Part 4

Time passed. My eldest girl was married And I now am a grandsire grey; One pet of four years old I’ve carried Among the wild-flower’d meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket’s ample measure,— And that is not ten years ago.

But tho’ first love’s impassion’d blindness Has pass’d away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago. _Thomas L. Peacock._

CLUBS

IF any man loves comfort and has little cash to buy it, he Should get into a crowded club—a most select society,— While solitude and mutton-cutlets serve _infelix uxor_, he May have his club, like Hercules, and revel there in luxury.

Yes, clubs knock taverns on the head. E’en Hatchett’s can’t demolish ’em; Joy grieves to see their magnitude, and Long longs to abolish ’em. The Inns are out. Hotels for single men scarce keep alive on it, While none but houses that are in the family way thrive on it.

There’s first the Athenæum Club; so wise, there’s not a man of it That has not sense enough for six—in fact, that is the plan of it. The very waiters answer you with eloquence Socratical, And always place the knives and forks in order mathematical.

Then opposite the mental club you’ll find the regimental one— A meeting made of men of war, and yet a very gentle one. If uniform good living please your palate, here’s excess of it. Especially at private dinners, when they make a mess of it.

E’en Isis has a house in town and Cam abandons her city; The master now hangs out at the United University. In common room she gave a rout (a novel freak to hit upon), Where Masters gave the Mistresses of Arts no chairs to sit upon.

The Union Club is quite superb; its best apartment daily is The lounge of lawyers, doctors, merchants, beaux, _cum multis aliis_. At half-past six the joint concern for eighteen pence is given you, Half-pints of port are sent in ketchup-bottles to enliven you.

The Travellers are in Pall Mall, and smoke cigars so cosily, And dream they climb the highest Alps or rove the plains of Moselai. The world for them has nothing new, they have explored all parts of it, And now they are club-footed, and they sit and look at charts of it.

The Orientals, homeward-bound, now seek their club much sallower, And while they eat green fat they find their own fat growing yellower. Their soup is made more savoury, till bile to shadows dwindles ’em, And neither Moore nor Savory with seidlitz draughts rekindles ’em.

Then there are clubs where persons parliamentary preponderate, And clubs for men upon the turf (I wonder they ar’n’t under it); Clubs where the winning ways of sharper folks pervert the use of clubs, Where knaves will make subscribers cry, “Egad! this is the deuce of clubs!”

For country squires the only club in London now is Boodle’s, sirs, The Crockford Club for playful men, the Alfred Club for noodles, sirs: These are the stages which all men propose to play their parts upon, For Clubs are what the Londoners have clearly set their hearts upon. _Theodore Hook._

TO ANNE

HOW many kisses do I ask? Now you set me to my task. First, sweet Anne, will you tell me How many waves are in the sea? How many stars are in the sky? How many lovers you make sigh? How many sands are on the shore? I shall want just one kiss more. _William Maxwell._

SONG

DOST thou idly ask to hear At what gentle seasons Nymphs relent, when lovers near Press the tenderest reasons? Ah, they give their faith too oft To the careless wooer; Maidens’ hearts are always soft— Would that men’s were truer!

Woo the fair one, when around Early birds are singing; When, o’er all the fragrant ground, Early herbs are springing: When the brookside, bank, and grove, All with blossoms laden, Shine with beauty, breathe of love,— Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her when, with rosy blush, Summer eve is sinking; When, on rills that softly gush, Stars are softly winking; When, through boughs that knit the bower, Moonlight gleams are stealing; Woo her, till the gentle hour Wakes a gentler feeling.

Woo her, when autumnal dyes Tinge the woody mountain; When the dropping foliage lies In the weedy fountain; Let the scene that tells how fast Youth is passing over, Warn her, ere her bloom is past, To secure her lover.

Woo her when the north winds call At the lattice nightly; When within the cheerful hall Blaze the fagots brightly; While the wintry tempest round Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ears shall sound Love’s delightful story. _William Cullen Bryant._

WHAT IS LONDON’S LAST NEW LION?

WHAT is London’s last new lion? Pray, inform me if you can; Is’t a woman of Kamschatka or an Otaheite man? For my _conversazione_ you must send me something new, Don’t forget me! Oh I sigh for the _eclat_ of a _debut_!

I am sick of all the “minstrels,” all the “brothers” this and that, Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat; And the man who play’d upon his chin is _passé_, I suppose So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his nose.

Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a rout, I fear I’ve worn the literary lionesses out! Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads, But do not send a poet, till you find one with two heads.

The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a straw For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a bashaw! And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them soon, Unless you send me some one who has travelled to the moon.

Oh, if you send a singer, he must sing without a throat! Oh, if you send a player, he must harp upon one note! I must have something marvellous, the marvel makes the man; What is London’s last new lion? Pray, inform me if you can. _Thomas Haynes Bayly._

I’D BE A BUTTERFLY

I’D be a Butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet! I’d never languish for wealth, or for power, I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I’d be a Butterfly born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer days’ ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary; Power, alas! nought but misery brings! I’d be a Butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock’d in a rose when the nightingale sings!

What, though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day: Surely ’tis better when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life’s winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay— I’d be a Butterfly; living, a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away! _Thomas Haynes Bayly._

“I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING”

I MUST come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing: Whene’er I see my sisters dress’d In leno and in lace,— Miss Twig’s apartment seems to be A miserable place. I must come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing.

I’m very sick of Grosv’nor Square, The path within the rails; I’m weary of Telemachus, And such outlandish tales: I hate my French, my vile Chambaud; In tears I’ve turn’d his leaves; Oh! let me Frenchify my hair, And take to Gigot sleeves. I must come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing.

I know quite well what I should say To partners at a ball; I’ve got a pretty speech or two, And they would serve for all. If an Hussar, I’d praise his horse, And win a smile from him; And if a Naval man, I’d lisp, “Pray, Captain, do you swim?” I must come out next Spring, Mamma, I must come out next Spring; To keep me with my Governess Would be a cruel thing. _Thomas Haynes Bayly._

“WHY DON’T THE MEN PROPOSE?”

WHY don’t the men propose, mamma? Why don’t the men propose? Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes! It is no fault of yours, mamma, That everybody knows; You fête the finest men in town, Yet, oh, they won’t propose!

I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma, To make a proper match; For coronets and eldest sons I’m ever on the watch: I’ve hopes when some _distingué_ beau A glance upon me throws; But though he’ll dance, and smile, and flirt, Alas, he won’t propose!

I’ve tried to win by languishing, And dressing like a blue; I’ve bought big books, and talk’d of them, As if I read them through! With hair cropp’d like a man, I’ve felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh, they won’t propose!

I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss; I felt convinced that men preferr’d A simple sort of Miss; And so I lisp’d out naught beyond Plain “yeses” or plain “noes,” And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; Yet, oh, they won’t propose!

Last night, at Lady Ramble’s rout, I heard Sir Harry Gale Exclaim, “Now, I propose again——” I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, I blush’d like any rose; But, oh! I found ’twas only at _Ecarté_ he’d propose!

And what is to be done, mamma? Oh, what is to be done? I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty-one. At balls, I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why won’t the men propose, mamma? Why won’t the men propose? _Thomas Haynes Bayly._

ASK AND HAVE

“OH, ’tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary,” says I; “Oh, don’t talk to my mother,” says Mary, Beginning to cry: “For my mother says men are deceivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry who marry, At leisure repent.”

“Then, suppose I would talk to your father, Sweet Mary,” says I; “Oh, don’t talk to my father,” says Mary, Beginning to cry: “For my father he loves me so dearly, He’ll never consent I should go— If you talk to my father,” says Mary, “He’ll surely say, ‘No.’”

“Then how shall I get you, my jewel? Sweet Mary,” says I; “If your father and mother’s so cruel, Most surely I’ll die!” “Oh, never say die, dear,” says Mary; “A way now to save you I see; Since my parents are both so contrary— You’d better ask me!” _Samuel Lover._

LINES IN A YOUNG LADY’S ALBUM

A PRETTY task, Miss S——, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men. No lover’s plaint my Muse must paint To fill this page’s span, But be correct and recollect I’m not a single man.

Pray only think for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn, Or Love, the life of song! Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one Miss S—— I daren’t address— I’m not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part: They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if I so began, I have my fears about my ears— I’m not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form; Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T. H. Bayly’s plan, I must not twine a single line— I’m not a single man.

A watchman’s part compels my heart To keep you off its beat, And I might dare as soon to swear At you as at your feet. I can’t expire in passion’s fire, As other poets can— My wife (she’s by) won’t let me die— I’m not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart, To Hymen vowed, and not allowed To flirt e’en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must— I’m not a single man. _Thomas Hood._

THE TIME OF ROSES

IT was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed.

That churlish season never frowned On earthly lovers yet: Oh, no! the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met!

’Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed.

What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I asked the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last. It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed. _Thomas Hood._

LOVE

O LOVE! What art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping Earth’s kings and Queens, and all its suits; A player masquerading many parts In life’s odd carnival;—A boy that shoots, From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts; A gardener, pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real— A marriageable maiden’s “beau-ideal.”

O Love, what art thou, Love? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school; A melancholy man, cross-gartering? Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool? A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad With palpitations of the heart—like mine— A poor bewildered maid, making so sad A necklace of her garters—fell design! A poet gone unreasonably mad, Ending his sonnets with a hempen line? O Love!—but whither now? forgive me, pray; I’m not the first that Love hath led astray. _Thomas Hood._

TO HELEN

IF wandering in a wizard’s car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion of a little star A taper for my Helen’s table;—

“What then?” she asks me with a laugh— Why, then, with all heaven’s lustre glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o’er mine is throwing. _Winthrop Mackworth Praed._

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM

YEARS—years ago,—ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty,— Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn’d o’er this infernal Chitty;— Years—years ago,—while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly,— In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the County Ball: There, where the sounds of flute and fiddle, Gave signal sweet, in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing, She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender! Her every look, her every smile Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought ’twas Venus from her Isle, And wonder’d where she’d left her sparrows.

She talk’d,—of politics or prayers,— Or Southey’s prose, or Wordsworth’s sonnets,— Of danglers—or of dancing bears, Of battles—or the last new bonnets, By candlelight, at twelve o’clock, To me it matter’d not a tittle; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur’d Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal: My mother laugh’d; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frown’d; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And Lord Lieutenant of the County.

But titles, and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, Oh what are they to love’s sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks— Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses, He cares as little for the Stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch’d; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil’s shading: She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand; She made the Catalani jealous: She touch’d the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill’d with all an album’s glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia’s cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flatter’d, worshipp’d, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted; She laugh’d, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish’d; She frown’d, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolish’d.

She smiled on many, just for fun,— I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first—the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute.— I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,—and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves;— A little glow, a little shiver, A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, And “Fly not yet”—upon the river; Some jealousy of some one’s heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,—and then we parted.

We parted; months and years roll’d by; We met again four summers after: Our parting was all sob and sigh; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: For in my heart’s most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room’s Belle, But only—Mrs. Something Rogers! _Winthrop Mackworth Praed._

AMY’S CRUELTY

FAIR Amy of the terraced House! Assist me to discover Why you, who would not hurt a mouse, Can torture so a lover?

You give your coffee to the cat, You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee’s humming.

But when he haunts your door—the town Marks coming and marks going— You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing!

You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a “Good-morning,” To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning.

She shook her head—“The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger; The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger.

“But he—to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance: He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence.

“They say love gives as well as takes; But I’m a simple maiden,— My mother’s first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in.

“I only know my mother’s love, Which gives all and asks nothing; And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing.

“Unless he gives me all in ’change, I forfeit all things by him; The risk is terrible and strange; I tremble, doubt—deny him.

“His sweetest friend, or hardest foe, Best angel or worst devil, I either hate—or love him so, I can’t be merely civil!

“Such love’s a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment’s pretty pastime; I give—all me, if anything, The first time, and the last time.

“Dear neighbour of the trellised house! A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog or mouse, Till doted on for ever.” _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

BEWARE!

I KNOW a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side-glance and looks down, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

And she has hair of a golden hue, Take care! And what she says, it is not true, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

She has a bosom as white as snow, Take care! She knows how much it is best to show, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!

She gives thee a garland woven fair, Take care! It’s a fool’s-cap for thee to wear, Beware! Beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

LOVE IN A COTTAGE

THEY may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine,— Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning By the side of a footstep free.

But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier, With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near: Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies, Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies. You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer.