Illustration

The Lay of the Lover’s Friend.

[Air—“The days we went a-gypsying.”]

I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o’er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I’m touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face has shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But ’tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

Whene’er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply’s a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!”
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

I’ve heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I’m sure;
And all the while I’ve tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o’er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way—
“Why, you’re a lucky dog!”
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

I really wish he’d do like me,
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o’er the sea.
For ’tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who’s lost his heart
A short time ago.

Illustration

Francesca Da Rimini.

to bon gaultier.

[Argument.—An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?
Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,
Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;
How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm,
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?
Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,
Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing,
Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,—
A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel,
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,
That smiling voice, although it made me start,
Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;
And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free
And usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!”

Like one that swoons, ’twixt sweet amaze and fear,
I heard the music burning in my ear,
And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,
If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-À-vis.
So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,
And took his place amongst us with his dame,
I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk
From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,
Though rather more than three full quarters drunk;
But, threading through the figure, first in rule,
I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars,
Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars—
Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed
In tripsome guise for Juno’s masquerade—
Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,
Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,
Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong,
As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng!
How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love
On thy trim velvet doublet laced above;
The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,
Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!
So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black,
So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back,
So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,
So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,
That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,
Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o’er, and arm in arm
(The full heart beating ’gainst the elbow warm)
We passed into the great refreshment-hall,
Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small
Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn
Around the margin of the negus urn;
When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice,
And, with inquiring accents, whispered “Ice,
Water, or cream?” I could no more dissemble,
But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.
A swimming faintness misted o’er my brain,
The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne,
The custards fell untouched upon the floor,
Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

Illustration

Illustration

The Cadi’s Daughter.

a legend of the bosphorus.

[from any of the annuals.]

How beauteous is the star of night
Within the eastern skies,
Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman’s lance,
Or the antelope’s azure eyes!
A lamp of love in the heaven above,
That star is fondly streaming;
And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque
In the Golden Horn are gleaming.

Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower,
And she hears the bulbul sing,
As it thrills its throat to the first full note,
That anthems the flowery spring.
She gazes still, as a maiden will,
On that beauteous eastern star:
You might see the throb of her bosom’s sob
Beneath the white cymar!

She thinks of him who is far away,—
Her own brave Galiongee,—
Where the billows foam and the breezes roam,
On the wild Carpathian sea.
She thinks of the oath that bound them both
Beside the stormy water;
And the words of love, that in Athens’ grove
He spake to the Cadi’s daughter.

“My Selim!” thus the maiden said,
“Though severed thus we be
By the raging deep and the mountain steep,
My soul still yearns to thee.
Thy form so dear is mirrored here
In my heart’s pellucid well,
As the rose looks up to Phingari’s orb,
Or the moth to the gay gazelle.

“I think of the time when the Kaftan’s crime
Our love’s young joys o’ertook,
And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes
Of my silver-toned chibouque.
Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed,
Thy soul it is heavy laden;
Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila’s bower;
Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!”

A light step trod on the dewy sod,
And a voice was in her ear,
And an arm embraced young Leila’s waist—
“BelovÈd! I am here!”
Like the phantom form that rules the storm,
Appeared the pirate lover,
And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,
As he fondly bent above her.

“Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caÏque
Rides proudly in yonder bay;
I have come from my rest to her I love best,
To carry thee, love, away.
The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover
My own jemscheed from harm;
Think’st thou I fear the dark vizier,
Or the mufti’s vengeful arm?

“Then droop not, love, nor turn away
From this rude hand of mine!”
And Leila looked in her lover’s eyes,
And murmured—“I am thine!”
But a gloomy man with a yataghan.
Stole through the acacia-blossoms,
And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade
Hath pierced through both their bosoms.

“There! there! thou cursÈd caitiff Giaour!
There, there, thou false one, lie!”
Remorseless Hassan stands above,
And he smiles to see them die.
They sleep beneath the fresh green turf,
The lover and the lady—
And the maidens wail to hear the tale
Of the daughter of the Cadi!

Illustration

The Dirge of the Drinker.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;
He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!
Widely o’er the earth I’ve wandered; where the drink most freely flowed,
I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.
Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o’er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet,
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis’ sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o’er my hock;
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e’er Monsoon,
Sangaree’d with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter’s rum.
Drunk with Highland dhuinÉ-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb;
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more—
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,
He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us beware!
We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his manhood fell,
’Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
Better ’twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare,
Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air.
Throw the sofa cover o’er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,
Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,
So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,—
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good ’un as he is!

The Death of Duval.

by w--- h--- a---th, esq.

[“Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!”—Beggars Opera.]

A living sea of eager human faces,
A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,
Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:
Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;
And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,
Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre’s bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure
Be spent the evening of this festive day!
For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!
A little while, and he, the brave Duval,
Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.

“Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?”
Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.
“Surely,” they cry, “that tedious Ordinary
His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,—
Tedious to him that’s waiting to be hung!”
But hark! old Newgate’s doors fly wide apart.
“He comes, he comes!” A thrill shoots through each gazer’s heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,
All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.
“He comes, he comes!” and every breast rejoices,
As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,
Bearing to Holborn’s crowd the welcome fame.
“He comes, he comes!” and each holds back his breath—
Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

With step majestic to the cart advances
The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.
He feels that on him now are fixed the glances
Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,
Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.
In him the honour of “The Road” is centred,
And all the hero’s fire into his bosom entered.

His was the transport—his the exultation
Of Rome’s great generals, when from afar,
Up to the Capitol, in the ovation,
They bore with them, in the triumphal car,
Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.
Io Triumphe! They forgot their clay.
E’en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,
The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,
His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,
Like the old vintages of Spanish land,
Locks clustering o’er a brow of high command,
Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn’s steep
Toils the slow car of death, e’en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story,
He knew, was graven on the page of Time.
Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,
Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,
Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.
He left his deeds behind him, and his name—
For he, like CÆsar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,—
St Giles’s bowl,—filled with the mildest ale,
To pledge the crowd, on her—his beauteous Alice—
His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.
She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,
She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,
Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip—it quivered but a moment—
Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:
He could have spared so forcible a comment
Upon the constancy of woman’s vows.
One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;
But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,
And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England’s noble daughters
Stood in a balcony suffused with grief,
Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,
And waving many a snowy handkerchief;
Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!
His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam—
That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended,
His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.
The law’s grim finisher to its boughs ascended,
And fixed the hempen bandages, while he
Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free.
The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,
Like famed Mohammed’s tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surchargÈd lily
Beneath the buffets of the surly storm,
Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,
When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,
So drooped his head upon his manly form,
While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.
He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,
Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,
And placed this neat though plain inscription o’er him,
Among the atomies in Surgeons’ Hall:
“These are the Bones of the Renowned Duval!”
There still they tell us, from their glassy case,
He was the last, the best of all that noble race!

Illustration

Eastern Serenade.

by the honourable sinjin muff.

The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul,
And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool;
The voice of the musnud is heard from the west,
And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest.
The notes of the kislar re-echo no more,
And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.

Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride?
Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman’s side!
I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik—
I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima’s sake.
But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true,
Though it beats ’neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!

Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still,
And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill;
No sullen aleikoum—no derveesh is here,
And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere!
Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full,
I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!

I see thee—I hear thee—thy antelope foot
Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot;
The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare,
And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air.
Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well,
My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!

Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb,
’Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub;
Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star!
Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar:
Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier,
Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss!
And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss!
Wherever I wander—wherever I roam,
My spirit flies back to its beautiful home;
It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul,
With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! [269]

Illustration

Dame Fredegonde.

When folks, with headstrong passion blind,
To play the fool make up their mind,
They’re sure to come with phrases nice
And modest air, for your advice.
But as a truth unfailing make it,
They ask, but never mean to take it.
’Tis not advice they want, in fact,
But confirmation in their act.
Now mark what did, in such a case,
A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free,
Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.
So smart her dress, so trim her shape,
Ne’er hostess offered juice of grape,
Could for her trade wish better sign;
Her looks gave flavour to her wine,
And each guest feels it, as he sips,
Smack of the ruby of her lips.
A smile for all, a welcome glad,—
A jovial coaxing way she had;
And,—what was more her fate than blame,—
A nine months’ widow was our dame.
But toil was hard, for trade was good,
And gallants sometimes will be rude.
“And what can a lone woman do?
The nights are long and eerie too.
Now, Guillot there’s a likely man,
None better draws or taps a can;
He’s just the man, I think, to suit,
If I could bring my courage to’t.”
With thoughts like these her mind is crossed:
The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.
“But then the risk? I’ll beg a slice
Of Father Haulin’s good advice.”

Prankt in her best, with looks demure,
She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,
Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:
“With such a business on my head,
I’m worried off my legs with care,
And need some help to keep things square.
I’ve thought of Guillot, truth to tell!
He’s steady, knows his business well.
What do you think?” When thus he met her:
“Oh, take him, dear, you can’t do better!”
“But then the danger, my good pastor,
If of the man I make the master.
There is no trusting to these men.”
“Well, well, my dear, don’t have him, then!”
“But help I must have; there’s the curse.
I may go farther and fare worse.”
“Why, take him, then!” “But if he should
Turn out a thankless ne’er-do-good—
In drink and riot waste my all,
And rout me out of house and hall?”
“Don’t have him, then! But I’ve a plan
To clear your doubts, if any can.
The bells a peal are ringing,—hark!
Go straight, and what they tell you mark.
If they say ‘Yes!’ wed, and be blest—
If ‘No,’ why—do as you think best.”

The bells rang out a triple bob:
Oh, how our widow’s heart did throb,
As thus she heard their burden go,
“Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!”
Bells were not then left to hang idle:
A week,—and they rang for her bridal.
But, woe the while, they might as well
Have rung the poor dame’s parting knell.
The rosy dimples left her cheek,
She lost her beauties plump and sleek;
For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,
And backed his orders with his fist,
Proving by deeds as well as words
That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,
And speaks as angry women speak,
With tiger looks and bosom swelling,
Cursing the hour she took his telling.
To all, his calm reply was this,—
“I fear you’ve read the bells amiss:
If they have lead you wrong in aught,
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.
Just go, and mark well what they say.”
Off trudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough their chime went so,—
“Don’t have that knave, that knave Guillot!”

“Too true,” she cried, “there’s not a doubt:
What could my ears have been about?”
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to clink.

Illustration

Song of the EnnuyÉ.

I’m weary, and sick, and disgusted
With Britain’s mechanical din;
Where I’m much too well known to be trusted,
And plaguily pestered for tin;
Where love has two eyes for your banker,
And one chilly glance for yourself;
Where souls can afford to be franker,
But when they’re well garnished with pelf.

I’m sick of the whole race of poets,
Emasculate, misty, and fine;
They brew their small-beer, and don’t know its
Distinction from full-bodied wine.
I’m sick of the prosers, that house up
At drowsy St Stephen’s,—ain’t you?
I want some strong spirits to rouse up
A good revolution or two!

I’m sick of a land, where each morrow
Repeats the dull tale of to-day,
Where you can’t even find a new sorrow
To chase your stale pleasures away.
I’m sick of blue-stockings horrific,
Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols;
So I’ll off where the golden Pacific
Round Islands of Paradise rolls.

There the passions shall revel unfettered,
And the heart never speak but in truth,
And the intellect, wholly unlettered,
Be bright with the freedom of youth!
There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,
Unsullied by vapour or soot,
And there chimpanzees and opossums
Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There I’ll sit with my dark Orianas,
In groves by the murmuring sea,
And they’ll give, as I suck the bananas,
Their kisses, nor ask them from me.
They’ll never torment me for sonnets,
Nor bore me to death with their own;
They’ll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets,
For milliners there are unknown.

There my couch shall be earth’s freshest flowers,
My curtains the night and the stars,
And my spirit shall gather new powers,
Uncramped by conventional bars.
Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,
My days shall be manfully sped;
I shall know that I’m loved while I’m living,
And be wept by fond eyes when I’m dead!

The Death of Space.

[Why has Satan’s own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the “Death of Space”? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile
In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky,
And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile,
And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space,
And those that people all that dreary void,
When old Time’s endless heir hath run his race,
Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And ’mid the agony of unsullied bliss,
Her Demogorgon’s doom shall Sin bewail,
The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss,
And lash the empyrean with his tail.

And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath,
Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws,
And shout into the dull cold ear of Death,
That he must pay his debt to Nature’s laws.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last,
Infinity shall creep into her shell,
Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast,
And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings,
’Mid incense floating to the evanished skies,
Nonenity, on circumambient wings,
An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.

Caroline.

Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine,
Easy, breezy Caroline!
With thy locks all raven-shaded,
From thy merry brow up-braided,
And thine eyes of laughter full,
Brightsome cousin mine!
Thou in chains of love hast bound me—
Wherefore dost thou flit around me,
Laughter-loving Caroline?

When I fain would go to sleep
In my easy-chair,
Wherefore on my slumbers creep—
Wherefore start me from repose,
Tickling of my hookÈd nose,
Pulling of my hair?
Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me,
So to words of anger move me,
Corking of this face of mine,
Tricksy cousin Caroline?

When a sudden sound I hear,
Much my nervous system suffers,
Shaking through and through.
Cousin Caroline, I fear,
’Twas no other, now, but you,
Put gunpowder in the snuffers,
Springing such a mine!
Yes, it was your tricksy self,
Wicked-trickÈd little elf,
Naughty Caroline!

Pins she sticks into my shoulder,
Places needles in my chair,
And, when I begin to scold her,
Tosses back her combÈd hair,
With so saucy-vexed an air,
That the pitying beholder
Cannot brook that I should scold her:
Then again she comes, and bolder,
Blacks anew this face of mine,
Artful cousin Caroline!

Would she only say she’d love me,
Winsome, tinsome Caroline,
Unto such excess ’twould move me,
Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!
That she might the live-long day
Undermine the snuffer-tray,
Tickle still my hookÈd nose,
Startle me from calm repose
With her pretty persecution;
Throw the tongs against my shins,
Run me through and through with pins,
Like a piercÈd cushion;
Would she only say she’d love me,
Darning-needles should not move me;
But, reclining back, I’d say,
“Dearest! there’s the snuffer-tray;
Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!
Cork me, cousin Caroline!”

To a Forget-Me-Not,

found in my emporium of love-tokens.

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye
Didst once look up in shady spot,
To whisper to the passer-by
Those tender words—Forget-me-not!

Though withered now, thou art to me
The minister of gentle thought,—
And I could weep to gaze on thee,
Love’s faded pledge—Forget-me-not!

Thou speak’st of hours when I was young,
And happiness arose unsought;
When she, the whispering woods among,
Gave me thy bloom—Forget-me-not!

That rapturous hour with that dear maid
From memory’s page no time shall blot,
When, yielding to my kiss, she said,
“Oh, Theodore—Forget me not!”

Alas for love! alas for truth!
Alas for man’s uncertain lot!
Alas for all the hopes of youth
That fade like thee—Forget-me-not!

Alas for that one image fair,
With all my brightest dreams inwrought!
That walks beside me everywhere,
Still whispering—Forget-me-not!

Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh
For friendships dead and loves forgot,
And many a cold and altered eye
That once did say—Forget-me-not!

And I must bow me to thy laws,
For—odd although it may be thought—
I can’t tell who the deuce it was
That gave me this Forget-me-not!

The Meeting.

Once I lay beside a fountain,
Lulled me with its gentle song,
And my thoughts o’er dale and mountain
With the clouds were borne along.

There I saw old castles flinging
Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,
Saw gigantic forests swinging
To and fro without a breeze;

And in dusky alleys straying,
Many a giant shape of power,
Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,
Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

I, too, trod these plains Elysian,
Heard their ringing tones of mirth,
But a brighter, fairer vision
Called me back again to earth.

From the forest shade advancing,
See, where comes a lovely May;
The dew, like gems, before her glancing,
As she brushes it away!

Straight I rose, and ran to meet her,
Seized her hand—the heavenly blue
Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,
As she asked me—“Who are you?”

To that question came another—
What its aim I still must doubt—
And she asked me, “How’s your mother?
Does she know that you are out?”

“No! my mother does not know it,
Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!”
“Then be off, my handsome poet,
And say I sent you with the news!”

Illustration

The Mishap.

“Why art thou weeping, sister?
Why is thy cheek so pale?
Look up, dear Jane, and tell me
What is it thou dost ail?

“I know thy will is froward,
Thy feelings warm and keen,
And that that Augustus Howard
For weeks has not been seen.

“I know how much you loved him;
But I know thou dost not weep
For him;—for though his passion be,
His purse is noways deep.

“Then tell me why those tear-drops?
What means this woeful mood
Say, has the tax-collector
Been calling, and been rude?

“Or has that hateful grocer,
The slave! been here to-day?
Of course he had, by morrow’s noon,
A heavy bill to pay!

“Come, on thy brother’s bosom
Unburden all thy woes;
Look up, look up, sweet sister;
Nay, sob not through thy nose.”

“Oh, John, ’tis not the grocer
Or his account, although
How ever he is to be paid
I really do not know.

“’Tis not the tax-collector;
Though by his fell command
They’ve seized our old paternal clock,
And new umbrella-stand!

“Nor that Augustus Howard,
Whom I despise almost,—
But the soot’s come down the chimney, John,
And fairly spoilt the roast!”

Comfort in Affliction.

“Wherefore starts my bosom’s lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart’s chord
Had broken with that sigh!

“Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.

“There, again! that fevered start!
What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow on thy heart,
A weight upon thy brain!

“Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne’er
Deceive affection’s searching eye;
’Tis a wife’s duty, love, to share
Her husband’s agony.

“Since the dawn began to peep,
Have I lain with stifled breath;
Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,
As thou wert at grips with death.

“Oh, what joy it was to see
My gentle lord once more awake!
Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
Speak, or my heart will break!”

“Mary, thou angel of my life,
Thou ever good and kind;
’Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
The anguish of the mind!

“It is not in my bosom, dear,
No, nor my brain, in sooth;
But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
Here in my wisdom tooth!

“Then give,—oh, first best antidote,—
Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
To wrap around my head!”

The Invocation.

“Brother, thou art very weary,
And thine eye is sunk and dim,
And thy neckcloth’s tie is crumpled,
And thy collar out of trim;
There is dust upon thy visage,—
Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,
When I say, that altogether
You appear extremely dirty.

“Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee
To thy chamber’s distant room;
Drown the odours of the ledger
With the lavender’s perfume.
Brush the mud from off thy trousers,
O’er the china basin kneel,
Lave thy brows in water softened
With the soap of Old Castile.

“Smooth the locks that o’er thy forehead
Now in loose disorder stray;
Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers
Cut those ragged points away;
Let no more thy calculations
Thy bewildered brain beset;
Life has other hopes than Cocker’s,
Other joys than tare and tret.

“Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,
Waiting to the very last,
Twenty minutes after seven,
And ’tis now the quarter past.
’Tis a dinner which Lucullus
Would have wept with joy to see,
One, might wake the soul of Curtis
From death’s drowsy atrophy.

“There is soup of real turtle,
Turbot, and the dainty sole;
And the mottled roe of lobsters
Blushes through the butter-bowl.
There the lordly haunch of mutton,
Tender as the mountain grass,
Waits to mix its ruddy juices
With the girdling caper-sauce.

“There a stag, whose branching forehead
Spoke him monarch of the herds,
He whose flight was o’er the heather
Swift as through the air the bird’s,
Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;
And the haunch that wont to dash
O’er the roaring mountain-torrent,
Smokes in most delicious hash.

“There, besides, are amber jellies
Floating like a golden dream;
Ginger from the far Bermudas,
Dishes of Italian cream;
And a princely apple-dumpling,
Which my own fair fingers wrought,
Shall unfold its nectared treasures
To thy lips all smoking hot.

“Ha! I see thy brow is clearing,
Lustre flashes from thine eyes;
To thy lips I see the moisture
Of anticipation rise.
Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!”
“Only wait one moment, Jane:
I’ll be dressed, and down, before you
Can get up the iced champagne!”

Illustration

The Husband’s Petition.

Come hither, my heart’s darling,
Come, sit upon my knee,
And listen, while I whisper
A boon I ask of thee.
You need not pull my whiskers
So amorously, my dove;
’Tis something quite apart from
The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving—
A dark and deep desire,
That glows beneath my bosom
Like coals of kindled fire.
The passion of the nightingale,
When singing to the rose,
Is feebler than the agony
That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
Though madly thus I speak—
I feel thy arms about me,
Thy tresses on my cheek:
I know the sweet devotion
That links thy heart with mine,—
I know my soul’s emotion
Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow
Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above:
These little taper fingers—
Ah, Jane! how white they be!—
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best—
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicious days,
When, hand in hand, we wandered
Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken,
When ’neath the early moon,
We sat beside the rivulet,
In the leafy month of June;
And by the broken whisper
That fell upon my ear,
More sweet than angel music,
When first I wooed thee, dear!

By thy great vow which bound thee
For ever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task—
A Boiled sheep’s-head on Sunday
Is all the boon I ask!

Illustration

Illustration

Sonnet to Britain.

by the d--- of w---

Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!
Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!
O Britain! O my country! Words like these
Have made thy name a terror and a fear
To all the nations. Witness Ebro’s banks,
Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,
Where the grim despot muttered—Sauve qui peut!
And Ney fled darkling.—Silence in the ranks!
Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash
Of armies, in the centre of his troop
The soldier stands—unmoveable, not rash—
Until the forces of the foeman droop;
Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash,
Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

the end.

printed by william blackwood and sons.