Chapter 3

Where early reapers whistled--shrill A whistle may be noted still, The locomotives' ravings. New custom newer want begets-- My bank of early violets Is now a bank of--savings.

Ah! there's a face I know again, Fair Patty trotting down the Lane To fetch a pail of water; Yes, Patty! still I much suspect, 'Tis not the child I recollect, But Patty, Patty's daughter!

And has she too outliv'd the spells Of breezy hills and silent dells, Where childhood loved to ramble? Then life was thornless to our ken, And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then A rise without a bramble.

Whence comes the change? 'twere easy told How some grow wise and some grow cold, And all feel time and trouble; And mouldy sages much aver That if the Past's a gossamer, The Future is a bubble.

So let it be, at any rate My Fate is not the cruel Fate Which sometimes I have thought her: My heart leaps up, and I rejoice As falls upon my ear thy voice, My frisky little daughter.

Come hither, Puss, and perch on these Your most unworthy Father's knees, And try and tell him--Can you? Are Punch and Judy bits of wood? Does Dolly boast of ancient blood, Or is it only "bran new"?

We talk sad stuff,--and Bramble-Rise Is lovely to the infant's eyes, Whose doll is ever charming; She does not weigh the pros and cons, Her pigs still please, her geese are swans, Though more or less alarming!

O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf, Some day a pet just like thyself, Her sanguine thoughts to borrow; Content to use her brighter eyes, Accept her childish ecstacies, And, need be, share her sorrow!

My wife, though life is called a jaunt, In sadness rife, in sunshine scant, Though mundane joys, the wisest grant, Have no enduring basis: 'Tis something in this desert drear, For thee so fresh, for me so sere, To find in Puss, our daughter dear, A little cool oasis!

OLD LETTERS

"Fragile creations of still frailer man, That men outlast, Though to eternity, from whence he came, The scribe be past.

O there are tongues within these dry brown leaves That speak as Autumns do; They cry of death and sorrow, To me--to you."

MR GEORGE THORNBURY.

Old letters! wipe away the tear, And gaze upon these pale mementoes, A pilgrim finds his journal here Since first he took to walk on ten toes.

Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham Rise, Do mothers still their school-boys pamper? O, how I hated Doctor Wise! O, how I lov'd a well-fill'd hamper!

How strange to commune with the Dead-- Dead joys, dead loves, and wishes thwarted: Here's cruel proof of friendships fled, And sad enough of friends departed.

And here's the offer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver; And here John Wylie's begging note-- He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion; On looking back I acted like A donkey upon that occasion.

And here a letter from "the Row,"-- How mad I was when first I learnt it! They would not take my Book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a heap of notes, at last, With "love" and "dove," and "sever" "never"-- Though hope, though passion may be past, Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two, Whatever say your single scorners, And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet-- Two locks of hair--a deal of scandal: I'll burn what only brings regret-- Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.

SUSANNAH

"My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore! Shall we not meet as heretofore Some summer morning? When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?"

C. LAMB.

Susannah! still that name can raise The memory of ancient days, And hearts unwrung: When all too bright our future smil'd, When she was Mirth's adopted child, And I--was young.

I see the cot with spreading eaves Embosom'd bright in summer leaves, As heretofore: The gables quaint, the pansy bed,-- Old Robin train'd the roses red About the door.

A seat did most blithe Susan please, Beneath two shady elder trees, Of rustic make: Old Robin's handiwork again, He dearly lov'd those elders twain For Susan's sake.

Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Lent sunshine to a gloomy day, And trouble fled: Yet when her mirth was passing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smil'd, He shook his head.

Perchance the old man harbour'd fears That happiness is wed with tears On this poor earth: Or else, may be, his fancies were That youth and beauty are a snare If link'd with mirth.

* * * * *

And times are chang'd,--how chang'd that scene, For mark old Robin's alter'd mien, And feeble tread. His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan's name he turns aside, And shakes his head.

And summer smiles, but summer spells Can never charm where sorrow dwells, Nor banish care. No fair young form the passer sees, And still the much-lov'd elder trees Throw shadows there.

The well-remember'd seat is gone, And where it stood is set a stone, A simple square: The worlding gay, or man austere, May pass the name recorded here, But we will stay to shed a tear, And breathe a prayer.

MY FIRSTBORN

"But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day, Her delicate creation!"

WORDSWORTH.

It shall not be "Albert" nor "Arthur," Though both are respectable men, His name shall be that of his father, My Benjamin shorten'd to "Ben."

Yes, much as I wish for a corner In each of my relative's wills, I will not be reckon'd a fawner-- That creaking of boots must be Squills.

It is clear, though his means may be narrow, This infant his age will adorn; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow-- I wonder how soon he'll be born.

A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below--'twas a labour of love-- And calmly reflecting on Nancy's More practical labour above.

Yet while it so pleas'd him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone, That pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own;

Sweet thoughts in their essence diviner Than dreams of ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer, Invented and nursed by herself!

One breakfasting, dining, and teaing, With appetite nought can appease, And quite a young Reasoning Being When called on to yawn and to sneeze.

What cares that heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills; Except for the name and the gender, She is almost as tranquil as Squills.

That father, in reverie centr'd, Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl, Heard Squills--as the creaking boots enter'd,-- Announce that his Boy was--a GIRL.

THE WIDOW'S MITE

ST MARK'S GOSPEL, chap. xii. verses 42, 43, 44

The widow had but only one, A puny and decrepid son; But day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak, and small, A loving child, he was her all-- The widow's mite.

The widow's might--yes! so sustain'd She battled onward, nor complain'd Though friends were fewer: And, cheerful at her daily care, A little crutch upon the stair Was music to her.

I saw her then, and now I see, Though cheerful and resign'd, still she Has sorrow'd much: She has--HE gave it tenderly-- Much faith--and carefully laid by A little crutch.

ST GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE

"Dans le_ bonheur_ de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plait pas entierement."

She pass'd up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A delicate lady in bridal attire, Fair emblem of virgin simplicity: Half London was there, and, my word, there were few, Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.

O, beautiful bride, still so meek in thy splendour, So frank in thy love and its trusting surrender, Going hence thou wilt leave us the town dim! May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought, And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, Prove worthy thy worship, confound him!

A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS

Mary in her hand has sixpence, Mary starts to fetch some butter, Mary's pinafore is spotless, Off she goes across the gutter, Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did, Proud to be so largely trusted.

One, two, three, small steps she's taken, Blissfully away she's tripping, When good lack, and who'd a thought it, Down goes Mary, slipping, slipping; Daubs her clothes, the little slut--her Sixpence, too, rolls in the gutter.

Never creep back so despairing, Dry those eyes, my little Mary, All of us start off in high glee, Many come back quite "contrairy"-- I've mourn'd sixpences in scores too, Damag'd hopes and pinafores too.

MISS EDITH AN EXTRAVAGANZA

Miss Edith lifts the latch with care, And now she must brave the chill night air. She has violet eyes and ruby lips, A dancing shape--and away she skips; She hies to the haunt of a hermit weird, With flaming eyes and a forky beard, A shocking wizard--who, gossips say, Has dwelt in his cavern a year to-day.

"O, ancient man! I am filled with fear, My lover has left me full a year. 'I swear to return in a year,' said he, 'Or question the man of mystery. Your eyes are blue, and your lips are red; I swear, my love, to come back,' he said. O, fearsome man! I pray of you, Can he prove so false whom I think so true?"

"O, daughter fair! I am sad to say That young men now and then betray: Thy lover, I wis, has thy trust betray'd, For he presently woos a witching maid: Her eyes are blue, and, I tell thee this, She has tempting lips that he fain would kiss; But courage, my child, thou mayst yet discover A clue to the heart of this worthless lover."

He mutter'd, when thus he the maid had cheer'd, A strange sound that was drown'd in the forky beard; Then all around loud thunders broke, And the cave was wrapp'd in fire and smoke, And that fearsome man has disappear'd With his flaming eyes and his forky beard; And Edith weeps in rapture sweet To find her lover at her feet!

A GLIMPSE OF GRETNA GREEN, IN THE DISTANCE

"My Kate, at the Waterloo column, To-morrow, precisely at eight; Remember, thy promise was solemn, And--thine till to-morrow, my Kate!"

* * * * *

That evening seem'd strangely to linger, The licence and luggage were packt, And Time, with a long and short finger, Approvingly mark'd me exact.

Arrived, woman's constancy blessing, No end of nice people I see, Some hither, some thitherwards pressing, But none of them waiting for me.

Time passes, my watch how I con it, I see her--she's coming--no, stuff! Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet, It is aunt and her wonderful muff!

(Yes! Fortune deserves to be chidden, It is a coincidence queer, Whenever one wants to be hidden, One's relatives always appear.)

Near nine! how the passers despise me, They smile at my anguish, I think; And even the sentinel eyes me, And tips that policeman the wink.

Ah! Kate made me promises solemn, At eight she had vow'd to be mine; While waiting for one at this column, I find I've been waiting for nine.

O Fame! on thy pillar so steady, Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain: How many have done it already! How many will do it again!

THE FOUR SEASONS

Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears, With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder, Small pitchers with extensive ears, And fingers prone to urchin plunder.

Two whisp'ring lovers--blissful pair! Is _he_ the rogue? or hath she trick'd him? Unless he dupes his mistress there, The chances are, he'll fall a victim.

Two toiling ones of sober age (Their bet with Care a losing wager); They own, though now so very sage, They might have been a trifle sager!

Two frail old wretches, sick and sad, Yet sore dismayed lest Death should take them, --Come, hang it, things, though passing bad, Are not so bad as some would make them:

For, like yon clock, when twelve shall sound, The call these poor old souls obeying, Together shall _their_ hands be found, An earnest they are humbly praying!

ENIGMA

He met her with her milking-cans, Too fast the moments speeded, For while they chat on this and that My _first_ may low unheeded. And was she call'd a forward jade, And was he graceless reckon'd, Because he stopt the dairy-maid, Enchanted by my _second_?

Though stars in thousands stud the pole, The fields own stars as yellow, And when I gave that last my _whole_, She thank'd a happy fellow. But she was call'd a forward jade, And I was graceless reckon'd;-- I only kiss'd that dairy-maid, Enraptur'd by my _second_.

ENIGMA

Toll, toll the bell, its iron tongue Is weighty as my _second_, Dig, dig the grave, to life he clung, But now his days are reckon'd.

Old man, who'll ring a knell for thee, Or dress thy couch of clay? Why didst not thou thy death foresee, And dig it for to-day?

King Death his journeyman demands, On all he works his worst: His dart he's flung at old and young,-- Death heedeth not my _first_.

Old man, thou'st dug some scores of graves, Who'll turn the mould for thine? And when this spade thy bed hath made, Who'll lift a spade at mine?

TO THE PRINTER'S DEVIL

Small imp of blackness, off at once, Expend thy mirth as likes thee best: Thy toil is over for the nonce; Yes, "opus operatum est." When dreary authors vex thee sore, Thy Mentor's old, and would remind thee That if thy griefs are all before, Thy pleasures are not all behind thee.

* * * * *

THE END

NOTES

The Castle in the Air. Last published in 1872.

The Cradle. Last published in 1878.

O Tempora Mutantur. Written in 1856: last published in 1893: omitted from the 1881 edition. In 1893 the last stanza is different: I have quoted from it in the Introduction.

Piccadilly. Last published in 1893. After the words "If 'yes,' Piccadilly," the 1893 version is as follows:--

"From Primrose balcony, long ages ago 'Old Q' sat at gaze,--who now passes below? A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day," etc.

The Old Clerk. Written in 1856: last published in 1893: omitted in 1881. The final version (title, "The Old Government Clerk") is a good deal elaborated, and a stanza added.

The Garter. Last published in 1878. In the 1862 and subsequent editions the title is "Arcadia."

Pilgrims of Pall Mall. Written in 1856: last published in 1893. The first lines of the fifth stanza run, as finally revised:

"I often wander up and down, When morning bathes the silent town In dewy glory";

and the seventh stanza is altered to:

"My heart grows chill! Can Soul like thine, Weary of this clear world of mine, Have loosed its fetter, To find a world whose promised bliss Is better than the best of this?-- And is it better?"

These are the most important changes.

The Russet Pitcher. Last published in 1870: omitted in 1868.

The Enchanted Rose. "The Fairy Rose" in subsequent editions. Last published in 1870: omitted in 1868.

Circumstance. Written in 1856: last published in 1893, with some alteration. The last line runs, finally: "And--wish them at the devil."

A Wish. Last published in 1878.

My Life is a--. Last published in 1893: omitted in 1881. Practically the same in the final version.

Vanity Fair. Last published in 1878.

Bramble-Rise. Written in 1857: last published in 1893, a good deal altered. It is less "Praedian" than in the original form: the puns in stanzas four and nine disappear.

Old Letters. Last published in 1878. Of all the London Lyrics this is the most obviously reminiscent of Praed: and as such it is rejected by Locker's final judgment. It belongs evidently to the period when "I once tried to write like Praed."

Susannah. Last published (as "Susan") in 1872: omitted in 1868. The first verse, slightly altered, serves as "motto" for the serious poem, "Her quiet resting-place is far away," which is in some of the later editions.

My Firstborn. Last published in 1878, omitted in 1868.

The Widow's Mite. Last published in 1893. In the final form of the poem the pun is (characteristically) dropped.

St George's. Last published in 1878: omitted in 1868.

Seven Dials. Last published in 1862.

Miss Edith. Not again published.

Gretna Green. Subsequently under the title "Vae Victis": last published in 1870.

The Four Seasons. Not again published.

Enigma. 1. / 2. } Not again published.

The Printer's Devil. Not again published.

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THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED EDINBURGH