  THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL.I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day; And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say. The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily; But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail; I wot that I shall die of Love—an I die not of Ale. Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink; Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?" "Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small? Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall? Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot? Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)—thou art a Pottle-pot!" "No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto! "Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do." I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail; Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale! So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; But little lore of loving can any flagon teach, For when my tongue is loosÉd most, then most I lose my speech. AN APRIL PASTORAL.He. Whither away, fair Neat-herdess? She. Shepherd, I go to tend my kine. He. Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine. She. With thee? Nay, that were idleness. He. Thy kine will pasture none the less. She. Not so: they wait me and my sign. He. I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine. She. Thy pipe will soothe not their distress. He. Dost thou not hear beside the spring How the gay birds are carolling? She. I hear them. But it may not be. He. Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now. She. Shepherd, farewell——Where goest thou? He. I go ... to tend thy kine for thee! A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING GARDENS.To the Burden of "Rogues All." Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades; Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;— Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall! Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives! Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives! For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;— Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall! Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast! Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post! For the wicket is free to the great and the small;— Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall! Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack! Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back! Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;— Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall! Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask! Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)! Here a domino covers the short and the tall;— Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall! 'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din; 'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come in You are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;— Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall! A LOVE-SONG.(XVIII. CENT.) When first in Celia's ear I poured A yet unpractised pray'r, My trembling tongue sincere ignored The aids of "sweet" and "fair." I only said, as in me lay, I'd strive her "worth" to reach; She frowned, and turned her eyes away,— So much for truth in speech. Then Delia came. I changed my plan; I praised her to her face; I praised her features,—praised her fan, Her lap-dog and her lace; I swore that not till Time were dead My passion should decay; She, smiling, gave her hand, and said 'Twill last then—for a Day. OF HIS MISTRESS.(After Anthony Hamilton.) To G. S. She that I love is neither brown nor fair, And, in a word her worth to say, There is no maid that with her may Compare. Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween: There are five hundred things we see, And then five hundred too there be, Not seen. Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven: But the sweet Graces from their store A thousand finer touches more Have given. Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note? Beside her Flora would be wan And white as whiteness of the swan Her throat. Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came, Hebe her nose and lip confess, And, looking in her eyes, you guess Her name. THE NAMELESS CHARM.(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron.) Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, Your artless look, I own; 'Tis not your dear coquettish tread, Or this, or that, alone; Nor is it all your gifts combined; 'Tis something in your face,— The untranslated, undefined, Uncertainty of grace, That taught the Boy on Ida's hill To whom the meed was due; All three have equal charms—but still This one I give it to! TO PHIDYLE.(HOR. III., 23.) Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain, At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow, O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane, And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow 'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow, Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail Thy modest gods with much slain to assail, Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please. Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault; More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease, Though pious but with meal and crackling salt. TO HIS BOOK.(HOR. EP. I., 20.) For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine! Still craving on some stall to stand, Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. You chafe at locks, and burn to quit Your modest haunt and audience fit For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you must be published, go; But mind, you can't come back, you know! "What have I done?" I hear you cry, And writhe beneath some critic's eye; "What did I want?"—when, scarce polite, They do but yawn, and roll you tight. And yet methinks, if I may guess (Putting aside your heartlessness In leaving me and this your home), You should find favour, too, at Rome. That is, they'll like you while you're young, When you are old, you'll pass among Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilerda you'll be sent, Or Utica, for banishment! And I, whose counsel you disdain, At that your lot shall laugh amain, Wryly, as he who, like a fool, Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule. Nay! there is worse behind. In age They e'en may take your babbling page In some remotest "slum" to teach Mere boys their rudiments of speech! But go. When on warm days you see A chance of listeners, speak of me. Tell them I soared from low estate, A freedman's son, to higher fate (That is, make up to me in worth What you must take in point of birth); Then tell them that I won renown In peace and war, and pleased the town; Paint me as early gray, and one Little of stature, fond of sun, Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more. Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four, Or was, the year that over us Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus. FOR A COPY OF HERRICK.Many days have come and gone, Many suns have set and shone, Herrick, since thou sang'st of Wake, Morris-dance and Barley-break;— Many men have ceased from care, Many maidens have been fair, Since thou sang'st of Julia's eyes, Julia's lawns and tiffanies;— Many things are past: but thou, Golden-Mouth, art singing now, Singing clearly as of old, And thy numbers are of gold! WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE.About the ending of the RamadÁn, When leanest grows the famished Mussulman, A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name, At the tenth hour to Caliph Omar came. "Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast; Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be, Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!" "Hast thou no calling, Friend?"—the Caliph said. "Sir, I make verses for my daily bread." "Verse!"—answered Omar. "'Tis a dish, indeed, Whereof but scantily a man may feed. Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,— Verse is a drug not sold in any mart." I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died; But this I know—he must have versified, For, with his race, from better still to worse, The plague of writing follows like a curse; And men will scribble though they fail to dine, Which is the Moral of more Books than mine. FOR THE AVERY "KNICKERBOCKER."(WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY G. H. BOUGHTON.) Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, Help me sing of Knickerbocker! Boughton, had you bid me chant Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant! Had you bid me sing of Wouter, (He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!) But to rhyme of this one,—Mocker! Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker? Nay, but where my hand must fail There the more shall yours avail; You shall take your brush and paint All that ring of figures quaint,— All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,— All those solid-looking smokers, Pulling at their pipes of amber In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber. Only art like yours can touch Shapes so dignified ... and Dutch; Only art like yours can show How the pine-logs gleam and glow, Till the fire-light laughs and passes 'Twixt the tankards and the glasses, Touching with responsive graces All those grave Batavian faces,— Making bland and beatific All that session soporific. Then I come and write beneath, Boughton, he deserves the wreath; He can give us form and hue— This the Muse can never do! TO A PASTORAL POET.(H. E. B.) Among my best I put your Book, O Poet of the breeze and brook! (That breeze and brook which blows and falls More soft to those in city walls) Among my best: and keep it still Till down the fair grass-girdled hill, Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes The wandering wind that wakes the rose, And scares the cohort that explore The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er, Or starts the restless bees that fret The bindweed and the mignonette. Then I shall take your Book, and dream I lie beside some haunted stream; And watch the crisping waves that pass, And watch the flicker in the grass; And wait—and wait—and wait to see The Nymph ... that never comes to me! "SAT EST SCRIPSISSE."(TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.) When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall, It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age, Will find the present volume and listless turn the page. For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him), This Book you see before you,—this masterpiece of Whim Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),— Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen; They had their points at issue, they differed now and then; The hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art. And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style, Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File;" And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned (This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend. They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star; They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far; And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear, They served the Muses truly,—their service was sincere. This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains (Yes,—fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains; No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note." And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed, They marched in that procession where is no first or last; Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire, They too had once their ardour—they handed on the fire. |
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