Part 6

When strangers first approved my books My kindred marvelled what the praise meant, They now wear more respectful looks, But can't get over their amazement. Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond That wielded by the fiercest hater, For all the time they are so fond-- Which makes the aggravation greater.

Most warblers now but half express The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter: If they attempted nought--or less! They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter. Fly low, my friend, then mount, and win The niche, for which the town's contesting; And never mind your kith and kin-- But never give them cause for jesting.

A bard on entering the lists Should form his plan, and, having conn'd it, Should know wherein his strength consists, And never, never go beyond it. Great Dryden all pretence discards, Does Cowper ever strain his tether? And Praed--(Watteau of English Bards)-- How well he keeps his team together!

Hold Pegasus in hand--control A vein for ornament ensnaring, Simplicity is still the soul Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. Long lays are not a lively sport, Reduce your own to half a quarter, Unless your Public thinks them short, Posterity will cut them shorter.

I look on Bards who whine for praise, With feelings of profoundest pity: They hunger for the Poets' bays And swear one's spiteful when one's witty. The critic's lot is passing hard-- Between ourselves, I think reviewers, When called to truss a crowing bard, Should not be sparing of the skewers.

We all--the foolish and the wise-- Regard our verse with fascination, Through asinine paternal eyes, And hues of Fancy's own creation; Then pray, Sir, pray, excuse a queer And sadly self-deluded rhymer, Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!) Has all the gust of _alt hochheimer_.

Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx, So tricksy, it were wrong to let her Rest satisfied with what she thinks Is perfect: try and teach her better. And if you only use, perchance, One half the pains to learn that we, Sir, Still use to hide our ignorance-- How very clever you will be, Sir!

NOTES.

NOTE TO "A HUMAN SKULL."

"In our last month's Magazine you may remember there were some verses about a portion of a skeleton. Did you remark how the poet and present proprietor of the human skull at once settled the sex of it, and determined off-hand that it must have belonged to a woman? Such skulls are locked up in many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Bluebeard, you know, had a whole museum of them--as that imprudent little last wife of his found out to her cost. And, on the other hand, a lady, we suppose, would select hers of the sort which had carried beards when in the flesh."--_The Adventures of Philip on his Way through the World. Cornhill Magazine, January, 1861._

NOTE TO "AN INVITATION TO ROME."

"He never sends a letter to her, but he begins a new one on the same day. He can't bear to let go her kind little hand as it were. He knows that she is thinking of him, and longing for him far away in Dublin yonder."--_English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century._

NOTE TO "TO MY MISTRESS."

"M. Deschanel quotes the following charming little poem, by Corneille, addressed to a young lady who had not been quite civil to him. He says with truth--'Le sujet est léger, le rhythme court, mais on y retrouve la fierté de l'homme, et aussi l'ampleur du tragique.' The verses are probably new to our readers. They are well worth reading:--

Marquise, si mon visage A quelques traits un peu vieux, Souvenez-vous, qu'à mon âge Vous ne vaudrez guère mieux.

Le temps aux plus belles choses Se plaît à faire un affront, Et saura faner vos roses Comme il a ridé mon front.

Le même cours des planètes Règle nos jours et nos nuits; On m'a vu ce que vous êtes, Vous serez ce que je suis.

Cependant j'ai quelques charmes Qui sont assez éclatants Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes De ces ravages du temps.

Vous en avez qu'on adore, Mais ceux que vous méprisez Pourraient bien durer encore Quand ceux-là seront usés.

Ils pourront sauver la gloire Des yeux qui me semblent doux, Et dans mille ans faire croire Ce qu'il me plaira de vous.

Chez cette race nouvelle Où j'aurai quelque crédit, Vous ne passerez pour belle Qu'autant que je l'aurai dit.

Pensez-y, belle Marquise, Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi, Il vaut qu'on le courtise Quand il est fait comme moi.

The last four stanzas in particular are brimful of spirit, and the mixture of pride and vanity which they display is so remarkable that it seems impossible that it should have ever occurred in more than one person."--_Saturday Review, July 23rd, 1864._

NOTE TO "THE ROSE AND THE RING."

Mr. Thackeray spent a portion of the winter of 1854 in Rome, and while there he wrote his little Christmas story called "The Rose and the Ring." He was a great friend of the distinguished American sculptor, Mr. Story, and was a frequent visitor at his house. I have heard Mr. Story speak with emotion of the kindness of Mr. Thackeray to his little daughter, then recovering from a severe illness, and he told me that Mr. Thackeray used to come nearly every day to read to Miss Story, often bringing portions of his manuscript with him.

Five or six years afterwards Miss Story showed me a very pretty copy of "The Rose and the Ring," which Mr. Thackeray had sent her, with a facetious sketch of himself in the act of presenting her with the work.

NOTE TO "BÉRANGER."

Jeté sur cette boule, Laid, chétif, et souffrant; Etouffé dans la foule, Faute d'être assez grand;

Une plainte touchante De ma bouche sortit; Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante, Chante, pauvre petit!

Chanter, ou je m'abuse, Est ma tâche ici-bas. Tous ceux qu'ainsi j'amuse, Ne m'aimeront-ils pas?

NOTE TO "GLYCÈRE."

_Un Vieillard._ Jeune fille au riant visage, Que cherches-tu sous cet ombrage? _La Jeune Fille._ Des fleurs pour orner mes cheveux. Je me rends au prochain village. Avec le printemps et ses feux, Bergères, bergers amoureux Vont danser sur l'herbe nouvelle. Déjà le sistre les appelle: Glycère est sans doute avec eux. De ces hameaux c'est la plus belle; Je veux l'effacer à leurs yeux: Voyez ces fleurs, c'est un présage.

_Le Vieillard._ Sais-tu quel est ce lieu sauvage?

_La Jeune Fille._ Non, et tout m'y semble nouveau.

_Le Vieillard._ Là repose, jeune étrangère, La plus belle de ce hameau. Ces fleurs pour effacer Glycère Tu les cueilles sur son tombeau!

BÉRANGER.

BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.