

Such are the themes this man of pathos,

Priest of prose and lord of bathos,

Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again;

Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim,

Shout to the stars his tuneful name,

Which Murtagh was, ere known to fame,

But now is Mortimer O'Mulligan!

All true, Dick, true as you're alive—

I've seen him, some hours since, arrive.

Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant—

And Tuesday, in the market-place,

Intends, to every saint and sinner in't,

To state what he calls Ireland's Case;

Meaning thereby the case of his shop,-

Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop,

And all those other grades seraphic,

That make men's souls their special traffic,

Tho' caring not a pin which way

The erratic souls go, so they pay.—

Just as some roguish country nurse,

Who takes a foundling babe to suckle,

First pops the payment in her purse,

Then leaves poor dear to—suck its knuckle:

Even so these reverend rigmaroles

Pocket the money—starve the souls.

Murtagh, however, in his glory,

Will tell, next week, a different story;

Will make out all these men of barter,

As each a saint, a downright martyr,

Brought to the stake—i.e. a beef one,

Of all their martyrdoms the chief one;

Tho' try them even at this, they'll bear it,

If tender and washt down with claret.

Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions.

Your saintly, next to great and high 'uns—

(A Viscount, be he what he may,

Would cut a Saint out any day,)

Has just announced a godly rout,

Where Murtagh's to be first brought out,

And shown in his tame, week-day state:—

"Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight."

Even so the circular missive orders—

Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.

Haste, Dick—you're lost, if you lose time;—

Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy,

And Murtagh with his tropes sublime

Will surely carry off old Biddy,

Unless some spark at once propose,

And distance him by downright prose.

That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands

All pass, they say, to Biddy's hands,

(The patron, Dick, of three fat rectories!)

Is dying of angina pectoris;—

So that, unless you're stirring soon.

Murtagh, that priest of puff and pelf,

May come in for a honey-moon,

And be the man of it, himself!

As for me, Dick—'tis whim, 'tis folly,

But this young niece absorbs me wholly.

'Tis true, the girl's a vile verse-maker—

Would rhyme all nature, if you'd let her;—

But even her oddities, plague take her,

But made me love her all the better.

Too true it is, she's bitten sadly

With this new rage for rhyming badly,

Which late hath seized all ranks and classes,

Down to that new Estate, "the masses ";

Till one pursuit all tastes combines—

One common railroad o'er Parnassus,

Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves,

Called couplets, all creation moves,

And the whole world runs mad in lines.

Add to all this—what's even still worse,

As rhyme itself, tho' still a curse,

Sounds better to a chinking purse—

Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got,

While I can muster just a groat;

So that, computing self and Venus,

Tenpence would clear the amount between us.

However, things may yet prove better:—

Meantime, what awful length of letter!

And how, while heaping thus with gibes

The Pegasus of modern scribes,

My own small hobby of farrago

Hath beat the pace at which even they go!

[1] "Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord."—Record Newspaper.

LETTER V.

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD.

Dear Judy, I sind you this bit of a letther,

By mail-coach conveyance—for want of a betther—

To tell you what luck in this world I have had

Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad.

Och, Judy, that night!—when the pig which we meant

To dry-nurse in the parlor, to pay off the rent,

Julianna, the craythur—that name was the death of her—[1]

Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her!

And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,

For their nate little play-fellow turning up howls;

While yourself, my dear Judy (tho' grievin's a folly),

Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy—

Cryin', half for the craythur and half for the money,

"Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowled you, my honey?"

But God's will be done!—and then, faith, sure enough,

As the pig was desaiced, 'twas high time to be off.

So we gothered up all the poor duds we could catch,

Lock the owld cabin-door, put the kay in the thatch,

Then tuk laave of each other's sweet lips in the dark,

And set off, like the Chrishtians turned out of the Ark;

The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone!

And poor I wid myself, left condolin' alone.

How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er lands,

And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my hands,

Is, at this present writin', too tadious to speak,

So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week:—

Only starved I was, surely, as thin as a lath,

Till I came to an up-and-down place they call Bath,

Where, as luck was, I managed to make a meal's meat,

By dhraggin' owld ladies all day thro' the street—

Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins,)

Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins.

Divil a boy in all Bath, tho' I say it, could carry

The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry;

And the higher they lived, like owld crows, in the air,

The more I was wanted to lug them up there.

But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say,

And mine has both handles put on the wrong way.

For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had

Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad,

Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther,

That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the gutther,

Muff, feathers and all!—the descint was most awful,

And—what was still worse, faith—I knew'twas unlawful:

For, tho', with mere women, no very great evil,

'Tupset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil!

So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it,

(for nothin' about her—was kilt, but her bonnet,)

Without even mentionin' "By your lave, ma'am,"

I tuk to my heels and—here, Judy, I am!

What's the name of this town I can't say very well,

But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell

Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day,

(And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,)

When his brogues to this city of luck found their way.

Bein' hungry, God help me and happenin' to stop,

Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop,

I saw, in the window, a large printed paper.

And read there a name, och! that made my heart caper—

Though printed it was in some quare ABC,

That might bother a schoolmaster, let alone me.

By gor, you'd have laughed Judy, could you've but listened,

As, doubtin', I cried, "why is it!—no, it isn't:"

But it was, after all—for, by spellin' quite slow,

First I made out "Rev. Mortimer"—then a great "O";

And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull again,

Out it came, nate as imported, "O'Mulligan!"

Up I jumpt like a sky-lark, my jewel, at that name,—

Divil a doubt on my mind, but it must be the same

"Master Murthagh, himself," says I, "all the world over!

My own fosther-brother—by jinks, I'm in clover.

Tho' there, in the play-bill, he figures so grand,

One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand,

And he'll not let me shtarve in the inemy's land!"

Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt

But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out:

And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me,

Such a pair of owld cumrogues—was charmin' to see.

Nor is Murthagh less plased with the evint than I am,

As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham;

And, for dressin' a gintleman, one way or t'other,

Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other.

But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case;

And, in throth, it's the only drawback on my place.

'Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be crost, as you know,

With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago;

That's to say, he turned Protestant—why, I can'tlarn;

But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn.

All I know is, we both were good Catholics, at nurse,

And myself am so still—nayther better not worse.

Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffy,

And lads more contint never yet left, the Liffey,

When Murthagh—or Morthimer, as he's now chrishened,

His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn't—

Lookin' sly at me (faith, 'twas divartin' to see)

"Of coorse, you're a Protestant, Larry," says he.

Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as shly,

"Is't a Protestant?—oh yes, I am, sir," says I;—

And there the chat ended, and divil a more word

Controvarsial between us has since then occurred.

What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy dear,

What I myself meant, doesn'tseem mighty clear;

But the truth is, tho' still for the Owld Light a stickler,

I was just then too shtarved to be over partic'lar:—

And, God knows, between us, a comic'ler pair

Of twin Protestants couldn't be seen any where.

Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I mintioned,

Addrest to the loyal and godly intintioned,)

His Riverence, my master, comes forward to preach,—

Myself doesn'tknow whether sarmon or speech,

But it's all one to him, he's a dead hand at each;

Like us Paddys in gin'ral, whose skill in orations

Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations.

But, whisht!—there's his Riverence, shoutin' out "Larry,"

And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry;

So, here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther,

Which, faix, I'd have made a much bigger and betther.

But divil a one Post-office hole in this town

Fit to swallow a dacent sized billy-dux down.

So good luck to the childer!—tell Molly, I love her;

Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over—

Not forgettin' the mark of the red-currant whiskey

She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky.

The heavens be your bed!—I will write, when I can again,

Yours to the world's end,

LARRY O'BRANIGAN.

[1] The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs. I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named, at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa.

LETTER VI.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ——.

How I grieve you're not with us!—pray, come, if you can,

Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,

Who combines in himself all the multiple glory

Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;—

(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,

The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded.)—

The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,

All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!

In short, he's a dear—and such audiences draws,

Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,

As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!—he today sketched a view

Of her history and prospect, to me at least new,

And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse

The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse.

As to reasoning—you know, dear, that's now of no use,

People still will their facts and dry figures produce,

As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were

A thing to be managed "according to Cocker!"

In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector

At paying some thousands a year to a Rector,

In places where Protestants never yet were,)

"Who knows but young Protestants may be born there?"

And granting such accident, think, what a shame,

If they didnt find Rector and Clerk when they came!

It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay,

These little Church embryos must go astray;

And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost,

Precious souls are meanwhile to the Establishment lost!

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;—

They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss,

And ask "if, while all, choosing each his own road,

Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly Abode,

It is right that seven eighths of the travellers should pay

For one eighth that goes quite a different way?"—

Just as if, foolish people, this wasn't, in reality,

A proof of the Church's extreme liberality,

That tho' hating Popery in other respects,

She to Catholic money in no way objects;

And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense,

That they even go to heaven at the Catholic's expense.

But tho' clear to our minds all these arguments be,

People cannot or will not their cogency see;

And I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church

Stand on reasoning alone, she'd be left in the lurch.

It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere,

That I heard this nice Reverend O'something we've here,

Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading,

A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding,

In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought,

All that Irving himself in his glory e'er taught.

Looking thro' the whole history, present and past,

Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last;

Considering how strange its original birth—

Such a thing having never before been on earth—

How opposed to the instinct, the law and the force

Of nature and reason has been its whole course;

Thro' centuries encountering repugnance, resistance,

Scorn, hate, execration—yet still in existence!

Considering all this, the conclusion he draws

Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws—

That Reason, dumb-foundered, gives up the dispute,

And before the portentous anomaly stands mute;

That in short 'tis a Miracle! and, once begun,

And transmitted thro' ages, from father to son,

For the honor of miracles, ought to go on.

Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound,

Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound.

For observe the more low all her merits they place,

The more they make out the miraculous case,

And the more all good Christians must deem it profane

To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.

As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt

That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,

As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear,

As anything else has been ever found there:—

While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals

With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals,

And the ease with which vial on vial he strings,

Shows him quite a first-rate at all these sort of things.

So much for theology:—as for the affairs

Of this temporal world—the light drawing-room cares

And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek,

From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek,

And to be, as the Apostle, was, "weak with the weak,"

Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy)

In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Thursday.

Last night, having naught more holy to do,

Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,

About the "Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club,"

Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:—

As the use of more vowels and Consonants

Than a Christian on Sunday really wants,

Is a grievance that ought to be done away,

And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.

Sunday.

Sir Andrew's answer!—but, shocking to say,

Being franked unthinkingly yesterday.

To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,

It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!—

How shocking!—the postman's self cried "shame on't,"

Seeing the immaculate Andrew's name on't!!

What will the Club do?—meet, no doubt.

'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,

And the friends of the Sabbath must speak out.

Tuesday.

Saw to-day, at the raffle—and saw it with pain—

That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.

Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces—

She who long has stood by me thro' all sorts of flounces,

And showed by upholding the toilet's sweet rites,

That we girls may be Christians without being frights.

This, I own, much alarms me; for tho' one's religious,

And strict and—all that, there's no need to be hideous;

And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way

Of one's going to heaven, 'tisn't easy to say.

Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing—if her custom we drop,

Pray what's to become of her soul and her shop?

If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,

She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;

And this nice little "fire-brand, pluckt from the burning,"

May fall in again at the very next turning.

Wednesday.

Mem.—To write to the India Mission Society; And send £20—heavy tax upon piety!

Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast,

Making "Company's Christians" perhaps costs the most.

And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,

Having lived in our faith mostly die in their own,[1]

Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,

When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2]

Think, how horrid, my dear!—so that all's thrown away;

And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice

They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.

Still 'tis cheering to find that we do save a few—

The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo;

Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum,

While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum.

In this last-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em,

For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3]

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount,

Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account.

And tho' to catch Papists, one needn't go so far,

Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are;

And now, when so great of such converts the lack is,

One Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.

Friday.

Last night had a dream so odd and funny,

I cannot resist recording it here.—

Methought that the Genius of Matrimony

Before me stood with a joyous leer,

Leading a husband in each hand,

And both for me, which lookt rather queer;—

One I could perfectly understand,

But why there were two wasnt quite so clear.

T'was meant however, I soon could see,

To afford me a choice—a most excellent plan;

And—who should this brace of candidates be,

But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:—

A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then,

To dream, at once, of two Irishmen!—

That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders

(For all this past in the realms of the Blest.)

And quite a creature to dazzle beholders;

While even O'Mulligan, feathered and drest

As an elderly cherub, was looking his best.

Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt

As to which of the two I singled out.

But—awful to tell—when, all in dread

Of losing so bright a vision's charms,

I graspt at Magan, his image fled,

Like a mist, away, and I found but the head

Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms!

The Angel had flown to some nest divine.

And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!

Heigho!—it is certain that foolish Magan

Either can'tor wont see that he might be the man;

And, perhaps, dear—who knows?—if naught better befall

But—O'Mulligan may be the man, after all.

N. B.

Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout,

For the special discussion of matters devout;—

Like those soirées, at Powerscourt, so justly renowned,

For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round;

Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden,

That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in;

Where, blessed down-pouring[5]from tea until nine,

The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;—

Then, supper—and then, if for topics hard driven,

From thence until bed-time to Satan was given;

While Roden, deep read in each topic and tome,

On all subjects (especially the last) was at home.

[1] Of such relapses we find innumerable instances in the accounts of the Missionaries.

[2] The god Krishna, one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. "One day [says the Bhagavata] Krishna's playfellows complained to Tasuda that he had pilfered and ate their curds."

[3] "Roteen wants shaving; but the barber here will not do it. He is run away lest he should be compelled. He says he will not shave Yesoo Kreest's people."—Bapt. Mission Society, vol. ii., p. 498.

[4] In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost always classed along with the Heathen.

[5] "About eight o'clock the Lord began to pour down his spirit copiously upon us—for they had all by this time assembled in my room for the purpose of prayer. This down-pouring continued till about ten o'clock."— Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, dated Feruicary, April 4, 1830, giving an account of her "miraculous cure."

LETTER VII.

FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ——.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,

While yet, beneath some northern sky,

Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,

They wait the breath of summer hours,

To wake to light each diamond eye,

And let loose every florid sigh!

Bring me the first-born ocean waves,

From out those deep primeval caves,

Where from the dawn of Time they've lain—

THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!—

Untaught as yet, young things, to speak

The language of their PARENT SEA

(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),

Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek,

Round startled isle and wondering peak,

They'll thunder loud and long as HE!

Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,

Young fires—

I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE

Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,

But, having invoked such a lot of fine things,

Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,

Didnt know what to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.

The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,

Of Past MSS. any new ones to try.

This very night's coach brings my destiny in it—

Decides the great question, to live or to die!

And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no,

All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!

You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out

The whole secret, at once—I have publisht a book!!!

Yes, an actual Book:—if the marvel you doubt,

You have only in last Monday's Courier to look,

And you'll find "This day publisht by Simpkins and Co.

A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe Woe!'

By Miss Fanny F——, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]."

This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark

But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark.

How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve,

Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear believe;

Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,

Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl.

Suffice it to say, that one half the expense

Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence—

(Tho' "God knows," as aunt says my humble ambition

Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)—

One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,

I've managed, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting

My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,

Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!

And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same?

What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?

Yards of riband soon end—but the measures of rhyme,

Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' all time.

Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair,

While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,

And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,

While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on.

The remaining expense, trouble, risk—and, alas!

My poor copyright too—into other hands pass;

And my friend, the Head Devil of the "County Gazette"

(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet),

He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,

Is now see up by them for the rest of his days;

And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says)

Live on naught but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter

To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!

As for puffing—that first of all literary boons,

And essential alike both to bards and balloons,

As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found

Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;—

In this respect, naught could more prosperous befall;

As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)

Knows the whole would of critics—the hypers and all.

I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,

Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;

As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,

That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.

But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town—

How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.

That awful Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum,

All full of my book—I shall sink when I see 'em.

And then the great point—whether Simpkins and Co.

Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!—

Five o'clock.

All's delightful—such praises!—I really fear

That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,

I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps—

All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.

FROM THE "MORNING POST."

'Tis known that a certain distinguisht physician

Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;

And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition

(Ere critics have injured their powers of nutrition,)

Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.

Satires irritate—love-songs are found calorific;

But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,

And, if taken at bedtime, a sure soporific.

Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,

Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,

Where all such ingredients—the flowery, the sweet,

And the gently narcotic—are mixt per receipt,

With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation

To say that—'bove all, for the young generation—

'Tis an elegant, soothing and safe preparation.

Nota bene—for readers, whose object's to sleep, And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.

ANECDOTE—FROM THE "COURT JOURNAL."

T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,

An amusing event was much whispered about.

It was said that Lord —-, at the Council, that day,

Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket,

And flown to a corner, where—heedless, they say,

How the country's resources were squandered away—

He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.

Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,

Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;

But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,

Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious—

Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,

Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,

He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!

[1] A day-coach of that name.

LETTER VIII.

FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.

Tuesday evening,

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,

I could not come to * * * to meet you;

But this curst gout wont let me stir—

Even now I but by proxy greet you;

As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,

Owes all to an amanuensis.

Most other scourges of disease

Reduce men to extremities—

But gout wont leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see

That you and I will quite agree.

I'm a plain man who speak the truth,

And trust you'll think me not uncivil,

When I declare that from my youth

I've wisht your country at the devil:

Nor can I doubt indeed from all

I've heard of your high patriot fame—

From every word your lips let fall—

That you most truly wish the same.

It plagues one's life out—thirty years

Have I had dinning in my ears,

"Ireland wants this and that and t'other,"

And to this hour one nothing hears

But the same vile, eternal bother.

While, of those countless things she wanted,

Thank God, but little has been granted,

And even that little, if we're men

And Britons, we'll have back again!

I really think that Catholic question

Was what brought on my indigestion;

And still each year, as Popery's curse

Has gathered round us, I've got worse;

Till even my pint of port a day

Cant keep the Pope and bile away.

And whereas, till the Catholic bill,

I never wanted draught or pill,

The settling of that cursed question

Has quite _un_settled my digestion.

Look what has happened since—the Elect

Of all the bores of every sect,

The chosen triers of men's patience,

From all the Three Denominations.

Let loose upon us;—even Quakers

Turned into speechers and lawmakers,

Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves,

Till first the Spirit moves themselves;

And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus,

Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous,

Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.

Then, too, those Jews!—I really sicken

To think of such abomination;

Fellows, who wont eat ham with chicken,

To legislate for this great nation!—

Depend upon't, when once they've sway,

With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them,

The Excise laws will be done away,

And Circumcise ones past instead o' them!

In short, dear sir, look where one will,

Things all go on so devilish ill,

That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear

Our reverend Rector may be right,

Who tells me the Millennium's near;

Nay, swears he knows the very year,

And regulates his leases by 't;—

Meaning their terms should end, no doubt,

Before the world's own lease is out.

He thinks too that the whole thing's ended

So much more soon than was intended,

Purely to scourge those men of sin

Who brought the accurst Reform Bill in.

However, let's not yet despair;

Tho' Toryism's eclipst, at present.

And—like myself, in this old chair—

Sits in a state by no means pleasant;

Feet crippled—hands, in luckless hour,

Disabled of their grasping power;

And all that rampant glee, which revelled

In this world's sweets, be-dulled, be-deviled—

Yet, tho' condemned to frisk no more,

And both in Chair of Penance set,

There's something tells me, all's not o'er

With Toryism or Bobby yet;

That tho', between us, I allow

We've not a leg to stand on now;

Tho' curst Reform and colchicum

Have made us both look deuced glum,

Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout,

Again we'll shine triumphant out!

Yes—back again shall come, egad,

Our turn for sport, my reverend lad.

And then, O'Mulligan—oh then,

When mounted on our nags again,

You, on your high-flown Rosinante,

Bedizened out, like Show-Gallantee

(Glitter great from substance scanty);—

While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride

Your faithful Sancho, by your side;

Then—talk of tilts and tournaments!

Dam'me, we'll—

* * * * *

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents

To Reverend Sir his compliments;

Is grieved to say an accident

Has just occurred which will prevent

The Squire—tho' now a little better—

From finishing this present letter.

Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"—

His Honor, full of martial zeal,

Graspt at his crutch, but not being able

To keep his balance or his hold,

Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled,

Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All's safe—the table, chair and crutch;—

Nothing, thank God, is broken much,

But the Squire's head, which in the fall

Got bumped considerably—that's all.

At this no great alarm we feel,

As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

Wednesday morning

Squire much the same—head rather light—

Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,

Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs."

LETTER IX.

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,

You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;

And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther,

Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;

For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,

Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive you crazy.

Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!

That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him,

Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,

And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood

Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1]

As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth,

Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend,

Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end.

But that's now all over—last night I gev warnin,'

And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'.

The thief of the world!—but it's no use balraggin'[2]—

All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin'

Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,

Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise,

And be forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways.

Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last showed his phiz,

I'd have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is;

For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough,

That himself and his other wild Irish showed off;

And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man

Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman—

Sayin', "Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice,

"How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is;

"All by raison, we're towld, that the natur o' the baste

"Is to change its coat once in its lifetime, at laste;

"And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein' common ones,

"Are bought up, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons.

"In regard of its name—why, in throth, I'm consarned

"To differ on this point so much with the Larned,

"Who call it a 'Morthimer,' whereas the craythur

"Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by nathur."

This is how I'd have towld them the righst of it all.

Had I been their showman at Exether Hail—

Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin

(Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin),

The famed Daddy Coke—who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em

As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em

A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.[3]

But throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear,

For anything, barrin' our own doings here,

And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin like mad,

We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had.

He says we're all murtherers—divil a bit less—

And that even our priests, when we go to confess,

Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success!

When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen,

To belie, in this way, seven millions of men,

Faith, he said'twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4]

"And who the divil's he?" was the question that flew

From Chrishtian to Chrishtian—but not a sowl knew.

While on went Murthagh, in iligant style,

Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while,

As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villains,

All the whole kit of the aforesaid millions;—

Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest,

And the innocent craythur that's at your breast,

All rogues together, in word and deed,

Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed!

When axed for his proofs again and again,

Divil an answer he'd give but Docthor Den.

Couldn'the call into coort some livin' men?

"No, thank you"—he'd stick to Docthor Den—

An ould gintleman dead a century or two,

Who all about us, live Catholics, knew;

And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry,

Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray!

But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon,

Tho' myself, from bad habits, is makin' it one.

Even you, had you witnessed his grand climactherics,

Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics—

Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his,

That Papists are only "Humanity's carcasses,

"Risen"—but, by dad, I'm afeared I can't give it ye—

"Risen from the sepulchre of—inactivity;

"And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity,

"Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity!!"—[5]

Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light,

Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight

Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite.

As for me, tho' a funny thought now and then came to me,

Rage got the betther at last—and small blame to me,

So, slapping my thigh, "by the Powers of Delf,"

Says I bowldly "I'll make a noration myself."

And with that up I jumps—but, my darlint, the minit

I cockt up my head, divil a sinse remained in it.

Tho', saited, I could have got beautiful on,

When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:—

Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a hand in,

At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin'.

Howsumdever, detarmined the chaps should pursaive

What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave,

"In regard of all that," says I—there I stopt short—

Not a word more would come, tho' I shtruggled hard for't.

So, shnapping my fingers at what's called the Chair,

And the owld Lord (or Lady, I believe) that sat there—

"In regard of all that," says I bowldly again—

"To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer—and Docthor Den";—

Upon which the whole company cried out "Amen";

And myself was in hopes 'twas to what I had said,

But, by gor, no such thing—they were not so well bred:

For, 'twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had read out,

By way of fit finish to job so devout:

That is—afther well damning one half the community,

To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity!

This is all I can shtuff in this letter, tho' plinty

Of news, faith, I've got to fill more—if 'twas twinty.

But I'll add, on the outside, a line, should I need it,

(Writin' "Private" upon it, that no one may read it,)

To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrishten him)

Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin' him.

(Private outside.)

Just come from his riv'rence—the job is all done—

By the powers, I've discharged him as sure as a gun!

And now, Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do

With myself and my appetite—both good as new—

Without even a single traneen in my pocket,

Let alone a good, dacent pound—starlin', to stock it—

Is a mysht'ry I lave to the One that's above,

Who takes care of us, dissolute sawls, when hard dhrove!

[1] "I am of your Patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antediluvian families—fellows that the Flood could not wash away."—CONGREVE, "Love for Love."

[2] To balrag is to abuse—Mr. Lover makes it ballyrag, and he is high authority: but if I remember rightly, Curran in his national stories used to employ the word as above.—See Lover's most amusing and genuinely Irish work, the "Legends and Stories of Ireland."

[3] Larry evidently means the Regium Donum;—a sum contributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland.

[4]Correctly, Dens—Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature.

[5] "But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not leagued with her in iniquity."—Report of the Rev. Gentleman's Speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper.

LETTER X.

FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ——.

These few brief lines, my reverend friend,

By a safe, private hand I send

(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag

Should pry into the Letter-bag),

To tell you, far as pen can dare

How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;—

Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack,

As Saints were, some few ages back.

But—scarce less trying in its way—

To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray;

To jokes, which Providence mysterious

Permits on men and things so serious,

Lowering the Church still more each minute,

And—injuring our preferment in it.

Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend,

To find, where'er our footsteps bend,

Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing;

And bear the eternal torturing play

Of that great engine of our day,

Unknown to the Inquisition—quizzing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks

Aimed at the body their attack;

But modern torturers, more refined,

Work their machinery on the mind.

Had St. Sebastian had the luck

With me to be a godly rover,

Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck

With stings of ridicule all over;

And poor St. Lawrence who was killed

By being on a gridiron grilled,

Had he but shared my errant lot,

Instead of grill on gridiron hot,

A moral roasting would have got.

Nor should I (trying as all this is)

Much heed the suffering or the shame—

As, like an actor, used to hisses,

I long have known no other fame,

But that (as I may own to you,

Tho' to the world it would not do,)

No hope appears of fortune's beams

Shining on any of my schemes;

No chance of something more per ann,

As supplement to Kellyman;

No prospect that, by fierce abuse

Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce

The rulers of this thinking nation

To rid us of Emancipation:

To forge anew the severed chain,

And bring back Penal Laws again.

Ah happy time! when wolves and priests

Alike were hunted, as wild beasts;

And five pounds was the price, per head,

For bagging either, live or dead;—[1]

Tho' oft, we're told, one outlawed brother

Saved cost, by eating up the other,

Finding thus all those schemes and hopes

I built upon my flowers and tropes

All scattered, one by one, away,

As flashy and unsound as they,

The question comes—what's to be done?

And there's but one course left me—one.

Heroes, when tired of war's alarms,

Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms.

The weary Day-God's last retreat is

The breast of silvery-footed Thetis;

And mine, as mighty Love's my judge,

Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!

Start not, my friend,—the tender scheme,

Wild and romantic tho' it seem,

Beyond a parson's fondest dream,

Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes,

So pleasing to a parson's eyes

That only gilding which the Muse

Can not around her sons diffuse:—

Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,

From wealthy Miss or benefice,

To Mortimer indifferent is,

So he can only make it his.

There is but one slight damp I see

Upon this scheme's felicity,

And that is, the fair heroine's claim

That I shall take her family name.

To this (tho' it may look henpeckt),

I cant quite decently object,

Having myself long chosen to shine

Conspicuous in the alias[2] line;

So that henceforth, by wife's decree,

(For Biddy from this point wont budge)

Your old friend's new address must be

The Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge—

The "O" being kept, that all may see

We're both of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,

My public life's a calm Euthanasia.

Thus bid I long farewell to all

The freaks of Exeter's old Hall—

Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding,

And rivalling its bears in breeding.

Farewell, the platform filled with preachers—

The prayer given out, as grace, by speechers,

Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:—

Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes,

And, scarce less dead, old Standard's columns:—

From each and all I now retire,

My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire,

To bring up little filial Fudges,

To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges—

Parsons I'd add too, if alas!

There yet were hope the Church could pass

The gulf now oped for hers and her,

Or long survive what Exeter—

Both Hall and Bishop, of that name—

Have done to sink her reverend fame.

Adieu, dear friend—you'll oft hear from me,

Now I'm no more a travelling drudge;

Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge

How well the surname will become me)

Yours truly,

MORTIMER O'FUDGE.

[1] "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest—being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the head of a wolf."—Memoirs of Captain Rock, book i., chap. 10.

[2] In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. "What other proofs he gave [says Johnson] of disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend."—Life of Mallet.

LETTER XI.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ——. ———, IRELAND.

Dear Dick—just arrived at my own humble_gîte_,

I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,

Just arrived, per express, of our late noble feat.

[Extract from the "County Gazette."]

This place is getting gay and full again.

* * * * *

Last week was married, "in the Lord,"

The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,

Preacher, in Irish, of the Word,

He, who the Lord's force lately led on—

(Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,)[1]

To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,

One of the chosen, as "heir of grace,"

And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,

Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted—

Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre,"

In our Gazette, last week, we printed).

Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire.

The fugitives were trackt some time,

After they'd left the Aunt's abode,

By scraps of paper scrawled with rhyme,

Found strewed along the Western road;—

Some of them, ci-devant curlpapers,

Others, half burnt in lighting tapers.

This clew, however, to their flight,

After some miles was seen no more;

And, from inquiries made last night,

We find they've reached the Irish shore.

Every word of it true, Dick—the escape from Aunt's thrall—

Western road—lyric fragments—curl-papers and all.

My sole stipulation, ere linkt at the shrine

(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine),

Was that, when we were one, she must give up the Nine;

Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.

With a vow never more against prose to transgress.

This she did, like a heroine;—smack went to bits

The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits—

Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes canzonets—

Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,

Some turned into papillotes, worthy to rise

And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!

While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),

Begged, as "lover of po'thry," to read on the way.

Having thus of life's poetry dared to dispose,

How we now, Dick, shall manage to get thro' its prose,

With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows!

But—I'm called off abruptly—another Express!

What the deuce can it mean?—I'm alarmed, I confess.

P.S.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!

I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days.

There—read the good news—and while glad, for my sake,

That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,

Admire also the moral—that he, the sly elf,

Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged himself!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.

With pain the mournful news I write,

Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;

And much to mine and friends' surprise,

By will doth all his wealth devise—

Lands, dwellings—rectories likewise—

To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny,

Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many

Long years hath waited—not a penny!

Have notified the same to latter,

And wait instructions in the matter.

For self and partners, etc.

[1] The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh!—a most remarkable coincidence—and well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

[Illustration: Thomas Moore]

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Table of Contents

THOMAS MOORE

CONTENTS

ODES OF ANACREON

TO

REMARKS ON ANACREON

ODES OF ANACREON ODE I.[1]

ODE II.

ODE III.[1]

ODE IV.[1]

ODE V.

ODE VI.[1]

ODE VII.

ODE VIII.[1]

ODE IX.

ODE X.[1]

ODE XI.[1]

ODE XII.

ODE XIII.

ODE XIV.[1]

ODE XV.[1]

ODE XVI.[1]

ODE XVII.

ODE XVIII.

ODE XIX.[1]

ODE XX.[1]

ODE XXI.[1]

ODE XXII.

ODE XXIII.

ODE XXIV.

ODE XXV.

ODE XXVI.

ODE XXVII.

ODE XXVIII.

ODE XXIX.

ODE XXX.[1]

ODE XXXI.[1]

ODE XXXII.[1]

ODE XXXIII.

ODE XXXIV.[1]

ODE XXXV.[1]

ODE XXXVI.[1]

ODE XXXVII.

ODE XXXVIII.

ODE XXXIX.

ODE XL.

ODE XLI.

ODE XLII.[1]

ODE XLIII.

ODE XLIV.[1]

ODE XLV.

ODE XLVI.[1]

ODE XLVII.

ODE XLVIII.

ODE XLIX.

ODE L.[1]

ODE LI.

ODE LII.[1]

ODE LIII.

ODE. LIV.[1]

ODE LV.[1]

ODE LVI.

ODE LVII[1]

ODE LVIII.

ODE LIX.

ODE LX.[1]

ODE LXI.[1]

ODE LXII.[1]

ODE LXIII.[1]

ODE LXIV.[1]

ODE LXV.[1]

ODE LXVI.[1]

ODE LXVII.

ODE LXVIII.

ODE LXIX.

ODE LXX.

ODE LXXI.

ODE LXXII.

ODE LXXIII.

ODE LXXIV.

ODE LXXV.

ODE LXXVI.

ODE LXXVII.

ODE LXXVIII.

SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. HERE AT THY TOMB.

SALE OF CUPID.

TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?

TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?

WHEN THE SAD WORD.

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

JUVENILE POEMS.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

JUVENILE POEMS FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

VARIETY.

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH,

SONG.

TO …….

SONG.

SONG.

REUBEN AND ROSE.

DID NOT.

TO …….

TO MRS. …….

ANACREONTIC.

TO …….

TO JULIA.

TO JULIA.

THE SHRINE.

TO A LADY,

TO JULIA.

TO …….

NATURE'S LABELS.

TO JULIA

A REFLECTION AT SEA.

CLORIS AND FANNY.

THE SHIELD.

TO JULIA WEEPING.

DREAMS.

TO ROSA.

SONG.

THE SALE OF LOVES.

TO …. ….

TO …. ….

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

INCONSTANCY.

THE NATAL GENIUS.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS……,

A DREAM.

TO …….

ANACREONTIC.

TO JULIA.

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

SYMPATHY.

THE TEAR.

THE SNAKE.

TO ROSA.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

ANACREONTIC.

THE SURPRISE.

TO MISS …….

THE WONDER.

LYING.

ANACREONTIC.

THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS[1]

TO MRS,—-.

RONDEAU.

SONG.

TO ROSA.

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.

TO ROSA.

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER.

SONG.

THE RESEMBLANCE.

FANNY, DEAREST.

THE RING.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

THE RING[1]

TO …. ….

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK.

TO MRS. BL——.

TO CARA,

TO CARA,

TO ……., 1801.

THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.[1]

FRAGMENT.

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

THE KISS.

SONG.

THE CATALOGUE.

IMITATION OF CATULLUS.

NONSENSE.

EPIGRAM.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

TO …. ….

TO ROSA.

TO PHILLIS.

TO A LADY.

SONG.

SONG.[1]

MORALITY.

THE TELL-TALE LYRE.

PEACE AND GLORY.

SONG.

LOVE AND REASON.

ASPASIA.

THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.[1]

TO CLOE.

THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN.

TO …. ….

TO …….'S PICTURE.

FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1]

TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.

THE FALL OF HEBE.

RINGS AND SEALS.

TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD.[1]

IMPROMPTU,

A WARNING.

TO …….

WOMAN.

TO …….

A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY.

TO MRS. …….

TO LADY HEATHCOTE,

THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS,

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA

TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA.

PREFACE.[1]

POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

STANZAS.

TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1]

TO MISS MOORE.

A BALLAD.

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL.

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.

LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA.

ODES TO NEA;

A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY.

THE SNOW SPIRIT.

A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

THE STEERMAN'S SONG,

TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1]

TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES.

TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1]

SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.[1]

TO THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER.

BALLAD STANZAS.

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

IMPROMPTU.

WRITTEN

TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,[1]

IRISH MELODIES

DEDICATION

PREFACE.

IRISH MELODIES GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

WAR SONG.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS.

FLY NOT YET.

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.[1]

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1]

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

THE LEGACY.

HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1]

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

DRINK TO HER.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1]

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

ILL OMENS.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1]

ON MUSIC.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1]

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1]

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

HE.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES

OH THE SHAMROCK.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

FAREWELL!—BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

COME O'ER THE SEA.

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

WHERE IS THE SLAVE.

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

MY GENTLE HARP.

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH.

REMEMBER THEE.

WREATH THE BOWL.

WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES.

IF THOU'LT BE MINE.

TO LADIES' EYES.

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.[1]

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

THE PARALLEL.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

OH, YE DEAD!

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

ECHO.

OH BANQUET NOT.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

SING—SING—MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

SING, SWEET HARP.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

THE WANDERING BARD.

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

NATIONAL AIRS

ADVERTISEMENT.

T.M.

NATIONAL AIRS A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

SO WARMLY WE MET.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

DOST THOU REMEMBER.

OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING.

LOVE AND HOPE.

THERE COMES A TIME.

MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

OH, NO—NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS.

THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

GAYLY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.

COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.

JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!

HEAR ME BUT ONCE.

WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD

SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.

GO, THEN—'TIS VAIN.

THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.

ROW GENTLY HERE.

OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!

WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.

WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?

SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

NETS AND CAGES.[1]

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

FAREWELL, THERESA!

HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

THO' 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.

DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

THE GAZELLE.

NO—LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.

WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.

WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.

OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.

SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.

BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.

IF IN LOVING, SINGING.

THOU LOVEST NO MORE.

WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED.

FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

HOW SHALL I WOO?

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

LOVE ALONE.

SACRED SONGS

TO

SACRED SONGS THOU ART, O GOD.

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

WHO IS THE MAID?

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

GO, LET ME WEEP.

COME NOT, OH LORD.

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

ALMIGHTY GOD!

OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

BEHOLD THE SUN.

LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

MELOLOGUE A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

GREEK AIR

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

SWISS AIR.—"RANZ DES VACHES."

SPANISH CHORUS.

SPANISH AIR.—"YA DESPERTO."

SET OF GLEES,

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

HIP, HIP, HURRA!

HUSH, HUSH!

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.

THE WATCHMAN.

WATCHMAN.

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

THE EVENING GUN.

LEGENDARY BALLADS.

TO

LEGENDARY BALLADS THE VOICE.

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

HERO AND LEANDER.

THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

YOUTH AND AGE.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

THE PILGRIM.

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

THE INDIAN BOAT.

THE STRANGER.

BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

POOR WOUNDED HEART

THE EAST INDIAN.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

DEAR FANNY.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

LOVE AND TIME.

LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.

MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

REMEMBER THE TIME.

OH, SOON RETURN.

LOVE THEE?

ONE DEAR SMILE.

YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

THE DAY OF LOVE.

LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

THE YOUNG ROSE.

WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.

WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.

YOUNG JESSICA.

HOW HAPPY, ONCE.

I LOVE BUT THEE.

LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBERED NOW.

LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE?

MY HEART AND LUTE.

PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!

ROSE OF THE DESERT

'TIS ALL FOR THEE.

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.

WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.

THE BOY OF THE ALPS.

FOR THEE ALONE.

HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING.

LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE.

LOVE'S VICTORY.

SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.[1]

THE DREAM OF HOME.

THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVORED GUEST.

THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.

CALM BE THY SLEEP.

THE EXILE.

THE FANCY FAIR.

IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.

STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.

THE SUMMER WEBS.

MIND NOT THO' DAYLIGHT.

THEY MET BUT ONCE.

WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.

CHILD'S SONG.

THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN.

THE WORLD WAS HUSHT.

THE TWO LOVES.

THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

BEAUTY AND SONG.

WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

THOU BIDST ME SING.

CUPID ARMED.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

DEAR? YES.

UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

NOT FROM THEE.

GUESS, GUESS.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

BRIGHT MOON.

LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

BOAT GLEE.

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

EXTRACT.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

REMONSTRANCE.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

FANCY.

SONG.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS. CARM. 70.

CARM. II.

CARM. 29.

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

IMITATION.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

A SPECULATION.

TO MY MOTHER.

LOVE AND HYMEN.

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

SCEPTICISM.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

GAZEL.

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

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

TO LADY JERSEY.

TO THE SAME.

AT NIGHT.[1]

TO LADY HOLLAND.

EPILOGUE.

THE DAY-DREAM.[1]

SONG.

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

ANNE BOLEYN.

THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN

THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.

SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.

FIRST CUPBEARER.

SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

THE SUMMER FÊTE.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

THE SUMMER FÊTE

SONG.

SONG.

TRIO.

SONG.

WALTZ DUET.

SONG.

SONG AND TRIO.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG AND TRIO.

SONG.

EVENINGS IN GREECE

EVENINGS IN GREECE.

FIRST EVENING.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

SONG.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

SONG.

ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT. LETTER I.

LETTER II.

LETTER III.

LETTER IV.

LALLA ROOKH

TO

LALLA ROOKH

THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.[24]

PARADISE AND THE PERI.

THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS.

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

PREFACE.

THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS

FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.

SECOND ANGEL'S STORY.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

EXTRACT I.

EXTRACT II.

EXTRACT III.

EXTRACT IV.

EXTRACT V.

EXTRACT VI.

EXTRACT VII.

EXTRACT VIII.

EXTRACT IX.

EXTRACT X.

EXTRACT XI.

EXTRACT XII.

EXTRACT XIII.

EXTRACT XIV.

EXTRACT XV.

EXTRACT XVI.

CORRUPTION,

PREFACE.

CORRUPTION,

INTOLERANCE,

THE SCEPTIC,

PREFACE.

THE SCEPTIC

TWOPENNY POST-BAG,

DEDICATION.

MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,—

PREFACE.

INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC. LETTER I.

LETTER II.

LETTER III.

LETTER IV.

LETTER V.

LETTER VI.

LETTER VII.

LETTER VIII.

LETTER IV. PAGE 584.

LETTER VII. PAGE 588.

SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1]

ANACREONTIC

EXTRACTS

EPIGRAM.

KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

EPIGRAM.

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

EPIGRAM.

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE ROBE.

IMPROMPTU.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT.

BANK.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE.

AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING.

THE SINKING FUND CRIED.

ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES.

A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS.

MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK.

ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY.

BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION.

MR. ROGER DODSWORTH.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES.

COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH.

THE MILLENNIUM.

THE THREE DOCTORS.

EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER.

ODE TO A HAT.

NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS.

A VISION.

THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND.

COTTON AND CORN.

THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH.

AN INCANTATION.

A DREAM OF TURTLE.

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE.

CORN AND CATHOLICS.

A CASE OF LIBEL.

LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT.

THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]

ODE TO FERDINAND.

HAT VERSUS WIG.

THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS.

NEW CREATION OF PEERS.

SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1]

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1]

WO! WO![1]

TOUT POUR LA TRIPE.

ENIGMA.

DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS.

THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION."

ODE TO DON MIGUEL.

THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND.

THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS.

HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY.

IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S TAIL.[1]

THE CHERRIES.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.[1]

ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1]

THE ANNUAL PILL.

"IF" AND "PERHAPS."[1]

WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE.

THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN.

TO THE REVEREND ——.

IRISH ANTIQUITIES.

A CURIOUS FACT.

NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES.

INCANTATION.

SCENE.—Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.— Enter three Brunswickers.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN.

EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE.

THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.

ALARMING INTELLIGENCE!

RESOLUTIONS

SIR ANDREW'S DREAM.

A BLUE LOVE SONG.

SUNDAY ETHICS.

AWFUL EVENT.

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

A SAD CASE.

A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN.

THE BRUNSWICK CLUB.

PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *.

LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA

ADVERTISEMENT.[1]

MISSING.

THE DANCE OF BISHOPS;

DICK * * * *

A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES.

MORAL POSITIONS.

THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET.

FROM THE HON. HENRY ——, TO LADY EMMA ——.

TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY.

TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

NOTIONS ON REFORM.

TORY PLEDGES.

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS.

THE CONSULTATION.[1]

TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON,

SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED "MATRICULATION."[1]

LATE TITHE CASE.

FOOLS' PARADISE.

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE;

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM.

LES HOMMES AUTOMATES.

HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER.

THE DUKE IS THE LAD.

EPISTLE

LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1]

TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT.

SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

THE SONG OF THE BOX.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.

RIVAL TOPICS.[1]

THE BOY STATESMAN.

LETTER

MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER.

THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER.

RECENT DIALOGUE.

THE WELLINGTON SPA.

A CHARACTERLESS

A GHOST STORY.

THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.[1]

ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836.

SONG OF THE CHURCH.

EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM.

SONG OF OLD PUCK.

POLICE REPORTS.

REFLECTIONS.

NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.

ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE.

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN.

NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI.

RELIGION AND TRADE.

MUSINGS.

INTENDED TRIBUTE

GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO.

CHURCH EXTENSION.

LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS.

THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE.

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS.

THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.

POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL.

TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE."

FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN.

EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.[1]

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

DEDICATION.

PREFACE.

FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

FABLE I.

FABLE II.

PROEM.

FABLE III.

FABLE IV.

PROEM.

FABLE V.

PROEM

FABLE VI.

PROEM.

FABLE VII.

PROEM.

FABLE VIII.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS.

PREFACE.

THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS LETTER I.

LETTER II.

LETTER III.

LETTER IV.

LETTER V.

LETTER VI.

LETTER VII.

LETTER VIII.

LETTER IX.

LETTER X.

LETTER XI.

LETTER XII.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

PREFACE.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND LETTER I.

LETTER II.

LETTER III.

TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?—WHAT?—HOW?

LETTER IV.

LETTER V.

LETTER VI.

LETTER VII.

IRREGULAR ODE.

LETTER VIII.

LETTER IX.

LETTER X.

LETTER XI.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE