Part 6

Still people make a plaguey fuss, About all things that don’t concern them, As if it matters aught to us, What happens to our grandsons, burn them! Still life is nothing to the dead, Still Folly’s toil is Wisdom’s fun; And still, except the Brazen Head,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

PEACE BE THINE.

When Sorrow moves with silent tread Around some mortal’s buried dust, And muses on the mouldering dead Who sleep beneath their crumbling bust, Though all unheard and all unknown The name on that sepulchral stone, She looks on its recording line, And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine!”

O Lady! me thou knowest not, And what I am, or am to be; The pain and pleasure of my lot Are nought, and must be nought, to thee; Thou seest not my hopes and fears; Yet thou, perhaps, in other years, Wilt look on this recording line, And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”

THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS.[1]

(_Imitated from the Spanish._)

O tell me not of broken vow-- I speak a firmer passion now; O tell me not of shattered chain-- The link shall never burst again! My soul is fixed as firmly here As the red sun in his career, As victory on Mina’s crest Or tenderness in Rosa’s breast; Then do not tell me, while we part, Of fickle flame and roving heart; While youth shall bow at beauty’s shrine, That flame shall glow--that heart be thine.

Then wherefore dost thou bid me tell The fate thy malice knows so well? I may not disobey thee!--yes! Thou bidst me--and I _will_ confess: See how adoringly I kneel: Hear how my folly I reveal: My folly!--chide me if thou wilt, Thou shalt not, canst not, call it guilt:-- And when my faithlessness is told, Ere thou hast time to play the scold, I’ll haste the fond rebuke to check, And lean upon the snowy neck, Play with its glossy auburn hair, And hide the blush of falsehood there.

Inez, the innocent and young, First shared my heart, and waked my song; We were both harmless, and untaught To love as fashionables ought; With all the modesty of youth We talked of constancy and truth, Grew fond of music and the moon, And wandered on the nights of June To sit beneath the chesnut tree, While the lonely stars shone mellowly, Shedding a pale and dancing beam On the wave of Guadalquivir’s stream. And aye we talked of faith and feelings, With no distrustings, no concealings; And aye we joyed in stolen glances, And sighed, and blushed, and read romances. Our love was ardent and sincere, And lasted, Rosa--half a-year! And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,-- Married Don Josè--so we parted. At twenty-one I’ve often heard My bashfulness was quite absurd; For, with a squeamishness uncommon, I feared to love a married woman.

Fair Leonora’s laughing eye Again awaked my song and sigh: A gay intriguing dame was she, And fifty Dons of high degree, That came and went as they were bid, Dubbed her the Beauty of Madrid. Alas! what constant pains I took To merit one approving look! I courted valour and the muse, Wrote challenges and billets-doux; Paid for sherbet and serenade, Fenced with Pegru and Alvarade; Fought all the bull-fights like a hero, Studied small talk and the Bolero: Played the guitar--and played the fool, That out of tune--this out of rule. I oft at midnight wandered out, Wrapt up in love and my capoté, To muse on beauty and the skies, Cold winds--and Leonora’s eyes.

Alas! when all my gains were told, I’d caught a Tartar--and a cold. And yet, perchance, that lovely brow Had still detained my captive vow-- That clear blue eye’s enchanting roll Had still enthralled my yielding soul,-- But suddenly a vision bright Came o’er me in a veil of light, And burst the bonds whose fetters bound me, And brake the spell that hung around me, Recalled the heart that madly roved, And bade me love, and be beloved. Who was it broke the chain and spell? Dark-eyed Castilian! _thou_ canst tell!

And am I faithless!--woe the while! What vow but melts at Rosa’s smile? For broken vows, and faith betrayed, The guilt is thine, Castilian maid!

The tale is told, and I am gone: Think of me, loved and only one, When none on earth shall care beside How Carlos lived, or loved, or died! Thy love on earth shall be to me A bird upon a leafless tree, A bark upon a hopeless wave, A lily on a tombless grave, A cheering hope, a living ray, To light me on a weary way.

And thus is love’s confession done: Give me thy parting benison; And, ere I rise from bended knee, To wander o’er a foreign sea Alone and friendless,--ere I don My pilgrim’s hat and sandal shoon, Dark-eyed Castilian! let me win Forgiveness sweet for venial sin; Let lonely sighs, and dreams of thee, Be penance for my perjury!

MARRIAGE.

What, what is Marriage? Harris, Priscian! Assist me with a definition.-- “Oh!” cries a charming silly fool, Emerging from her boarding-school-- “Marriage is--love without disguises, It is a--something that arises From raptures and from stolen glances, To be the end of all romances; Vows--quarrels--moonshine--babes--but hush! I mustn’t have you see me blush.”

“Pshaw!” says a modern modish wife, “Marriage is splendour, fashion, life; A house in town, and villa shady, Balls, diamond bracelets, and ‘my lady;’ Then for finale, angry words, Some people’s--‘obstinate’s--‘absurds!’ And peevish hearts, and silly heads, And oaths, and _bêtes_, and separate beds.”

An aged bachelor, whose life Has just been sweetened with a wife, Tells out the latent grievance thus: “Marriage is--odd! for one of us ’Tis worse a mile than rope or tree, Hemlock, or sword, or slavery; An end at once to all our ways, Dismission to the one-horse chaise; Adieu to Sunday car, and pig, Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig; _Our_ friends turn out,--our wife’s are clapt in; ’Tis ‘Exit crony,’--‘Enter captain!’ Then hurry in a thousand thorns,-- Quarrels, and compliments,--and horns. This is the yoke, and I must wear it; Marriage is--hell, or something near it!”

“Why, marriage,” says an exquisite, Sick from the supper of last night, “Marriage is--after one by me! I promised Tom to ride at three.-- Marriage is--’gad! I’m rather late; _La Fleur_--my stays! and chocolate!-- Marriage is--really, though, ’twas hard To lose a thousand on a card; Sink the old Duchess!--three revokes! ’Gad! I must fell the abbey oaks: Mary has lost a thousand more!-- Marriage is--’gad! a cursed bore!”

Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan, Rises indignant from his throne, And mocks their self-reviling tears, And whispers thus in Folly’s ears: “O frivolous of heart and head! If strifes infest your nuptial bed, Not Hymen’s hand, but guilt and sin, Fashion and folly, force them in; If on your couch is seated Care, _I_ did not bring the scoffer there; If Hymen’s torch is feebler grown, The hand that quenched it was your own; And what I am, unthinking elves, Ye all have made me for yourselves!”

THE BACHELOR.[2]

T. QUINCE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MATTHEW PRINGLE.

You wonder that your ancient friend Has come so near his journey’s end, And borne his heavy load of ill O’er Sorrow’s slough, and Labour’s hill, Without a partner to beguile The toilsome way with constant smile, To share in happiness and pain, To guide, to comfort, to sustain, And cheer the last long weary stage That leads to Death through gloomy Age! To drop these metaphoric jokes, And speak like reasonable folks, It seems you wonder, Mr. Pringle, That old Tom Quince is living single!

Since my old crony and myself Laid crabbed Euclid on the shelf, And made our _congé_ to the Cam, Long years have passed; and here I am With nerves and gout, but yet alive, A Bachelor, and fifty-five.-- Sir, I’m a Bachelor, and mean Until the closing of the scene, Or be it right, or be it wrong, To play the part I’ve played so long, Nor be the rat that others are, Caught by a ribbon or a star.

“As years increase,” your worship cries, “All troubles and anxieties Come swiftly on: you feel vexation About your neighbours, or the nation; The gout in fingers or in toes Awakes you from your first repose; You’ll want a clever nurse, when life Begins to fail you--take a wife! Believe me, from the mind’s disease Her soothing voice might give you ease, And, when the twinge comes shooting through you, Her care might be of service to you!” Sir, I’m not dying, though I know You charitably think me so;-- Not dying yet, though you, and others, In augury your learned brothers, Take pains to prophesy events Which lie some twenty winters hence. Some twenty?--look! you shake your head As if I were insane or dead, And tell your children and your wife-- “Old men grow _very_ fond of life!” Alas! you prescience never ends As long as it concerns your friends; But your own fifty-third December Is what you never can remember! And when I talk about my health And future hopes of weal or wealth, With something ’twixt a grunt and groan You mutter in an undertone-- “Hark! how the dotard chatters still![3] He’ll not believe he’s old or ill! He goes on forming great designs,-- Has just laid in a stock of wines,-- And promises his niece a ball, As if grey hairs would never fall! I really think he’s all but mad.” Then, with a wink and sigh, you add, “Tom is a friend I dearly prize, But--never thought him _over_ wise!”

You--who are clever to foretell Where ignorance might be as well-- Would marvel how my health has stood: My pulse is firm, digestion good, I walk to see my turnips grow, Manage to ride a mile or so, Get to the village church to pray, And drink my pint of wine a day; And often, in an idle mood, Emerging from my solitude, Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls, And scare the sparrows and the owls, Or talk with Dick about my crops, And learn the price of malt and hops.

You say that when you saw me last My appetite was going fast, My eye was dim, my cheek was pale, My bread--and stories--both were stale; My wine and wit were growing worse, And all things else,--except my purse; In short, the very blind might see I was not what I used to be.

My glass (which I believe before ye) Will teach me quite another story; My wrinkles are not many yet, My hair is still as black as jet; My legs are full, my cheeks are ruddy, My eyes, though somewhat weak by study, Retain a most vivacious ray, And tell no stories of decay; And then my waist, unvexed, unstayed, By fetters of the tailor’s trade, Tells you, as plain as waist can tell, I’m most unfashionably well.

And yet you think I’m growing thinner!-- You’d stare to see me eat my dinner! You know that I was held by all The greatest epicure in Hall, And that the voice of Granta’s sons Styled me the Gourmand of St. John’s:-- I have not yet been found unable To do my duty to my table, Though at its head no lady gay Hath driven British food away, And made her hapless husband bear Alike her fury and her fare. If some kind-hearted chum calls in, An extra dish and older bin And John in all his finery drest Do honour to the welcome guest; And then we talk of other times, Of parted friends, and distant climes, And lengthened converse, tale, and jest, Lull every anxious care to rest; And when unwillingly I rise With newly wakened sympathies From conversation--and the bowl, The feast of stomach--and of soul, I lay me down, and seem to leap O’er forty summers in my sleep; And youth, with all its joy and pain, Comes rushing on my soul again. I rove where’er my boyhood roved-- I love whate’er my boyhood loved-- And rocks, and vales, and woods, and streams, Fleet o’er my pillow in my dreams.

’Tis true, some ugly foes arise, E’en in this earthly paradise, Which you, good Pringle, may beguile, By Mrs. P’s unceasing smile; I am an independent elf, And keep my comforts in myself. If my best sheep have got the rot-- Or if the Parson hits a blot-- Or if young witless prates of laurel-- Or if my tithe produces quarrel-- Or if my roofing wants repairs-- Or if I’m angry with my heirs-- Or if I’ve nothing else to do-- I grumble for an hour or two; Riots or rumours unrepressed, My niece--or knuckle--over-drest, The lateness of a wished-for post, Miss Mackrell’s story of the ghost, New wine, new fashions, or new faces, New bills, new taxes, or new places, Or Mr. Hume’s enumeration Of all the troubles of the nation, Will sometimes wear my patience out! Then, as I said before, the gout-- Well, well, my heart was never faint! And yet it might provoke a saint. A rise of bread, or fall of rain, Sometimes unite to give me pain; And oft my lawyer’s bag of papers Gives me a taste of spleen and vapours. Angry or sad, alone or ill, I have my senses with me still; Although my eyes are somewhat weak, Yet can I dissipate my pique, By Poem, Paper, or Review; And though I’m dozy in my pew At Dr. Poundtext’s second leaf, I am not yet so very deaf As to require the rousing noise Of screaming girls and roaring boys. Thrice--thrice accursed be the day When I shall fling my bliss away, And, to disturb my quiet life, Take discord in the shape of wife! Time, in his endless muster-roll, Shall mark the hour with blackest coal, When old Tom Quince shall cease to see The _Chronicle_ with toast and tea, Confine his rambles to his park, And never dine till after dark, And change his comfort and his crony For crowd and conversazione.

If every aiding thought is vain, And momentary grief and pain Urge the old man to frown and fret, He has another comfort yet; This earth has thorns, as poets sing, But not for ever can they sting; Our sand from out its narrow glass Rapidly passes!--let it pass! I seek not, I, to check or stay The progress of a single day, But rather cheer my hours of pain, Because so few of them remain. Care circles every mortal head,-- The dust will be a calmer bed! From Life’s alloy no life is free, But--Life is not Eternity!

When that unerring day shall come To call me, from my wandering, home,-- The dark and still and painful day When breath shall fleet in groans away, When comfort shall be vainly sought, And doubt shall be in every thought, When words shall fail th’ unuttered vow, And fever heat the burning brow, When the dim eye shall gaze, and fear To close the glance that lingers here, Snatching the faint departing light That seems to flicker in its flight, When the lone heart, in that long strife, Shall cling unconsciously to life,-- I’ll have no shrieking female by To shed her drops of sympathy; To listen to each smothered throe, To feel, or feign, officious woe, To bring me every useless cup, And beg “dear Tom” to drink it up, To turn my oldest servants off, E’en as she hears my gurgling cough; And then expectantly to stand, And chafe my temples with her hand, And pull a cleaner night-cap o’er ’em, That I may die with due decorum; And watch the while my ebbing breath, And count the tardy steps of death; Grudging the leech his growing bill, And wrapt in dreams about the will. I’ll have no Furies round my bed!-- They shall not plague me--till I’m dead.

Believe me! ill my dust would rest, If the plain marble o’er my breast, That tells, in letters large and clear, “THE BONES OF THOMAS QUINCE LIE HERE!” Should add a talisman of strife, “ALSO THE BONES OF JOAN, HIS WIFE!” No! while beneath this simple stone Old Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone, Some village Oracle, who well Knows how to speak, and read, and spell, Shall slowly construe, bit by bit, My “_Natus_” and my “_Obiit_,” And then, with sage discourse and long, Recite my virtues to the throng:--

“The Gentleman came straight from College: A most prodigious man for knowledge! He used to pay all men their due, Hated a miser--and a Jew; But always opened wide his door To the first knocking of the poor. None, as the grateful parish knows, Save the Churchwardens, were his foes; They could not bear the virtuous pride Which gave the sixpence they denied. If neighbours had a mind to quarrel, He used to treat them to a barrel; And that, I think, was sounder law Than any book I ever saw. The ladies never used to flout him; But this was rather strange about him: That, gay or thoughtful, young or old, He took no wife for love or gold; Women he called ‘a pretty thing,’ But never could abide a ring!”

Good Mr. Pringle!--you must see Your arguments are light with me; They buzz like feeble flies around me, But leave me firm, as first they found me. Silence your logic! burn your pen! The poet says, “We all are men;” And all “condemned alike to groan”-- You with a wife, and I with none. Well! yours may be a happier lot, But it is one I envy not; And you’ll allow me, Sir, to pray That, at some near-approaching day, You may not have to wince and whine, And find some cause to envy mine!

HOW TO RHYME FOR LOVE.

At the last hour of Fannia’s rout, When Dukes walked in, and lamps went out, Fair Chloe sat; a sighing crowd Of high adorers round her bowed, And ever flattery’s incense rose To lull the idol to repose. Sudden some Gnome that stood unseen, Or lurked disguised in mortal mien, Whispered in Beauty’s trembling ear The word of bondage and of fear-- “Marriage!”--her lips their silence broke, And smiled on Vapid as they spoke,-- “I hate a drunkard or a lout, I hate the the sullens and the gout; If e’er I wed--let danglers know it-- I wed with no one but a poet.”

And who but feels a poet’s fire When Chloe’s smiles, as now, inspire? Who can the bidden verse refuse When Chloe is his verse and Muse? Thus Flattery whispered round; And straight the humorous fancy grew, That lyres are sweet when hearts are true; And all who feel a lover’s flame Must rhyme to-night on Chloe’s name; And he’s unworthy of the dame Who silent here is found. Since head must plead the cause of heart, Some put their trust in answer smart Or pointed repartee; Some joy that they have hoarded up Those genii of the jovial cup, Chorus, and catch, and glee; And for one evening all prepare To be “Apollo’s chiefest care.”

Then Vapid rose--no Stentor this, And his no Homer’s lay; Meek victim of antithesis, He sighed and died away:-- “Despair my sorrowing bosom rives, And anguish on me lies Chloe may die, while Vapid lives, Or live while Vapid dies! You smile!--the horrid vision flies, And Hope this promise gives; I cannot live while Chloe dies, Nor die while Chloe lives!”

Next, Snaffle, foe to tears and sadness, Drew fire from Chloe’s eyes; And warm with drunkenness and madness, He started for the prize. “Let the glad cymbals loudly clash, Full bumpers let’s be quaffing! No poet I!--Hip, hip!--here goes! Blow,--blow the trumpet, blow the----” Here he was puzzled for a rhyme, And Lucy whispered “nose” in time, And so they fell a-laughing.

“Gods!” cried a minister of State, “You know not, Empress of my fate, How long my passion would endure, If passion were a sinecure; But since, in Love’s despotic clime, Fondness is taxed, and pays in rhyme, Glad to retire, I shun disgrace, And make my bow, and quit my place.”

And thus the jest went circling round, And ladies smiled and sneered, As smooth fourteen and weak fourscore Professed they ne’er had rhymed before, And drunkards blushed, and doctors swore, And soldiers owned they feared; Unwonted Muses were invoked By pugilists and whips, And many a belle looked half provoked, When favoured swains stood dumb and choked; And warblers whined, and punsters joked, And dandies bit their lips.

At last an old Ecclesiastic, Who looked half kind and half sarcastic, And seemed in every transient look At once to flatter and rebuke, Cut off the sport with “Pshaw! enough:” And then took breath,--and then took snuff: “Chloe,” he said, “you’re like the moon; You shine as bright, you change as soon; Your wit is like the moon’s fair beam, In borrowed light ’tis over us thrown; Yet, like the moon’s, that sparkling stream To careless eyes appears your own; Your cheek by turns is pale and red, And then to close the simile, (From which methinks you turn your head, As half in anger, half in glee,) Dark would the night appear without you, And--twenty fools have rhymed about you!”

SURLY HALL.

“Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! They grow still, too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here.” --_Shakespeare._

The sun hath shed a mellower beam, Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream, And air and water, earth and heaven, Lie in the calm repose of even. How silently the breeze moves on, Flutters, and whispers, and is gone! How calmly does the quiet sky Sleep in its cold serenity! Alas! how sweet a scene were here For shepherd or for sonnetteer; How fit the place, how fit the time, For making love, or making rhyme! But though the sun’s descending ray Smiles warmly on the close of day, ’Tis not to gaze upon his light That Eton’s sons are here to-night; And though the river, calm and clear, Makes music to the poet’s ear, ’Tis not to listen to the sound That Eton’s sons are thronging round: The sun unheeded may decline-- Blue eyes send out a brighter shine; The wave may cease its gurgling moan-- Glad voices have a sweeter tone; For in our calendar of bliss We have no hour so gay as this, When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes Of those we know, and love, and prize, Are come to cheer the captive’s thrall, And smile upon his festival.