Part 10

Shall I crown with my worship, for fame’s sake, Some goddess whom Fashion has starred, Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake, Or pray for a _pas_ with Brocard? Shall I flirt, in romantic idea, With Chester’s adorable clay, Or whisper in transport “_Si mea_[8] _Cum vestris_”--on Valentine’s Day?

Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia, Who no one e’er saw, or may see, A fancy-drawn Laura-Amelia, An _ad libit._ Anna Marie? Shall I court an initial with stars to it, Go mad for a G. or a J., Get Bishop to put a few bars to it, And print it on Valentine’s Day?

I think not of Laura the witty; For, oh! she is married at York! I sigh not for Rose of the City, For, oh! she is buried at Cork! Adèle has a braver and better To say--what I never could say; Louise cannot construe a letter Of English, on Valentine’s Day.

So perish the leaves in the arbour! The tree is all bare in the blast; Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour, I come to thee, Lady, at last: Where art thou, so lovely and lonely? Though idle the lute and the lay, The lute and the lay are thine only, My fairest, on Valentine’s Day.

For thee I have opened my Blackstone, For thee I have shut up myself; Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton, And laid my short whist on the shelf; For thee I have sold my old sherry, For thee I have burnt my new play; And I grow philosophical,--very! Except upon Valentine’s Day!

PALINODIA.

“Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit.” --HORACE.

There was a time, when I could feel All passion’s hopes and fears; And tell what tongues can ne’er reveal By smiles and sighs and tears. The days are gone! no more--no more The cruel Fates allow; And though I’m hardly twenty-four,-- I’m not a lover now. Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight; I’m not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds, I laugh at girls and boys, I’m growing rather fond of crowds, And very fond of noise; I never wander forth alone Upon the mountain’s brow; I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone;-- I’m not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil, I never raise a sigh; I never tell a tender tale, I never tell a lie: I cannot kneel, as once I did; I’ve quite forgot my bow; I never do as I am bid;-- I’m not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day, If I would be gallant; Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey, And nieces for their aunt: I fly from folly, though it flows From lips of loveliest glow; I don’t object to length of nose;-- I’m not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry, My Petrarch quite a pill, Cut Fancy for Philosophy, Tom Moore for Mr. Mill. And belles may read, and beaux may write,-- I care not who or how; I burnt my Album, Sunday night;-- I’m not a lover now!

I don’t encourage idle dreams Of poison or of ropes: I cannot dine on airy schemes; I cannot sup on hopes: New milk, I own, is very fine, Just foaming from the cow; But yet I want my pint of wine;-- I’m not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away, I’m deafer than the deep; When Leonora goes to play, I sometimes go to sleep; When Mary draws her white gloves out, I never dance, I vow,-- “Too hot to kick one’s heel’s about!” I’m not a lover now!

I’m busy, now, with state affairs; I prate of Pitt and Fox; I ask the price of rail-road shares, I watch the turns of stocks. And this is life! no verdure blooms Upon the withered bough: I save a fortune in perfumes;-- I’m not a lover now!

I may be yet, what others are, A boudoir’s babbling fool, The flattered star of Bench or Bar, A party’s chief, or tool:-- Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear, The palace or the plough,-- My heart and lute are broken here;-- I’m not a lover now! Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight I’m not a lover now!

TIME’S SONG.

O’er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go, O’er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow, On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night, I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,--I have crushed his spear; Grief within her bower was weeping,--I have dried her tear; Pleasure caught a minute’s hold,--then I hurried by, Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame? Genius said, “I live in story:” who hath heard his name? Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered “Why so fast?” And the roses on his brow withered as I past.

I have heard the heifer lowing o’er the wild wave’s bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; Where began my wandering? Memory will not say! Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away!

THE HOOPOE’S INVOCATION TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

(From the Birds of Aristophanes, 1. 209.)

Waken, dear one, from thy slumbers; Pour again those holy numbers, Which thou warblest there alone In a heaven-instructed tone, Mourning from this leafy shrine Lost--lost Itys, mine and thine, In the melancholy cry Of a mother’s agony. Echo, ere the murmurs fade, Bear them from the yew tree’s shade To the throne of Jove; and there, Phœbus with his golden hair Listens long, and loves to suit To his ivory-mounted lute Thy sad music; at the sound All the gods come dancing round, And a sympathetic song Peals from the immortal throng.

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.

“So runs the world away.”--_Hamlet._

Good night to the Season!--’Tis over! Gay dwellings no longer are gay; The courtier, the gambler, the lover, Are scattered like swallows away: There’s nobody left to invite one Except my good uncle and spouse; My mistress is bathing at Brighton, My patron is sailing at Cowes: For want of a better enjoyment, Till Ponto and Don can get out, I’ll cultivate rural employment, And angle immensely for trout.

Good night to the Season!--the lobbies, Their changes, and rumours of change, Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies, And made all the Bishops look strange; The breaches, and battles, and blunders, Performed by the Commons and Peers; The Marquis’s eloquent blunders, The Baronet’s eloquent ears; Denouncings of Papists and treasons, Of foreign dominion and oats; Misrepresentations of reasons, And misunderstandings of notes.

Good night to the Season!--the buildings Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended, From love of effect, into one; The club-houses only intended, The palaces only begun; The hell, where the fiend in his glory Sits staring at putty and stones, And scrambles from storey to storey, To rattle at midnight his bones.

Good night to the Season!--the dances, The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances, The fancyings of fancy costumes; The pleasures which Fashion makes duties, The praisings of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at Beauties, The tedium of talking to Mutes; The female diplomatists, planners Of matches for Laura and Jane; The ice of her Ladyship’s manners, The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.

Good night to the Season!--the rages Led off by the chiefs of the throng, The Lady Matilda’s new pages, The Lady Eliza’s new song; Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’s Was held to have something to say; Mrs. Splenetic’s musical poodles, Which bark _Batti, Batti_, all day; The pony Sir Araby sported, As hot and as black as a coal, And the Lion his mother imported, In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.

Good night to the Season!--the Toso, So very majestic and tall; Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so, And Pasta, divinest of all; The labour in vain of the ballet, So sadly deficient in stars; The foreigners thronging the Alley, Exhaling the breath of cigars; The _loge_ where some heiress (how killing!) Environed with exquisites sits, The lovely one out of her drilling, The silly ones out of their wits.

Good night to the Season!--the splendour That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar; Where I purchased--my heart was so tender-- A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, A bottle of perfume, a girdle, A lithographed Riego, full grown, Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle That artists might draw him on stone; A small panorama of Seville, A trap for demolishing flies, A caricature of the Devil, And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes.

Good night to the Season!--the flowers Of the grand Horticultural fête, When boudoirs were quitted for bowers, And the fashion was--not to be late; When all who had money and leisure Grew rural o’er ices and wines, All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, All hungrily pining for pines, And making of beautiful speeches, And massing of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches, And treading on delicate toes.

Good night to the Season!--Another Will come, with its trifles and toys, And hurry away, like its brother, In sunshine, and odour, and noise. Will it come with a rose or a briar? Will it come with a blessing or curse? Will its bonnets be lower or higher? Will its morals be better or worse? Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, Or fonder of wrong or of right, Or married--or buried?--no matter: Good night to the Season--good night!

SONG.--YES OR NO.

The Baron de Vaux hath a valiant crest,-- My Lady is fair and free; The Baron is full of mirth and jest,-- My Lady is full of glee; But their path, we know, is a path of woe, And many the reason guess,-- The Baron will ever mutter “No” When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

The Baron will pass the wine-cup round,-- My Lady forth will roam; The Baron will out with horse and hound,-- My Lady sits at home; The Baron will go to draw the bow,-- My Lady will go to chess; And the Baron will ever mutter “No” When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

The Baron hath ears for a lovely lay, If my Lady sings it not; The Baron is blind to a beauteous day, If it beam in my Lady’s grot; The Baron bows low to a furbelow, If it be not my Lady’s dress; And the Baron will ever mutter “No” When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

Now saddle my steed, and helm my head, Be ready in the porch; Stout Guy, with a ladder of silken thread, And trusty Will, with a torch; The wind may blow, the torrent flow,-- No matter,--on we press; I never can hear the Baron’s “No” When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

UTOPIA.

----“I can dream, sir, If I eat well and sleep well.” --_The Mad Lover._

If I could scare the light away, No sun should ever shine; If I could bid the clouds obey, Thick darkness should be mine: Where’er my weary footsteps roam, I hate whate’er I see; And Fancy builds a fairer home In slumber’s hour for me.

I had a vision yesternight Of a lovelier land than this, Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light, Where earth was full of bliss; And every tree was rich with fruits, And every field with flowers, And every zephyr wakened lutes In passion-haunted bowers.

I clambered up a lofty rock, And did not find it steep; I read through a page and a half of Locke, And did not fall asleep; I said whate’er I may but feel, I paid whate’er I owe; And I danced one day an Irish reel, With the gout in every toe.

And I was more than six feet high, And fortunate, and wise; And I had a voice of melody And beautiful black eyes; My horses like the lightning went, My barrels carried true, And I held my tongue at an argument, And winning cards at loo.

I saw an old Italian priest Who spoke without disguise; I dined with a judge who swore, like Best, All libels should be lies: I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf, Of wheat, and nothing more; I danced with a female _philosophe_, Who was not quite a bore.

The kitchens there had richer roast, The sheep wore whiter wool; I read a witty _Morning Post_, And an innocent _John Bull_: The gaolers had nothing at all to do, The hangman looked forlorn, And the Peers had passed a vote or two For freedom of trade in corn.

There was a crop of wheat, which grew Where plough was never brought; There was a noble lord, who knew What he was never taught: A scheme appeared in the _Gazette_ For a lottery with no blanks; And a Parliament had lately met, Without a single Bankes.

And there were kings who never went To cuffs for half-a-crown; And lawyers who were eloquent Without a wig and gown; And sportsmen who forebore to praise Their greyhounds and their guns; And poets who deserved the bays, And did not dread the duns.

And boroughs were bought without a test, And no man feared the Pope; And the Irish cabins were all possessed Of liberty and soap; And the Chancellor, feeling very sick, Had just resigned the seals; And a clever little Catholic Was hearing Scotch appeals.

I went one day to a Court of Law Where a fee had been refused; And a Public School I really saw Where the rod was never used; And the sugar still was very sweet, Though all the slaves were free; And all the folk in Downing Street Had learnt the rule of three.

There love had never a fear or doubt, December breathed like June: The Prima Donna ne’er was out Of temper--or of tune; The streets were paved with mutton pies, Potatoes ate like pine; Nothing looked black but a woman’s eyes; Nothing grew old but wine.

It was an idle dream; but thou, The worshipped one, wert there, With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow, White neck and floating hair; And oh, I had an honest heart, And a house of Portland stone; And thou wert dear, as still thou art, And more than dear, my own!

Oh bitterness!--the morning broke Alike for boor and bard; And thou wert married when I woke, And all the rest was marred: And toil and trouble, noise and steam, Came back with the coming ray; And, if I thought the dead could dream, I’d hang myself to-day!

MARRIAGE CHIMES.

----“Go together, You precious winners all.” --_Winter’s Tale._

Fair Lady, ere you put to sea, You and your mate together, I meant to hail you lovingly, And wish you pleasant weather. I took my fiddle from the shelf, But vain was all my labour; For still I thought about myself, And not about my neighbour.

Safe from the perils of the war, Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing-- Since many things in common are Between campaigns and kissing-- Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring, Love’s carte and tierce I’ve parried, While half my friends are marrying, And half--good lack!--are married.

’Tis strange--but I have passed alive Where darts and deaths were plenty, Until I find my twenty-five As lonely as my twenty: And many lips have sadly sighed-- Which were not made for sighing, And many hearts have darkly died-- Which never dreamed of dying.

Some victims fluttered like a fly, Some languished like a lily; Some told their tale in poetry, And some in Piccadilly: Some yielded to a Spanish hat, Some to a Turkish sandal; Hosts suffered from an _entrechat_ And one or two from Handel.

Good Sterling said no dame should come To be the queen of his bourn, But one who only prized her home, Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne: And Mrs. Sterling says odd things With most sublime effront’ry; Gives lectures on elliptic springs, And follows hounds ’cross country.

Sir Roger had a Briton’s pride In freedom, plough, and furrow;-- No fortune hath Sir Roger’s bride, Except a rotten borough; Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs, Contentment and a cottage;-- His Laura brings a pair of _plums_ To boil the poor man’s pottage.

My rural coz, who loves his peace, And swore at scientifics, Is flirting with a lecturer’s niece, Who construes hieroglyphics: And Foppery’s fool, who hated blues Worse than he hated Holborn, Is raving of a pensive Muse, Who does the verse for Colburn.

And Vyvyan, Humour’s crazy child,-- Whose worship, whim, or passion, Was still for something strange and wild, Wit, wickedness, or fashion,-- Is happy with a little Love, A parson’s pretty daughter, As tender as a turtle-dove,-- As dull as milk and water.

And Gerard hath his Northern Fay-- His nymph of mirth and haggis; And Courtenay wins a damsel gay Who figures at Colnaghi’s; And Davenant now has drawn a prize,-- I hope and trust, a Venus, Because there are some sympathies-- As well as leagues--between us.

Thus north and south, and east and west, The chimes of Hymen jingle; But I shall wander on, unblest, And singularly single; Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained, And often captivated, Yet, save on circuit--unretained, And, save at chess--unmated.

Yet oh!--if Nemesis with me Should sport, as with my betters, And put me on my awkward knee, To prate of flowers and fetters,-- I know not whose the eyes should be To make this fortress tremble; But yesternight I dreamt,--ah me! Whose they should most resemble!

REMEMBER ME.

In Seville, when the feast was long, And lips and lutes grew free, At Inez feet, amid the throng, A masquer bent his knee; And still the burden of his song Was “Sweet, remember me!

“Remember me in shine and shower, In sorrow and in glee; When summer breathes upon the flower, When winter blasts the tree, When there are dances in the bower Or sails upon the sea.

“Remember me beneath far skies, Or foreign lawn or lea; When others worship those wild eyes Which I no more may see, When others wake the melodies Of which I mar the key.

“Remember me! my heart will claim No love, no trust, from thee; Remember me, though doubt and blame Linked with the record be; Remember me,--with scorn or shame,-- But yet, remember me!”

THE FANCY BALL.

“A visor for a visor! What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities?” --_Romeo and Juliet._

“You used to talk,” said Miss MacCall, “Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid; But now you never talk at all; You’re getting vastly stupid: You’d better burn your Blackstone, sir, You never will get through it; There’s a Fancy Ball at Winchester,-- Do let us take you to it!”

I made that night a solemn vow To startle all beholders; I wore white muslin on the brow, Green velvet on my shoulders; My trousers were supremely wide, I learnt to swear “by Allah!” I stuck a poniard by my side, And called myself “Abdallah.”

Oh, a fancy ball’s a strange affair! Made up of silk and leathers, Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair, Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers: The dullest duke in all the town, To-day may shine a droll one; And rakes, who have not half-a-crown, Look royal in a whole one.

Go, call the lawyer from his pleas, The schoolboy from his Latin; Be stoics here in ecstasies, And savages in satin; Let young and old forego--forget Their labour and their sorrow, And none--except the Cabinet-- Take counsel for the morrow.

Begone, dull care! This life of ours Is very dark and chilly; We’ll sleep through all its serious hours, And laugh through all its silly. Be mine such motley scene as this, Where, by established usance, Miss Gravity is quite amiss, And Madam Sense a nuisance!

Hail, blest Confusion! here are met All tongues and times and faces, The Lancers flirt with Juliet, The Brahmin talks of races; And where’s your genuis, bright Corinne? And where’s your brogue, Sir Lucius? And Chinca Ti, you have not seen One chapter of Confucius.

Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirt With Beauties from the Wrekin; And belles from Berne look very pert On Mandarins from Pekin; The Cardinal is here from Rome, The Commandant from Seville; And Hamlet’s father from the tomb, And Faustus from the Devil.

O sweet Anne Page!--those dancing eyes Have peril in their splendour! “O sweet Anne Page!”--so Slender sighs, And what am I, but slender? Alas! when next your spells engage So fond and starved a sinner, My pretty Page, be Shakespeare’s Page, And ask the fool to dinner!

What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray, What mean they, nun or fairy? I guess they told no beads to-day, And sang no Ave Mary: From mass and matins, priest and pyx, Barred door, and window grated, I wish all pretty Catholics Were thus emancipated!

Four seasons come to dance quadrilles With four well-seasoned sailors; And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills With Timon, prince of railers; I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park Equipt for a walk to Mecca; And I run away from Joan of Arc, To romp with sad Rebecca.

Fair Cleopatra’s very plain; Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers; And Cæsar’s murdered o’er again, Though not by Roman daggers: Great Charlemagne is four feet high; Sad stuff has Bacon spoken; Queen Mary’s waist is all awry, And Psyche’s nose is broken.

Our happiest bride--how very odd!-- Is the mourning Isabella; And the heaviest foot that ever trod Is the foot of Cinderella; Here sad Calista laughs outright, There Yorick looks most grave, sir, And a Templar waves the cross to-night, Who never crossed the wave, sir!

And what a Babel is the talk! “The Giraffe”--“plays the fiddle”-- “Macadam’s roads”--“I hate this chalk!”-- “Sweet girl”--“a charming riddle”-- “I’m nearly drunk with”--“Epsom salts”-- “Yes, separate beds”--“such cronies!” “Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”-- “A pair of Shetland ponies.”

“Lord Nugent”--“an enchanting shape”-- “Will move for”--“Maraschino”-- “Pray, Julia, how’s your mother’s ape?”-- “He died at Navarino!”-- “The gout, by Jove, is”--“apple pie”-- “Don Miguel”--“Tom the tinker”-- “His Lordship’s pedigree’s as high As”--“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”