Part 3

And that he could die Whenever he would; But that he could live But as long as he could; How grievous soever The torment might grow, He scorned to endeavour To finish it so. But hold, unconcern’d, At the thoughts of the pain, He calmly return’d To his cottage again. _William Walsh._

CUPID MISTAKEN

AS after noon, one summer’s day, Venus stood bathing in a river; Cupid a-shooting went that way, New strung his bow, new fill’d his quiver.

With skill he chose his sharpest dart: With all his might his bow he drew: Swift to his beauteous parent’s heart The too-well-guided arrow flew.

“I faint! I die!” the goddess cried: “O cruel, could’st thou find none other To wreak thy spleen on: Parricide! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.”

Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; “Indeed, mama, I did not know ye: Alas! how easy my mistake? I took you for your likeness, Chloe.” _Matthew Prior._

THE CONTRAST

IN London I never know what I’d be at, Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that; I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan, And Life seems a blessing too happy for man.

But the Country, Lord help me! sets all matters right; So calm and composing from morning to night; Oh! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen But an ass on a common, a goose on a green.

In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope, The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days? It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways.

In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields; Or go crawling from window to window, to see A pig on a dung-hill, or crow on a tree.

In London if folks ill together are put, A bow may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut; We change without end; and if lazy or ill, All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will.

In the country you’re nail’d, like a pale in the park, To some stick of a neighbour that’s cramm’d in the ark; And ’tis odds, if you’re hurt, or in fits tumble down, You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town.

In London how easy we visit and meet, Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat; Our morning’s a round of good-humoured delight, And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.

In the country, how sprightly! our visits we make Through ten miles of mud, for Formality’s sake; With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog.

In London the spirits are cheerful and light, All places are gay and all faces are bright; We’ve ever new joys, and revived by each whim, Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim.

But how gay in the country! what summer delight To be waiting for winter from morning to night! Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee To relish the sweet rural subjects we see.

In town we’ve no use for the skies overhead, For when the sun rises then we go to bed; And as to that old-fashion’d virgin the moon; She shines out of season, like satin in June.

In the country these planets delightfully glare Just to show us the object we want isn’t there; O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, To sit and gaze round with the tears in one’s eyes!

But ’tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, that relief of the mind, When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty’s sake:

Indeed, I must own, tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet; But what is all that to the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?

I have heard tho’, that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet: That’s to come—for as yet I, alas! am a swain Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.

Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees, And chatter their transports in groves, if they please: But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, O! a good grove of chimneys for me.

In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there’s a thousand to cure.

I know love’s a devil, too subtle to spy, That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye; But in London these devils so quick fly about, That a new devil still drives an old devil out.

In town let me live then, in town let me die, For in truth I can’t relish the country, not I. If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall! _Charles Morris._

OH, TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE

IF doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I’ll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed. I’ll wear thy colors in my cap, Thy picture in my heart; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart. Then tell me how to woo thee, love; Oh, tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I’ll take, Though ne’er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye, I’ll dight me in array; I’ll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I’ll strive to catch; Thy voice I’ll steal to woo thysel’— That voice that none can match. _Then tell me how to woo thee, love_, etc.

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me; I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing— Oh, tell me how to woo! _Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc._ _Robert Graham._

SONG FROM “THE DUENNA”

I NE’ER could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me; I ne’er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art? I will own thy color true, When yielding blushes aid their hue. Is her hand so soft and pure? I must press it, to be sure; Nor can I be certain then, Till it, grateful, press again. Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh? I will do so when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me. _Richard Brinsley Sheridan._

THE RACES

A BALLAD

O GEORGE! I’ve been, I’ll tell you where, But first prepare yourself for raptures; To paint this charming heavenly fair, And paint her well, would ask whole chapters.

Fine creatures I’ve viewed many a one, With lovely shapes and angel faces, But I have seen them all outdone By this sweet maid, at —— Races.

Lords, Commoners, alike she rules, Takes all who view her by surprise, Makes e’en the wisest look like fools, Nay more, makes fox-hunters look wise.

Her shape—’tis elegance and ease, Unspoiled by art or modern dress, But gently tapering by degrees, And finely, “beautifully less.”

Her foot—it was so wondrous small, So thin, so round, so slim, so neat, The buckle fairly hid it all, And seemed to sink it with the weight.

And just above the spangled shoe, Where many an eye did often glance, Sweetly retiring from the view, And seen by stealth, and seen by chance;

Two slender ankles peeping out, Stood like Love’s heralds, to declare, That all within the petticoat Was firm and full, and “round, and fair.”

And then she dances—better far Than heart can think, or tongue can tell, Not Heinel, Banti, or Guimar, E’er moved so graceful and so well.

So easy glide her beauteous limbs, True as the echo to the sound, She seems, as through the dance she skims, To tread on air, and scorn the ground.

And there is lightning in her eye, One glance alone might well inspire The clay-cold breast of Apathy, Or bid the frozen heart catch fire.

And zephyr on her lovely lips Has spread his choicest, sweetest roses, And there his heavenly nectar sips, And there in breathing sweet reposes.

And there’s such music when she speaks, You may believe me when I tell ye, I’d rather hear her than the squeaks Or far famed squalls of Gabrielli.

And sparkling wit and steady sense, In that fair form with beauty vie, But tinged with virgin diffidence, And the soft blush of modesty.

Had I the treasures of the world, All the sun views or the seas borrow (Else may I to the devil be hurled), I’d lay them at her feet to-morrow.

But as we Bards reap only Bays, Nor much of that, though nought grows on it, I’ll beat my brains to sound her praise, And hammer them into a sonnet.

And if she deign one charming smile The blest reward of all my labours, I’ll never grudge my pains or toil, But pity the dull squires, my neighbours. _George Ellis._

TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON

TOO late I stayed, forgive the crime,— Unheeded flew the hours; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass?

Ah! who to sober measurement Time’s happy swiftness brings, When birds of paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings? _Hon. William R. Spencer._

TO MRS. LEIGH UPON HER WEDDING-DAY

WHILE all to this auspicious day Well pleased their heartfelt homage pay And sweetly smile and softly say A hundred civic speeches; My Muse shall strike her tuneful strings, Nor scorn the gift her duty brings, Tho’ humble be the theme she sings,— A pair of shooting breeches.

Soon shall the tailor’s subtle art Have made them tight, and spruce, and smart, And fastened well in every part With twenty thousand stitches; Mark then the moral of my song, Oh, may your lives but prove as strong, And wear as well, and last as long, As these, my shooting breeches.

And when, to ease the load of life, Of private care, and public strife, My lot shall give to me a wife, I ask not rank or riches; For worth like thine alone I pray, Temper like thine serene and gay, And formed like thee to give away, Not wear herself, the breeches. _George Canning._

NAMES

I ASKED my fair, one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece Lalage, Neæra, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece.

“Ah!” replied my gentle fair, “Beloved, what are names but air? Choose you whatever suits the line; Call me Daphne, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me thine.” _Samuel T. Coleridge._

THE EXCHANGE

WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,— I in my arms the maiden clasping: I could not tell the reason why, But oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father’s love she bade me gain; I went, and shook like any reed! I strove to act the man in vain! We had exchanged our hearts indeed. _Samuel T. Coleridge._

DEFIANCE

CATCH her and hold her if you can ... Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread In threatening guise above your head. Ah! why did you not start before She reached the porch and closed the door? Simpleton! will you never learn That girls and time will not return; Of each you should have made the most; Once gone, they are forever lost. In vain your knuckles knock your brow, In vain will you remember how Like a slim brook the gamesome maid Sparkled, and ran into the shade. _Walter Savage Landor._

HER LIPS

OFTEN I have heard it said That her lips are ruby-red. Little heed I what they say, I have seen as red as they. Ere she smiled on other men, Real rubies were they then.

When she kiss’d me once in play, Rubies were less bright than they, And less bright were those that shone In the palace of the Sun. Will they be as bright again? Not if kiss’d by other men. _Walter Savage Landor._

COMMINATION

TAKING my walk the other day, I saw a little girl at play, So pretty, ’twould not be amiss, Thought I, to venture on a kiss. Fiercely the little girl began— “I wonder at you, nasty man!” And all four fingers were applied, And crimson pinafore beside, To wipe what venom might remain,— “Do if you dare the like again; I have a mind to teach you better,” And I too had a mind to let her. _Walter Savage Landor._

MARGARET AND DORA

MARGARET’S beauteous—Grecian arts Ne’er drew form completer, Yet why, in my heart of hearts, Hold I Dora’s sweeter?

Dora’s eyes of heavenly blue Pass all paintings’ reach, Ringdove’s notes are discord to The music of her speech.

Artists Margaret’s smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet. _Thomas Campbell._

A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY

THERE’S a certain young lady, Who’s just in her heyday, And full of all mischief, I ween; So teasing! so pleasing! Capricious! delicious! And you know very well whom I mean.

With an eye dark as night, Yet than noonday more bright, Was ever a black eye so keen? It can thrill with a glance, With a beam can entrance, And you know very well whom I mean.

With a stately step—such as You’d expect in a duchess— And a brow might distinguish a queen, With a mighty proud air, That says “touch me who dare,” And you know very well whom I mean.

With a toss of the head That strikes one quite dead, But a smile to revive one again; That toss so appalling! That smile so enthralling! And you know very well whom I mean.

Confound her! devil take her!— A cruel heart-breaker— But hold! see that smile so serene. God love her! God bless her! May nothing distress her! You know very well whom I mean.

Heaven help the adorer Who happens to bore her, The lover who wakens her spleen; But too blest for a sinner Is he who shall win her, And you know very well whom I mean. _Washington Irving._

SONG

WHO has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue? Who from India’s distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew? Who from yonder orient sky Stole the morning of thine eye?

Thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne’er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart. Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh, take that heart from me. _John Shaw._

THE TIME I’VE LOST IN WOOING

THE time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman’s eyes, Has been my heart’s undoing. Tho’ wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn’d the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that’s haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me; But when the spell was on me, If once their ray Was turn’d away, O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No—vain, alas! th’ endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever;— Poor Wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. _Thomas Moore._

WHEN I LOVED YOU

WHEN I loved you, I can’t but allow I had many an exquisite minute; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it!

Thus, whether we’re on or we’re off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you is pleasant enough, And oh! ’tis delicious to hate you! _Thomas Moore._

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY

REASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say Went on a party of pleasure one day: Folly play’d Around the maid, The bells of his cap rang merrily out; While Reason took To his sermon-book— O! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, Turn’d for a moment to Reason’s dull page, Till Folly said, “Look here, sweet maid!”— The sight of his cap brought her back to herself, While Reason read His leaves of lead, With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! No,—no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly’s gay cap; Had he that on, he her heart might entrap— “There it is,” Quoth Folly, “old quiz!” (Folly was always good-natured, ’tis said.) “Under the sun There’s no such fun, As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, Reason with my cap and bells on his head!”

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, That Beauty now liked him still less than before: While Folly took Old Reason’s book, And twisted the leaves in a cap of such _ton_, That Beauty vow’d (Tho’ not aloud) She liked him still better in that than his own, Yes,—liked him still better in that than his own. _Thomas Moore._

TIRESOME SPRING!

I HAVE watched her at the window Through long days of snow and wind, Till I learnt to love the shadow That would flit across her blind. ’Twixt the lime-tree’s leafless branches In the dusk my eyes I’d strain: Now the boughs are thick with foliage,— Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!

Now, behind that screen of verdure Is my angel lost to view; And no longer for the robins Will her white hands bread-crumbs strew. Never in the frosts of winter, Did those robins beg in vain; Now, alas! the snow has melted,— Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!

’Tis kind winter that I wish for;— How I long to hear the hail Rattling on deserted pavements, Dancing in the stormy gale! For I then could see her windows, Watch my darling through each pane Now the lime-trees are in blossom,— Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again! _Béranger._

ROSETTE

YES! I know you’re very fair; And the rose-bloom of your cheek, And the gold-crown of your hair, Seem of tender love to speak. But to me they speak in vain, I am growing old, my pet— Ah, if I could love you now As I used to love Rosette!

In your carriage every day I can see you bow and smile; Lovers your least word obey, Mistress you of every wile. She was poor, and went on foot, Badly drest, you know,—and yet,— Ah! if I could love you now As I used to love Rosette!

You are clever, and well known For your wit so quick and free;— Now, Rosette, I blush to own, Scarcely knew her A B C; But she had a potent charm In my youth:—ah, vain regret! If I could but love you now As I used to love Rosette! _Béranger._

SHE IS SO PRETTY

SHE is so pretty, the girl I love, Her eyes are tender and deep and blue As the summer night in the skies above, As violets seen through a mist of dew. How can I hope, then, her heart to gain? She is so pretty, and I am so plain!

She is so pretty, so fair to see! Scarcely she’s counted her nineteenth spring, Fresh, and blooming, and young,—ah me! Why do I thus her praises sing? Surely from me ’tis a senseless strain, She is so pretty, and I am so plain!

She is so pretty, so sweet and dear, There’s many a lover who loves her well; I may not hope, I can only fear, Yet shall I venture my love to tell?... Ah! I have pleaded, and not in vain— Though she’s so pretty, and I am so plain. _Béranger._

RONDEAU

JENNY kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in: Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I’m growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me! _Leigh Hunt._

STOLEN FRUIT

WE the fairies, blithe and antic, Of dimensions not gigantic, Though the moonshine mostly keep us, Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing, Then’s the time for orchard-robbing; Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling Were it not for stealing, stealing. _Leigh Hunt_ (_from the Italian_).

LOVE AND AGE

I PLAY’D with you ’mid cowslips blowing When I was six and you were four: When garlands weaving, flower balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Thro’ groves and meads, o’er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wander’d hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly— How dearly, words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow; O, then, I thought my heart was breaking,— But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression;— But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone’s wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christen’d:— But that was twenty years ago.