Part 7

Stay, Pegasus!--and let me ask Ere I go onward in my task,-- Pray, reader, were you ever here, Just at this season of the year? No!--then the end of next July Should bring you, with admiring eye, To hear us _row_, and see us row, And cry, “How fast _them_ boys _does_ go!” For Father Thames beholds to-night A thousand visions of delight; Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering, Lame steeds to right and left careering, Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses, Ruffling of temper and of dresses; Wounds on the heart--and on the knuckles; Losing of patience--and of buckles. An interdict is laid on Latin, And scholars smirk in silk and satin, And dandies start their thinnest pumps, And Michael Oakley’s in the dumps; And there is nought beneath the sun But dash, and splash, and falls, and fun.

Lord! what would be the Cynic’s mirth, If fate would lift him to the earth, And set his tub, with magic jump, Squat down beside the Brocas Clump! What scoffs the sage would utter there From his unpolished elbow-chair, To see the sempstress’ handiwork, The Greek confounded with the Turk, Parisian mixed with Piedmontese, And Persian joined to Portuguese; And mantles short, and mantles long, And mantles right, and mantles wrong, Mis-shaped, mis-coloured, and mis-placed With what the tailor calls a _taste_! And then the badges and the boats, The flags, the drums, the paint, the coats; But more than these, and more than all, The puller’s intermitted call-- “Easy!”--“Hard all!”--“Now pick her up!”-- “Upon my life, how I shall sup!” Would be a fine and merry matter To wake the sage’s love of satire. Kind readers, at my laughing age I thank my stars I’m not a sage; I, an unthinking, scribbling elf, Love to please others--and myself; Therefore I fly _a malo joco_, But like _desipere in loco_. Excuse me, that I wander so; All modern pens digress, you know. Now to my theme! Thou Being gay, Houri or goddess, nymph or fay, Whoe’er--whate’er--where’er thou art-- Who, with thy warm and kindly heart, Hast made these blest abodes thy care,-- Being of water, earth, or air,-- Beneath the moonbeam hasten hither, Enjoy thy blessings ere they wither, And witness with thy gladdest face The glories of thy dwelling-place!

The boats put off; throughout the crowd The tumult thickens; wide and loud The din re-echoes; man and horse Plunge onward in their mingled course. Look at the troop! I love to see Our real Etonian cavalry: They start in such a pretty trim, And such sweet scorn of life and limb. I must confess I never found A horse much worse for being sound; I wish my nag not wholly blind, And like to have a tail behind; And though he certainly may hear Correctly with a single ear, I think, to look genteel and neat, He ought to have his two complete. But these are trifles!--off they go Beside the wondering river’s flow; And if, by dint of spur and whip, They shamble on without a trip, Well have they done! I make no question They’re shaken into good digestion.

I and my Muse--my Muse and I-- Will follow with the company, And get to Surly Hall in time To make a supper, and a rhyme. Yes! while the animating crowd, The gay, and fair, and kind, and proud, With eager voice and eager glance, Wait till the pageantry advance, We’ll throw around a hasty view, And try to get a sketch or two.

First in the race is William Tag, Thalia’s most industrious fag; Whate’er the subject he essays To dress in never-dying lays, A chief, a cheese, a dearth, a dinner, A cot, a castle, cards, Corinna, Hibernia, Baffin’s Bay, Parnassus, Beef, Bonaparte, beer, Bonassus-- Will hath his ordered words, and rhymes For various scenes and various times; Which suit alike for this or that, And come, like volunteers, quite _pat_. He hath his elegy, or sonnet, For Lucy’s bier, or Lucy’s bonnet; And celebrates with equal ardour A monarch’s sceptre, or his larder. Poor William, when he wants a hint, All other poet’s are his mint; He coins his epic or his lyric, His satire or his panegyric, From all the gravity and wit Of what the ancients thought and writ. Armed with his Ovid and his Flaccus He comes like thunder to attack us; In pilfered mail he bursts to view, The cleverest thief I ever knew. Thou noble Bard! at any time Borrow my measure and my rhyme; Borrow (I’ll cancel all the debt) An epigram or epithet; Borrow my mountains, or my trees, My paintings, or my similes; Nay, borrow all my pretty names, My real or my fancied flames; Eliza, Alice, Leonora, Mary, Melina, and Medora; And borrow all my “mutual vows,” My “ruby lips,” and “cruel brows,” And all my stupors and my startings, And all my meetings, and my partings; Thus far, my friend, you’ll find me willing; Borrow all things save one--a shilling!

Drunken, and loud, and mad, and rash, Joe Tarrell wields his ceaseless lash; The would-be sportsman; o’er the sides Of the lank charger he bestrides The foam lies painfully, and blood Is trickling in a ruddier flood Beneath the fury of the steel, Projecting from his armed heel. E’en from his childhood’s earliest bloom, All studies that become a groom Eton’s _spes gregis_, honest Joe, Or knows, or would be thought to know; He picks a hunter’s hoof quite finely, And spells a horse’s teeth divinely. Prime terror of molesting duns, Sole judge of greyhounds and of guns, A skilful whip, a steady shot, Joe swears he is!--who says he’s not? And then he has such knowing faces For all the week of Ascot races, And talks with such a mystic speech, Untangible to vulgar reach, Of Sultan, Highflyer, and Ranter, Potatoes, Quiz, and Tam O’Shanter, Bay colts and brown colts, sires and dams, Bribings and bullyings, bets and bams; And how the favourite _should_ have won, And how the little Earl was _done_; And how the filly failed in strength, And how some faces grew in length; And how some people--if they’d show-- Know something more than others know. Such is his talk; and while we wonder At that interminable thunder, The undiscriminating snarler Astounds the ladies in the parlour, And broaches at his mother’s table The slang of kennel and of stable. And when he’s drunk, he roars before ye One excellent unfailing story, About a gun, Lord knows how long, With a discharge, Lord knows how strong, Which always needs an oath and frown To make the monstrous dose go down. O! oft and oft the Muses pray That wondrous tube may burst some day, And then the world will ascertain Whether its master hath a brain! Then, on the stone that hides his sleep, These accents shall be graven deep,-- Or “Upton” and “C. B.”[4] between Shine in the _Sporting Magazine_;-- “Civil to none, except his brutes; Polished in nought, except his boots; Here lie the relics of Joe Tarrell: Also, Joe Tarrell’s double-barrel!” Ho!--by the muttered sounds that slip Unwilling from his curling lip; By the grey glimmer of his eye, That shines so unrelentingly; By the stern sneer upon his snout, I know the critic, Andrew Crout! The boy-reviler! amply filled With venomed virulence, and skilled To look on what is good and fair And find or make a blemish there. For Fortune to his cradle sent Self-satisfying discontent, And he hath caught from cold Reviews The one great talent, to abuse; And so he sallies sternly forth, Like the cold Genius of the North, To check the heart’s exuberant fulness, And chill good-humour into dulness: Where’er he comes, his fellows shrink Before his awful nod and wink; And wheresoe’er these features plastic Assume the savage or sarcastic, Mirth stands abashed, and Laughter flies, And Humour faints, and Quibble dies. How sour he seems!--and hark! he spoke; We’ll stop and listen to the croak; ’Twill charm us, if these happy lays Are honoured by a fool’s dispraise!-- “You think the boats well manned this year! To you they may perhaps appear!-- I who have seen those frames of steel, Tuckfield, and Dixon, and Bulteel, Can swear--no matter what I swear-- Only things are not as they were! And then our cricket!--think of that! We ha’n’t a tolerable bat; It’s very true, that Mr. Tucker, Who puts the field in such a pucker, Contrives to make his fifty runs;-- What then?--we had a Hardinge once! As for our talents, where are they? Griffin and Grildrig had their day; And who’s the star of modern time? Octosyllabic Peregrine; Who pirates, puns, and talks sedition, Without a moment’s intermission; And if he did not get a lift Sometimes from _me_--and Doctor Swift, I can’t tell what the deuce he’d do!-- But this, you know, is _entre nous_! I’ve tried to talk him into taste, But found my labour quite misplaced; He nibs his pen, and twists his ear, And says he’s deaf and cannot hear; And if I mention right or rule,-- Egad! he takes me for a fool!”

Gazing upon this varied scene With a new artist’s absent mien, I see thee silent and alone, My friend, ingenious Hamilton. I see thee there--(nay, do not blush!) Knight of the Pallet and the Brush, Dreaming of straight and crooked lines, And planning portraits and designs. I like him hugely!--well I wis, No despicable skill is his, Whether his sportive canvas shows Arabia’s sands or Zembla’s snows, A lion, or a bed of lilies, Fair Caroline, or fierce Achilles; I love to see him taking down A schoolfellow’s unconscious frown, Describing twist, grimace, contortion, In most becoming disproportion, While o’er his merry paper glide Rivers of wit; and by his side Caricatura takes her stand, Inspires the thought and guides the hand; I love to see his honoured books Adorned with rivulets and brooks; Troy frowning with her ancient towers, Or Ida gay with fruit and flowers; I love to see fantastic shapes, Dragons and griffins, birds and apes, And pigmy forms and forms gigantic, Forms natural, and forms romantic, Of dwarf and ogres, dames and knights, Scrawled by the side of Homer’s fights, And portraits daubed on Maro’s poems, And profiles penned to Tulley’s Proems; In short, I view with partial eyes Whate’er my brother painter tries. To each belongs his own utensil; I sketch with pen, as he with pencil; And each, with pencil or with pen, Hits off a likeness now and then. He drew _me_ once--the spiteful creature! ’Twas voted--“like in every feature;” It might have been so!--(’twas lopsided, And squinted worse than ever I did:) However, from that hapless day, I owed the debt, which here I pay; And now I’ll give my friend a hint:-- Unless you want to shine in print, Paint lords and ladies, nymphs and fairies, And demi-gods, and dromedaries; But never be an author’s creditor, Nor paint the picture of an Editor!

Who is the youth with stare confounded, And tender arms so neatly rounded, And moveless eyes, and glowing face, And attitude of studied grace? Now Venus, pour your lustre o’er us! Your would-be servant stands before us! Hail, Corydon! let others blame The fury of his fictioned flame; I love to hear the beardless youth Talking of constancy and truth, Swearing more darts are in his liver Than ever gleamed in Cupid’s quiver, And wondering at those hearts of stone Which never melted like his own. Ah! when I look on Fashion’s moth, Wrapt in his visions and his cloth, I would not, for a nation’s gold, Disturb the dream--or spoil the fold!

And who the maid, whose gilded chain, Hath bound the heart of such a swain? Oh! look on those surrounding graces! There is no lack of pretty faces; M----l, the goddess of the night, Looks beautiful with all her might; And M----, in that simple dress, Enthralls us more by studying less; D----, in your becoming pride, Ye march to conquest, side by side; And A----, thou fleetest by Bright in thine arch simplicity; Slight are the links thy power hath wreathed; Yet, by the tone thy voice hath breathed, By thy glad smile and ringlets curled, I would not break them for the world! But this is idle! Paying court I know was never yet my forte; And all I say of nymph and queen, To cut it short, can only mean That when I throw my gaze around I see much beauty on the ground.

Hark! hark! a mellowed note Over the water seemed to float! Hark! the note repeated! A sweet, and soft, and soothing strain Echoed, and died, and rose again, As if the Nymphs of Fairy reign Were holding to-night their revel rout, And pouring their fragrant voices out, On the blue water seated. Hark to the tremulous tones that flow, And the voice of the boatmen as they row, Cheerfully to the heart they go, And touch a thousand pleasant strings Of triumph and pride, and hope and joy, And thoughts that are only known to boy, And young imaginings! The note is near, the voice comes clear, And we catch its echo on the ear With a feeling of delight; And, as the gladdening sounds we hear, There’s many an eager listener here, And many a straining sight.

One moment,--and ye see Where, fluttering quick, as the breezes blow, Backwards and forwards, to and fro, Bright with the beam of retiring day, Old Eton’s flag, on its watery way, Moves on triumphantly! But what that ancient poets have told Of Amphitrite’s car of gold, With the Nymphs behind, and the Nymphs before, And the Nereid’s song, and the Triton’s roar, Could equal half the pride That heralds the Monarch’s plashing oar Over the swelling tide? And look!--they land those gallant crews, With their jackets light, and their bellying trews; And Ashley walks applauded by, With a world’s talent in his eye; And Kinglake, dear to poetry, And dearer to his friends; Hibernian Roberts, you are there, With that unthinking, merry stare Which still its influence lends To make us drown our devils blue, In laughing at ourselves,--and you! Still I could lengthen out the tale, And sing Sir Thomas with his ale To all that like to read; Still I could choose to linger long Where Friendship bids the willing song Flow out for honest Meade!

Yet e’en on this triumphant day One thought of grief will rise; And though I bid my fancy play, And jest and laugh through all the lay, Yet sadness still will have its way, And burst the vain disguise! Yes! when the pageant shall have passed, I shall have looked upon my last; I shall not e’er behold again Our pullers’ unremitted strain; Nor listen to the charming cry Of contest or of victory That speaks what those young bosoms feel, As keel is pressing fast on keel; Oh! bright these glories still shall be, But they shall never dawn for me!

E’en when a realm’s congratulation Sang Pæans for the Coronation, Amidst the pleasure that was round me, A melancholy spirit found me; And while all else were singing “Io!” I couldn’t speak a word but “Heigh-ho!” And so, instead of laughing gaily, I dropped a tear,--and wrote my “Vale.”

VALE!

Eton, the Monarch of thy prayers E’en now receives his load of cares; Throned in the consecrated choir He takes the sceptre of his sire, And wears the crown his father wore, And swears the oath his father swore, And therefore sounds of joy resound, Fair Eton, on thy classic ground. A gladder gale is round thee breathed; And on thy mansions thou hast wreathed A thousand lamps, whose various hue Waits but the night to burst to view. Woe to the poets that refuse To wake and woo their idle Muse, When those glad notes, “God save the King,” From hill, and vale, and hamlet ring! Hark, how the loved inspiring tune Peals forth from every loyal loon Who loves his country, and excels In drinking beer or ringing bells! It is a day of shouts and greeting; A day of idleness and eating; And triumph swells in every soul, And mighty beeves are roasted whole, And ale, unbought, is set a-running, And pleasure’s hymn grows rather stunning, And children roll upon the green, And cry, “Confusion to the Queen!” And Sorrow flies, and Labour slumbers: And Clio pours her loudest numbers; And hundreds of that joyous throng With whom my life hath lingered long Give their glad raptures to the gale, In one united echoing “Hail!”

I took the harp, I smote the string, I strove to soar on Fancy’s wing, And murmur in my sovereign’s praise The latest of my boyhood’s lays. Alas! the theme was too divine To suit so weak a Muse as mine: I saw--I felt it could not be; No song of triumph flows from me; The harp from which those sounds ye ask Is all unfit for such a task; And the last echo of its tone, Dear Eton, must be thine alone!

A few short hours, and I am borne Far from the fetters I have worn; A few short hours, and I am free!-- And yet I shrink from liberty, And look, and long to give my soul Back to thy cherishing control. Control? Ah no! thy chain was meant Far less for bond than ornament; And though its links are firmly set, I never found them gall me yet. Oh still, through many chequered years, ’Mid anxious toils, and hopes, and fears, Still I have doted on thy fame, And only gloried in thy name. How I have loved thee! Thou hast been My Hope, my Mistress, and my Queen; I always found thee kind, and thou Hast never seen me weep--till now.

I knew that time was fleeting fast, I knew thy pleasures could not last; I knew too well that riper age Must step upon a busier stage; Yet when around thine ancient towers I passed secure my tranquil hours, Or heard beneath thine aged trees The drowsy humming of the bees, Or wandered by thy winding stream, I would not check my fancy’s dream; Glad in my transitory bliss, I recked not of an hour like this; And now the truth comes swiftly on, The truth I would not think upon, The last sad thought, so oft delayed,-- “These joys are only born to fade.”

Ye Guardians of my earliest days, Ye Patrons of my earliest lays, Custom reminds me, that to you Thanks and farewell to-day are due. Thanks and farewell I give you,--not (As some that leave this holy spot) In laboured phrase and polished lie Wrought by the forge of flattery, But with a heart that cannot tell The half of what it feels so well. If I am backward to express, Believe, my love is not the less; Be kind as you are wont, and view A thousand thanks in one Adieu. My future life shall strive to show I wish to pay the debt I owe; The labours that ye give to May September’s fruits shall best repay. And you, my friends, who loved to share Whate’er was mine of sport or care, Antagonists at fives or chess, Friends in the play-ground or the press, I leave ye now; and all that rests Of mutual tastes, and loving breasts, In the lone vision that shall come, Where’er my studies and my home, To cheer my labour and my pain And make me feel a boy again.

Yes! when at last I sit me down, A scholar, in my cap and gown,-- When learned doctrines, dark and deep, Move me to passion or to sleep,-- When Clio yields to logic’s wrangles, And Long and Short give place to angles,-- When stern Mathesis makes it treason To like a rhyme, or scorn a reason-- With aching head and weary wit Your parted friend shall often sit, Till Fancy’s magic spell hath bound him, And lonely musings flit around him; Then shall ye come with all your wiles, Of gladdening sounds and warming smiles, And nought shall meet his eye or ear,-- Yet shall he deem your souls are near.

Others may clothe their valediction With all the tinsel charms of fiction; And one may sing of Father Thames, And Naiads with a hundred names, And find a Pindus here, and own The College pump a Helicon, And search for gods about the College, Of which old Homer had no knowledge; And one may eloquently tell The triumphs of the Windsor belle, And sing of Mira’s lips and eyes, In oft-repeated ecstasies. Oh! he hath much and wondrous skill To paint the looks that wound and kill, As the poor maid is doomed to brook, Unconsciously, her lover’s look, And smiles, and talks, until the poet Hears the band play, and does not know it. To speak the plain and simple truth,-- I always was a jesting youth, A friend to merriment and fun, No foe to quibble and to pun; Therefore I cannot feign a tear; And, now that I have uttered here A few unrounded accents, bred More from the heart than from the head, Honestly felt, and plainly told, My lyre is still, my fancy cold.

MY FIRST FOLLY.

(_Stanzas written at Midnight._)

Pretty Coquette, the ceaseless play Of thine unstudied wit, And thy dark eye’s remembered ray By buoyant fancy lit, And thy young forehead’s clear expanse, Where the locks slept, as through the dance, Dreamlike, I saw thee flit, Are far too warm, and far too fair To mix with aught of earthly care; But the vision shall come when my day is done, A frail and a fair and a fleeting one!

And if the many boldly gaze On that bright brow of thine, And if thine eye’s undying rays On countless coxcombs shine, And if thy wit flings out its mirth, Which echoes more of air than earth, For other ears than mine, I heed not this; ye are fickle things, And I like your very wanderings; I gaze, and if thousands share the bliss, Pretty Capricious! I heed not this.

In sooth I am a wayward youth, As fickle as the sea, And very apt to speak the truth, Unpleasing though it be; I am no lover; yet as long As I have heart for jest or song, An image, sweet, of thee, Locked in my heart’s remotest treasures, Shall ever be one of its hoarded pleasures;-- This from the scoffer thou hast won, And more than this he gives to none.

SONGS FROM THE TROUBADOUR.[5]

I.

(FROM CANTO I.)

“My mother’s grave, my mother’s grave! Oh! dreamless is her slumber there, And drowsily the banners wave O’er her that was so chaste and fair; Yea! love is dead, and memory faded! But when the dew is on the brake, And silence sleeps on earth and sea, And mourners weep, and ghosts awake, Oh! then she cometh back to me, In her cold beauty darkly shaded!