Part 5

He looked to the left, and he looked to the right: Why hastened he not, the noble Knight, To dry his aged nurse’s tears, To calm his hoary butler’s fears, To listen to the prudent speeches Of half-a-dozen loquacious leeches, To swallow cordials circumspectly, And change his dripping cloak directly? With foot out-stretched, with hand up-raised, In vast surprise he gazed and gazed. Within a deep and damp recess A maiden lay in her loveliness. Lived she?--in sooth, ’twere hard to tell, Sleep counterfeited Death so well. A shelf of the rock was all her bed; A ceiling of crystal was o’er her head; Silken veil, nor satin vest, Shrouded her form in its silent rest; Only her long, long golden hair About her lay like a thin robe there. Up to her couch the young knight crept: How very sound the maiden slept! Fearful and faint the young knight sighed: The echoes of the cave replied. He leaned to look upon her face; He clasped her hand in a wild embrace; Never was form of such fine mould; But the hands and the face were as white and cold As they of the Parian stone were made To which, in great Minerva’s shade, The Athenian sculptor’s toilsome knife Gave all of loveliness but life. On her fair neck there seemed no stain Where the pure blood coursed through the delicate vein; And her breath, if breath indeed it were, Flowed in a current so soft and rare, It would scarcely have stirred the young moth’s wing On the path of his noonday wandering--Never on earth a creature trod Half so lovely, or half so odd.

Count Otto stares till his eyelids ache, And wonders when she’ll please to wake; While fancy whispers strange suggestions, And wonder prompts a score of questions. Is she a nymph of another sphere? How came she hither? What doth she here? Or if the morning of her birth Be registered on this our earth, Why hath she fled from her father’s halls? And where hath she left her cloaks and shawls? There was no time for reason’s lectures, There was no time for wit’s conjectures; He threw his arm with timid haste Around the maiden’s slender waist, And raised her up, in a modest way, From the cold bare rock on which she lay: He was but a mile from his castle gate, And the lady was scarcely five stone weight; He stopped in less than half-an-hour, With his beauteous burden, at Belmont Tower.

Gay, I ween, was the chamber drest, As the Count gave order for his guest; But scarcely on the couch, ’tis said, That gentle guest was fairly laid, When she opened at once her great blue eyes, And, after a glance of brief surprise, Ere she had spoken, and ere she had heard Of wisdom or wit a single word, She laughed so long, and laughed so loud, That Dame Ulrica often vowed A dirge is a merrier thing by half Than such a senseless, soulless laugh. Around the tower the elfin crew Seemed shouting in mirthful concert too; And echoed roof, and trembled rafter, With that unsentimental laughter. As soon as that droll tumult passed The maiden’s tongue, unchained at last, Asserted all its female right. And talked and talked with all its might. Oh, how her low and liquid voice Made the rapt hearer’s soul rejoice! ’Twas full of those clear tones that start From innocent childhood’s happy heart, Ere passion and sin disturb the well In which their mirth and music dwell. But man nor master could make out What the eloquent maiden talked about; The things she uttered like did seem To the bubbling waves of a limpid stream; For the words of her speech, if words they might be, Were the words of the speech of a far countrie; And when she had said them o’er and o’er, Count Otto understood no more Than you or I of the slang that falls From the dukes and dupes at Tattersall’s, Of Hebrew from a bearded Jew, Of metaphysics from a Blue.

Count Otto swore,--Count Otto’s reading Might well have taught his better breeding,-- That, whether the maiden should fume or fret, The maiden should not leave him yet; And so he took prodigious pains To make her happy in her chains. From Paris came a pair of cooks, From Göttingen a load of books, From Venice stores of gorgeous suits, From Florence minstrels and their lutes: The youth himself had special pride In breaking horses for his bride; And his old tutor, Dr. Hermann, Was brought from Bonn to teach her German.

And there in her beauty and her grace The wayward maiden grew; And every day of her form and face Some charm seemed fresh and new. Over her cold and colourless cheek The blush of the rose was shed, And her quickened pulse began to speak Of human hope and dread; And soon she grasped the learned lore The grey old pedant taught, And turned from the volume to explore The hidden mine of thought. Alas! her bliss was not the same As it was in other years, For with new knowledge sorrow came, And with new passion tears. Oft, till the Count came up from wine, She would sit by the lattice high, And watch the windings of the Rhine With a very wistful eye; And oft on some rude cliff she stood, Her light harp in her hand, And still, as she looked on the gurgling flood, She sang of her native land.

And when Count Otto pleaded well For priest, and ring, and vow, She heard the knight that fond tale tell, With a pale and pensive brow: “Henceforth my spirit may not sleep, As ever till now it has slept; Henceforth mine eyes have learned to weep, As never till now they wept. Twelve months, dear Otto, let me grieve For my own, my childhood’s home, Where the sun at noon, or the frost at eve, Did never dare to come; And when the spring its smiles recalls, Thy maiden will resign The holy hush of her father’s halls For the stormy joys of thine.” But where that father’s halls?--vain, vain; She threw her sad eyes down; And if you dared to ask again, She answered with a frown. Some people have a knack, we know Of saying things _mal à propos_, And making all the world reflect On what it hates to recollect. They talk to misers of their heir, To women of the times that were, To ruined gamblers of the box, To thin defaulters of the stocks, To cowards of their neighbours’ duels; To Hayne of Lady H.’s jewels, To poets of the wrong Review, And to the French of Waterloo. The Count was not of these; he never Was half so clumsy, half so clever; And when he found the girl had rather Say nothing more about her father, He changed the subject--told a fable-- Believed that dinner was on table-- Or whispered, with an air of sorrow, That it would surely rain to-morrow.

The winter storms went darkly by, And, from a blue and cloudless sky, Again the sun looked cheerfully Upon the rolling Rhine; And spring brought back to the budding flowers Its genial light and freshening showers, And music to the shady bowers, And verdure to the vine. And now it is the first of May; For twenty miles round all is gay: Cottage and Castle keep holiday; For how should sorrow lower On brow of rustic or of knight, When heaven itself looks all so bright, Where Otto’s wedding feast is dight In the hall of Belmont Tower?

Stately matron and warrior tall Come to the joyous festival; Good Count Otto welcomes all, As through the gate they throng; He fills to the brim the wassail cup: In the bright wine pleasure sparkles up, And draughts and tales grow long; But grizzly knights are still and mute, And dames set down the untasted fruit, When the bride takes up her golden lute, And sings her solemn song.

“A voice ye hear not, in mine ear is crying:-- What does the sad voice say? ‘Dost thou not heed thy weary father’s sighing? Return, return to-day! Twelve moons have faded now: My daughter, where art thou?’

Peace! in the silent evening we will meet thee, Grey ruler of the tide! Must not the lover with the loved one greet thee, The bridegroom with his bride? Deck the dim couch aright, The Bridal couch, to-night.”

The nurses to the children say That, as the maiden sang that day, The Rhine to the heights of the beetling tower Sent up a cry of fiercer power, And again the maiden’s cheek was grown As white as ever was marble stone, And the bridesmaid her hand could hardly hold, Its fingers were so icy cold.

Rose Count Otto from the feast, As entered the hall the hoary Priest. A stalwart warrior, well I ween, That hoary Priest in his youth had been, But the might of his manhood he had given To peace and prayer, the Church and Heaven. For he had travelled o’er land and wave; He had kneeled on many a martyr’s grave; He had prayed in the meek St. Jerome’s cell, And had tasted St. Anthony’s blessed well; And reliques round his neck had he, Each worth a haughty kingdom’s fee; Scrapings of bones, and points of spears, And vials of authentic tears, From a prophet’s coffin a hallowed nail, And a precious shred of our Lady’s veil. And therefore at his awful tread The powers of darkness shrank with dread; And Satan felt that no disguise Could hide him from those chastened eyes. He looked on the bridegroom, he looked on the bride, The young Count smiled, but the old Priest sighed.

“Fields with the father I have won; I am come in my cowl to bless the son. Count Otto, ere thou bend the knee, What shall the hire of my service be?”

“Greedy hawk must gorge his prey; Pious priest must grasp his pay. Name the guerdon, and so to the task; Thine it is, ere thy lips can ask!”

He frowned as he answered--“Gold and gem, Count Otto, little I reck of them; But your bride has skill of the lute, they say; Let her sing me the song I shall name to-day.”

Loud laughed the Count: “And if she refuse The ditty, Sir Priest, thy whim shall choose, Row back to the house of old St. Goar: I never bid priest to a bridal more.”

Beside the maiden he took his stand; He gave the lute to her trembling hand; She gazed around with a troubled eye; The guests all shuddered, and knew not why; It seemed to them as if a gloom Had shrouded all the banquet-room, Though over its boards and over its beams Sunlight was glowing in merry streams.

The stern Priest throws an angry glance On that pale creature’s countenance; Unconsciously her white hand flings Its soft touch o’er the answering strings; The good man starts with a sudden thrill, And half relents from his purposed will; But he signs the cross on his aching brow, And arms his soul for its warfare now.

“Mortal maid, or goblin fairy, Sing me, I pray thee, an Ave Mary!”

Suddenly the maiden bent O’er the gorgeous instrument; But of song the listeners heard Only one wild mournful word-- “Lurley,--Lurley!” And when the sound in the liquid air Of that brief hymn had faded, Nothing was left of the nymph who there For a year had masqueraded, But the harp in the midst of the wide hall set Where her last strange word was spoken;-- The golden frame with tears was wet, And all the strings were broken.

_POEMS, Etc._

CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT.

“Des traditions étrangeres, En parlant sans obscurité Mais dans ces sources mensongères, Necherchons point la vérité.”--GRESSET.

“Nous avons changé tout cela.”--MOLIERE.

Lily, I’ve made a sketch, to show How all the world will alter The tournament in Ivanhoe, As painted by Sir Walter; Those jousting days have all gone by, And heaven be praised they’re over! “When brains were out, the man would die,” A swain may now recover!

Yet, Lily! Love has still his darts, And Beauty still her glances; Her trophies now are wounded hearts, Instead of broken lances! Soft tales are told, though not with flowers, But in a simple letter, And on the whole, this world of ours Is altered for the better!

Your stalwart chiefs, and men of might, Though fine poetic sketches, Contrasted with a modern knight, Were sad, unpolished wretches; They learned, indeed, to poise a dart, Or breathe a bold defiance, But “reading” was a mystic art, And “writing” quite a science!

Our heroes still wear spur on heel, And falchion, cap, and feather; But for your surcoats made of steel, And doublets made of leather,-- Good heavens! just fancy, at a ball, How very incommodious! And then, they never shaved at all-- ’Twas positively odious!

A warrior wasted half his life In wild crusades to Mecca, In previous penance for a wife, Like Jacob for Rebecca! Or captive, held some twenty years At Tunis or Aleppo, Came back, perchance, without his ears, A yellow fright, like Beppo!

Then heads were made to carry weight, And not to carry knowledge; Boys were not “brought up for the state,” Girls were not sent to college; Now (oh! how this round world improves!) We’ve “Essays” by mechanics, “Courses” of wisdom with removes, And ladies’ calisthenics!

In the olden time, when youth had fled, A lady’s life was over; For might she not as well be dead As live without a lover? But now, no foolish date we fix, So brisk _our_ Hymen’s trade is, Ladies are now at fifty-six But “elderly _young_ ladies.”

And husbands now, with bolts and springs, Ne’er cage and frighten Cupid, They know that if they clip his wings, They only make him stupid; Their married ladies had no lutes To sigh beneath their windows, They treated them, those ancient brutes, As cruelly as Hindoos!

They moped away their lives, poor souls! By no soft vision brightened, Perched up in castle pigeon-holes, Expecting to be frightened! Or hauled away through field, or fray, To dungeon, or to tower; They ne’er were neat for half a day, Or safe for half an hour.

’Twas easy too, by fraud or force, A wife’s complaints to stifle; To starve her was a thing of course,-- To poison her a trifle! Their wrongs remain no longer dumb, For now the laws protect them; And canes “no thicker than one’s thumb” Are suffered to correct them.

Then dwell not, Lily! on an age Of Fancy’s wild creation, Our own presents a fairer page For Beauty’s meditation; Though you share no Bois Guilbert’s bed, No Front de Bœuf’s vagaries, You _may_ be comfortably wed Some morning at St. Mary’s!

THE CONJURER.

“Marry come up! I can see as far into a wall as another!”

If you’ll tell me the reason why Lucy de Vere Thinks no more of her silks, or her satins; If you’ll tell me the reason why, cloudy or clear, She goes both to vespers and matins: Then I think I can tell why young Harry de Vaux, Who once cared for naught but his wine, has Been seen, like a saint, for a fortnight or so, In a niche, at St. Thomas Aquinas!

If you’ll tell me the reason Sir Rowland will ride As though he’d a witch on his crupper, Whenever he hopes to join Rosalie’s side, Or is going to meet her at supper; Then I think I can tell how it is that his groom, With a horse that is better and faster, Though the coaches make way, and the people make room, Can never keep up with his master!

If you’ll tell me the reason why Isabel’s eyes Sparkle brighter than Isabel’s rubies; If you’ll tell me the reason why Isabel’s sighs Turn sensible men into boobies: Then I think I can tell,--when she promised last night To waltz, and my eye turned to thank hers,-- Why it was that my heart felt so wondrously light, Though I hadn’t a sou at my bankers!

If you’ll tell me the reason a maiden _must_ sigh When she looks at a star or a planet; If you’ll tell me the reason she flings her book by, When you know she has hardly began it; If her cheek has grown pale, and if dim is her eye, And her breathing both fevered and faint is, Then think it _exceedingly_ likely that I Can tell what that maiden’s complaint is!

COUSINS.

“L’Hymen, dit-on, craint les petits Cousins.”--SCRIBE.

Had you ever a Cousin, Tom? Did your Cousin happen to sing? Sisters we’ve all by the dozen, Tom, But a Cousin’s a different thing: And you’d find, if you ever had kissed her, Tom, (But let this be a secret between us,) That your lips would have been a blister, Tom, For they’re not of the Sister genus.

There is something, Tom, in a Sister’s lip, When you give her a good-night kiss, That savours so much of relationship That nothing occurs amiss; But a Cousin’s lip if you once unite With yours, in the quietest way, Instead of sleeping a week that night, You’ll be dreaming the following day.

And people think it no harm, Tom, With a Cousin to hear you talk; And no one feels any alarm, Tom, At a quiet, cousinly walk;-- But, Tom, you’ll soon find what I happen to know, That such walks often grow into straying, And the voices of Cousins are sometimes so low, Heaven only knows what you’ll be saying!

And then there happen so often, Tom, Soft pressures of hands and fingers, And looks that were moulded to soften, Tom, And tones on which memory lingers; That long ere the walk is half over, those strings Of your heart are all put in play, By the voice of those fair, demi-sisterly things, In not quite the most brotherly way.

And the song of a Sister may bring to you, Tom, Such tones as the angels woo, But I fear if your Cousin should sing to you, Tom, You’ll take her for an angel, too; For so curious a note is that note of theirs, That you’ll fancy the voice that gave it Has been all the while singing the National Airs, Instead of the Psalms of David.

I once had a Cousin who sung, Tom, And her name may be nameless now, But the sound of those songs is still young, Tom, Though we are no longer so: ’Tis folly to dream of a bower of green When there is not a leaf on the tree;-- But ’twixt walking and singing, that Cousin has been, God forgive her! the ruin of me.

And now I care nought for society, Tom, And lead a most anchorite life, For I’ve loved myself into sobriety, Tom, And out of the wish for a wife; But oh! if I said but half what I might say, So sad were the lesson ’twould give, That ’twould keep you from loving for many a day, And from Cousins--as long as you live.

BAGATELLES!

I saw one day, near Paphos’ bowers, In a glass--sweet Fancy’s own-- A boy lie down among the flowers That circled Beauty’s throne. Poor youth! it moved my pity quite, He looked so very sad;-- Apollo said “his head was light,” But Pallas called him “mad.” A little sylphid, hiding near, Flew out from some blue-bells, And whispered in the pale youth’s ear, “Pray, try our Bagatelles!

“You’ve pondered over those musty books Till half your locks are grey;-- You’ve dimmed your eyes, you’ve spoiled your looks, You’ve worn yourself away! Leave Wisdom’s leaden page awhile, And take your lute again, And Beauty’s eyes shall round you smile, And Love’s repay the strain: Leave politics to dull M.P.’s, Philosophy to cells,-- Good youth!--you’ll ne’er succeed in these-- So try our Bagatelles!

“We’ve cures in these enchanted bowers For every sort of ill,-- _Our_ only medicines are flowers, Sweet flowers that never kill! Our leeches, too, are wondrous wise In mixing simples up,-- We’ve frozen dew-drops from the skies For the fevered lover’s cup; We’ve moonbeams gathered on the hills, And star-drops in the dells; And we never send you in our bills-- Pray, try our Bagatelles!

“And youths from every court and clime Come here to seek advice, And maids who have misspent their time Are kept preserved--in ice! Bright fountains in our gardens play, And each has magic in it,-- We cure blue devils every day, Blue stockings every minute: And heartaches when they’re worst, and when No other medicine tells, In maids or matrons, youths or men, Yield to our--Bagatelles!

“Last week a statesman came, whose eyes Scarce knew what sweet repose is, We gave one draught of Beauty’s sighs,-- Look there--how calm he dozes! A lawyer called the week before, Who talked of naught but Blackstone, We took him to our sylphid store, And a pair of wings we waxed on; And if you’ll look in yonder grove,-- Just by that grot of shells,-- You’ll find him making shocking love, And talking--Bagatelles!”

The sick youth raised his drooping head As the sylphid ceased to speak,-- “Hush, hush,” she cried, “you must to bed, And be quiet for a week!” And soon a Muse, with rainbow wings, And looks of laughing joy, Came with a lute of silver strings; And she sat beside the boy: And when I saw them last they lay Far up those flowery dells, And the boy was growing glad and gay As she sung him--Bagatelles!

THERE’S NOTHING NEW BENEATH THE SUN.

(_The Brazen Head._)

The world pursues the very track Which it pursued at its creation; And mortals shrink in horror back From any hint of innovation; From year to year the children do Exactly what their sires have done; Time is! time was!--there’s nothing new,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still lovers hope to be believed, Still clients hope to win their causes; Still plays and farces are received With most encouraging applauses; Still dancers have fantastic toes, Still dandies shudder at a dun; Still diners have their fricandeaus,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still cooks torment the hapless eels, Still boys torment the dumb cockchafers; Lord Eldon still adores the seals, Lord Clifford still adores the wafers; Still asses have enormous ears, Still gambling bets are lost and won; Still opera dancers marry peers,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still women are absurdly weak, Still infants dote upon a rattle; Still Mr. Martin cannot speak Of anything but beaten cattle; Still brokers swear the shares will rise, Still Cockneys boast of Manton’s gun; Still listeners swallow monstrous lies,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still genius is a jest to earls, Still honesty is down to zero; Still heroines have spontaneous curls, Still novels have a handsome hero; Still Madame Vestris plays a man, Still fools adore her, I for one; Still youths write sonnets to a fan,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!