Chapter 14

"The following stanzas are supposed to have been addressed to Milton by his friend and contemporary, Sir William Davenant. We cannot vouch for their authenticity, but for their excellency we can. They have been communicated to us by the late editor of the 'Iris,' who received them from Mr. John Clare, the ingenious poet of Northamptonshire."]

Poet of mighty power, I fain Would court the muse that honoured thee, And, like Elisha's spirit, gain A part of thy intensity; And share the mantle which she flung Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.

Though faction's scorn at first did shun, With coldness, thy inspired song, Though clouds of malice pass'd thy sun, They could not hide it long; Its brightness soon exhaled away Dark night, and gained eternal day.

The critics' wrath did darkly frown Upon thy muse's mighty lay; But blasts that break the blossom down Do only stir the bay; And thine shall flourish, green and long, In the eternity of song.

Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by, And, like the monarch of the wood, Tower'd o'er it to the sky; Where thou could'st sing of other spheres, And feel the fame of future years.

Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns Did throng the muse's dangerous way, Thy powers were past such little thorns, They gave thee no dismay; The scoffer's insult pass'd thee by. Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.

Envy will gnaw its heart away To see thy genius gather root; And as its flowers their sweets display Scorn's malice shall be mute; Hornets that summer warmed to fly, Shall at the death of summer die.

Though friendly praise hath but its hour, And little praise with thee hath been; The bay may lose its summer flower, But still its leaves are green; And thine, whose buds are on the shoot, Shall only fade to change to fruit.

Fame lives not in the breath of words, In public praises' hue and cry; The music of these summer birds Is silent in a winter sky, When thine shall live and flourish on, O'er wrecks where crowds of fames are gone.

The ivy shuns the city wall, When busy-clamorous crowds intrude, And climbs the desolated hall In silent solitude; The time-worn arch, the fallen dome, Are roots for its eternal home.

The bard his glory ne'er receives Where summer's common flowers are seen, But winter finds it when she leaves The laurel only green; And time, from that eternal tree, Shall weave a wreath to honour thee.

Nought but thy ashes shall expire; Thy genius, at thy obsequies, Shall kindle up its living fire And light the muse's skies; Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and be A sun in song's posterity.

THE BIRDS AND ST. VALENTINE

Sorrow came with downcast eyes, And stole the lyre of love away. VAN DYK.

[From ACKERMANN'S "Juvenile Forget-me-not"]

Some two or three weeks before Valentine's day, Sir Winter grew kind, and, minded to play, Shook hands with Miss Flora, and woo'd her to spare A few pretty snowdrops to stick in his hair, Intending for truth, as he said, to resign His throne to Miss Spring and her priest Valentine; Which trifle he asked for before he set forth, To remind him of all when he got in the North; And this is the reason that snowdrops appear 'Mid the cold of the Winter, so soon in the year.

Flora complied, and, the instant she heard, Flew away with the news to each bachelor bird, Who in raptures half moved on Love's errand to start, Their songs muttered over to get them by heart: Nay, the Mavis at once sung aloud in his glee, And looked for a spot where love's dwelling should be; And ever since then, both in garden and grove, The Mavis tunes first a short ditty to love, While all the young gentlemen birds that were near Fell to trimming their jackets anew for the year: One and all they determined to seek for a mate, And thought it a folly for seasons to wait, So even agreed, before Valentine's day, To join hearts in love; but the ladies said, Nay! Yet each one consented at once to resign Her heart unto Hymen on St. Valentine; While Winter, who only pretended to go, Lapt himself out of sight in some hillocks of snow, That behind all the rest 'neath the wood hedges lay So close that the sun could not drive them away: Yet the gentlemen birds on their love errands flew, Thinking all Flora told them was nothing but true, Till out Winter came, and his frowns in a trice Turned the lady birds' hearts all as hardened as ice.

In vain might the gentles in love sue and plead-- They heard, but not once did they notice or heed: From Winter they crept, who, in tyranny proud, Yoked his horses of storms to his coach of a cloud; For on Valentine's morn he was raving so high, Lady Spring for the life of her durst not come nigh; While Flora's gay feet were so numbed with the snow That she could not put on her best slippers to go.

Then the Spring she fell ill, and, her health to regain, On a sunbeam rode back to her South once again; And, as both were the bridesmaids, their teasing delay Made the lady birds put off their weddings till May. Some sighed their excuses, and feared to catch cold; And the Redcap, in mantle all bordered with gold, Sore feared that the weather would spoil her fine clothes, And nought but complaints through the forest arose.

So St. Valentine came on his journey alone In the coach of the Morn, for he'd none of his own, And put on his cassock and band, and went in To the temple of Hymen, the rites to begin, Where the Mavis Thrush waited along with his bride, Nor in the whole place was a lady beside. The gentlemen they came alone to the saint, And instead of being married, each made a complaint Of Sir Winter, whose folly had caused the delay, And forced Love to put off the wedding till May; So the priest shook his head, and unrobed to be gone, As he had no day for his leisure but one.

And when the May came with Miss Flora and Spring, They had nought but old cares and new sorrows to sing; For some of the lady birds ceased to be kind To their old loves, and changed for new-comers their mind; And some had resolved to keep single that year, Until St. Valentine with the next should appear.

The birds sung their sorrows the whole Summer long, And the Robin first mixed up his ills with his song: He sung of his griefs--how in love he'd been crossed, And gave up his heart as eternally lost; 'T was burnt to a coal, as sly Cupid let fall A spark that scorched through both the feathers and all. To cure it Time tried, but ne'er found out the way, So the mark on his bosom he wears to this day: And when birds are all silent, and not a leaf seen On the trees, but the ivy and holly so green, In frost and in snow little Robin will sing, To put off the sorrow that ruffles his wing. And that is the cause in our gardens we hear The Robin's sweet note at the close of the year.

The Wagtail, too, mourned in his doublet of grey, As if powdered with rime on a dull winter's day; He twittered of love--how he courted a fair, Who altered her mind, and so made him despair. In a stone-pit he chose her a place for a nest, But she, like a wanton, but made it a jest. Though he dabbled in brooks to convince her how kind He would feed her with worms which he laboured to find, Till he e'en got the ague, still nought could prevail, So ever since then he's been wagging his tail.

In the whitethorn the Linnet bides lonely to sing How his lady-love shunned his embraces in Spring, Though he found out a bush that the sun had half drest With leaves quite sufficient to shelter their nest; And yet she forsook him, no more to be seen, So that is the reason he dresses in green.

Then aloud in his grief sings the gay speckled Thrush, That changes his music on every bush-- "My love she has left me to sorrow and mourn, Yet I hope in my heart she'll repent and return;" So he tries at all notes her approval to meet, And that is the reason he singeth so sweet.

And as sweet sang the Bullfinch, although he confest That the anguish he felt was more deep than the rest, And they all marvelled much how he'd spirits to sing, When to show them his anguish he held up his wing; From his throat to his tail not a feather was found But what had been stained red with blood from the wound.

And sad chirped the Sparrow of joys fled and gone, Of his love being lost he so doted upon; So he vowed constant silence for that very thing, And this is the reason why Sparrows don't sing.

Then next came the Rook and the sorrowful Crow, To tell birds the cause why in mourning they go, Ever since their old loves their embraces forsook; And all seemed to pity the Crow and the Rook.

The Jay he affected to hide his despair, And rather than mourn he had spirits to wear A coat of all colours, but in it some blue Denoted his passion; though crossed, 't was true; So now in lone woods he will hide him all day, And aloud he scolds all that intrude in his way.

The Magpie declared it should never be said That he mourned for a lover, though fifty had fled; Yet his heart all the while was so burnt and distrest, That it turned all the feathers coal-black on his breast. The birds they all marvelled, but still he denied, And wore a black cap his deep blushes to hide; So that is the reason himself and his kin Wear hoods with the lappets quite under the chin.

Then last came the Owl, grieving loud as he flew, Saying how his false lover had bade him adieu; And though he knew not where to find her or follow, Yet round their old haunts he would still whoop and halloo, For no sleep could he get in his sorrowful plight. So that is the reason Owls halloo at night.

And here ends the song of each woe-stricken bird. Now was a more pitiful story e'er heard? The rest were all coupled, and happy, and they Sung the old merry songs which they sing at this day: And good little boys, when this tale they read o'er, Will ne'er have the heart to hurt birds any more, And add to the griefs they already have sung By robbing their nests of their eggs and their young; But feel for their sufferings, and pity their pain, Nor give them new cause of their lot to complain.

FAREWELL AND DEFIANCE TO LOVE

[After Sir John Harrington]

[From the "European Magazine" March, 1826]

Love and thy vain employs, away From this too oft deluded breast! No longer will I court thy stay, To be my bosom's teasing guest. Thou treacherous medicine--reckon'd pure; Thou quackery of the harass'd heart, That kills what it pretends to cure, Life's mountebank thou art.

With nostrums vain of boasted powers, That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave; An asp hid in a group of flowers, That bites and stings when few perceive; Thou mock-peace to the troubled mind, Leading it more in sorrow's way, Freedom that leaves us more confined, I bid thee hence away.

Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond The resolution reason gave? Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond, That kept me once thy quiet slave, And made thy snare a spider's thread, Which e'en my breath can break in twain; Nor will I be, like Sampson, led To trust thy wiles again.

Tempt me no more with rosy cheeks, Nor daze my reason with bright eyes; I'm wearied with thy wayward freaks, And sicken at such vanities: Be roses fine as e'er they will, They, with the meanest, fade and die, And eyes, tho' thick with darts to kill. Share all mortalities.

Heed the young bard, who madly sips His nectar-draughts from folly's flowers, Bright eyes, fair cheeks, and ruby lips, Till music melts to honey showers; Lure him to thrum thy empty lays, While flattery listens to the chimes, Till words themselves grow sick with praise And stop for want of rhymes.

Let such be still thy paramours, And chaunt love's old and idle tune, Robbing the spring of all its flowers, And heaven of all her stars and moon, To gild with dazzling similes Blind folly's vain and empty lay: I'm sober'd from such phantasies, So get thee hence away.

Nor bid me sigh for mine own cost, Nor count its loss, for mine annoy, Nor say my stubbornness hath lost A paradise of dainty joy: I'll not believe thee, till I know That reason turns thy pampered ape, And acts thy harlequin, to show That care's in every shape.

Heart-achings, sighs, and grief-wrung tears, Shame-blushes at betrayed distress, Dissembled smiles, and jealous fears, Are aught but real happiness: Then will I mourn what now I brave, And suffer Celia's quirks to be (Like a poor fate-bewilder'd slave,) The rulers of my destiny.

I'll weep and sigh when e'er she wills To frown--and when she deigns to smile It will be cure for all my ills, And, foolish still, I'll laugh the while; But till that comes, I'll bless the rules Experience taught, and deem it wise To hold thee as the game of fools, And all thy tricks despise.

THE GIPSY'S SONG

The gipsy's life is a merry life, And ranting boys we be; We pay to none or rent or tax, And live untith'd and free. None care for us, for none care we, And where we list we roam, And merry boys we gipsies be, Though the wild woods are our home.

And come what will brings no dismay; Our minds are ne'er perplext; For if to-day is a swaly day, We meet with luck the next. And thus we sing and kiss our mates, While our chorus still shall be,-- Bad luck to tyrant magistrates, And the gipsies' camp still free.

To mend old pans and bottom chairs Around the towns we tramp, Then a day or two our purse repairs, And plenty fills our camp; And our song we sing, and our fiddles sound Their catgut harmony, While echo fills the woods around With gipsy liberty.

The green grass is our softest bed, The sun our clock we call, The nightly sky hangs over head, Our curtains, house, and all. Tho' houseless while the wild winds blow, Our joys are uncontroll'd; We barefoot dance through Winter's snow, When others die with cold.

Our maidens they are fond and free, And lasting are their charms; Brown as the berry on the tree, No sun their beauty harms: Their beauties are no garden blooms, That fade before they flower; Unshelter'd where the tempest comes, They smile in sun and shower.

And they are wild as the woodland hare, That feeds on the evening lea; And what care we for ladies fair, Since ours are fond and free? False hearts hide in a lily skin, But ours are coarse and fond; No parson's fetters link us in,-- Our love's a stronger bond.

Tho' wild woods are our house and home, 'T is a home of liberty; Free as the Summer clouds we roam, And merry boys we be. We dance and sing the year along, And loud our fiddles play; And no day goes without its song, While every month is May.

The hare that haunts the fallow ground, And round the common feeds; The fox that tracks the woodland bounds, And in the thicket breeds; These are the neighbours where we dwell, And all the guests we see, That share and love the quiet well Of gipsy liberty.

The elements are grown our friends, And leave our huts alone; The thunder-bolt, that shakes and rends The cotter's house of stone, Flies harmless by the blanket roof, Where the winds may burst and blow, For our camps, tho' thin, are tempest proof, We reck not rain and snow.

May the lot we've met our lives befall, And nothing worse attend; So here's success to gipsies all, And every gipsy's friend. And while the ass that bears our camp Can find a common free, Around old England's heaths we'll tramp In gipsy liberty.

PEGGY BAND

O it was a lorn and a dismal night, And the storm beat loud and high; Not a friendly light to guide me right Was there shining in the sky, When a lonely hut my wanderings met, Lost in a foreign land, And I found the dearest friend as yet In my lovely Peggy Band.

"O, father, here's a soldier lad, And weary he seems to be." "Then welcome in," the old man said, And she gave her seat to me. The fire she trimmed, and my clothes she dried With her own sweet lily hand, And o'er the soldier's lot she sighed, While I blest my Peggy Band.

When I told the tale of my wandering years, And the nights unknown to sleep, She made excuse to hide her tears, And she stole away to weep. A pilgrim's blessing I seemed to share, As saints of the Holy Land, And I thought her a guardian angel there, Though he called her his Peggy Band.

The night it passed, and the hour to part With the morning winged away, And I felt an anguish at my heart That vainly bid to stay. I thanked the old man for all he did, And I took his daughter's hand, But my heart was full, and I could not bid Farewell to my Peggy Band.

A blessing on that friendly cot, Where the soldier found repose, And a blessing be her constant lot Who soothed the stranger's woes. I turned a last look at the door, As she held it in her hand, And my heart ached sore, as I crossed the moor, For to leave my Peggy Band.

TO A BROOK

Sweet brook! I've met thee many a summer's day, And ventured fearless in thy shallow flood, And rambled oft thy sweet unwearied way, 'Neath willows cool that on thy margin stood, With crowds of partners in my artless play-- Grasshopper, beetle, bee, and butterfly-- That frisked about as though in merry mood To see their old companion sporting by. Sweet brook! life's glories then were mine and thine; Shade clothed thy spring that now doth naked lie; On thy white glistening sand the sweet woodbine Darkened and dipt its flowers. I mark, and sigh, And muse o'er troubles since we met the last, Like two fond friends whose happiness is past.

PROSE FRAGMENTS

A CONFESSION OF FAITH

My creed may be different from other creeds, but the difference is nothing when the end is the same. If I did not expect and hope for eternal happiness I should be ever miserable; and as every religion is a rule leading to good by its professor, the religions of all nations and creeds, where that end is the aim, ought rather to be respected than scoffed at. A final judgment of men by their deeds and actions in life is inevitable, and the only difference between an earthly assize and the eternal one is, that the final one needs no counsellors to paint the bad or good better or worse than they are. The Judge knows the hearts of all men, and the sentence may be expected to be just as well as final, whether it be for the worst or the best. This ought to teach us to pause and think, and try to lead our lives as well as we can.

ESSAY ON POPULARITY

"Rumour and the popular voice Some look to more than truth, and so confirm Opinions." CARY'S Dante.

Popularity is a busy talker: she catches hold of topics and offers them to fame without giving herself time to reflect whether they are true or false, and fashion is her favourite disciple who sanctions and believes them as eagerly, and with the same faith, as a young lady in the last century read a new novel and a tavern-haunter in this reads the news. It is natural, with such foundations, to ask whether popularity is fame, for it often happens that very slender names come to be popular from many causes with which merit or genius has no sort of connection or kindred. It may be some oddity in the manner, or incident in the life, of the author that is whispered over before his book comes out. This often macadamizes the way to popularity, for gossip is a mighty spell in the literary world, and a concealment of the author's name often creates an anxiety in the public mind, for it leaves room for guesses and conjectures, and as some are very fond of appearing wise in such matters by saying they know from good authority that such a one is the author, it becomes the talk of the card party and tea-table, and he gains a superficial notoriety. Such was the case with the "Pursuits of Literature," a leaden-footed satire that had as much claim to merit as the statue of Pasquin in the Market-place of Rome, on which vulgar squibs were pasted. Everybody knew the author, and nobody knew him. The first names of the day were foisted into the concern, and when the secret was found out that it belonged to one of the lowest, the book sank to rise no more. Sometimes a pompous, pretending title hits the mark at once and wins a name. Who among the lower orders of youth is ignorant of the "Young Man's Best Companion" by Mr. Fisher, Accomptant, or the "Book of Wisdom" by Mr. Penning, Philomath? They are almost as common as bibles and prayer-books in a cottage library.

A guess is not hazarded in believing that popularity is not the omen of true fame. Sometimes the trifling and ridiculous grow into the most extensive popularity, such as the share of it which a man gained by wearing a high brimmed hat, and another that cut off the tails of his coat and thereby branded his name on the remnant; and though the spencers are out of fashion they have outlived many a poetical popularity. These are instances of the ridiculous. The trifling are full as extensive. Where is the poet who shares half the popularity of Warren, Turner, or Day and Martin, whose ebony fames are spread through every dirty little village in England? These instances of the trifling and ridiculous made as much noise and stir in their day as the best, and noise and bustle are the essence and soul of popularity.

The nearest akin to popularity is common fame. I mean names that are familiar among the common people. It is not a very envious species, for they seldom know how to value or appreciate what they are acquainted with. The name of Chatterton is familiar to their ears as an unfortunate poet, because they saw his history printed on pocket handkerchiefs; and the name of Shakespeare as a great play writer, because they have often seen him nominated as such on the bills of strolling players, who make shift with barns for theatres. But this sort of revelry makes a corresponding idea in their minds, for the paltry ballad mongers, whose productions supply hawkers with their wares, are poets with them, and they imagine one as great as the other, common minds making no distinction in these common fames. On the other hand there is something in it to wish for, because there are things as old as England that have outlived centuries of popularity, nay, left half its history in darkness, and they still live on, as common in every memory as the seasons, and as familiar to children even as the rain and Spring flowers. I allude to the old superstitious fragments of legends and stories in rhyme that are said to be Norman, or Saxon, or Danish. There are many desire this common fame, and it is mostly met in a manner least expected. While some affectations are striving for a lifetime to hit all tastes and always miss the mark by a wide throw, an unconscious poet of little name writes a trifle as he feels, without thinking of others, and he becomes a common name.