Part 2

The Squire affirms, with gravest look, His oak goes up to Domesday Book!-- And some say even higher! We rode last week to see the ruin, We love the fair domain it grew in, And well we love the Squire.

A nature loyally controlled, And fashioned in that righteous mould Of English gentleman;-- My child may some day read these rhymes,-- She loved her "godpapa" betimes,-- The little Christian!

I love the Past, its ripe pleasànce, Its lusty thought, and dim romance, And heart-compelling ditties; But more, these ties, in mercy sent, With faith and true affection blent, And, wanting them, I were content To murmur, "_Nunc dimittis_."

HALLINGBURY, _April, 1859_.

AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY.

THE INVITATION.

O, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, Your London sun is here seen shining brightly: The Briton too puts on a cheery face, And Mrs. Bull is _suave_ and even sprightly. The Romans are a kind and cordial race, The women charming, if one takes them rightly; I see them at their doors, as day is closing, More proud than duchesses--and more imposing.

A "_far niente_" life promotes the graces;-- They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, And in their bearing, and their speech, one traces A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy That are not found in more inclement places; Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony; The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, Is often cold--and always in a hurry.

Though "_far niente_" is their passion, they Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; No matter what it is they have to say, The manner always sets the matter right. And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day They sweetly wish you "a most happy night." Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you.

O, come to Rome, nor be content to read Alone of stately palaces and streets Whose fountains ever run with joyous speed, And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets Great Memnon's monoliths--or, gay with weed, Rich capitals, as corner stones, or seats-- The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder Old ruins, hiding ruin even older.

Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, Although the last are commonplace, or florid. Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,-- Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. The sombre streets are worthy your researches: The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, But pleasant sights, which squeamishness disparages, Are missed by all who roll about in carriages.

About one fane I deprecate all sneering, For during Christmas-time I went there daily, Amused, or edified--or both--by hearing The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_. Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing Her small form on a rostrum, tricked out gaily, And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, With action quite dramatic and delightful.

O come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! The country's better seen when one is riding: We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding With giant march (now whole, now broken crags With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar-- That melt in light beneath the evening star.

A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant-- The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sun-burnt peasant Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, And seems to wake the past time in the present. Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow Can join with jollity your _Salterello_.

Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath Of life to unsophisticated man. Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, "_Per dar' al mio bene_." When you can, Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death And Time are grudging of Life's little span: Wan Time speeds swiftly o'er the waving corn, Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- Such theme were all too splendid for my pen. And if I breathe the name of Sanzio (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), It is that love casts out my fear--and so I claim with him a kindredship. Ah! when We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon!

Nor is the Colosseum theme of mine, 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; The world goes there with torches--I decline Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. Some time in May our forces we'll combine (Just you and I) and try a midnight airing, And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then You'll muse upon the vanity of men.

O come--I send a leaf of tender fern, 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: The ashes buried in a sculptured urn Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day! That better time, for which the patriots yearn, Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. They wait and pine for what is long denied, And thus I wait till thou art by my side.

Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, I cannot yet thy little hand resign! The plain is fading into darkness chill, The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee, O come to Rome--O come, O come to me!

THE REPLY.

Dear Exile, I was pleased to get Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton; You know that you are all to "Pet," I feared that I was quite forgotten: Mama, who scolds me when I mope, Insists--and she is wise as gentle-- That I am still in love--I hope That you are rather sentimental.

Perhaps you think a child should not Be gay unless her slave is with her; Of course you love old Rome, and, what Is more, would like to coax me thither: What! quit this dear delightful maze Of calls and balls, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways-- I like your confidence immensely!

Some girls who love to ride and race, And live for dancing--like the Bruens, Confess that Rome's a charming place, In spite of all the stupid ruins: I think it might be sweet to pitch One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, And all that sort of thing--of which Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.

To see stone pines, and marble gods, In garden alleys--red with roses-- The Perch where Pio Nono nods; The Church where Raphael reposes. Make pleasant _giros_--when we may; Jump _stagionate_--where they're easy; And play croquet--the Bruens say There's turf behind the _Ludovisi_.

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee Says packing books is such a worry; I'll bring my "Golden Treasury," Manzoni--and, of course, a "Murray;" A TUPPER, whom you men despise; A Dante--Auntie owns a quarto-- I'll try and buy a smaller size, And read him on the _muro torto_.

But can I go? _La Madre_ thinks It would be such an undertaking:-- I wish we could consult a sphynx;-- The thought alone has set her quaking. Papa--we do not mind Papa-- Has got some "notice" of some "motion," And could not stay; but, why not,--Ah, I've not the very slightest notion.

The Browns have come to stay a week, They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em, For Baby _Grand_, and Baby _Pic_, Are playing cricket in my sanctum: Your Rover too affects my den, And when I pat the dear old whelp, it ... It makes me think of you, and then ... And then I cry--I cannot help it.

Ah, yes--before you left me, ere Our separation was impending, These eyes had seldom shed a tear-- For mine was joy that knew no ending; Yes, soon there came a change, too soon: The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me Was knowledge I possessed the boon, And then a fear such bliss might leave me.

This strain is sad: yet, understand, Your words have made my spirit better: And when I first took pen in hand, I meant to write a cheery letter; But skies were dull,--Rome sounded hot, I fancied I could live without it: I thought I'd go--I thought I'd not, And then I thought I'd think about it.

The sun now glances o'er the Park, If tears are on my cheek, they glitter; I think I've kissed your rhymes, for--hark! My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter. Your blessed words extinguish doubt, A sudden breeze is gaily blowing, And, hark! The minster bells ring out-- "She ought to go! Of course she's going."

OLD LETTERS.

Old letters! wipe away the tear For vows and hopes so vainly worded? A pilgrim finds his journal here Since first his youthful loins were girded.

Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove, How could philosophy expect us To live with Dr. Wise, and love Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus?

Explain why childhood's path is sown With moral and scholastic tin-tacks; Ere sin original was known, Did Adam groan beneath the syntax?

How strange to parley with the dead! _Keep ye your green_, wan leaves? How many From Friendship's tree untimely shed! And here is one as sad as any;

A ghastly bill! "I disapprove," And yet She help'd me to defray it-- What tokens of a Mother's love! O, bitter thought! I can't repay it.

And here's the offer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver; And here John Wylie's begging note,-- He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion; I must confess I acted like A donkey upon that occasion.

Here's news from Paternoster Row! How mad I was when first I learnt it: They would not take my Book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a pile of notes, at last, With "love," and "dove," and "sever," "never,"-- Though hope, though passion may be past, Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two, Despite the scoffs of single scorners; And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet-- Two locks of hair--a deal of scandal; I'll burn what only brings regret-- Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.

MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE.

Though slender walls our hearths divide, No word has passed from either side, Your days, red-lettered all, must glide Unvexed by labour: I've seen you weep, and could have wept; I've heard you sing, and may have slept; Sometimes I hear your chimneys swept, My charming neighbour!

Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail The pup, once eloquent of tail? I wonder why your nightingale Is mute at sunset! Your puss, demure and pensive, seems Too fat to mouse. She much esteems Yon sunny wall--and sleeps and dreams Of mice she once ate.

Our tastes agree. I doat upon Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, The "Wedding March" of Mendelssohn, And _Penseroso_. When sorely tempted to purloin Your _pietà_ of Marc Antoine, Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin, Fair Virtuoso!

At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, And whisper low, "She hides behind; Thou art not lonely." The tricksy sprite did erst assist At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst; Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed By light winds only.

I miss the simple days of yore, When two long braids of hair you wore, And _chat botté_ was wondered o'er, In corner cosy. But gaze not back for tales like those: 'Tis all in order, I suppose, The Bud is now a blooming ROSE,-- A rosy posy!

Indeed, farewell to bygone years; How wonderful the change appears-- For curates now and cavaliers In turn perplex you: The last are birds of feather gay, Who swear the first are birds of prey; I'd scare them all had I my way, But that might vex you.

At times I've envied, it is true, That joyous hero, twenty-two, Who sent _bouquets_ and _billets-doux_, And wore a sabre. The rogue! how tenderly he wound His arm round one who never frowned; He loves you well. Now, is he bound To love _my_ neighbour?

The bells are ringing. As is meet, White favours fascinate the street, Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 'Twixt tears and laughter: They crowd the door to see her go-- The bliss of one brings many woe-- Oh! kiss the bride, and I will throw The old shoe after.

What change in one short afternoon,-- My Charming Neighbour gone,--so soon! Is yon pale orb her honey-moon Slow rising hither? O lady, wan and marvellous, How often have we communed thus; Sweet memories shall dwell with us, And joy go with her!

PICCADILLY.

Piccadilly!--shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze, The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees, By daylight, or nightlight,--or noisy, or stilly,-- Whatever my mood is--I love Piccadilly.

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming, And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming, And Beauty is whirled off to conquest, where shrilly Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!

Bright days, when we leisurely pace to and fro, And meet all the people we do or don't know,-- Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie; --No wonder, young pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter! She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter: Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, He envies them both,--he's an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet, I would choose me a house in my favourite street; Yes or no--I would carry my point, willy, nilly, If "no,"--pick a quarrel, if "yes,"--Piccadilly!

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, "Old Q" sat at gaze,--who now passes below? A frolicsome Statesman, the Man of the Day, A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay; No hero of story more manfully trod, Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod, _Heu, anni fugaces_! The wise and the silly,-- Old P or old Q,--we must quit Piccadilly.

Life is chequered,--a patchwork of smiles and of frowns; We value its ups, let us muse on its downs;

There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other,-- One turn, if a good one, deserves such another. _These_ downs are delightful, _these_ ups are not hilly,-- Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly.

THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL.

My little friend, so small and neat, Whom years ago I used to meet In Pall Mall daily; How cheerily you tripped away To work, it might have been to play, You tripped so gaily.

And Time trips too. This moral means You then were midway in the teens That I was crowning; We never spoke, but when I smiled At morn or eve, I know, dear Child, You were not frowning.

Each morning when we met, I think Some sentiment did us two link-- Nor joy, nor sorrow; And then at eve, experience-taught, Our hearts returned upon the thought,-- _We meet to-morrow_!

And you were poor; and how?--and why? How kind to come! it was for my Especial grace meant! Had you a chamber near the stars, A bird,--some treasured plants in jars, About your casement?

I often wander up and down, When morning bathes the silent town In golden glory: Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard Your thrilling-toned canary-bird From some third story.

I've seen great changes since we met;-- A patient little seamstress yet, With small means striving, Have you a Lilliputian spouse? And do you dwell in some doll's house? --Is baby thriving?

Can bloom like thine--my heart grows chill-- Have sought that bourne unwelcome still To bosom smarting? The most forlorn--what worms we are!-- Would wish to finish this cigar Before departing.

Sometimes I to Pall Mall repair, And see the damsels passing there; But if I try to Obtain one glance, they look discreet, As though they'd some one else to meet;-- As have not _I_ too?

Yet still I often think upon Our many meetings, come and gone! July--December! Now let us make a tryst, and when, Dear little soul, we meet again,-- The mansion is preparing--then Thy Friend remember!

GERALDINE.

This simple child has claims On your sentiment--her name's Geraldine. Be tender--but beware, For she's frolicsome as fair, And fifteen.

She has gifts that have not cloyed, For these gifts she has employed, And improved: She has bliss which lives and leans Upon loving--and that means She is loved.

She has grace. A grace refined By sweet harmony of mind: And the Art, And the blessed Nature, too, Of a tender, and a true Little heart.

And yet I must not vault Over any little fault That she owns: Or others might rebel, And might enviously swell In their zones.

She is tricksy as the fays, Or her pussy when it plays With a string: She's a goose about her cat, And her ribbons--and all that Sort of thing.

These foibles are a blot, Still she never can do what Is not nice, Such as quarrel, and give slaps-- As I've known her get, perhaps, Once or twice.

The spells that move her soul Are subtle--sad or droll-- She can show That virtuoso whim Which consecrates our dim Long-ago.

A love that is not sham For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb; And I've known Cordelia's sad eyes Cause angel-tears to rise In her own.

Her gentle spirit yearns When she reads of Robin Burns-- Luckless Bard! Had she blossomed in thy time, How rare had been the rhyme --And reward!

Thrice happy then is he Who, planting such a Tree, Sees it bloom To shelter him--indeed We have sorrow as we speed To our doom!

I am happy having grown Such a Sapling of my own; And I crave No garland for my brows, But peace beneath its boughs Till the grave.

"O DOMINE DEUS,

"O DOMINE DEUS, SPERAVI IN TE, O CARE MI JESU, NUNC LIBERA ME."

Her quiet resting-place is far away, None dwelling there can tell you her sad story: The stones are mute. The stones could only say, "A humble spirit passed away to glory."

She loved the murmur of this mighty town, The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison; A streamlet soothes her now,--the bird has flown,-- Some dust is waiting there--a soul has risen.

No city smoke to stain the heather bells,-- Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping,-- She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells Where scorner never came, and none are weeping.

O cough! O cruel cough! O gasping breath! These arms were round my darling at the latest: All scenes of death are woe--but painful death In those we dearly love is surely greatest!

I could not die. HE willed it otherwise; My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older, Weighs down the heart, but does not fill the eyes, And even friends may think that I am colder.

I might have been more kind, more tender; now Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful No eye can see this mark upon my brow, Yet even gay companionship is hateful.

But when at times I steal away from these, And find her grave, and pray to be forgiven, And when I watch beside her on my knees, I think I am a little nearer heaven.

THE HOUSEMAID.

"Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide."

Alone she sits, with air resigned She watches by the window-blind: Poor girl! No doubt The pilgrims here despise thy lot: Thou canst not stir--because 'tis not Thy _Sunday out_.

To play a game of hide and seek With dust and cobwebs all the week, Small pleasure yields: O dear, how nice it is to drop One's scrubbing-brush, one's pail and mop-- And scour the fields!

Poor Bodies some such Sundays know; They seldom come. How soon they go! But Souls can roam. And, lapt in visions airy-sweet, She sees in this too doleful street Her own loved Home!

The road is now no road. She pranks A brawling stream with thymy banks; In Fancy's realm This post sustains no lamp--aloof It spreads above her parents' roof A gracious elm.

How often has she valued there A father's aid--a mother's care:-- She now has neither: And yet--such work in dreams is done, She still may sit and smile with one More dear than either.

The poor can love through woe and pain, Although their homely speech is fain To halt in fetters: They feel as much, and do far more Than those, at times of meaner ore, Miscalled _their Betters_.

Sometimes, on summer afternoons Of sundry sunny Mays and Junes-- Meet Sunday weather, I pass her window by design, And wish her _Sunday out_ and mine Might fall together.

For sweet it were my lot to dower With one brief joy, one white-robed flower; And prude, or preacher, Could hardly deem it much amiss To lay one on the path of this Forlorn young creature.

Yet if her thought on wooing runs-- And if her swain and she are ones Who fancy strolling, She'd like my nonsense less than his, And so it's better as it is-- And that's consoling.

Her dwelling is unknown to fame-- Perchance she's fair--perchance her name Is _Car_, or _Kitty_; She may be _Jane_--she might be plain-- For need the object of one's strain Be always pretty?

THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK.

We knew an old Scribe, it was "once on a time,"-- An era to set sober datists despairing;-- Then let them despair! Darby sat in a chair Near the Cross that gave name to the village of Charing.

Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign,-- What hair he had left was more silver than sable;-- He had also contracted a curve in his spine From bending too constantly over a table.

His pay and expenditure, quite in accord, Were both on the strictest economy founded; His masters were known as the Sealing-wax Board, Who ruled where red tape and snug places abounded.

In his heart he looked down on this dignified knot,-- For why, the forefather of one of these senators, A rascal concerned in the Gunpowder Plot, Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors.

Poor fool! Life is all a vagary of Luck,-- Still, for thirty long years of genteel destitution He'd been writing State Papers, which means he had stuck Some heads and some tails to much circumlocution.