Part 3

This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no! Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent, His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow Each night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.

There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there, His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things; Of his advent the dog and the cat are aware, And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things.

East wind! sob eerily! sing, kettle! cheerily! Baby's abed,--but its father will rock it; Little ones boast your permission to toast The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket.

This greeting the silent old Clerk understands,-- His friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them; So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,-- Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them.

And Darby, at least, is resigned to his lot, And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning, Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot, And _he_ won't recall it till ten the next morning.

A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame, His heart still is green, though his head shows a hoar lock; Perhaps his particular star is to blame,-- It may be, he never took time by the forelock.

A day must arrive when, in pitiful case, He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow; Is he yet to be found in his usual place? Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow?

If still at his duty he soon will arrive,-- He passes this turning because it is shorter,-- If not within sight as the clock's striking five, We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter.

A WISH.

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, A pair of child-lovers I've seen, More than once were they there, and the years of the two, When added, might number thirteen.

They sat on the grave that has never a stone The name of the dead to determine, It was Life paying Death a brief visit--alone A notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled; what was it they said? The turf on that hillock was new; Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead, Or could he be heedful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must, Her father beneath them was laid: I wish to believe,--I will take it on trust, That father knew all that they said.

My own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child: And some day a true-love your heart will engage, When on earth I my last may have smiled.

Then visit my grave, like a good little lass, Where'er it may happen to be, And if any daisies should peer through the grass, Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For strangers to see and discuss: But come with your lover, as these lovers came, And talk to him sweetly of _us_.

And while you are smiling, your father will smile Such a dear little daughter to have, But mind,--O yes, mind you are happy the while-- _I wish you to visit my Grave_.

THE JESTER'S PLEA.

These verses were published in 1862, in a volume of Poems by several hands, entitled "An Offering to Lancashire."

The World! Was jester ever in A viler than the present? Yet if it ugly be--as sin, It almost is--as pleasant! It is a merry world (_pro tem._) And some are gay, and therefore It pleases them--but some condemn The fun they do not care for.

It is an ugly world. Offend Good people--how they wrangle! The manners that they never mend! The characters they mangle! They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, And go to church on Sunday-- And many are afraid of God-- And more of _Mrs. Grundy_.

The time for Pen and Sword was when "My ladye fayre," for pity Could tend her wounded knight, and then Grow tender at his ditty! Some ladies now make pretty songs,-- And some make pretty nurses:-- Some men are good for righting wrongs,-- And some for writing verses.

I wish We better understood The tax that poets levy!-- I know the Muse is very _good_-- I think she's rather heavy: She now compounds for winning ways By morals of the sternest-- Methinks the lays of now-a-days Are painfully in earnest.

When Wisdom halts, I humbly try To make the most of Folly: If Pallas be unwilling, I Prefer to flirt with Polly,-- To quit the goddess for the maid Seems low in lofty musers-- But Pallas is a haughty jade-- And beggars can't be choosers.

I do not wish to see the slaves Of party, stirring passion, Or psalms quite superseding staves, Or piety "the fashion." I bless the Hearts where pity glows, Who, here together banded, Are holding out a hand to those That wait so empty-handed!

A righteous Work!--My Masters, may A Jester by confession, Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay, The close of your procession? The motley here seems out of place With graver robes to mingle, But if one tear bedews his face, Forgive the bells their jingle.

THE OLD CRADLE.

And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life.

To hint at an infantine frailty is scandal; Let bygones be bygones--and somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet--so rosy your toes.

Ay, here is your Cradle, and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the small nest you yourself did inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future,--Love welcomes it smiling; Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask-- "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" If masked, still it pleases--then raise not the mask.

Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin-- From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny! Though blossoms of promise are lost in the rose, I still see the face of my small Pic-a-ninny Unchanged, for these cheeks are as blooming as those.

Ay, here is your Cradle! much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped; But, hark! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed!

TO MY MISTRESS.

O Countess, each succeeding year Reveals that Time is wasting here: He soon will do his worst by you, And garner all your roses too!

It pleases Time to fold his wings Around our best and brightest things; He'll mar your damask cheek, as now He stamps his mark upon my brow.

The same mute planets rise and shine To rule your days and nights as mine, I once was young as you,--and see...! You some day will be old as me.

And yet I bear a mighty charm Which shields me from your worst alarm; And bids me gaze, with front sublime, On all these ravages of Time.

You boast a charm that all would prize, This gift of mine, which you despise, May, like enough, still hold its sway When all your boast has passed away.

My charm may long embalm the lures Of eyes, as sweet to me as yours: And ages hence the great and good Will judge you as I choose they should.

In days to come the count or clown, With whom I still shall win renown, Will only know that you were fair Because I chanced to say you were.

Fair Countess--I wax grey--awhile Your youthful swains will sigh or smile; But should you scorn, for smile or sigh, A grey old Bard--as great as I?

KENWOOD, _July 21, 1864_.

TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means That these boots are Geraldine's-- Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet.

The faery stitching gleams On the toes, and in the seams, And reveals That Pixies were the wags Who tipped these funny tags, And these heels.

What soles! so little worn! Had Crusoe--soul forlorn!-- Chanced to view _One_ printed near the tide, How hard he would have tried For the two!

For Gerry's debonair, And innocent, and fair As a rose: She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose.

Those simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's.

Cinderella's _lefts and rights_ To Geraldine's were frights: And, in truth, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod From her youth.

The mansion--ay, and more, The cottage of the poor, Where there's grief, Or sickness, are her choice-- And the music of her voice Brings relief.

Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss-in-Boots These to don, Set your little hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on.

ALBURY, _June 29, 1864_.

THE ROSE AND THE RING.

(Christmas 1854, and Christmas 1863.)

She smiles--but her heart is in sable, And sad as her Christmas is chill: She reads, and her book is the fable He penned for her while she was ill. It is nine years ago since he wrought it Where reedy old Tiber is king, And chapter by chapter he brought it-- And read her the Rose and the Ring.

And when it was printed, and gaining Renown with all lovers of glee, He sent her this copy containing His comical little _croquis_; A sketch of a rather droll couple-- She's pretty--he's quite t'other thing! He begs (with a spine vastly supple) She will study the Rose and the Ring.

It pleased the kind Wizard to send her The last and the best of his toys, His heart had a sentiment tender For innocent women and boys: And though he was great as a scorner, The guileless were safe from his sting,-- How sad is past mirth to the mourner!-- A tear on the Rose and the Ring!

She reads--I may vainly endeavour Her mirth-chequered grief to pursue; For she hears she has lost--and for ever-- A Heart that was known by so few; But I wish on the shrine of his glory One fair little blossom to fling; And you see there's a nice little story Attached to the Rose and the Ring!

TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS.

(J. G.)

My Friend, our few remaining years Are hasting to an end, They glide away, and lines are here That time will never mend; Thy blameless life avails thee not,-- Alas, my dear old Friend!

From mother Earth's green orchard trees The fairest fruit is blown, The lad was gay who slumbers near, The lass he loved is gone; Death lifts the burthen from the poor, And will not spare the throne.

And vainly are we fenced about From peril, day and night, The awful rapids must be shot, Our shallop is but slight; So pray, when parting, we descry A cheering beacon-light.

O pleasant Earth! This happy home! The darling at my knee! My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend! And must it come to me That any face shall fill my place Unknown to them and thee?

RUSSET PITCHER.

"The pot goeth so long to the water til at length it commeth broken home."

Away, ye simple ones, away! Bring no vain fancies hither; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither.

Ay, since this fountain first was planned, And Dryad learnt to drink, Have lovers held, knit hand in hand, Sweet parley at its brink.

From youth to age this waterfall Most tunefully flows on, But where, ay, tell me where are all The constant lovers gone?

The falcon on the turtle preys, And beardless vows are brittle; The brightest dream of youth decays,-- Ah, love is good for little.

"Sweet maiden, set thy pitcher down, And heed a Truth neglected:-- _The more this sorry world is known, The less it is respected_.

"Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, It flatters and beguiles; Though Giles is young, and I am old, Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.

"Thy pitcher may some luckless day Be broken coming hither; Thy doting slave may prove a knave,-- The fairest roses wither."

She laughed outright, she scorned him quite, She deftly filled her pitcher; For that dear sight an anchorite Might deem himself the richer.

Ill-fated damsel! go thy ways, Thy lover's vows are lither; The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither.

* * * * *

These days were soon the days of yore; Six summers pass, and then That musing man would see once more The fountain in the glen.

Again to stray where once he strayed, Through copse and quiet dell, Half hoping to espy the maid Pass tripping to the well.

No light step comes, but, evil-starred, He finds a mournful token,-- There lies a russet pitcher marred,-- The damsel's pitcher broken!

Profoundly moved, that muser cried, "The spoiler has been hither; O would the maiden first had died,-- The fairest rose must wither!"

He turned from that accursèd ground, His world-worn bosom throbbing; A bow-shot thence a child he found, The little man was sobbing.

He gently stroked that curly head,-- "My child, what brings thee hither? Weep not, my simple one," he said, "Or let us weep together.

"Thy world, I ween, is gay and green As Eden undefiled; Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,-- Where dwellest thou, my child?"

'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke:-- "My daddy's Giles the ditcher, I fetch the water,--and I've broke ... I've broke my mammy's pitcher!"

THE FAIRY ROSE.

"There are plenty of roses," (the patriarch speaks) "Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks; Sweet maiden, rose-laden--enough and to spare,-- Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair."

"O raise not thy hand," cries the maid, "nor suppose That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose: The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.

"'Entwine it,' said they, 'with your curls in a braid, It will blossom in winter--it never will fade; And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie, Where you're dying to go--'twill be going to die.'

"And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heighho,' Dost think I possess not the will to say 'No?' And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee."

The damsel passed on with a confident smile, The old man extended his walk for awhile; His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth, The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.

Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there, Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair; The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid, Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.

And Echo was mute to his leisurely tread,-- "How tranquil is nature reposing," he said; He onward advances, where boughs overshade, "How lonely," quoth he--and his footsteps he stayed!

He gazes around, not a creature is there, No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air; But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows, --Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose.

1863.

These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated to the Princess of Wales.

The town despises modern lays: The foolish town is frantic For story-books which tell of days That time has made romantic: Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill And dead in crypt and barrow; When soldiers were--as Love is still-- Content with bow and arrow.

But why should we the fancy chide? The world will always hunger To know how people lived and died When all the world was younger. We like to read of knightly parts In maidenhood's distresses: Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts, And moonbeams on dark tresses;

And how, when errant-_knyghte_ or _erl_ Proved well the love he gave her, She sent him scarf or silken curl, As earnest of her favour; And how (the Fair at times were rude!) Her knight, ere homeward riding, Would take--and, ay, with gratitude-- His lady's silver chiding.

We love the "rare old days and rich" That poesy has painted; We mourn the "good old times" with which We never were acquainted. Last night a lady tried to prove (And not a lady youthful): "Ah, once it was no crime to love, Nor folly to be truthful!"

Absurd! Then dames in castles dwelt, Nor dared to show their noses: Then passion that could not be spelt, Was hinted at in posies. Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh: For sweethearts, in love's tremor, Now tell their vows by telegraph-- And go off in the steamer!

The earth is still our Mother Earth-- Young shepherds still fling capers In flowery groves that ring with mirth-- Where old ones read the papers. Romance, as tender and as true, Our Isle has never quitted: So lads and lasses when they woo Are hardly to be pitied!

Oh, yes! young love is lovely yet-- With faith and honour plighted: I love to see a pair so met-- Youth--Beauty--all united. Such dear ones may they ever wear The roses Fortune gave them: Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair? I think we do! GOD SAVE THEM!

Our lot is cast on pleasant days, In not unpleasant places-- Young ladies now have pretty ways, As well as pretty faces; So never sigh for what has been, And let us cease complaining That we have loved when Our Dear Queen Victoria was reigning!

GERALDINE GREEN.

I. THE SERENADE.

Light slumber is quitting The eyelids it pressed, The fairies are flitting, Who charmed thee to rest: Where night-dews were falling Now feeds the wild bee, The starling is calling, My Darling, for thee.

The wavelets are crisper That sway the shy fern, The leaves fondly whisper, "We wait thy return." Arise then, and hazy Distrust from thee fling, For sorrows that crazy To-morrows may bring.

A vague yearning smote us-- But wake not to weep, My bark, love, shall float us Across the still deep, To isles where the lotos, Erst lulled thee to sleep.

II. MY LIFE IS A

At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G----, How aimless, how wretched an exile is he! Promenades are not even prunella and leather To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together.

He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands, He traces a "Geraldine G." on the sands, Only "G!" though her loved patronymic is "Green,"-- I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.

The fortunes of men have a time and a tide, And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied; That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea,-- She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G.

They meet, but they never have spoken since that,-- He hopes she is happy--he knows she is fat; _She_ woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,-- And _I_--it was I wrote her name on the sand!

MRS. SMITH.

Last year I trod these fields with Di, And that's the simple reason why They now seem arid: Then Di was fair and single--how Unfair it seems on me--for now Di's fair, and married.

In bliss we roved. I scorned the song Which says that though young Love is strong The Fates are stronger: Then breezes blew a boon to men-- Then buttercups were bright--and then This grass was longer.

That day I saw, and much esteemed Di's ankles--which the clover seemed Inclined to smother: It twitched, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbons of her shoes--first one, And then the other.

'Tis said that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoestrings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di--and so her pride Decreed that shoestrings so untied, "Are so untidy!"

Of course I knelt--with fingers deft I tied the right, and then the left: Says Di--"This stubble Is very stupid--as I live I'm shocked--I'm quite ashamed to give You so much trouble."

For answer I was fain to sink To what most swains would say and think Were Beauty present: "Don't mention such a simple act-- A trouble? not the least. In fact It's rather pleasant."

I trust that love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as _Mrs. Smith_-- But less polite when walking with Her chosen lover.

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's soft eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels!-- I think that Smith is thought an ass, I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals.

THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD.

The characters of great and small Come ready made, we can't bespeak one; Their sides are many, too,--and all (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. Some sanguine people love for life-- Some love their hobby till it flings them.-- And many love a pretty wife For love of the _éclat_ she brings them!

We all have secrets--you have one Which may not be your charming spouse's,-- We all lock up a skeleton In some grim chamber of our houses; Familiars who exhaust their days And nights in probing where our smart is, And who, excepting spiteful ways, Are quiet, confidential "parties."

We hug the phantom we detest, We rarely let it cross our portals: It is a most exacting guest,-- Now are we not afflicted mortals? Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight, As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night, On shaking knees, to see his spectre.

Old Dives fears a pauper fate, And hoarding is his thriving passion; Some piteous souls anticipate A waistcoat straiter than the fashion. She, childless, pines,--that lonely wife, And hidden tears are bitter shedding; And he may tremble all his life, And die,--but not of that he's dreading.

Ah me, the World! how fast it spins! The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles; They dance, and stir it for our sins, And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan,--the cry for love Mounts upward from this seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER, infinite in pity.