The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4 Poems and Plays
Chapter 1
Prologues and Epilogues:-- Epilogue to Godwin's Tragedy of "Antonio" 138 368 Prologue to Godwin's Tragedy of "Faulkener" 140 369 Epilogue to Henry Siddons' Farce, "Time's a Tell-Tale" 140 369 Prologue to Coleridge's Tragedy of "Remorse" 142 369 Epilogue to Kenney's Farce, "Debtor and Creditor" 143 371 Epilogue to an Amateur Performance of "Richard II." 145 371 Prologue to Sheridan Knowles' Comedy, "The Wife" 146 372 Epilogue to Sheridan Knowles' Comedy, "The Wife" 147 372 John Woodvil 149 372 The Witch 199 392 Mr. H------ 202 392 The Pawnbroker's Daughter 238 397 The Wife's Trial 273 --- Poems in the Notes:-- Lines to Dorothy Wordsworth. By Mary Lamb 328 Lines on Lamb's Want of Ear. By Mary Lamb 345 A Lady's Sapphic. By Mary Lamb (?) 356 An English Sapphic. By Charles Lamb (?) 357 Two Epigrams. By Charles Lamb (?) 359 The Poetical Cask. By Charles Lamb (?) 363
NOTES 307
INDEX 399
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 409
FRONTISPIECE
CHARLES LAMB (AGE 23)
From the Drawing by Robert Hancock, now in the National Portrait Gallery.
DEDICATION (1818) TO S.T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.
My Dear Coleridge,
You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by the title of _Works_; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal.
It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the _early pieces_, which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken, --who snapped the three-fold cord,--whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions,--or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation,--I cannot tell;--but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and _criticism_.
Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now.
Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct--the memory
Of summer days and of delightful years--
even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ****** Inn,--when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.--
What words have I heard Spoke at the Mermaid!
The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the _same_, who stood before me three and twenty years ago--his hair a little confessing the hand of time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain,--his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."
One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists; Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a _first love_; and from what I was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very _time_, which I have chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast, than that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the language.
I remain, My dear Coleridge, Your's, With unabated esteem, C. LAMB.
LAMB'S EARLIEST POEM
MILLE VIAE MORTIS
(1789)
What time in bands of slumber all were laid, To Death's dark court, methought I was convey'd; In realms it lay far hid from mortal sight, And gloomy tapers scarce kept out the night.
On ebon throne the King of Terrors sate; Around him stood the ministers of Fate; On fell destruction bent, the murth'rous band Waited attentively his high command.
Here pallid Fear & dark Despair were seen. And Fever here with looks forever lean, Swoln Dropsy, halting Gout, profuse of woes, And Madness fierce & hopeless of repose,
Wide-wasting Plague; but chief in honour stood More-wasting War, insatiable of blood; With starting eye-balls, eager for the word; Already brandish'd was the glitt'ring sword.
Wonder and fear alike had fill'd my breast, And thus the grisly Monarch I addrest--
"Of earth-born Heroes why should Poets sing, And thee neglect, neglect the greatest King? To thee ev'n Caesar's self was forc'd to yield The glories of Pharsalia's well-fought field."
When, with a frown, "Vile caitiff, come not here," Abrupt cried Death; "shall flatt'ry soothe my ear?" "Hence, or thou feel'st my dart!" the Monarch said. Wild terror seiz'd me, & the vision fled.
POEMS IN COLERIDGE'S POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, 1796
(_Written late in 1794. Text of 1797_)
As when a child on some long winter's night Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees Mutter'd to wretch by necromantic spell; Or of those hags, who at the witching time Of murky midnight ride the air sublime, And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell: Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell Of pretty babes, that lov'd each other dear, Murder'd by cruel Uncle's mandate fell: Ev'n such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart, Ev'n so thou, SIDDONS! meltest my sad heart!
(_Probably 1795. Text of 1818_)
Was it some sweet device of Faery That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? Have these things been? or what rare witchery, Impregning with delights the charmed air, Enlighted up the semblance of a smile In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair To drop the murdering knife, and let go by His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade Still court the foot-steps of the fair-hair'd maid? Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? While I forlorn do wander reckless where, And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
(_Probably_ 1795. _Text of_ 1818)
Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! Beloved! I were well content to play With thy free tresses all a summer's day, Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.
(1794. _Text of_ 1818)
O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, And her rude visions give severe delight. O winged bark! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood, Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die,-- To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
FROM CHARLES LLOYD'S POEMS ON THE DEATH OF PRISCILLA FARMER, 1796
THE GRANDAME
(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)
On the green hill top, Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn, Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had eat, Well-earned, the bread of service:--her's was else A mounting spirit, one that entertained Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image: I remember, too, With what a zeal she served her master's house; And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Delighted to recount the oft-told tale Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skilled in genealogies, And could in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances; Of marriages, and intermarriages; Relationship remote, or near of kin; Of friends offended, family disgraced-- Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises; and I wrong Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, She served her _heavenly master_. I have seen That reverend form bent down with age and pain And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, and humble hope-- So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-- For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
POEMS FROM COLERIDGE'S _POEMS_, 1797
(_Summer_, 1795. _Text of_ 1818)
When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade: Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. I passed the little cottage which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain; It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I, And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.
(1795 _or_ 1796. _Text of_ 1818)
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, As both to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
(_End of 1795. Text of 1818_)
If from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be-- My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined Too highly, and with a partial eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
(_1795. Text of 1818_)
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, We two did love each other's company; Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. But when by show of seeming good beguil'd, I left the garb and manners of a child, And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart-- My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art-- In what delicious Eden to be found-- That I may seek thee the wide world around?
CHILDHOOD
(_Summer, 1796. Text of 1818_)
In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse Upon the days gone by; to act in thought Past seasons o'er, and be again a child; To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand, (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,) Would throw away, and strait take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
THE SABBATH BELLS
(_Summer, 1796. Text of 1818_)
The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when Their piercing tones fall _sudden_ on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man, Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit--thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears, No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again. Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute _Sudden!_ his heart awakes, his ears drink in The cheering music; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind.
FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS
(_Summer, 1796. Text of 1818_)
The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By chrystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.
THE TOMB OF DOUGLAS _See the Tragedy of that Name_
(1796)
When her son, her Douglas died, To the steep rock's fearful side Fast the frantic Mother hied--
O'er her blooming warrior dead Many a tear did Scotland shed, And shrieks of long and loud lament From her Grampian hills she sent.
Like one awakening from a trance, She met the shock of[1] Lochlin's lance; On her rude invader foe Return'd an hundred fold the blow, Drove the taunting spoiler home; Mournful thence she took her way To do observance at the tomb Where the son of Douglas lay.
Round about the tomb did go In solemn state and order slow, Silent pace, and black attire, Earl, or Knight, or good Esquire; Whoe'er by deeds of valour done In battle had high honours won; Whoe'er in their pure veins could trace The blood of Douglas' noble race.
With them the flower of minstrels came, And to their cunning harps did frame In doleful numbers piercing rhymes, Such strains as in the older times Had sooth'd the spirit of Fingal, Echoing thro' his father's hall.
"Scottish maidens, drop a tear O'er the beauteous Hero's bier! Brave youth, and comely 'bove compare, All golden shone his burnish'd hair; Valour and smiling courtesy Play'd in the sun-beams of his eye. Clos'd are those eyes that shone so fair, And stain'd with blood his yellow hair. Scottish maidens, drop a tear O'er the beauteous Hero's bier!"
"Not a tear, I charge you, shed For the false Glenalvon dead; Unpitied let Glenalvon lie, Foul stain to arms and chivalry!"
"Behind his back the traitor came, And Douglas died without his fame. Young light of Scotland early spent, Thy country thee shall long lament; And oft to after-times shall tell, In Hope's sweet prime my Hero fell."
[Footnote 1: Denmark.]
TO CHARLES LLOYD
_An Unexpected Visitor_
(_January, 1797. Text of 1818_)
Alone, obscure, without a friend, A cheerless, solitary thing, Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out? What offering can the stranger bring
Of social scenes, home-bred delights, That him in aught compensate may For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, For loves and friendships far away?
In brief oblivion to forego Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, And be awhile with me content To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:
For this a gleam of random joy Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek; And, with an o'er-charg'd bursting heart, I feel the thanks I cannot speak.
Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays, And sweet the charm of matin bird; 'Twas long since these estranged ears The sweeter voice of friend had heard.
The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds In memory's ear in after time Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.
For, when the transient charm is fled, And when the little week is o'er, To cheerless, friendless, solitude When I return, as heretofore,
Long, long, within my aching heart The grateful sense shall cherish'd be; I'll think less meanly of myself, That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
A VISION OF REPENTANCE
(_1796? Text of 1818_)
I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady path-ways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight-desolate and sad.
The place was such, that whoso enter'd in Disrobed was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world's first innocence was brought; Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.
A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I staid, When, lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moon-light, Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR Made, of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair.
And eke with painful fingers she inwove Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn-- "The willow garland, _that_ was for her love, And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.
To whom when I addrest myself to speak, She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled To the dark covert of that woody shade, And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.
Revolving in my mind what this should mean, And why that lovely lady plained so; Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go, I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around, When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound:
"PSYCHE am I, who love to dwell In these brown shades, this woody dell, Where never busy mortal came, Till now, to pry upon my shame.
"At thy feet what thou dost see The waters of repentance be, Which, night and day, I must augment With tears, like a true penitent,
"If haply so my day of grace Be not yet past; and this lone place, O'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence All thoughts but grief and penitence."
_"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid! And wherefore in this barren shade Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed? Can thing so fair repentance need?"_
"O! I have done a deed of shame, And tainted is my virgin fame, And stain'd the beauteous maiden white, In which my bridal robes were dight."
"_And who the promised spouse, declare: And what those bridal garments were._"
"Severe and saintly righteousness Compos'd the clear white bridal dress; JESUS, the son of Heaven's high king, Bought with his blood the marriage ring.
"A wretched sinful creature, I Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie, Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart, And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
"Soon to these murky shades I came, To hide from the sun's light my shame. And still I haunt this woody dell, And bathe me in that healing well, Whose waters clear have influence From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse; And, night and day, I them augment With tears, like a true penitent, Until, due expiation made, And fit atonement fully paid, The lord and bridegroom me present, Where in sweet strains of high consent, God's throne before, the Seraphim Shall chaunt the extatic marriage hymn."
"Now Christ restore thee soon "--I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.
POEMS WRITTEN IN THE YEARS 1795-98, AND NOT REPRINTED BY LAMB
SONNET
_(Summer, 1795)_
The Lord of Life shakes off his drowsihed, And 'gins to sprinkle on the earth below Those rays that from his shaken locks do flow; Meantime, by truant love of rambling led, I turn my back on thy detested walls, Proud City! and thy sons I leave behind, A sordid, selfish, money-getting kind; Brute things, who shut their ears when Freedom calls.
I pass not thee so lightly, well-known spire, That minded me of many a pleasure gone, Of merrier days, of love and Islington; Kindling afresh the flames of past desire. And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire.
1795.
TO THE POET COWPER
_On his Recovery from an Indisposition. Written some Time Back
(Summer, 1796)_
Cowper, I thank my God, that thou art heal'd. Thine was the sorest malady of all; And I am sad to think that it should light Upon the worthy head: but thou art heal'd, And thou art yet, we trust, the destin'd man, Born to re-animate the lyre, whose chords Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long; To th' immortal sounding of whose strings Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse; Among whose wires with lighter finger playing Our elder bard, Spencer, a gentler name, The lady Muses' dearest darling child, Enticed forth the deftest tunes yet heard In hall or bower; taking the delicate ear Of the brave Sidney, and the Maiden Queen. Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain, Cowper, of England's bards the wisest and the best!
_December 1, 1796._
LINES
_Addressed, from London, to Sara and S.T.C. at Bristol, in the Summer of 1796._
Was it so hard a thing? I did but ask A fleeting holiday, a little week.
What, if the jaded steer, who, all day long, Had borne the heat and burthen of the plough, When ev'ning came, and her sweet cooling hour, Should seek to wander in a neighbour copse, Where greener herbage wav'd, or clearer streams Invited him to slake his burning thirst? The man were crabbed who should say him nay; The man were churlish who should drive him thence.
A blessing light upon your worthy heads, Ye hospitable pair! I may not come To catch, on Clifden's heights, the summer gale; I may not come to taste the Avon wave; Or, with mine eye intent on Redcliffe tow'rs, To muse in tears on that mysterious youth, Cruelly slighted, who, in evil hour, Shap'd his advent'rous course to London walls! Complaint, be gone! and, ominous thoughts, away! Take up, my Song, take up a merrier strain; For yet again, and lo! from Avon's vales, Another Minstrel[2] cometh. Youth endear'd, God and good Angels guide thee on thy road, And gentler fortunes 'wait the friends I love!
[Footnote 2: "From vales where Avon winds, the Minstrel came." COLERIDGE'S _Monody on Chatterton._]
SONNET TO A FRIEND
_(End of 1796)_
Friend of my earliest years and childish days, My joys, my sorrows, thou with me hast shar'd Companion dear, and we alike have far'd (Poor pilgrims we) thro' life's unequal ways. It were unwisely done, should we refuse To cheer our path as featly as we may, Our lonely path to cheer, as trav'llers use, With merry song, quaint tale, or roundelay; And we will sometimes talk past troubles o'er, Of mercies shewn, and all our sickness heal'd, And in his judgments God rememb'ring love; And we will learn to praise God evermore, For those glad tidings of great joy reveal'd By that sooth Messenger sent from above.
TO A YOUNG LADY
_(Early, 1797)_
Hard is the heart that does not melt with ruth, When care sits, cloudy, on the brow of youth; When bitter griefs the female bosom swell, And Beauty meditates a fond farewell To her lov'd native land, prepar'd to roam, And seek in climes afar the peace denied at home. The Muse, with glance prophetic, sees her stand (Forsaken, silent lady) on the strand Of farthest India, sick'ning at the roar Of each dull wave, slow dash'd upon the shore; Sending, at intervals, an aching eye O'er the wide waters, vainly, to espy The long-expected bark, in which to find Some tidings of a world she left behind. At such a time shall start the gushing tear, For scenes her childhood lov'd, now doubly dear. At such a time shall frantic mem'ry wake Pangs of remorse, for slighted England's sake; And for the sake of many a tender tie Of love, or friendship, pass'd too lightly by. Unwept, unhonour'd, 'midst an alien race, And the _cold_ looks of many a _stranger_ face, How will her poor heart bleed, and chide the day, That from her country took her far away.
LIVING WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD
_(? 1798)_
Mystery of God! thou brave and beauteous world, Made fair with light and shade and stars and flowers, Made fearful and august with woods and rocks, Jagg'd precipice, black mountain, sea in storms, Sun, over all, that no co-rival owns, But thro' Heaven's pavement rides as in despite Or mockery of the littleness of man! I see a mighty arm, by man unseen, Resistless, not to be controul'd, that guides, In solitude of unshared energies, All these thy ceaseless miracles, O world! Arm of the world, I view thee, and I muse On Man, who, trusting in his mortal strength, Leans on a shadowy staff, a staff of dreams. We consecrate our total hopes and fears To idols, flesh and blood, our love, (heaven's due) Our praise and admiration; praise bestowed By man on man, and acts of worship done To a kindred nature, certes do reflect Some portion of the glory and rays oblique Upon the politic worshipper,--so man Extracts a pride from his humility. Some braver spirits of the modern stamp Affect a Godhead nearer: these talk loud Of mind, and independent intellect, Of energies omnipotent in man, And man of his own fate artificer; Yea of his own life Lord, and of the days Of his abode on earth, when time shall be, That life immortal shall become an art, Or Death, by chymic practices deceived, Forego the scent, which for six thousand years Like a good hound he has followed, or at length More manners learning, and a decent sense And reverence of a philosophic world, Relent, and leave to prey on carcasses.
But these are fancies of a few: the rest, Atheists, or Deists only in the name, By word or deed deny a God. They eat Their daily bread, and draw the breath of heaven Without or thought or thanks; heaven's roof to them Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps, No more, that lights them to their purposes. They wander "loose about," they nothing see, Themselves except, and creatures like themselves, Short-liv'd, short-sighted, impotent to save. So on their dissolute spirits, soon or late, Destruction cometh "like an armed man," Or like a dream of murder in the night, Withering their mortal faculties, and breaking The bones of all their pride.
POEMS FROM _BLANK VERSE_, BY CHARLES LLOYD AND CHARLES LAMB, 1798
TO CHARLES LLOYD
A stranger, and alone, I past those scenes We past so late together; and my heart Felt something like desertion, when I look'd Around me, and the well-known voice of friend Was absent, and the cordial look was there No more to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd; All he had been to me. And now I go Again to mingle with a world impure, With men who make a mock of holy things Mistaken, and of man's best hope think scorn. The world does much to warp the heart of man, And I may sometimes join its ideot laugh. Of this I now complain not. Deal with me, Omniscient Father! as thou judgest best, And in thy season _tender_ thou my heart. I pray not for myself; I pray for him Whose soul is sore perplex'd: shine thou on him, Father of Lights! and in the difficult paths Make plain his way before him. His own thoughts May he not think, his own ends not pursue; So shall he best perform thy will on earth. Greatest and Best, thy will be ever ours!
_August_, 1797.
WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF MY AUNT'S FUNERAL
Thou too art dead, ----! very kind Hast thou been to me in my childish days, Thou best good creature. I have not forgot How thou didst love thy Charles, when he was yet A prating schoolboy: I have not forgot The busy joy on that important day, When, child-like, the poor wanderer was content To leave the bosom of parental love, His childhood's play-place, and his early home, For the rude fosterings of a stranger's hand, Hard uncouth tasks, and school-boy's scanty fare. How did thine eye peruse him round and round, And hardly know him in his yellow coats[3], Red leathern belt, and gown of russet blue! Farewell, good aunt! Go thou, and occupy the same grave-bed Where the dead mother lies. Oh my dear mother, oh thou dear dead saint! Where's now that placid face, where oft hath sat A mother's smile, to think her son should thrive In this bad world, when she was dead and gone; And when a tear hath sat (take shame, O son!) When that same child has prov'd himself unkind. One parent yet is left--a wretched thing, A sad survivor of his buried wife, A palsy-smitten, childish, old, old man, A semblance most forlorn of what he was, A merry cheerful man. A merrier man, A man more apt to frame matter for mirth, Mad jokes, and anticks for a Christmas eve; Making life social, and the laggard time To move on nimbly, never yet did cheer The little circle of domestic friends.
_February_, 1797.
[Footnote 3: The dress of Christ's Hospital,]
WRITTEN A YEAR AFTER THE EVENTS
Alas! how am I chang'd! Where be the tears, The sobs, and forc'd suspensions of the breath, And all the dull desertions of the heart, With which I hung o'er my dead mother's corse? Where be the blest subsidings of the storm Within, the sweet resignedness of hope Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love In which I bow'd me to my father's will?
My God, and my Redeemer! keep not thou My soul in brute and sensual thanklessness Seal'd up; oblivious ever of that dear grace, And health restor'd to my long-loved friend, Long-lov'd, and worthy known. Thou didst not leave Her soul in death! O leave not now, my Lord, Thy servants in far worse, in spiritual death! And darkness blacker than those feared shadows Of the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms, Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul, And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds With which the world has pierc'd us thro' and thro'. Give us new flesh, new birth. Elect of heav'n May we become; in thine election sure Contain'd, and to one purpose stedfast drawn, Our soul's salvation!
Thou, and I, dear friend, With filial recognition sweet, shall know One day the face of our dear mother in heaven; And her remember'd looks of love shall greet With looks of answering love; her placid smiles Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse. Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask Those days of vanity to return again (Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give), Vain loves and wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid, Child of the dust as I am, who so long My captive heart steep'd in idolatry And creature-loves. Forgive me, O my Maker! If in a mood of grief I sin almost In sometimes brooding on the days long past, And from the grave of time wishing them back, Days of a mother's fondness to her child, Her little one.
O where be now those sports, And infant play-games? where the joyous troops Of children, and the haunts I did so love? O my companions, O ye loved names Of friend or playmate dear; gone are ye now; Gone diverse ways; to honour and credit some, And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame! I only am left, with unavailing grief To mourn one parent dead, and see one live Of all life's joys bereft and desolate: Am left with a few friends, and one, above The rest, found faithful in a length of years, Contented as I may, to bear me on To the not unpeaceful evening of a day Made black by morning storms!
_September_, 1797.
WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE PRECEDING POEM
Thou should'st have longer liv'd, and to the grave Have peacefully gone down in full old age! Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs. We might have sat, as we have often done, By our fireside, and talk'd whole nights away, Old times, old friends, and old events recalling; With many a circumstance, of trivial note, To memory dear, and of importance grown. How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear? A wayward son ofttimes was I to thee; And yet, in all our little bickerings, Domestic jars, there was, I know not what, Of tender feeling, that were ill exchang'd For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles Familiar, whom the heart calls strangers still. A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man! Who lives the last of all his family. He looks around him, and his eye discerns The face of the stranger, and his heart is sick. Man of the world, what canst thou do for him? Wealth is a burden, which he could not bear; Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act; And wine no cordial, but a bitter cup. For wounds like his Christ is the only cure, And gospel promises are his by right, For these were given to the poor in heart. Go, preach thou to him of a world to come, Where friends shall meet, and know each other's face. Say less than this, and say it to the winds.
_October_, 1797.
WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1797
I am a widow'd thing, now thou art gone! Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend, Companion, sister, help-mate, counsellor! Alas! that honour'd mind, whose sweet reproof And meekest wisdom in times past have smooth'd The unfilial harshness of my foolish speech, And made me loving to my parents old, (Why is this so, ah God! why is this so?) That honour'd mind become a fearful blank, Her senses lock'd up, and herself kept out From human sight or converse, while so many Of the foolish sort are left to roam at large, Doing all acts of folly, and sin, and shame? Thy paths are mystery!
Yet I will not think, Sweet friend, but we shall one day meet, and live In quietness, and die so, fearing God. Or if _not_, and these false suggestions be A fit of the weak nature, loth to part With what it lov'd so long, and held so dear; If thou art to be taken, and I left (More sinning, yet unpunish'd, save in thee), It is the will of God, and we are clay In the potter's hands; and, at the worst, are made From absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace, Till, his most righteous purpose wrought in us, Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES
(_January_, 1798. _Text of_ 1818)
I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desart I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces--
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT
(1797? _Text of_ 1818)
From broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. How total a privation of all sounds, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, And little images of pleasures past, Of health, and active life--health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end. 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought down, By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parts, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his breth'ren, fashioned of the earth, As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Belike his kindred or companions once-- Through everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, For those thus sentenced--pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, The measure of his judgments is not fixed By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy called: they best Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.
Poems at the End of _John Woodvil_, 1802
HELEN
_By Mary Lamb_
(_Summer_, 1800. _Text of_ 1818)
High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I've paced in vain: Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty Hath been to glory in his pain.
High-born Helen, plainly telling Stories of thy cold disdain; I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain.
These twenty years I've lived on tears. Dwelling for ever on a frown; On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread; I perish now you kind are grown.
Can I, who loved my beloved But for the scorn "was in her eye," Can I be moved for my beloved, When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"
In stately pride, by my bed-side, High-born Helen's portrait's hung; Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung.
To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her-- _Helen, grown old, no longer cold_, _Said_, "you to all men I prefer."
BALLAD
_From the German_
(_Spring, 1800. Text of 1818_)
The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, And ever the forest maketh a moan: Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching, Thus by herself she singeth alone, Weeping right plenteously.
"The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, In this world plainly all seemeth amiss: To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, Living right lovingly."
HYPOCHONDRIACUS
(_October, 1800. Text of 1818_)
By myself walking, To myself talking, When as I ruminate On my untoward fate, Scarcely seem I Alone sufficiently, Black thoughts continually Crowding my privacy; They come unbidden, Like foes at a wedding, Thrusting their faces In better guests' places, Peevish and malecontent, Clownish, impertinent, Dashing the merriment: So in like fashions Dim cogitations Follow and haunt me, Striving to daunt me. In my heart festering, In my ears whispering, "Thy friends are treacherous, Thy foes are dangerous, Thy dreams ominous."
Fierce Anthropophagi, Spectra, Diaboli, What scared St. Anthony, Hobgoblins, Lemures, Dreams of Antipodes, Night-riding Incubi Troubling the fantasy, All dire illusions Causing confusions; Figments heretical, Scruples fantastical, Doubts diabolical, Abaddon vexeth me, Mahu perplexeth me, Lucifer teareth me----
_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici_.
A BALLAD:
_Noting the Difference of Rich and Poor, in the Ways of a Rich Noble's Palace and a Poor Workhouse_
_To the tune of the "Old and Young Courtier"_
(_August, 1800. Text of 1818_)
In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold; In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold: There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, They have store of good venison, with old canary wine, With singing and music to heighten the cheer; Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
In a costly palace Youth is still carest By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest; In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails: Does Age begin to prattle?--no man heark'neth to his tales.
In a costly palace if the child with a pin Do but chance to prick a finger, strait the doctor is called in; In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish,
In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust; In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust, Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do, Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
In a costly palace Youth his temples hides With a new devised peruke that reaches to his sides; In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride, To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side, That none to do them injury may have pretence; Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
POEMS IN CHARLES LAMB'S _WORKS_ 1818, NOT PREVIOUSLY PRINTED IN THE PRESENT VOLUME; TOGETHER WITH REFERENCES TO THOSE POEMS THAT HAVE BEEN PREVIOUSLY PRINTED
HESTER
(_February, 1803_)
When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together.
A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit.
I know not by what name beside I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was train'd in Nature's school, Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester.
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 fore-warning?
* * * * *
_Here came "To Charles Lloyd" See page 12.
Here came "The Three Friends" followed by "To a River in which a Child was drowned," first printed in "Poetry for Children" 1809. See vol. iii. of this edition, page 416.
Here came "The Old Familiar Faces." See page 25.
Here came "Helen" by Mary Lamb. See page 28.
Here came "A Vision of Repentance." See page 13._
* * * * *
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD
(_By Mary Lamb. 1804_)
CHILD "O Lady, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride."
MOTHER "Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear Sad songs, were made so long ago, my dear; This day I am to be a bride, you know, Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?"
CHILD "O, mother, lay your costly robes aside, For you may never be another's bride. _That_ line I learn'd not in the old sad song."
MOTHER "I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bride-maids, and be glad, my boy, For thou shall be a second father's joy."
CHILD "One father fondled me upon his knee. One father is enough, alone, for me."
* * * * *
_Here came "Queen Oriana's Dream" from "Poetry for Children" See vol. iii. page 480.
Here came "A Ballad Noting the Difference of Rich and Poor." See page 30.
Here came "Hypochondriacus." See page 29._
* * * * *
A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO (1805)
May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, thro' thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost shew us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex can'st shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reigns and nobler heart Can'st nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Fram'd again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite------
Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee; None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.
Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too,'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.
TO T.L.H.
_A Child_
(1814)
Model of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear: In thy unfaultering visage well Picturing forth the son of TELL, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood; Guileless traitor, rebel mild, Convict unconscious, culprit-child! Gates that close with iron roar Have been to thee thy nursery door; Chains that chink in cheerless cells Have been thy rattles and thy bells; Walls contrived for giant sin Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black Guilt Her discordant house hath built, And filled it with her monstrous brood-- Sights, by thee not understood-- Sights of fear, and of distress, That pass a harmless infant's guess!
But the clouds, that overcast Thy young morning, may not last. Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour, That yields thee up to Nature's power. Nature, that so late doth greet thee, Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee. She shall recompense with cost For every lesson thou hast lost. Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill[4], Thou shall take thy airy fill Of health and pastime. _Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning._ 'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, Hardly less a lamb than they. Then thy prison's lengthened bound Shall be the horizon skirting round. And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers, To make amends for wintery hours, The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, Shall from thy tender brow efface Each vestige of untimely care, That sour restraint had graven there; And on thy every look impress A more excelling childishness. So shall be thy days beguil'd, THORNTON HUNT, my favourite child.
[Footnote 4: Hampstead.]
* * * * *
_Here came "Ballad from the German." See page 29.
Here came "David in the Cave of Aditllam" by Mary
Lamb, from "Poetry for Children." See vol. iii. page 486._
* * * * *
SALOME
(_By Mary Lamb. Probably_ 1808 _or_ 1809)
Once on a charger there was laid, And brought before a royal maid, As price of attitude and grace, A guiltless head, a holy face.
It was on Herod's natal day, Who, o'er Judea's land held sway. He married his own brother's wife, Wicked Herodias. She the life Of John the Baptist long had sought, Because he openly had taught That she a life unlawful led, Having her husband's brother wed.
This was he, that saintly John, Who in the wilderness alone Abiding, did for clothing wear A garment made of camel's hair;
Honey and locusts were his food, And he was most severely good. He preached penitence and tears, And waking first the sinner's fears, Prepared a path, made smooth a way, For his diviner master's day.
Herod kept in princely state His birth-day. On his throne he sate, After the feast, beholding her Who danced with grace peculiar; Fair Salome, who did excel All in that land for dancing well. The feastful monarch's heart was fired, And whatsoe'er thing she desired. Though half his kingdom it should be, He in his pleasure swore that he Would give the graceful Salome. The damsel was Herodias' daughter: She to the queen hastes, and besought her To teach her what great gift to name. Instructed by Herodias, came The damsel back; to Herod said, "Give me John the Baptist's head; And in a charger let it be Hither straitway brought to me." Herod her suit would fain deny, But for his oath's sake must comply.
When painters would by art express Beauty in unloveliness, Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee, They fittest subject take to be. They give thy form and features grace; But ever in thy beauteous face They shew a steadfast cruel gaze, An eye unpitying; and amaze In all beholders deep they mark, That thou betrayest not one spark Of feeling for the ruthless deed, That did thy praiseful dance succeed For on the head they make you look, As if a sullen joy you took, A cruel triumph, wicked pride, That for your sport a saint had died.
LINES
_Suggested by a Picture of Two Females by Lionardo da Vinci._
(_By Mary Lamb_. 1804)
The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears, To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears. "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead." Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed. She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught. "I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame, All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name. Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree, My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me. But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o'er my head, And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead, This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear, It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."
LINES
_On the Same Picture being Removed to make Place for a Portrait of a Lady by Titian._
(_By Mary Lamb_. 1805)
Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? Come, fair and pretty, tell to me, Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be. Thou pretty art and fair, But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare. No need for Blanch her history to tell; Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.
LINES
_On the Celebrated Picture by Lionardo da Vinci, called The Virgin of the Rocks._
(? 1805)
While young John runs to greet The greater Infant's feet, The Mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration, Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration; Nor knows as yet the full event Of those so low beginnings, From whence we date our winnings, But wonders at the intent Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant. But at her side An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition, A glory, an amenity, Passing the dark condition Of blind humanity, As if he surely knew All the blest wonders should ensue, Or he had lately left the upper sphere, And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.
ON THE SAME
(_By Mary Lamb_. 1805)
Maternal lady with the virgin grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, And of a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.
SONNETS
TO MISS KELLY
You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, That stoop their pride and female honor down To please that many-headed beast _the town_, And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; By fortune thrown amid the actor's train, You keep your native dignity of thought; The plaudits that attend you come unsought, As tributes due unto your natural vein. Your tears have passion in them, and a grace Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace, That vanish and return we know not how-- And please the better from a pensive face, And thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN
Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining nest, And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Lest the white mother wandering feet molest: Shrined are your offspring in a chrystal cradle, Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able To tread the land or waters with security. Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin, In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. Did heavenly creatures own succession's line, The births of heaven like to your's would shine.
* * * * *
_Here came "Was it some sweet device." See page_ 4.
_Here came "Methinks how dainty sweet." See page_ 5.
_Here came "When last I roved." See page_ 8.
_Here came "A timid grace" See page_ 8.
_Here came "If from my lips." See page_ 9.
* * * * *
THE FAMILY NAME
What reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher; And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received the first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned, With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ.
_Of the South-Sea House_
John, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy-- Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seemed so great-- And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state. O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim glass even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
* * * * *
_Here came "O! I could laugh." See page_ 5.
_Here came "We were two pretty babes." See page_ 9.
_Here came, under the heading "Blank Verse," "Childhood," see page 9; "The Grandame," see page 6; "The Sabbath Bells," see page 10, "Fancy employed on Divine Subjects," see page 10; and "Composed at Midnight," see page 26._
* * * * *
TO MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.
(The Dedication to Vol. II. of Lamb's _Works_, 1818)
Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late And hasty products of a critic pen, Thyself no common judge of books and men, In feeling of thy worth I dedicate. My _verse_ was offered to an older friend; The humbler _prose_ has fallen to thy share: Nor could I miss the occasion to declare, What spoken in thy presence must offend-- That, set aside some few caprices wild, Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days, In all my threadings of this worldly maze, (And I have watched thee almost from a child), Free from self-seeking, envy, low design, I have not found a whiter soul than thine.
ALBUM VERSES
IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY
(? 1830)
An Album is a Garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow. A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. A Chapel, where mere ornamental things Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. A List of living friends; a holier Room For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive; And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak, and live. Such, and so tender, should an Album be; And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.
IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W------
Had I a power, Lady, to my will, You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band-- Who in their Courts of Law or Equity Have best upheld Freedom and Property. These should moot cases in your book, and vie To show their reading and their Serjeantry. But I have none of these; nor can I send The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. The lack of curious Signatures I moan, And want the courage to subscribe my own.
IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON
(1824)
Little Book, surnamed of _white_, Clean as yet, and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.
Never disproportion'd scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!
In each letter, here design'd, Let the reader emblem'd find Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;
Sayings fetch'd from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:
Lighter fancies not excluding; Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding
Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but _shades_--be banished hence.
Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.
IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ------
I
Such goodness in your face doth shine, With modest look, without design, That I despair, poor pen of mine Can e'er express it. To give it words I feebly try; My spirits fail me to supply Befitting language for't, and I Can only bless it!
II
But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse A bashful Maiden's ear with news Of her own virtues. She'll refuse Praise sung so loudly. Of that same goodness, you admire, The best part is, she don't aspire To praise--nor of herself desire To think too proudly.
IN THE ALBUM OF A VERY YOUNG LADY
(? 1830)
Joy to unknown Josepha who, I hear, Of all good gifts, to Music most is given; Science divine, which through the enraptured ear Enchants the Soul, and lifts it nearer Heaven. Parental smiles approvingly attend Her pliant conduct of the trembling keys, And listening strangers their glad suffrage lend. Most musical is Nature. Birds--and Bees At their sweet labour--sing. The moaning winds Rehearse a _lesson_ to attentive minds. In louder tones "Deep unto Deep doth call;" And there is Music in the Waterfall.
IN THE ALBUM OF A FRENCH TEACHER (? 1829)
Implored for verse, I send you what I can; But you are so exact a Frenchwoman, As I am told, Jemima, that I fear To wound with English your Parisian ear, And think I do your choice collection wrong With lines not written in the Frenchman's tongue. Had I a knowledge equal to my will, With airy _Chansons_ I your leaves would fill; With _Fabliaux_, that should emulate the vein Of sprightly Cresset, or of La Fontaine; Or _Scenes Comiques_, that should approach the air Of your own favourite--renowned Moliere. But at my suit the Muse of France looks sour, And strikes me dumb! Yet, what is in my power To testify respect for you, I pray, Take in plain English--our rough Enfield way.
IN THE ALBUM OF MISS DAUBENY
I
Some poets by poetic law Have Beauties praised, they never saw; And sung of Kittys, and of Nancys, Whose charms but lived in their own fancies. So I, to keep my Muse a going, That willingly would still be doing, A Canzonet or two must try In praise of--_pretty_ Daubeny.
II
But whether she indeed be comely, Or only very good and homely, Of my own eyes I cannot say; I trust to Emma Isola. But sure I think her voice is tuneful, As smoothest birds that sing in June full; For else would strangely disagree The _flowing_ name of--Daubeny.
III
I hear that she a Book hath got-- As what young Damsel now hath not, In which they scribble favorite fancies, Copied from poems or romances? And prettiest draughts, of her design, About the curious Album shine; And therefore she shall have for me The style of--_tasteful_ Daubeny.
IV
Thus far I have taken on believing; But well I know without deceiving, That in her heart she keeps alive still Old school-day likings, which survive still In spite of absence--worldly coldness-- And thereon can my Muse take boldness To crown her other praises three With praise of--_friendly_ Daubeny.
IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS (1828)
Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, How shall I find fit matter? with what face Address a face that ne'er to me was shown? Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke! But at that name my cold Muse waxes hot, And swears that thou art such a one as he, Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be The pure reverse of this, and I mistake-- Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
IN MY OWN ALBUM (1827)
Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white. A young probationer of light, Thou wert my soul, an Album bright,
A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And friend and foe, in foul or fair, Have "written strange defeatures" there;
And Time with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamp'd sad dates--he can't recal;
And error gilding worst designs-- Like speckled snake that strays and shines-- Betrays his path by crooked lines;
And vice hath left his ugly blot; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly began--but finish'd not;
And fruitless, late remorse doth trace-- Like Hebrew lore a backward pace-- Her irrecoverable race.
Disjointed numbers; sense unknit; Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit; Compose the mingled mass of it.
My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look-- Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
MISCELLANEOUS
ANGEL HELP[5]
(1827)
This rare tablet doth include Poverty with Sanctitude. Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun, And yet the work is not half done, Which must supply from earning scant A feeble bed-rid parent's want. Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, And Holy hands take up the task: Unseen the rock and spindle ply, And do her earthly drudgery. Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on; And, waking, find thy labours done. Perchance she knows it by her dreams; Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, Angelic presence testifying, That round her every where are flying; Ostents from which she may presume, That much of Heaven is in the room. Skirting her own bright hair they run, And to the sunny add more sun: Now on that aged face they fix, Streaming from the Crucifix; The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, Death-disarming sleeps infusing, Prelibations, foretastes high, And equal thoughts to live or die. Gardener bright from Eden's bower, Tend with care that lily flower; To its leaves and root infuse Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews. 'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, Of a crowning privilege. Careful as that lily flower, This Maid must keep her precious dower Live a sainted Maid, or die Martyr to virginity.
[Footnote 5: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the Legend of a poor female Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber, an Angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.]
THE CHRISTENING
(1829)
Array'd--a half-angelic sight-- In vests of pure Baptismal white, The Mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless nameless thing, With hushes soft and mild caressing, At once to get--a name and blessing. Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand, The Cleansing Water at his hand, Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin. The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, Nor knows what all this wonder means; And now he smiles, as if to say "I am a Christian made this day;" Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. Strange words--The World, The Flesh, The Devil-- Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil? But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore. Enough for him, in after-times, When he shall read these artless rhymes, If, looking back upon this day, With quiet conscience, he can say "I have in part redeem'd the pledge Of my Baptismal privilege; And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN
(1827)
I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work. A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in a cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying; So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then strait up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health, and days mature: Woman's self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, That babe, or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd; and the pain, When Single State comes back again To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life? The economy of Heaven is dark; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral, That has his day; while shrivel'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips, Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shall have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity?
TO BERNARD BARTON
_With a Coloured Print_[6]
(1827)
When last you left your Woodbridge pretty, To stare at sights, and see the City, If I your meaning understood, You wish'd a Picture, cheap, but good; The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy; To suit a Poet's quiet study, Where Books and Prints for delectation Hang, rather than vain ostentation. The subject? what I pleased, if comely; But something scriptural and homely: A sober Piece, not gay or wanton, For winter fire-sides to descant on; The theme so scrupulously handled, A Quaker might look on unscandal'd; Such as might satisfy Ann Knight, And classic Mitford just not fright. Just such a one I've found, and send it; If liked, I give--if not, but lend it. The moral? nothing can be sounder. The fable? 'tis its own expounder-- A Mother teaching to her Chit Some good book, and explaining it. He, silly urchin, tired of lesson, His learning lays no mighty stress on, But seems to hear not what he hears; Thrusting his fingers in his ears, Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one, In honest parable of Bunyan. His working Sister, more sedate, Listens; but in a kind of state, The painter meant for steadiness; But has a tinge of sullenness; And, at first sight, she seems to brook As ill her needle, as he his book. This is the Picture. For the Frame-- 'Tis not ill-suited to the same; Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling; Old-fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling; And sober, as the Owner's Calling.
[Footnote 6: From the venerable and ancient Manufactory of Carrington Bowles: some of my readers may recognise it.]
THE YOUNG CATECHIST[7]
(1827)
While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, Painter, who is she that stayeth By, with skin of whitest lustre, Sunny locks, a shining cluster, Saint-like seeming to direct him To the Power that must protect him? Is she of the Heaven-born Three, Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity: Or some Cherub?-- They you mention Far transcend my weak invention. 'Tis a simple Christian child, Missionary young and mild, From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, Bible-taught without a college, Which by reading she could gather, Teaches him to say OUR FATHER To the common Parent, who Colour not respects, nor hue. White and black in him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
[Footnote 7: A Picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]
SHE IS GOING
For their elder Sister's hair Martha does a wreath prepare Of bridal rose, ornate and gay: To-morrow is the wedding day: She is going.
Mary, youngest of the three, Laughing idler, full of glee, Arm in arm does fondly chain her, Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her-- But she's going.
Vex not, maidens, nor regret Thus to part with Margaret. Charms like your's can never stay Long within doors; and one day You'll be going.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND
_On Her Twenty-First Birth-Day_
Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray A blessing on thy years, young Isola; Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown To me thy girlish times, a woman grown Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack My fancy to believe the almanac, That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou should'st have still Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will Gambol'd about our house, as in times past. Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent, Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment. After some thirty years, spent in such bliss As this earth can afford, where still we miss Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold. O far more ag'd and wrinkled, till folks say, Looking upon thee reverend in decay, "This Dame for length of days, and virtues rare, With her respected Grandsire may compare."-- Grandchild of that respected Isola, Thou should'st have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. But they have died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance The friends which Nature grudg'd. And thou wilt find, Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind To thee and thy deservings. That last strain Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again Another cheerful goblet, while I say "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
TO THE SAME
External gifts of fortune, or of face, Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show; Much fairer damsels have I known, and know, And richer may be found in every place. In thy _mind_ seek thy beauty, and thy wealth. Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health. O guard that treasure above gold or pearl, Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth-- And take my benison, plain-hearted girl.
* * * * *
SONNETS
HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS
By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill, Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk: The fair Maria, as a vestal, still; And Emma brown, exuberant in talk. With soft and Lady speech the first applies The mild correctives that to grace belong To her redundant friend, who her defies With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song. O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing, What music from your happy discord rises, While your companion hearing each, and seeing, Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes; This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike, That harmonies may be in things unlike!
WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE
(_August_ 15. 1819)
I was not train'd in Academic bowers, And to those learned streams I nothing owe Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow; Mine have been any thing but studious hours. Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers, Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap; My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap, And I walk _gowned_; feel unusual powers. Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech, Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain; And my scull teems with notions infinite. Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein, And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite!
TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"
(1819)
Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none, Canst execute with ease thy curious art, And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart, Unaided by the eye, expression's throne! While each blind sense, intelligential grown Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight: Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might, All motionless and silent seem to moan The unseemly negligence of nature's hand, That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine, O mistress of the passions; artist fine! Who dost our souls against our sense command, Plucking the horror from a sightless face, Lending to blank deformity a grace.
WORK
(1819)
Who first invented work, and bound the free And holyday-rejoicing spirit down To the ever-haunting importunity Of business in the green fields, and the town-- To plough, loom, anvil, spade--and oh! most sad To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood? Who but the Being unblest, alien from good, Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings, That round and round incalculably reel-- For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel-- In that red realm from which are no returnings; Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.
LEISURE
(1821)
They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress: Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke. But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation-- _Improbus Labor_, which my spirits hath broke-- I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit: Fling in more days than went to make the gem, That crown'd the white top of Methusalem: Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity.
DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
(1829)
Rogers, of all the men that I have known But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across My mind an image of the cordial tone Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest I more than once have sat; and grieve to think, That of that threefold cord one precious link By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest. Of our old Gentry he appear'd a stem-- A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer He kept in terror, could respect the Poor, And not for every trifle harass them, As some, divine and laic, too oft do. This man's a private loss, and public too.
THE GIPSY'S MALISON
(1829)
"Suck, baby, suck, mothers love grows by giving, Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.
"Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.
"Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces, Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging; Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."
So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.
COMMENDATORY VERSES
TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,
_Published under the name of Barry Cornwall_
(1820)
Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask Under the vizor of a borrowed name; Let things eschew the light deserving blame: No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book; And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass; Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass, On the great world's antique glories we may look. No longer then, as "lowly substitute, Factor, or PROCTOR, for another's gains," Suffer the admiring world to be deceived; Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.
TO R.[J.]S. KNOWLES, ESQ.
_On his Tragedy of Virginius_
(1820)
Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteemed you a perfect specimen Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, To teach us colder English how a friend's Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, Strong-sensed, rough-witted above fear or gain; But nothing further had the gift to espy. Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene Only to _his_ inferior in the clean Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art-- Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart. Almost without the aid language affords, Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, _words_, (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws Our tears on credit: and we find the cause Some two hours after, spelling o'er again Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain. Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, Still snatch some new old story from the urns Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"
(1825)
I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown; And all that history--much that fiction--weaves.
By every sort of taste your work is graced. Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, With good old story quaintly interlaced-- The theme as various as the reader's mind.
Rome's life-fraught legends you so truly paint-- Yet kindly,--that the half-turn'd Catholic Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, And cannot curse the candid heretic.
Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page; Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, And, proudly conscious of a purer age, Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.
Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright _Days_, Must needs bestow on you both good and many, Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.
Dan Phoebus loves your book--trust me, friend Hone-- The title only errs, he bids me say: For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, He swears,'tis not a work of _every day_.
* * * * *
ACROSTICS
TO CAROLINE MARIA APPLEBEE
_An Acrostic_
Caroline glides smooth in verse, And is easy to rehearse; Runs just like some crystal river O'er its pebbly bed for ever.
Lines as harsh and quaint as mine In their close at least will shine, Nor from sweetness can decline, Ending but with _Caroline_.
_Maria_ asks a statelier pace-- "_Ave Maria_, full of grace!" Romish rites before me rise, Image-worship, sacrifice, And well-meant but mistaken pieties.
_Apple_ with _Bee_ doth rougher run. Paradise was lost by one; Peace of mind would we regain, Let us, like the other, strain Every harmless faculty, Bee-like at work in our degree, Ever some sweet task designing, Extracting still, and still refining.
TO CECILIA CATHERINE LAWTON
_An Acrostic_
Choral service, solemn chanting, Echoing round cathedrals holy-- Can aught else on earth be wanting In heav'n's bliss to plunge us wholly? Let us great _Cecilia_ honour In the praise we give unto them, And the merit be upon her.
Cold the heart that would undo them, And the solemn organ banish That this sainted Maid invented. Holy thoughts too quickly vanish, Ere the expression can be vented. Raise the song to _Catherine_, In her torments most divine! Ne'er by Christians be forgot-- Envied be--this Martyr's lot. _Lawton_, who these _names_ combinest, Aim to emulate their praises; Women were they, yet divinest Truths they taught; and story raises O'er their mouldering bones a Tomb, Not to die till Day of Doom.
ACROSTIC,
TO A LADY WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE HER EPITAPH
(1830)
Grace Joanna here doth lie: Reader, wonder not that I Ante-date her hour of rest. Can I thwart her wish exprest, Ev'n unseemly though the laugh
Jesting with an Epitaph? On her bones the turf lie lightly, And her rise again be brightly! No dark stain be found upon her-- No, there will not, on mine honour-- Answer that at least I can.
Would that I, thrice happy man, In as spotless garb might rise, Light as she will climb the skies, Leaving the dull earth behind, In a car more swift than wind. All her errors, all her failings, (Many they were not) and ailings, Sleep secure from Envy's railings.
ANOTHER,
TO HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER (1830)
Least Daughter, but not least beloved, of _Grace_! O frown not on a stranger, who from place, Unknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd. I but report what thy Instructress Friend So oft hath told us of thy gentle heart. A pupil most affectionate thou art,
Careful to learn what elder years impart. _Louisa--Clare_--by which name shall I call thee? A prettier pair of names sure ne'er was found, Resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound. Ever calm peace and innocence befal thee!
* * * * *
TRANSLATIONS
_From the Latin of Vincent Bourne_
I
ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING
Beautiful Infant, who dost keep Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, May the repose unbroken be, Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, While thou enjoy'st along with it That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, Or counterfeit to mortal sense, The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!
II
THE RIVAL BELLS
A tuneful challenge rings from either side Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, Saint Bride Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. Such harmony from the contention flows, That the divided ear no preference knows; Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, While one exceeds in number, one in weight.
III
EPITAPH ON A DOG
(1820)
Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, The well disposed and good, their pennies gave. I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of scraps; Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day, and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side. But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.
IV
THE BALLAD SINGERS
Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[8] draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race: With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discoloured Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight. Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. _He_ stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load. Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They re-unite, so these unite as fast. The older Songstress hitherto hath spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in _prose_; to wit, the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes-- Ah! "_Wandering He_!"--which now in loftier _verse_ Pathetic they alternately rehearse. All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes His right ear to the strain. The other hopes To catch it better with his left. Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded Maid A victim fell. And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and _sings the while_; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest. And boldly claims his ballad with the best. An old Dame only lingers. To her purse The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befal Fond hearts seduced from Innocency's way; How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."
[Footnote 8: Seven Dials.]
V.
TO DAVID COOK,
_Of the Parish of Saint Margaret's, Westminster, Watchman_
For much good-natured verse received from thee, A loving verse take in return from me. "Good morrow to my masters," is your cry; And to our David "twice as good," say I. Not Peter's monitor, shrill chanticleer, Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear, Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night Fills half the world with shadows of affright, You with your lantern, partner of your round, Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound. The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal; Arm'd with thy faithful staff thou slight'st them all. But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, The gentle salesman you with candour greet, And with reit'rated "good mornings" meet. Announcing your approach by formal bell, Of nightly weather you the changes tell; Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet Of winter; and in alley, or in street, Relieve your midnight progress with a verse. What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse On your didactic strain--indulgent Night With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, And critics sleep while you in staves do sound The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound In wintry months; but Crispen chief proclaim: Who stirs not at that Prince of Coblers' name? Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, And wish long days to all the Brunswick line! To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read; Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead; Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice; How death at last all ranks doth equalise; And, in conclusion, pray good years befal, With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all." For this and other tokens of good will, On boxing day may store of shillings fill Your Christmas purse; no householder give less, When at each door your blameless suit you press: And what you wish to us (it is but reason) Receive in turn--the compliments o' th' season!
VI
ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST[9]
And hath thy blameless life become A prey to the devouring tomb? A more mute silence hast thou known, A deafness deeper than thine own, While Time was? and no friendly Muse, That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues, Repair with quickening verse the breach, And write thee into light and speech? The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd; Who made the Hearing, without wrong Did rescue thine from Siren's song. He let thee _see_ the ways of men, Which thou with pencil, not with pen, Careful Beholder, down did'st note, And all their motley actions quote, Thyself unstain'd the while. From look Or gesture reading, more than _book_, In letter'd pride thou took'st no part, Contented with the Silent Art, Thyself as silent. Might I be As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!
[Footnote 9: Benjamin Ferrers--died A.D. 1732.]
VII
NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA
Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet; But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, Discover'd properties to her unknown; Of A _plus_ B, or _minus_, learn'd the use, Known Quantities from unknown to educe; And made--no doubt to that old dame's surprise-- The Christ-Cross-Row his Ladder to the skies. Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, Her Lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!
VIII
THE HOUSE-KEEPER
The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, Carries his house with him, where'er he goes; Peeps out--and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain. Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well-- He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. Himself he boards and lodges; both invites, And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattles; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam-- Knock when you will--he's sure to be at home.
IX
THE FEMALE ORATORS
Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named, So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs A name, allusive strictly to _two Tongues_[10]. Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes, And _gratis_ deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes. With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes, Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes. One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds, And one in literalities abounds; In mood and figure these keep up the din: Words multiply, and every word tells in. Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains; And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo, And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero. Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand, And from her sovereign station taints the land. Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar; Quacks scold; and Billinsgate infects the Bar.
[Footnote 10: _Billingis_ in the Latin.]
PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD MILL
(1825)
I
Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe, That sang the Pillory, In loftier strains to show A more sublime Machine Than that, where them wert seen, With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry, Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below-- A most unseemly show!
II
In such a place Who could expose thy face, Historiographer of deathless Crusoe! That paint'st the strife And all the naked ills of savage life, Far above Rousseau? Rather myself had stood In that ignoble wood, Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day. If nought else could atone For waggish libel, I swear on bible, I would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday!
III
Our ancestors' were sour days, Great Master of Romance! A milder doom had fallen to thy chance In our days: Thy sole assignment Some solitary confinement, (Not worth thy care a carrot,) Where in world-hidden cell Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, Only without the parrot; By sure experience taught to know, Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.
IV
But stay! methinks in statelier measure-- A more companionable pleasure-- I see thy steps the mighty Tread Mill trace, (The subject of my song Delay'd however long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along. There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue--harlot--thief--that live to future ages; Through many a labour'd tome, Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home! Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack, From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack. Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags; Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags, There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.
V
Incompetent my song to raise To its just height thy praise, Great Mill! That by thy motion proper (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill) Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will, Turn'st out men's consciences, That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet As flower from purest wheat, Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Or human, or divine.
VI
Compared with thee, What are the labours of that Jumping Sect, Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect? Thou dost not bump, Or jump, But _walk_ men into virtue; betwixt crime And slow repentance giving breathing time, And leisure to be good; Instructing with discretion demi-reps How to direct their steps.
VII
Thou best Philosopher made out of wood! Not that which framed the tub, Where sate the Cynic cub, With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; But from those groves derived, I deem, Where Plato nursed his dream Of immortality; Seeing that clearly Thy system all is merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art,) That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, Each Tyro now proceeds A "Walking Stewart!"
EPICEDIUM
GOING OR GONE
(1827)
I
Fine merry franions, Wanton companions, My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye; How Death, that last stinger, Finis-writer, end-bringer, Has laid his chill finger, Or is laying on ye.
II
There's rich Kitty Wheatley, With footing it featly That took me completely, She sleeps in the Kirk House; And poor Polly Perkin, Whose Dad was still firking The jolly ale firkin, She's gone to the Work-house;
III
Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter (In ten counties no smarter) Has ta'en his departure For Proserpine's orchards; And Lily, postillion, With cheeks of vermilion, Is one of a million That fill up the church-yards;
IV
And, lusty as Dido, Fat Clemitson's widow Flits now a small shadow By Stygian hid ford; And good Master Clapton Has thirty years nap't on The ground he last hap't on, Intomb'd by fair Widford;
V
And gallant Tom Dockwra, Of nature's finest crockery, Now but thin air and mockery, Lurks by Avernus, Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command, Almost did burn us.
VI
Roger de Coverley Not more good man than he; Yet has he equally Push'd for Cocytus, With drivelling Worral, And wicked old Dorrell, 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, Whose end might affright us!--
VII
Kindly hearts have I known; Kindly hearts, they are flown; Here and there if but one Linger yet uneffaced, Imbecile tottering elves, Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, These scarce are half themselves, With age and care crazed.
VIII
But this day Fanny Hutton Her last dress has put on; Her fine lessons forgotten, She died, as the dunce died: And prim Betsy Chambers, Decay'd in her members, No longer remembers Things, as she once did;
IX
And prudent Miss Wither Not in jest now doth _wither_, And soon must go--whither Nor I well, nor you know; And flaunting Miss Waller, _That_ soon must befal her, Whence none can recal her, Though proud once as Juno![11]
[Footnote 11: Here came, in _Album Verses_, 1830, "The Wife's Trial," for which see page 273, where it is placed with Lamb's other plays.]
NEW POEMS IN LAMB'S _POETICAL WORKS, 1836_
IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S[OUTHEY] (1833)
In Christian world MARY the garland wears! REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear; Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear; And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears. Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines! What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round! How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound! Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely JOAN be fashioned. But can You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN? And is not CLARE for love excuse enough? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.
TO DORA W[ORDSWORTH],
_On Being Asked by Her Father to Write in Her Album_
An Album is a Banquet: from the store, In his intelligential Orchard growing, Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing; One shaking of the Tree--'twould ask no more To set a Salad forth, more rich than that Which Evelyn[12] in his princely cookery fancied: Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, Where, a pleased guest, the angelic Virtue sat. But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts; Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, _contributory_
LAMB.
[Footnote 12: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J.E., 1706.]
IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q[UILLINAN]
A passing glance was all I caught of thee, In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving; Time short: and salutations cursory, Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me Thoughts--what the daughter of that Man should be, Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame A growing Maiden, who, from day to day Advancing still in stature, and in grace, Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, And his paternal cares with usury pay. I still retain the phantom, as I can; And call the gentle image--Quillinan.
IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY
Canadia! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils; Your whitest ermines are but foils To brighter Catherine Orkney.
That such a flower should ever burst From climes with rigorous winter curst!-- We bless you, that so kindly nurst This flower, this Catherine Orkney.
We envy not your proud display Of lake--wood--vast Niagara: Your greatest pride we've borne away. How spared you Catherine Orkney?
That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell: Canadia, you repaid us well With rearing Catherine Orkney.
O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share: You've scarce a native maid so fair, So good, as Catherine Orkney.
TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ.
_On His Illustrations of the Poems of Mr. Rogers_
(1833)
Consummate Artist, whose undying name With classic Rogers shall go down to fame, Be this thy crowning work! In my young days How often have I with a child's fond gaze Pored on the pictured wonders[13] thou hadst done: Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison! All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view; I saw, and I believed the phantoms true. But, above all, that most romantic tale[14] Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things, That serve at once for jackets and for wings. Age, that enfeebles other men's designs, But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. In several ways distinct you make us feel-- _Graceful_ as Raphael, as Watteau _genteel_. Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise; And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.
[Footnote 13: Illustrations of the British Novelists.]
[Footnote 14: Peter Wilkins.]
TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE
(1833)
What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate? Good sense--good humour;--these are trivial things, Dear M----, that each trite encomiast sings. But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt From every low-bred passion, where contempt, Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found A harbour yet; an understanding sound; Just views of right and wrong; perception full Of the deformed, and of the beautiful, In life and manners; wit above her sex, Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks; Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth; A noble nature, conqueror in the strife Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power Of those whose days have been one silken hour, Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense Alike of benefit, and of offence, With reconcilement quick, that instant springs From the charged heart with nimble angel wings; While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd By a strong hand, seem burnt into her mind. If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer Richer than land, thou hast them all in her; And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.
THE SELF-ENCHANTED
(1833)
I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, Stooping, like some enchanted theme, Over the marge of that crystal stream, Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, With Self-love fond, had to waters pined. Ages had waked, and ages slept, And that bending posture still she kept: For her eyes she may not turn away, 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way-- 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. Pore on, fair Creature! for ever pore, Nor dream to be disenchanted more; For vain is expectance, and wish is vain, 'Till a new Narcissus can come again.
TO LOUISA M[ARTIN], WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY"
(1831)
Louisa, serious grown and mild, I knew you once a romping child, Obstreperous much and very wild. Then you would clamber up my knees, And strive with every art to tease, When every art of yours could please. Those things would scarce be proper now. But they are gone, I know not how, And woman's written on your brow. Time draws his finger o'er the scene; But I cannot forget between The Thing to me you once have been Each sportive sally, wild escape,-- The scoff, the banter, and the jape,-- And antics of my gamesome Ape.
CHEAP GIFTS: A SONNET
(1834)
[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the 'Lives of the Saints, written in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas, Divine, of the order of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John Heigham, Anno 1630,' bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval with the book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.]
O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower, That 'shrines beneath her modest canopy Memorials dear to Romish piety; Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour The work perchance of some meek devotee, Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth The sanctities she worshipped to their worth, In this imperfect tracery might see Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal. Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold, That in their way approved the offerer's zeal. True love shows costliest, where the means are scant; And, in her reckoning, they _abound_, who _want_.
FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS
(1830)
Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites; for my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel.-- Cannot a man live free and easy, Without admiring Pergolesi? Or thro' the world with comfort go, That never heard of Doctor Blow? So help me heaven, I hardly have; And yet I eat, and drink, and shave, Like other people, if you watch it, And know no more of stave or crotchet, Than did the primitive Peruvians; Or those old ante-queer-diluvians That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal, Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at, Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. I care no more for Cimarosa, Than he did for Salvator Rosa, Being no painter; and bad luck Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck! Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel, Had something in them; but who's Purcel? The devil, with his foot so cloven, For aught I care, may take Beethoven; And, if the bargain does not suit, I'll throw him Weber in to boot. There's not the splitting of a splinter To chuse 'twixt him last named, and Winter. Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. I would not go four miles to visit Sebastian Bach (or Batch, which is it?); No more I would for Bononcini. As for Novello, or Rossini, I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, Because they're living; so I leave 'em.
* * * * *
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, NOT COLLECTED BY LAMB
DRAMATIC FRAGMENT
(1798)
Fie upon't. All men are false, I think. The date of love Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale, O'er past, forgotten, like an antique tale Of Hero and Leander. JOHN WOODVIL.
All are not false. I knew a youth who died For grief, because his Love proved so, And married with another. I saw him on the wedding-day, For he was present in the church that day, In festive bravery deck'd, As one that came to grace the ceremony. I mark'd him when the ring was given, His countenance never changed; And when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing, He put a silent prayer up for the bride, For so his moving lip interpreted. He came invited to the marriage feast With the bride's friends, And was the merriest of them all that day: But they, who knew him best, called it feign'd mirth; And others said, He wore a smile like death upon his face. His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth, And he went away in tears.
_What followed then?_
Oh! then He did not, as neglected suitors use, Affect a life of solitude in shades, But lived, In free discourse and sweet society, Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best. Yet ever when he smiled, There was a mystery legible in his face, That whoso saw him said he was a man Not long for this world.---- And true it was, for even then The silent love was feeding at his heart Of which he died: Nor ever spake word of reproach, Only, he wish'd in death that his remains Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far From his mistress' family vault, "being the place Where one day Anna should herself be laid."
DICK STRYPE; OR, THE FORCE OF HABIT
_A Tale--By Timothy Bramble_
(1801)
Habits _are stubborn things:_ And by the time a man is turn'd of _forty_, His _ruling passion's_ grown so haughty There is no clipping of its wings. The amorous roots have taken earth, and fix And never shall P--TT leave his juggling tricks, Till H----Y quits his metre with his pride, Till W----M learns to flatter regicide, Till hypocrite-enthusiasts cease to vant And _Mister_ W----E leaves off to cant. The truth will best be shewn, By a familiar instance of our own.
Dick Strype Was a dear friend and lover of the PIPE; He us'd to say, _one pipe of Kirkman's best_ Gave life a _zest_. To him 'twas meat, and drink, and physic, To see the friendly vapour Curl round his midnight taper, And the black fume Clothe all the room, In clouds as dark as _science metaphysic_. So still he smok'd, and drank, and crack'd his joke; And, had he _single_ tarried He might have smok'd, and still grown old in smoke: But RICHARD _married_. His wife was one, who carried The _cleanly virtues_ almost to a vice, She was so _nice:_ And thrice a week, above, below, The house was scour'd from top to toe, And all the floors were rubb'd so bright, You dar'd not walk upright For fear of sliding: But that she took a pride in.
Of all things else REBECCA STRYPE Could least endure a _pipe_. She rail'd upon the filthy herb tobacco, Protested that the noisome vapour Had spoilt the best chintz curtains and the paper And cost her many a pound in stucco: And then she quoted our _King James_, who saith "Tobacco is the Devil's breath." When wives _will_ govern, husbands _must_ obey; For many a day DICK mourn'd and miss'd his favourite tobacco, And curs'd REBECCA.
At length the day approach'd, his wife must die: Imagine now the doleful cry Of female friends, old aunts and cousins, Who to the fun'ral came by dozens-- The undertaker's men and mutes Stood at the gate in sable suits With doleful looks, Just like so many melancholy _rooks_. Now cakes and wine are handed round, Folks sigh, and drink, and drink, and sigh, For Grief makes people dry: But DICK is _missing_, nowhere to be found Above, below, about They searched the house throughout, Each hole and secret entry, Quite from the garret to the pantry, In every corner, cupboard, nook and shelf, And all concluded he had _hang'd_ himself. At last they found him--reader, guess you where-- 'Twill make you stare-- Perch'd on REBECCA'S _Coffin_, at his rest, SMOKING A PIPE OF KIRKMAN'S BEST.
TWO EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY WHO LIVED NEGLECTED AND DIED OBSCURE
(1801 _or_ 1802)
I
Under this cold marble stone Lie the sad remains of one Who, when alive, by few or none Was lov'd, as lov'd she might have been, If she prosp'rous days had seen, Or had thriving been, I ween. Only this cold funeral stone Tells, she was beloved by one, Who on the marble graves his moan.
II
A Heart which felt unkindness, yet complained not, A Tongue which spake the simple Truth, and feigned not: A Soul as white as the pure marble skin (The beauteous Mansion it was lodgèd in) Which, unrespected, could itself respect, On Earth was all the Portion of a Maid Who in this common Sanctuary laid, Sleeps unoffended by the World's neglect.
THE APE
(1806)
An Ape is but a trivial beast, Men count it light and vain; But I would let them have their thoughts, To have my Ape again.
To love a beast in any sort, Is no great sign of grace; But I have loved a flouting Ape's 'Bove any lady's face.
I have known the power of two fair eyes, In smile, or else in glance, And how (for I a lover was) They make the spirits dance;
But I would give two hundred smiles, Of them that fairest be, For one look of my staring Ape, That used to stare on me.
This beast, this Ape, it had a face-- If face it might be styl'd-- Sometimes it was a staring Ape, Sometimes a beauteous child--
A Negro flat--a Pagod squat, Cast in a Chinese mold-- And then it was a Cherub's face, Made of the beaten gold!
But TIME, that's meddling, meddling still And always altering things-- And, what's already at the best, To alteration brings--
That turns the sweetest buds to flowers, And chops and changes toys-- That breaks up dreams, and parts old friends, And still commutes our joys--
Has changed away my Ape at last And in its place convey'd, Thinking therewith to cheat my sight, A fresh and blooming maid!
And fair to sight is she--and still Each day doth sightlier grow, Upon the ruins of the Ape, My ancient play-fellow!
The tale of Sphinx, and Theban jests, I true in me perceive; I suffer riddles; death from dark Enigmas I receive:
Whilst a hid being I pursue, That lurks in a new shape, My darling in herself I miss-- And, in my Ape, THE APE.
_In tabulam eximii pictoris_ B. HAYDONI, _in quâ Solymaei, adveniente Domino, palmas in viâ, prosternentes mirâ arte depinguntur_
(1820)
Quid vult iste equitans? et quid oclit ista virorum Palmifera ingens turba, et vox tremebunda Hosanna, Hosanna Christo semper semperque canamus.
_Palma_ fuit _Senior_ pictor celeberrimus olim; Sed palmam cedat, modò si foret ille superstes, _Palma, Haydone_, tibi: tu palmas omnibus aufers.
Palma negata macrum, donataque reddit opimum. Si simul incipiat cum famâ increscere corpus, Tu citò pinguesces, fies et, amicule, obesus.
Affectat lauros pictores atque poetae Sin laurum invideant (sed quis tibi?) laurigerentes, Pro lauro palmâ viridante tempora cingas.
CARLAGNULUS.
_Translation of the Latin Verses on Mr. Haydon's Picture_
What rider's that? and who those myriads bringing Him on his way with palms, Hosannas singing? _Hosanna to the Christ_, HEAVEN--EARTH--should still be ringing.
In days of old, old Palma won renown: But Palma's self must yield the painter's crown, Haydon, to thee. Thy palm put every other down.
If Flaccus' sentence with the truth agree, That "palms awarded make men plump to be," Friend Horace, Haydon soon in bulk shall match with thee.
Painters with poets for the laurel vie: But should the laureat band thy claims deny, Wear thou thy own green palm, Haydon, triumphantly.
SONNET
_To Miss Burney, on her Character of Blanch in "Country Neighbours," a Tale_
(1820)
Bright spirits have arisen to grace the BURNEY name, And some in letters, some in tasteful arts, In learning some have borne distinguished parts; Or sought through science of sweet sounds their fame: And foremost _she_, renowned for many a tale Of faithful love perplexed, and of that good Old man, who, as CAMILLA'S guardian, stood In obstinate virtue clad like coat of mail. Nor dost thou, SARAH, with unequal pace Her steps pursue. The pure romantic vein No gentler creature ever knew to feign Than thy fine Blanch, young with an elder grace, In all respects without rebuke or blame, Answering the antique freshness of her name.
TO MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR
(1820)
Your easy Essays indicate a flow, Dear Friend, of brain which we may elsewhere seek; And to their pages I, and hundreds, owe, That Wednesday is the sweetest of the week. Such observation, wit, and sense, are shewn, We think the days of Bickerstaff returned; And that a portion of that oil you own, In his undying midnight lamp which burned. I would not lightly bruise old Priscian's head, Or wrong the rules of grammar understood; But, with the leave of Priscian be it said, The _Indicative_ is your _Potential Mood._ Wit, poet, prose-man, party-man, translator-- H[unt], your best title yet is INDICATOR.
ON SEEING MRS. K---- B----, AGED UPWARDS OF EIGHTY, NURSE AN INFANT
A sight like this might find apology In worlds unsway'd by our Chronology; As Tully says, (the thought's in Plato)-- "To die is but to go to Cato." Of this world Time is of the essence,-- A kind of universal presence; And therefore poets should have made him Not only old, as they've pourtray'd him, But young, mature, and old--all three In one--a sort of mystery-- ('Tis hard to paint abstraction pure.) Here young--there old--and now mature-- Just as we see some old book-print, Not to one scene its hero stint; But, in the distance, take occasion To draw him in some other station. Here this prepost'rous union seems A kind of meeting of extremes. Ye may not live together. Mean ye To pass that gulf that lies between ye Of fourscore years, as we skip ages In turning o'er historic pages? Thou dost not to this age belong: Thou art three generations wrong: Old Time has miss'd thee: there he tarries! Go on to thy contemporaries! Give the child up. To see thee kiss him Is a compleat anachronism. Nay, keep him. It is good to see Race link'd to race, in him and thee. The child repelleth not at all Her touch as uncongenial, But loves the old Nurse like another-- Its sister--or its natural mother; And to the nurse a pride it gives To think (though old) that still she lives With one, who may not hope in vain To live her years all o'er again!
TO EMMA, LEARNING LATIN, AND DESPONDING
(_By Mary Lamb_. ? 1827)
Droop not, dear Emma, dry those falling tears, And call up smiles into thy pallid face, Pallid and care-worn with thy arduous race: In few brief months thou hast done the work of years. To young beginnings natural are these fears. A right good scholar shalt thou one day be, And that no distant one; when even she, Who now to thee a star far off appears, That most rare Latinist, the Northern Maid-- The language-loving Sarah[15] of the Lake-- Shall hail thee Sister Linguist. This will make Thy friends, who now afford thee careful aid, A recompense most rich for all their pains, Counting thy acquisitions their best gains.
[Footnote 15: Daughter of S.T. Coleridge, Esq.; an accomplished linguist in the Greek and Latin tongues, and translatress of a History of the Abipones. [Note in _Blackwood_.]]
LINES
_Addressed to Lieut. R.W.H. Hardy, R.N., on the Perusal of his Volume of Travels in the Interior of Mexico_
'Tis pleasant, lolling in our elbow chair, Secure at home, to read descriptions rare Of venturous traveller in savage climes; His hair-breadth 'scapes, toil, hunger--and sometimes The merrier passages that, like a foil To set off perils past, sweetened that toil, And took the edge from danger; and I look With such fear-mingled pleasure thro' thy book, Adventurous Hardy! Thou a _diver_[16] art, But of no common form; and for thy part Of the adventure, hast brought home to the nation _Pearls_ of discovery--_jewels_ of observation.
ENFIELD, _January_, 1830.
[Footnote 16: Captain Hardy practised this art with considerable success. [Note in _Athenaeum_.]]
LINES
[_For a Monument Commemorating the Sudden Death by Drowning of a Family, of Four Sons and Two Daughters_]
(1831)
Tears are for lighter griefs. Man weeps the doom, That seals a single victim to the tomb. But when Death riots--when, with whelming sway, Destruction sweeps a family away; When infancy and youth, a huddled mass, All in an instant to oblivion pass, And parents' hopes are crush'd; what lamentation Can reach the depth of such a desolation? Look upward, Feeble Ones! look up and trust, That HE who lays their mortal frame in dust, Still hath the immortal spirit in his keeping-- In Jesus' sight they are not dead but sleeping.
TO C. ADERS, ESQ.
_On his Collection of Paintings by the old German Masters_
(1831)
Friendliest of men, ADERS, I never come Within the precincts of this sacred Room, But I am struck with a religious fear, Which says "Let no profane eye enter here." With imagery from Heav'n the walls are clothed, Making the things of Time seem vile and loathed. Spare Saints, whose bodies seem sustain'd by Love, With Martyrs old in meek procession move. Here kneels a weeping Magdalen, less bright To human sense for her blurr'd cheeks; in sight Of eyes, new-touch'd by Heav'n, more winning fair Than when her beauty was her only care. A Hermit here strange mysteries doth unlock In desart sole, his knees worn by the rock. There Angel harps are sounding, while below Palm-bearing Virgins in white order go. Madonnas, varied with so chaste design, While all are different, each seems genuine, And hers the only Jesus: hard outline, And rigid form, by DURER'S hand subdued To matchless grace, and sacro-sanctitude; DURER, who makes thy slighted Germany Vie with the praise of paint-proud Italy.
Whoever enter'st here, no more persume To name a Parlour, or a Drawing Room; But, bending lowly to each holy Story, Make this thy Chapel, and thine Oratory.
HERCULES PACIFICATUS
_A Tale from Suidas_
(1831)
In days of yore, ere early Greece Had dream'd of patrols or police, A crew of rake-hells _in terrorem_ Spread wide, and carried all before 'em, Rifled the poultry, and the women, And held that all things were in common; Till Jove's great Son the nuisance saw, And did abate it by Club Law. Yet not so clean he made his work, But here and there a rogue would lurk In caves and rocky fastnesses, And shunn'd the strength of Hercules.
Of these, more desperate than others, A pair of ragamuffin brothers In secret ambuscade join'd forces, To carry on unlawful courses. These Robbers' names, enough to shake us, Where, Strymon one, the other Cacus. And, more the neighbourhood to bother, A wicked dam they had for mother, Who knew their craft, but not forbid it, And whatsoe'er they nymm'd, she hid it; Received them with delight and wonder, When they brought home some 'special plunder; Call'd them her darlings, and her white boys, Her ducks, her dildings--all was right boys-- "Only," she said, "my lads, have care Ye fall not into BLACK BACK'S snare; For, if he catch, he'll maul your _corpus_, And clapper-claw you to some purpose." She was in truth a kind of witch, Had grown by fortune-telling rich; To spells and conjurings did tackle her, And read folks' dooms by light oracular; In which she saw, as clear as daylight, What mischief on her bairns would a-light; Therefore she had a special loathing For all that own'd that sable clothing.
Who can 'scape fate, when we're decreed to 't? The graceless brethren paid small heed to 't. A brace they were of sturdy fellows, As we may say, that fear'd no colours, And sneer'd with modern infidelity At the old gipsy's fond credulity. It proved all true tho', as she'd mumbled-- For on a day the varlets stumbled On a green spot--_sit linguae fides_-- 'Tis Suidas tells it--where Alcides Secure, as fearing no ill neighbour, Lay fast asleep after a "Labour." His trusty oaken plant was near-- The prowling rogues look round, and leer, And each his wicked wits 'gan rub, How to bear off the famous Club; Thinking that they _sans_ price or hire wou'd Carry 't strait home, and chop for fire wood.
'Twould serve their old dame half a winter-- You stare? but 'faith it was no splinter; I would not for much money 'spy Such beam in any neighbour's eye. The villains, these exploits not dull in, Incontinently fell a pulling. They found it heavy--no slight matter-- But tugg'd, and tugg'd it, till the clatter 'Woke Hercules, who in a trice Whipt up the knaves, and with a splice, He kept on purpose--which before Had served for giants many a score-- To end of Club tied each rogue's head fast; Strapping feet too, to keep them steadfast; And pickaback them carries townwards, Behind his brawny back head-downwards, (So foolish calf--for rhyme I bless X-- Comes _nolens volens_ out of Essex); Thinking to brain them with his _dextra_, Or string them up upon the next tree. That Club--so equal fates condemn-- They thought to catch, has now catch'd them.
Now Hercules, we may suppose, Was no great dandy in his clothes; Was seldom, save on Sundays, seen In calimanco, or nankeen; On anniversaries would try on A jerkin spick-span new from lion; Went bare for the most part, to be cool, And save the time of his Groom of the Stole; Besides, the smoke he had been in In Stygian gulf, had dyed his skin To a natural sable--a right hell-fit-- That seem'd to careless eyes black velvet.
The brethren from their station scurvy, Where they hung dangling topsy turvy, With horror view the black costume, And each persumes his hour is come! Then softly to themselves 'gan mutter The warning words their dame did utter; Yet not so softly, but with ease Were overheard by Hercules. Quoth Cacus--"This is he she spoke of, Which we so often made a joke of." "I see," said the other, "thank our sin for't, 'Tis BLACK BACK sure enough--we're in for 't."
His Godship who, for all his brag Of roughness, was at heart a wag, At his new name was tickled finely, And fell a laughing most divinely. Quoth he, "I'll tell this jest in heaven-- The musty rogues shall be forgiven." So in a twinkling did uncase them, On mother earth once more to place them-- The varlets, glad to be unhamper'd, Made each a leg--then fairly scamper'd.
THE PARTING SPEECH OF THE CELESTIAL MESSENGER TO THE POET
_From the Latin of Palingenius, in the Zodiacus Vitae_
(1832)
But now time warns (my mission at an end) That to Jove's starry court I re-ascend; From whose high battlements I take delight To scan your earth, diminish'd to the sight, Pendant, and round, and, as an apple, small; Self-propt, self-balanced, and secure from fall By her own weight: and how with liquid robe Blue ocean girdles round her tiny globe, While lesser Nereus, gliding like a snake, Betwixt her hands his flexile course doth take, Shrunk to a rivulet; and how the Po, The mighty Ganges, Tanais, Ister, show No bigger than a ditch which rains have swell'd. Old Nilus' seven proud mouths I late beheld, And mock'd the watery puddles. Hosts steel-clad Ofttimes I thence behold; and how the sad Peoples are punish'd by the fault of kings, Which from the purple fiend Ambition springs. Forgetful of mortality, they live In hot strife for possessions fugitive, At which the angels grieve. Sometimes I trace Of fountains, rivers, seas, the change of place; By ever shifting course, and Time's unrest, The vale exalted, and the mount deprest To an inglorious valley; plough-shares going Where tall trees rear'd their tops; and fresh trees growing In antique pastures. Cities lose their site. Old things wax new. O what a rare delight To him, who from this vantage can survey At once stern Afric, and soft Asia, With Europe's cultured plains; and in their turns Their scatter'd tribes: those whom the hot Crab burns, The tawny Ethiops; Orient Indians; Getulians; ever-wandering Scythians; Swift Tartar hordes; Cilicians rapacious, And Parthians with back-bended bow pugnacious; Sabeans incense-bringing, men of Thrace, Italian, Spaniard, Gaul, and that rough race Of Britons, rigid as their native colds; With all the rest the circling sun beholds! But clouds, and elemental mists, deny These visions blest to any fleshly eye.
EXISTENCE, CONSIDERED IN ITSELF, NO BLESSING
_From the Latin of Palingenius_
(1832)
The Poet, after a seeming approval of suicide, from a consideration of the cares and crimes of life, finally rejecting it, discusses the negative importance of existence, contemplated in itself, without reference to good or evil.
Of these sad truths consideration had-- Thou shalt not fear to quit this world so mad, So wicked; but the tenet rather hold Of wise Calanus, and his followers old, Who with their own wills their own freedom wrought, And by self-slaughter their dismissal sought From this dark den of crime--this horrid lair Of men, that savager than monsters are; And scorning longer, in this tangled mesh Of ills, to wait on perishable flesh, Did with their desperate hands anticipate The too, too slow relief of lingering fate. And if religion did not stay thine hand, And God, and Plato's wise behests, withstand, I would in like case counsel thee to throw This senseless burden off, of cares below. Not wine, _as_ wine, men choose, but as it came From such or such a vintage: 'tis the same With life, which simply must be understood A black negation, if it be not good. But if 'tis wretched all--as men decline And loath the sour lees of corrupted wine-- 'Tis so to be contemn'd. Merely TO BE Is not a boon to seek, nor ill to flee, Seeing that every vilest little Thing Has it in common, from a gnat's small wing, A creeping worm, down to the moveless stone, And crumbling bark from trees. Unless TO BE, And TO BE BLEST, be one, I do not see In bare existence, _as_ existence, aught That's worthy to be loved, or to be sought.
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
_On the New Edition of his "Pleasures of Memory"_
(1833)
When thy gay book hath paid its proud devoirs, Poetic friend, and fed with luxury The eye of pampered aristocracy In glittering drawing-rooms and gilt boudoirs, O'erlaid with comments of pictorial art, However rich and rare, yet nothing leaving Of healthful action to the soul-conceiving Of the true reader--yet a nobler part Awaits thy work, already classic styled. Cheap-clad, accessible, in homeliest show The modest beauty through the land shall go From year to year, and render life more mild; Refinement to the poor man's hearth shall give, And in the moral heart of England live.
TO CLARA N[OVELLO]
(1834)
The Gods have made me most unmusical, With feelings that respond not to the call Of stringed harp, or voice--obtuse and mute To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute; King David's lyre, that made the madness flee From Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me: Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars, Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars; I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float Upon the captive air; I know no note, Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say, Of the strange mysteries of _Sol_ and _Fa_; I sit at oratorios like a fish, Incapable of sound, and only wish The thing was over. Yet do I admire, O tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire, Thy painful labours in a science, which To your deserts I pray may make you rich As much as you are loved, and add a grace To the most musical Novello race. Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say; You draw them by the ear--a delicater way.
THE SISTERS
On Emma's honest brow we read display'd The constant virtues of the Nut Brown Maid; Mellifluous sounds on Clara's tongue we hear, Notes that once lured a Seraph from his sphere; Cecilia's eyes such winning beauties crown As without song might draw _her_ Angel down.
LOVE WILL COME
Tune--_The Tartar Drum_
I
Guard thy feelings, pretty Vestal, From the smooth Intruder free; Cage thy heart in bars of chrystal, Lock it with a golden key: Thro' the bars demurely stealing, Noiseless footstep, accent dumb, His approach to none revealing-- Watch, or watch not, LOVE WILL COME.
His approach to none revealing-- Watch, or watch not, Love will come--Love, Watch, or watch not, Love will come.
II
Scornful Beauty may deny him-- He hath spells to charm disdain; Homely Features may defy him-- Both at length must wear the chain. Haughty Youth in Courts of Princes-- Hermit poor with age o'er come-- His soft plea at last convinces; Sooner, later, LOVE WILL COME.
His soft plea at length convinces; Sooner, later, Love will come--Love, Sooner, later, Love will come.
TO MARGARET W----
Margaret, in happy hour Christen'd from that humble flower Which we a daisy[17] call! May thy pretty name-sake be In all things a type of thee, And image thee in all.
[Footnote 17: Marguerite, in French, signifies a daisy. [Note in _Athenaeum_.]]
To Margaret W----
Like _it_ you show a modest face, An unpretending native grace;-- The tulip, and the pink, The china and the damask rose, And every flaunting flower that blows, In the comparing shrink.
Of lowly fields you think no scorn; Yet gayest gardens would adorn, And grace, wherever set. Home-seated in your lonely bower, Or wedded--a transplanted flower-- I bless you, Margaret!
EDMONTON, 8_th October_, 1834.
* * * * *
ADDITIONAL ALBUM VERSES AND ACROSTICS
WHAT IS AN ALBUM?
'Tis a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show, Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know. 'Tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose, And some things not very like either, God knows. The soft First Effusions of Beaux and of Belles, Of future LORD BYRONS, and sweet L.E.L.'s; Where wise folk and simple both equally shine, And you write your nonsense, that I may write mine. Stick in a fine landscape, to make a display, A flower-piece, a foreground, all tinted so gay, As NATURE herself (could she see them) would strike With envy, to think that she ne'er did the like: And since some LAVATERS, with head-pieces comical, Have pronounc'd people's hands to be physiognomical, Be sure that you stuff it with AUTOGRAPHS plenty, All framed to a pattern, so stiff, and so dainty. They no more resemble folks' every-day writing, Than lines penn'd with pains do extemp'rel enditing; Or the natural countenance (pardon the stricture) The faces we make when we sit for our picture.
Thus you have, dearest EMMA, an ALBUM complete-- Which may _you_ live to finish, and _I_ live to see it; And since you began it for innocent ends, May it swell, and grow bigger each day with new friends, Who shall set down kind names, as a token and test, As I my poor _autograph_ sign with the rest.
THE FIRST LEAF OF SPRING
_Written on the First Leaf of a Lady's Album_
Thou fragile, filmy, gossamery thing, First leaf of spring! At every lightest breath that quakest, And with a zephyr shakest; Scarce stout enough to hold thy slender form together, In calmest halcyon weather; Next sister to the web that spiders weave, Poor flutterers to deceive Into their treacherous silken bed: O! how art thou sustained, how nourishèd! All trivial as thou art, Without dispute, Thou play'st a mighty part; And art the herald to a throng Of buds, blooms, fruit, That shall thy cracking branches sway, While birds on every spray Shall pay the copious fruitage with a sylvan song. So 'tis with thee, whoe'er on thee shall look, First leaf of this beginning modest book. Slender thou art, God knowest, And little grace bestowest, But in thy train shall follow after, Wit, wisdom, seriousness, in hand with laughter; Provoking jests, restraining soberness, In their appropriate dress; And I shall joy to be outdone By those who brighter trophies won; Without a grief, That I thy slender promise have begun, First leaf.
1832.
TO MRS. F[IELD]
_On Her Return from Gibraltar_
Jane, you are welcome from the barren Rock, And Calpe's sounding shores. Oh do not mock, Now you have rais'd, our greetings; nor again Ever revisit that dry nook of Spain.
Friends have you here, and friendships to command, In merry England. Love this hearty land. Ease, comfort, competence--of these possess'd, Let prodigal adventurers seek the rest: Dear England is _as you_,--a _Field_ the Lord hath blest.
TO M[ARY] L[AETITIA] F[IELD]
(_Expecting to See Her Again after a Long Interval_)
How many wasting, many wasted years, Have run their round, since I beheld your face! In Memory's dim eye it yet appears Crowned, as it _then_ seemed, with a chearful grace. Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side, Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles, Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride, To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles. I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow, But take of Time a rigorous account, When next I see you; and Maria now Must _be_ the Thing she _was_. To what amount These verses else?--all hollow and untrue-- This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU.
TO ESTHER FIELD
Esther, holy name and sweet, Smoothly runs on even feet, To the mild Acrostic bending; Hebrew recollections blending. Ever keep that Queen in view-- Royal namesake--bold, and true!
Firm she stood in evil times, In the face of Haman's crimes.-- Ev'n as She, do Thou possess Loftiest virtue in the dress, Dear F----, of native loveliness.
[TO MRS. WILLIAMS]
(1830)
Go little Poem, and present Respectful terms of compliment; A gentle lady bids thee speak! Courteous is _she_, tho' thou be weak-- Evoke from Heaven as thick as manna
Joy after joy on Grace Joanna: On Fornham's Glebe and Pasture land A blessing pray. Long, long may stand, Not touched by Time, the Rectory blithe; No grudging churl dispute his Tithe; At Easter be the offerings due
With cheerful spirit paid; each pew In decent order filled; no noise Loud intervene to drown the voice, Learning, or wisdom of the Teacher; Impressive be the Sacred Preacher, And strict his notes on holy page; May young and old from age to age Salute, and still point out, 'The good man's Parsonage!'
TO THE BOOK
Little Casket! Storehouse rare Of rich conceits, to please the Fair! Happiest he of mortal men,-- (I crown him monarch of the pen,)-- To whom Sophia deigns to give The flattering prerogative To inscribe his name in chief, On thy first and maiden Leaf. When thy pages shall be full Of what brighter wits can cull Of the Tender or Romantic, Creeping Prose or Verse Gigantic,-- Which thy spaces so shall cram That the Bee-like Epigram (Which a two-fold tribute brings, Honey gives at once, and stings,) Hath not room left wherewithal To infix its tiny scrawl; Haply some more youthful swain, Striving to describe his pain, And the Damsel's ear to seize With more expressive lays than these, When he finds his own excluded And these counterfeits intruded; While, loitering in the Muse's bower, He overstayed the eleventh hour, Till the tables filled--shall fret, Die, or sicken with regret Or into a shadow pine: While this triumphant verse of mine, Like to some favoured stranger-guest, Bidden to a good man's Feast Shall sit--by merit less than fate-- In the upper Seat in State.
TO S[OPHIA] F[REND]
_Acrostic_
Solemn Legends we are told Of bright female Names of old, Phyllus fair, Laodameia, Helen, but methinks Sophia Is a name of better meaning And a sort of Christian leaning.
For it _Wisdom_ means, which passes Rubies, pearls, or golden masses. Ever try that Name to merit; Never quit what you inherit, Duly from your Father's spirit.
TO R[OTHA] Q[UILLINAN]
_Acrostic_
ROTHA, how in numbers light, Ought I to express thee? Take my meaning in its flight-- Haste imports not always slight-- And believe, I bless thee.
TO S[ARAH] L[OCKE]
_Acrostic_
Shall I praise a face unseen, And extol a fancied mien, Rave on visionary charm, And from shadows take alarm? Hatred hates _without a cause;_
Love may love, with more applause, Or, without a reason given, Charmed be with unknown Heaven. Keep the secrets, though, unmocked, Ever in your bosom _Locke'd_.
TO M[ARY] L[OCKE]
_Acrostic_
Must I write with pen unwilling And describe those graces killing Rightly, which I never saw? Yes--it is the Album's law.
Let me then Invention strain On your excelling charms to feign-- Cold is Fiction? I _believe_ it Kindly, as I did receive it, Even as J.F.'s tongue did weave it.
AN ACROSTIC AGAINST ACROSTICS
[_To Edward Hogg_]
Envy not the wretched Poet Doomed to pen these teasing strains, Wit so cramped, ah, who can show it, Are the trifles worth the pains. Rhyme compared with this were easy, Double Rhymes may not displease ye.
Homer, Horace sly and caustic, Owed no fame to vile acrostic. G's, I am sure, the Readers choked with, Good men's names must not be joked with.
ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM
My feeble Muse, that fain her best wou'd Write, at command of Frances Westwood, But feels her wits not in their best mood, Fell lately on some idle fancies, As she's much given to romances, About this self-same style as Frances; Which seems to be a name in common Attributed to man or woman. She thence contrived this flattering moral, With which she hopes no soul will quarrel, That she, whom this twin title decks, Combines what's good in either sex; Unites--how very rare the case is!-- Masculine sense to female graces; And, quitting not her proper rank, Is both in one--Fanny, and frank.
12_th October_, 1827.
[IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM]
_By Mary Lamb_
Small beauty to your Book my lines can lend, Yet you shall have the best I can, sweet friend, To serve for poor memorials 'gainst the day That calls you from your Parent-roof away, From the mild offices of Filial life To the more serious duties of a Wife. The World is opening to you--may you rest With all your prospects realised, and blest!-- I, with the Elder Couple left behind, On evenings chatting, oft shall call to mind Those spirits of Youth, which Age so ill can miss, And, wanting you, half grudge your S--n's bliss; Till mirthful malice tempts us to exclaim 'Gainst the dear Thief, who robb'd you of your _Name_.
ENFIELD CHASE, 17_th May_, 1828.
UN SOLITAIRE
_A Drawing by E.I._ [_Emma Isola_]
[_To Sarah Lachlan_]
Solitary man, around thee Are the mountains: Peace hath found thee Resting by that rippling tide; All vain toys of life expelling, Hermit-like, thou find'st a dwelling, Lost 'mid foliage stretching wide. Angels here alone may find thee, Contemplation fast may bind thee. Holier spot, or more fantastic, Livelier scene of deep seclusion, Armed by Nature 'gainst intrusion, Never graced a seat Monastic.
TO S[ARAH] T[HOMAS]
_An Acrostic_
Sarah, blest wife of "Terah's faithful Son," After a race of years with goodness run, Regardless heard the promised miracle, And mocked the blessing as impossible. How weak is Faith!--even He, the most sincere,
Thomas, to his meek Master not least dear, Holy, and blameless, yet refused assent Of full belief, until he could content Mere human senses. In your piety, As you are _one_ in _name_, industriously So copy them: but _shun_ their weak part--_Incredulity_.
TO MRS. SARAH ROBINSON
Soul-breathing verse, thy gentlest guise put on And greet the honor'd name of Robinson. Rome in her throng'd and stranger-crowded streets, And palaces, where pilgrim _pilgrim_ meets, Holds not, respected Sarah, one that can Revered make the name of Englishman, Or loved, more than thy Kinsman, dear to me By many a friendly act. His heart I see In thee with answering courtesy renew'd. Nor shall to thee my debt of gratitude Soon fade, that didst receive with open hand One that was come a stranger to thy land-- Now call[s] thee Friend. Her thanks, and mine, command.
Enfield, 14_th March_, 1831.
TO SARAH [APSEY]
_Acrostic_
Sarah,--your other name I know not, And fine encomiums I bestow not, Regard me as an utter stranger, A hair-brain'd, hasty, album-ranger, Heaven shield you, Girl, from every danger!
TO JOSEPH VALE ASBURY
_Acrostic_
Judgements are about us thoroughly; O'er all Enfield hangs the Cholera, Savage monster, none like him Ever rack'd a human limb. Pest, nor plague, nor fever yellow, Has made patients more to bellow.
Vain his threatnings! Asbury comes, And defiance beats by drums; Label, bottle, box, pill, potion, Each enlists in the commotion.
And with Vials, like to those Seen in Patmos[18], charged with woes, Breathing Wrath, he falls pell-mell Upon the Foe, and pays him well. Revenge!--he has made the monster sick Yea, Cholera vanish, choleric.
[Footnote 18: _Vide_ Revelations.]
TO D[OROTHY] A[SBURY]
_Acrostic_
Divided praise, Lady, to you we owe, Of all the health your husband doth bestow, Respected wife of skilful Asbury! Oracular foresight named thee Dorothy; Tis a Greek word, and signifies God's Gift; (How Learning helps poor Poets at a shift!)-- You are that gift. When, tired with human ails,
And tedious listening to the sick man's tales, Sore spent, and fretted, he comes home at eve, By mild medicaments you his toils deceive. Under your soothing treatment he revives; (Restorative is the smile of gentle wives): You lengthen _his_, who lengthens _all our lives._
TO LOUISA MORGAN
How blest is he who in his _age_, exempt From fortune's frowns, and from the troublous strife Of storms that harass still the private life, "Below ambition, and above contempt," Hath gain'd a quiet harbour, where he may Look back on shipwrecks past, without a sigh For busier scenes, and hope's gay dreams gone by! And such a nook of blessedness, they say, Your Sire at length has found; while you, best Child, Content in _his_ contentment, acquiesce In patient toils; and in a station less, Than you might image, when your prospects smiled. In your meek virtues there is found a calm, That on his life's soft evening sheds a balm.
TO SARAH JAMES OF BEGUILDY
_Acrostic_
Sleep hath treasures worth retracing: Are you not in slumbers pacing Round your native spot at times, And seem to hear Beguildy's chimes? Hold the airy vision fast; Joy is but a dream at last: And what was so fugitive, Memory only makes to live. Even from troubles past we borrow Some thoughts that may lighten sorrow,
Onwards as we pace through life, Fainting under care or strife,
By the magic of a thought Every object back is brought Gayer than it was when real, Under influence ideal. In remembrance as a glass, Let your happy childhood pass; Dreaming so in fancy's spells, You still shall hear those old church bells.
TO EMMA BUTTON
_Acrostic_
EMMA, eldest of your name, Meekly trusting in her God Midst the red-hot plough-shares trod, And unscorch'd preserved her fame. By that test if _you_ were tried, Ugly flames might be defied; Though devouring fire's a glutton, Through the trial you might go "On the light fantastic toe," Nor for plough-shares care a BUTTON.
WRITTEN UPON THE COVER OF A BLOTTING BOOK
Blank tho' I be, within you'll find Relics of th' enraptured mind: Where truth and fable, mirth and wit, Are safely here deposited. The placid, furious, envious, wise, Impart to me their secresies; Here hidden thoughts in blotted line Nor sybil can the sense divine; Lethe and I twin sisters be-- Then, stranger, open me and see.
* * * * *
POLITICAL AND OTHER EPIGRAMS
TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH
(1801)
Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black, In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack: When he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf, He went away, and wisely hanged himself. This thou may'st do at last; yet much I doubt, If thou hast any _bowels_ to gush out!
* * * * *
TWELFTH NIGHT
_Characters That Might Have Been Drawn on the Above Evening_
(1802)
MR. A[DDINGTON]
I put my night-cap on my head, And went, as usual, to my bed; And, most surprising to relate, I woke--a Minister of State!
MESSRS. C[ANNIN]G AND F[RER]E
At Eton School brought up with dull boys, We shone like _men_ among the _school-boys_; But since we in the world have been, We are but _school-boys_ among _men_.
COUNT RUMFORD
I deal in aliments fictitious And teaze the poor with soups nutritious. Of bones and flesh I make dilution And belong to the National Institution.
ON A LATE EMPIRIC OF "BALMY" MEMORY
(1802. Not printed till 1820)
His namesake, born of Jewish breeder, Knew "from the Hyssop to the Cedar;" But he, unlike the Jewish leader, Scarce knew the Hyssop from the Cedar.
* * * * *
EPIGRAMS
(1812)
I
Princeps his rent from tinneries draws, His best friends are refiners;-- What wonder then his other friends He leaves for under-_miners._
II
Ye Politicians, tell me, pray, Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the _wig_ away, And left the _hair apparent._
* * * * *
THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE
(1812)
Io! Paean! Io! sing To the funny people's King. Not a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the polar sea. See his blubbers--at his gills What a world of drink he swills, From his trunk, as from a spout, Which next moment he pours out. Such his person--next declare, Muse, who his companions are.-- Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside, or slinks behind; But about his presence keep All the Monsters of the Deep; Mermaids, with their tails and singing His delighted fancy stinging; Crooked Dolphins, they surround him, Dog-like Seals, they fawn around him. Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea shark. For his solace and relief, Flat fish are his courtiers chief. Last and lowest in his train, Ink-fish (libellers of the main) Their black liquor shed in spite: (Such on earth the things _that write_.) In his stomach, some do say, No good thing can ever stay. Had it been the fortune of it To have swallowed that old Prophet, Three days there he'd not have dwell'd, But in one have been expell'd. Hapless mariners are they, Who beguil'd (as seamen say), Deeming him some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind; Soon the difference they find; Sudden plumb, he sinks beneath them; Does to ruthless seas bequeath them.
Name or title what has he? Is he Regent of the Sea? From this difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks or sage Linnaeus. With his wondrous attributes Say what appellation suits. By his bulk, and by his size, By his oily qualities, This (or else my eyesight fails), This should be the PRINCE OF WHALES.
SONNET
_St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford_ (1819)
All unadvised, and in an evil hour, Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft The lowly labours of the Gentle Craft For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour. All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power; The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground; And sweet content of mind is oftener found In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower. The sorest work is what doth cross the grain; And better to this hour you had been plying The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying, Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein; Still teazing Muses, which are still denying; Making a stretching-leather of your brain.
THE GODLIKE
(1820)
In one great man we view with odds A parallel to all the gods. Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow, Could never match his princely bow. In him a Bacchus we behold: Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old. Like Phoebus next, a flaming lover; And then he's Mercury--all over. A Vulcan, for domestic strife, He lamely lives without his wife. And sure--unless our wits be dull-- Minerva-like, when moon was full, He issued from paternal skull.
THE THREE GRAVES
(1820)
Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds Where Bedloe, Oates and Judas, hide their heads, I saw great Satan like a Sexton stand With his intolerable spade in hand, Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were, For those who, coffinless, must enter there With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath: The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye, that dwelt Upon it long, like darkness to be felt. The pillows to these baleful beds were toads, Large, living, livid, melancholy loads, Whose softness shock'd. Worms of all monstrous size Crawl'd round; and one, upcoil'd, which never dies. A doleful bell, inculcating despair, Was always ringing in the heavy air. And all about the detestable pit Strange headless ghosts, and quarter'd forms, did flit; Rivers of blood, from living traitors spilt, By treachery stung from poverty to guilt. I ask'd the fiend, for whom these rites were meant? "These graves," quoth he, "when life's brief oil is spent, When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bedwards, --I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards."
SONNET TO MATHEW WOOD, ESQ.
_Alderman and M.P._
(1820)
Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic WOOD! Regardless what the player's son may prate, Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of Debate-- Who nothing generous ever understood. London's twice Praetor! scorn the fool-born jest-- The stage's scum, and refuse of the players-- Stale topics against Magistrates and Mayors-- City and Country both thy worth attest. Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit, More fit to sooth the superficial ear Of drunken PITT, and that pickpocket Peer, When at their sottish orgies they did sit, Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein, Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain.
ON A PROJECTED JOURNEY
(1820)
To gratify his people's wish See G[eorg]e at length prepare-- He's setting out for Hanover-- We've often wished him there.
SONG FOR THE C[ORONATIO]N
_Tune, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch"_
(1820)
_Roi's_ wife of Brunswick Oëls! _Roi's_ wife of Brunswick Oëls! Wot you how she came to him, While he supinely dreamt of no ills? Vow! but she is a canty Queen, And well can she scare each royal orgie.-- To us she ever must be dear, Though she's for ever cut by Georgie.-- _Roi's_ wife, etc. _Da capo._
THE UNBELOVED
(1820)
Not a woman, child, or man in All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng. Fools, whom gentle manners sway, May incline to C[astlerea]gh, Princes, who old ladies love, Of the Doctor may approve, Chancery lads do not abhor Their chatty, childish Chancellor. In Liverpool some virtues strike, And little Van's beneath dislike. Tho, if I were to be dead for't, I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t: (Every man must have his way) Other grey adulterers may. But thou unamiable object,-- Dear to neither prince, nor subject;-- Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf Fastning on the skin of Guelph, Thou, thou must, surely, _loathe thyself._
ON THE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND OF LORD BYRON'S REMAINS
(1824)
Manners, they say, by climate alter not: Who goes a drunkard will return a sot. So lordly Juan, damn'd to lasting fame, Went out a pickle, and came back the same.
LINES
_Suggested by a Sight of Waltham Cross_
(1827)
Time-mouldering CROSSES, gemm'd with imagery Of costliest work, and Gothic tracery, Point still the spots, to hallow'd wedlock dear, Where rested on its solemn way the bier, That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor To mix with Royal dust at Westminster.-- Far different rites did thee to dust consign, Duke Brunswick's daughter, Princely Caroline. A hurrying funeral, and a banish'd grave, High-minded Wife! were all that thou could'st have. Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death thy losses; Thou in thy life-time had'st thy share of _crosses._
FOR THE "TABLE BOOK"
(1827)
Laura, too partial to her friends' enditing, Requires from each a pattern of their _writing._ A weightier trifle Laura might command; For who to Laura would refuse his--_hand?_
THE ROYAL WONDERS
(1830)
Two miracles at once! Compell'd by fate, His tarnish'd throne the Bourbon doth vacate; While English William,--a diviner thing,-- Of his free pleasure hath put off _the king._ The forms of distant old respect lets pass, And melts his crown into the common mass. Health to fair France, and fine regeneration! But England's is the nobler abdication.
"BREVIS ESSE LABORO"
"ONE DIP"
(1830)
Much speech obscures the sense; the soul of wit Is brevity: our tale one proof of it. Poor Balbulus, a stammering invalid, Consults the doctors, and by them is bid To try sea-bathing, with this special heed, "One Dip was all his malady did need; More than that one his certain death would be." Now who so nervous or so shook as he, For Balbulus had never dipped before? Two well-known dippers at the Broadstairs' shore, Stout, sturdy churls, have stript him to the skin, And naked, cold, and shivering plunge him in. Soon he emerges, with scarce breath to say, "I'm to be dip--dip--dipt--." "We know it," they Reply; expostulation seemed in vain, And over ears they souse him in again, And up again he rises, his words trip, And falter as before. Still "dip--dip--dip"-- And in again he goes with furious plunge, Once more to rise; when, with a desperate lunge, At length he bolts these words out, "Only once!" The villains crave his pardon. Had the dunce But aimed at these bare words the rogues had found him, But striving to be prolix, they half drowned him.
SUUM CUIQUE
(1830)
Adsciscit sibi divitias et opes alienas Fur, rapiens, spolians quod mihi, quodque tibi Proprium erat, temnens haec verba, Meumque Tuumque; Omne Suum est. Tandem cuique suum tribuit. Dat laqueo collum: vestes, vah! carnifici dat: Sese Diabolo; sic bene, Cuique Suum.
[ON THE _LITERARY GAZETTE_]
(1830)
In merry England I computed once The number of the dunces--dunce for dunce; There were _four hundred_, if I don't forget, _All readers of the L------y G-----e;_ But if the author to himself keep true, In some short months they'll be reduced to _two_.
ON THE FAST-DAY
To name a Day for general prayer and fast Is surely worse than of no sort of use; For you may see with grief, from first to last On _fast_-days people of all ranks are _loose_.
NONSENSE VERSES
Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills? Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty AERIAL Spinsters, and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left HALLELUJAH broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged, and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it.
ON WAWD
_(Of the East India House)_
What Wawd knows, God knows; But God knows _what_ Wawd knows.
* * * * *
SIX EPITAPHS ON ENSIGN PEACOCK
(1799)
MARMOR LOQUITUR
He lies a Volunteer so fine, Who died of a decline, As you or I, may do one day; Reader, think of this, I pray; And I humbly hope you'll drop a tear For my poor Royal Volunteer. He was as brave as brave could be, Nobody was so brave as he; He would have died in Honor's bed, Only he died at home instead. Well may the Royal Regiment swear, They never had such a Volunteer. But whatsoever they may say, Death is a man that will have his way: Tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain; In the next we hope he'll be a captain. And without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals, He begg'd to be buried in regimentals.
ON TIMOTHY WAGSTAFF
Here lies the body of Timothy Wagstaff, Who was once as tall and as straight as a flagstaff; But now that he's gone to another world, His staff is broken and his flag is furled.
ON CAPTAIN STURMS
Here lieth the body of Captain Sturms, Once "food for powder," now for worms, At the battle of Meida he lost his legs, And stumped about on wooden pegs. Naught cares he now for such worthless things, He was borne to Heaven on angels' wings.
ON MARGARET DIX
_(Born on February 29)_
_Ci git_ the remains of Margaret Dix, Who was young in old age I ween, Though Envy with Malice cried "seventy-six," The Graces declared her "nineteen."
ON ONESIMUS DRAKE
To the memory of Dr. Onesimus Drake, Who forced good people his drugs to take-- No wonder his patients were oft on the rack For this "duck of a man" was a terrible quack.
ON MATTHEW DAY
Beneath this slab lies Matthew Day, If his body had not been snatched away To be by Science dissected; Should it have gone, one thing is clear: His soul the last trump is sure to hear, And thus be resurrected.
* * * * *
TIME AND ETERNITY
Where the soul drinks of misery's power, Each moment seems a lengthened hour; But when bright joy illumes the mind, Time passes as the fleetest wind.-- How to a wicked soul must be Whole ages of eternity?
FROM THE LATIN
As swallows shrink before the wintry blast, And gladly seek a more congenial soil, So flatterers halt when fortune's lure is past, And basely court some richer lordling's smile.
SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE
_With the Whole Process of his Courtship and Marriage, and who Danced at the Wedding
By an Eye Witness_
(1831)
DEDICATION
To delicate bosoms, that have sighed over the _Loves of the Angels_, this Poem is with tenderest regard consecrated. It can be no offence to you, dear Ladies, that the author has endeavoured to extend the dominion of your darling passion; to shew Love triumphant in places, to which his advent has been never yet suspected. If one Cecilia drew an Angel down, another may have leave to attract a Spirit upwards; which, I am sure, was the most desperate adventure of the two. Wonder not at the inferior condition of the agent; for, if King Cophetua wooed a Beggar Maid, a greater king need not scorn to confess the attractions of a fair Tailor's daughter. The more disproportionate the rank, the more signal is the glory of your sex. Like that of Hecate, a triple empire is now confessed your own. Nor Heaven, nor Earth, nor deepest tracts of Erebus, as Milton hath it, have power to resist your sway. I congratulate your last victory. You have fairly made an Honest Man of the Old One; and, if your conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedict has employment enough on his hands to desist from dabbling with the affairs of poor mortals; he may fairly leave human nature to herself; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the attacks of this hitherto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in his condition.
PART THE FIRST
I
The Devil was sick and queasy of late, And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him; His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd-- None knew what the devil ail'd him.
II
He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights, That was fit for a fiend's disportal; For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn, Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn Of the best down beds that are mortal.
III
His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved, With groanings corresponding; And mincing and few were the words he spoke, While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke From a heart that seem'd desponding.
IV
Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam, I think none e'er was older: Her years--old Parr's were nothing to them; And a chicken to her was Methusalem, You'd say, could you behold her.
V
She remember'd Chaos a little child, Strumming upon hand organs; At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat, The ancientest there, and was godmother at The christening of the Gorgons.
VI
Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros' skin, Like a mummy's through its cerement; But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd What pinch'd her son; whom she thus address'd In terms that bespoke endearment.
VII
"What ails my Nicky, my darling Imp, My Lucifer bright, my Beelze? My Pig, my Pug-with-a-curly-tail, You are not well. Can a mother fail To see _that_ which all Hell see?"
VIII
"O Mother dear, I am dying, I fear; Prepare the yew, and the willow, And the cypress black: for I get no ease By day or by night for the cursed fleas, That skip about my pillow."
IX
"Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer, For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son, And your blankets both, and dried them upon The brimstony banks of Acheron-- It is not the _fleas_ that bite, son."
X
"O I perish of cold these bitter sharp nights, The damp like an ague ferrets; The ice and the frost hath shot into the bone; And I care not greatly to sleep alone O! nights--for the fear of Spirits."
XI
"The weather is warm, my own sweet boy, And the nights are close and stifling; And for fearing of Spirits, you cowardly Elf-- Have you quite forgot you're a Spirit yourself? Come, come, I see you are trifling.
XII
"I wish my Nicky is not in love"-- "O mother, you have nick't it"-- And he turn'd his head aside with a blush-- Not red hot pokers, or crimson plush, Could half so deep have prick'd it.
XIII
"These twenty thousand good years or more," Quoth he, "on this burning shingle I have led a lonesome Bachelor's life, Nor known the comfort of babe or wife-- 'Tis a long--time to live single."
XIV
Quoth she, "If a wife is all you want, I shall quickly dance at your wedding. I am dry nurse, you know, to the Female Ghosts "-- And she call'd up her charge, and they came in hosts To do the old Beldam's bidding:
XV
All who in their lives had been servants of sin-- Adulteress, Wench, Virago-- And Murd'resses old that had pointed the knife Against a husband's or father's life, Each one a She Iago.
XVI
First Jezebel came--no need of paint, Or dressing, to make her charming; For the blood of the old prophetical race Had heighten'd the natural flush of her face To a pitch 'bove rouge or carmine.
XVII
Semiramis there low tendered herself, With all Babel for a dowry: With Helen, the flower and the bane of Greece-- And bloody Medea next offer'd her fleece, That was of Hell the Houri.
XVIII
Clytemnestra, with Joan of Naples, put in; Cleopatra, by Anthony quicken'd; Jocasta, that married where she should not, Came hand in hand with the Daughters of Lot; Till the Devil was fairly sicken'd.
XIX
For the Devil himself, a dev'l as he is, Disapproves unequal matches. "O Mother," he cried, "dispatch them hence! No Spirit--I speak it without offence-- Shall have me in her hatches."
XX
With a wave of her wand they all were gone! And now came out the slaughter: "'Tis none of these that can serve my turn; For a wife of flesh and blood I burn-- I'm in love with a Taylor's Daughter.
XXI
"'Tis she must heal the wounds that she made, 'Tis she must be my physician. O parent mild, stand not my foe"-- For his mother had whisper'd something low About "matching beneath his condition."--
XXII
"And then we must get paternal consent, Or an unblest match may vex ye"-- "Her father is dead; I fetched him away. In the midst of his goose, last Michaelmas day-- He died of an apoplexy.
XXIII
"His daughter is fair, and an only heir-- With her I long to tether-- He has left her his _hell_, and all that he had; The estates are contiguous, and I shall be mad, 'Till we lay our two Hells together."
XXIV
"But how do you know the fair maid's mind?"-- Quoth he, "Her loss was but recent; And I could not speak _my_ mind you know, Just when I was fetching her father below-- It would have been hardly decent.
XXV
"But a leer from her eye, where Cupids lie, Of love gave proof apparent; And, from something she dropp'd, I shrewdly ween'd, In her heart she judged, that a _living Fiend_ Was better than a _dead Parent_.
XXVI
"But the time is short; and suitors may come, While I stand here reporting; Then make your son a bit of a Beau, And give me your blessing, before I go To the other world a courting."
XXVII
"But what will you do with your horns, my son? And that tail--fair maids will mock it--" "My tail I will dock--and as for the horn, Like husbands above I think no scorn To carry it in my pocket."
XXVIII
"But what will you do with your feet, my son?" "Here are stockings fairly woven: My hoofs I will hide in silken hose; And cinnamon-sweet are my pettitoes-- Because, you know, they are _cloven_."
XXIX
"Then take a blessing, my darling Son," Quoth she, and kiss'd him civil-- Then his neckcloth she tied; and when he was drest From top to toe in his Sunday's best, He appear'd a comely devil.
XXX
So his leave he took:--but how he fared In his courtship--barring failures-- In a Second Part you shall read it soon, In a bran new song, to be sung to the tune Of the "Devil among the Tailors."
* * * * *
THE SECOND PART
_Containing the Courtship, and the Wedding_
I
Who is She that by night from her balcony looks On a garden, where cabbage is springing? 'Tis the Tailor's fair Lass, that we told of above; She muses by moonlight on her True Love; So sharp is Cupid's stinging.
II
She has caught a glimpse of the Prince of the Air In his Luciferian splendour, And away with her coyness and maiden reserve!-- For none but the Devil her turn will serve, Her sorrows else will end her.
III
She saw when he fetch'd her father away, And the sight no whit did shake her; For the Devil may sure with his own make free-- And "it saves besides," quoth merrily she, "The expence of an Undertaker.--
IV
"Then come, my Satan, my darling Sin, Return to my arms, my Hell Beau; My Prince of Darkness, my crow-black Dove"-- And she scarce had spoke, when her own True Love Was kneeling at her elbow!
V
But she wist not at first that this was He, That had raised such a boiling passion; For his old costume he had laid aside, And was come to court a mortal bride In a coat-and-waistcoat fashion.
VI
She miss'd his large horns, and she miss'd his fair tail, That had hung so retrospective; And his raven plumes, and some other marks Regarding his feet, that had left their sparks In a mind but too susceptive:
VII
And she held in scorn that a mortal born Should the Prince of Spirits rival, To clamber at midnight her garden fence-- For she knew not else by what pretence To account for his arrival.
VIII
"What thief art thou," quoth she, "in the dark That stumblest here presumptuous? Some Irish Adventurer I take you to be-- A Foreigner, from your garb I see, Which besides is not over sumptuous."
IX
Then Satan, awhile dissembling his rank, A piece of amorous fun tries: Quoth he, "I'm a Netherlander born; Fair Virgin, receive not my suit with scorn; I'm a Prince in the Low Countries--
X
"Though I travel _incog_. From the Land of Fog And Mist I am come to proffer My crown and my sceptre to lay at your feet; It is not every day in the week you may meet, Fair Maid, with a Prince's offer."
XI
"Your crown and your sceptre I like full well, They tempt a poor maiden's pride, Sir; But your lands and possessions--excuse if I'm rude-- Are too far in a Northerly latitude For me to become your Bride, Sir.
XII
"In that aguish clime I should catch my death, Being but a raw new comer"-- Quoth he, "We have plenty of fuel stout; And the fires, which I kindle, never go out By winter, nor yet by summer.
XIII
"I am Prince of Hell, and Lord Paramount Over Monarchs there abiding. My Groom of the Stables is Nimrod old; And Nebuchadnazor my stirrups must hold, When I go out a riding.
XIV
"To spare your blushes, and maiden fears, I resorted to these inventions-- But, Imposture, begone; and avaunt, Disguise!" And the Devil began to swell and rise To his own diabolic dimensions.
XV
Twin horns from his forehead shot up to the moon, Like a branching stag in Arden; Dusk wings through his shoulders with eagle's strength Push'd out; and his train lay floundering in length An acre beyond the garden.--
XVI
To tender hearts I have framed my lay-- Judge ye, all love-sick Maidens, When the virgin saw in the soft moonlight, In his proper proportions, her own true knight, If she needed long persuadings.
XVII
Yet a maidenly modesty kept her back, As her sex's art had taught her: For "the biggest Fortunes," quoth she, "in the land-- Are not worthy"--then blush'd--"of your Highness's hand-- Much less a poor Taylor's daughter.
XVIII
"There's the two Miss Crockfords are single still, For whom great suitors hunger; And their Father's hell is much larger than mine"-- Quoth the Devil, "I've no such ambitious design, For their Dad is an old Fishmonger;
XIX
"And I cannot endure the smell of fish-- I have taken an anti-bias To their livers, especially since the day That the Angel smoked my cousin away From the chaste spouse of Tobias.
XX
"Had my amorous kinsman much longer staid, The perfume would have seal'd his obit; For he had a nicer nose than the wench, Who cared not a pin for the smother and stench, In the arms of the Son of Tobit."
XXI
"I have read it," quoth she, "in Apocryphal Writ"-- And the Devil stoop'd down, and kiss'd her; Not Jove himself, when he courted in flame, On Semele's lips, the love-scorch'd Dame, Impress'd such a burning blister.
XXII
The fire through her bones and her vitals shot-- "O, I yield, my winsome marrow-- I am thine for life"--and black thunders roll'd-- And she sank in his arms through the garden mould, With the speed of a red-hot arrow.
XXIII
Merrily, merrily, ring the bells From each Pandemonian steeple; For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful Bride, And a Wedding Dinner he will provide, To feast all kinds of people.
XXIV
Fat bulls of Basan are roasted whole, Of the breed that ran at David; With the flesh of goats, on the sinister side, That shall stand apart, when the world is tried; Fit meat for souls unsaved!
XXV
The fowl from the spit were the Harpies' brood, Which the bard sang near Cremona, With a garnish of bats in their leathern wings imp't; And the fish was--two delicate slices crimp't, Of the whale that swallow'd Jonah.
XXVI
Then the goblets were crown'd, and a health went round To the Bride, in a wine like scarlet; No earthly vintage so deeply paints, For 'twas dash'd with a tinge from the blood of the Saints By the Babylonian Harlot.
XXVII
No Hebe fair stood Cup Bearer there, The guests were their own skinkers; But Bishop Judas first blest the can, Who is of all Hell Metropolitan, And kiss'd it to all the drinkers.
XXVIII
The feast being ended, to dancing they went, To a music that did produce a Most dissonant sound, while a hellish glee Was sung in parts by the Furies Three; And the Devil took out Medusa.
XXIX
But the best of the sport was to hear his old Dam, Set up her shrill forlorn pipe-- How the wither'd Beldam hobbled about, And put the rest of the company out-- For she needs must try a horn-pipe.
XXX
But the heat, and the press, and the noise, and the din, Were so great, that, howe'er unwilling, Our Reporter no longer was able to stay, But came in his own defence away, And left the Bride quadrilling.
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES
EPILOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "ANTONIO"
(1800)
Ladies, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died, Poor victim of a Spaniard brother's pride, When Spanish honour through the world was blown, And Spanish beauty for the best was known[19]. In that romantic, unenlighten'd time, A _breach of promise_[20] was a sort of crime-- Which of you handsome English ladies here, But deem the penance bloody and severe? A whimsical old Saragossa[21] fashion, That a dead father's dying inclination, Should _live_ to thwart a living daughter's passion[22], Unjustly on the sex _we_[23] men exclaim, Rail at _your_[24] vices,--and commit the same;-- Man is a promise-breaker from the womb, And goes a promise-breaker to the tomb-- What need we instance here the lover's vow, The sick man's purpose, or the great man's bow[25]? The truth by few examples best is shown-- Instead of many which are better known, Take poor Jack Incident, that's dead and gone. Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain, Purchased a renter's share at Drury-lane; A prudent man in every other matter, Known at his club-room for an honest hatter; Humane and courteous, led a civil life, And has been seldom known to beat his wife; But Jack is now grown quite another man, Frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan Of each new piece, And has been seen to talk with Sheridan! In at the play-house just at six he pops, And never quits it till the curtain drops, Is never absent on the _author's night_, Knows actresses and actors too--by sight; So humble, that with Suett he'll confer, Or take a pipe with plain Jack Bannister; Nay, with an author has been known so free, He once suggested a catastrophe-- In short, John dabbled till his head was turn'd: His wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourn'd, His customers were dropping off apace, And Jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face.
One night his wife began a curtain lecture; 'My dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector, Take pity on your helpless babes and me, Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy-- Look to your business, leave these cursed plays, And try again your old industrious ways.'
Jack, who was always scared at the Gazette, And had some bits of scull uninjured yet, Promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason, 'He would not see another play that season--'
Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept, Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept, And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men; No _wit_, but John the hatter once again-- Visits his club: when lo! one _fatal night_ His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight-- John's _hat, wig, snuff-box_--well she knew his tricks-- And Jack decamping at the hour of six. Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay, Announcing that 'Pizarro' was the play-- 'O Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing.' Quoth Jack, 'Why what the devil storm's a-brewing? About a harmless play why all this fright? I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite-- Zounds, woman! Nelson's[26] to be there to-night.'
[Footnote 19: Four _easy_ lines.]
[Footnote 20: For which the _heroine died_.]
[Footnote 21: In _Spain_!!]
[Footnote 22: Two _neat_ lines.]
[Footnote 23: Or _you_.]
[Footnote 24: Or _our_, as _they_ have altered it.]
[Footnote 25: Antithesis!!]
[Footnote 26: "A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times at both theatres--and advertised himself."]
PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "FAULKENER"
(1807)
An author who has given you all delight, Furnish'd the tale our stage presents to-night. Some of our earliest tears He taught to steal Down our young cheeks, and forc'd us first to feel. To solitary shores whole years confin'd, Who has not read how pensive _Crusoe_ pin'd? Who, now grown old, that did not once admire His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire, The stick, due-notch'd, that told each tedious day That in the lonely island wore away? Who has not shudder'd, where he stands aghast At sight of human footsteps in the waste? Or joy'd not, when his trembling hands unbind Thee, _Friday_, gentlest of the savage kind? The genius who conceiv'd that magic tale Was skill'd by native pathos to prevail. His stories, though rough-drawn, and fram'd in haste, Had that which pleas'd our homely grandsires' taste. His was a various pen, that freely rov'd Into all subjects, was in most approv'd. Whate'er the theme, his ready Muse obey'd-- Love, courtship, politics, religion, trade-- Gifted alike to shine in every sphere, Nov'list, historian, poet, pamphleteer. In some blest interval of party-strife, He drew a striking sketch from private life, Whose moving scenes of intricate distress We try to-night in a dramatic dress: A real story of domestic woe, That asks no aid from music, verse, or show, But trusts to truth, to nature, and _Defoe._
EPILOGUE TO HENRY SIDDONS' FARCE, "TIME'S A TELL-TALE"
(1807)
Bound for the port of matrimonial bliss, Ere I hoist sail, I hold it not amiss, (Since prosp'rous ends ask prudent introductions) To take a slight peep at my written instructions. There's nothing like determining in time All questions marital or maritime.
In all seas, straits, gulphs, ports, havens, lands, creeks. Oh! Here it begins. "Season, spring, wind standing at point Desire-- The good ship Matrimony--Commander. Blanford, Esq.
Art. I.
"The captain that has the command of her, Or in his absence, the acting officer, To see her planks are sound, her timbers tight."-- That acting officer I don't relish quite, No, as I hope to tack another verse on, I'll do those duties in my proper person.
Art. II.
"All mutinies to be suppress'd at first." That's a good caution to prevent the worst.
Art. III.
"That she be properly victual'd, mann'd and stor'd, To see no foreigners are got aboard." That's rather difficult. Do what we can, A vessel sometimes may mistake her man. The safest way in such a parlous doubt, Is steady watch and keep a sharp look out.
Art. IV.
"Whereas their Lords Commissioners (the church) Do strictly authorise the right of search: As always practis'd--you're to understand By these what articles are contraband; Guns, mortars, pistols, halberts, swords, pikes, lances, Ball, powder, shot, and the appurtenances. Videlicet--whatever can be sent To give the enemy encouragement. Ogles are small shot (so the instruction runs), Touches hand grenades, and squeezes rifle guns."
Art. V.
"That no free-bottom'd neutral waiting maid Presume to exercise the carrying trade: The prohibition here contained extends To all commerce cover'd by the name of Friends. Heaven speed the good ship well"--and so it ends. Oh with such wholesome jealousies as these May Albion cherish his old spouse the seas; Keep over her a husband's firm command, Not with too rigid nor too lax a hand. Be gently patient to her swells and throws When big with safeties to himself she goes; Nor while she clips him in a fast embrace, Stand for some female frowns upon her face. But tell the rival world--and tell in Thunder, Whom Nature joined, none ere shall put asunder.
PROLOGUE TO COLERIDGE'S TRAGEDY OF "REMORSE"
(1813)
There are, I am told, who sharply criticise Our modern theatres' unwieldy size. We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge, Who think a house can never be too large: Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear, Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere; And pleased to mark the grin from space to space Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.-- O might old Betterton or Booth return To view our structures from their silent urn, Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades, Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades-- Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve, He imitates the ways of men above, And apes the actions of our upper coast, As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:-- How might they bless our ampler scope to please, And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.-- Their houses yet were palaces to those, Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose. Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, } Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage, } Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. } He who could tame his vast ambition down To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town, And, if some hundred auditors supplied Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied, How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears, While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands Return'd the tribute of as many hands! Rude were his guests; he never made his bow To such an audience as salutes us now. He lack'd the balm of labor, female praise. Few Ladies in his time frequented plays, Or came to see a youth with aukward art And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part. The very use, since so essential grown, Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown. The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest, The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest-- The forest walks of Arden's fair domain, Where Jaques fed his solitary vein. No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply, Seen only by the intellectual eye. Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page, Our Author owes to a more liberal age. Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here; 'Tis for himself alone that he must fear. Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride, That (be the laurel granted or denied) He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane, Severer muses and a tragic strain.
EPILOGUE TO KENNEY'S FARCE, "DEBTOR AND CREDITOR"
(1814)
_Spoken by Mr. Liston and Mr. Emery in character_
_Gosling._ False world----
_Sampson._ You're bit, Sir.
_Gosling_. Boor! what's that to you? With Love's soft sorrows what hast thou to do? 'Tis _here_ for consolation I must look. (_Takes out his pocket book_).
_Sampson_. Nay, Sir, don't put us down in your black book.
_Gosling_. All Helicon is here.
_Sampson_. All Hell.
_Gosling_. You Clod! Did'st never hear of the Pierian God, And the Nine Virgins on the Sacred Hill?
_Sampson_. Nine Virgins!--Sure!
_Gosling_. I have them all at will.
_Sampson_. If Miss fight shy, then--
_Gosling_. And my suit decline.
_Sampson_. You'll make a dash at them.
_Gosling_. I'll tip all nine.
_Sampson_. What, wed 'em, Sir?
_Gosling_. O, no--that thought I banish. I woo--not wed; they never bring the Spanish. Their favours I pursue, and court the bays.
_Sampson_. Mayhap, you're one of them that write the plays?
_Gosling_. Bumpkin!
_Sampson_. I'm told the public's well-nigh crammed With such like stuff.
_Gosling_. The public may be damned.
_Sampson_. They ha'nt damned you? (_inquisitively_).
_Gosling_. This fellow's wond'rous shrewd! I'd tell him if I thought he'd not be rude. Once in my greener years, I wrote a piece.
_Sampson_. Aye, so did I--at school like--
_Gosling_. Booby, cease! I mean a Play.
_Sampson_. Oh!
_Gosling_. And to crown my joys, 'Twas acted--
_Sampson_. Well, and how--
_Gosling_. It made a noise, A kind of mingled--(_as if musing_).
_Sampson_. Aye, describe it, try.
_Gosling_. Like--Were you ever in the pillory?
_Sampson_. No, Sir, I thank ye, no such kind of game.
_Gosling_. Bate but the eggs, and it was much the same. Shouts, clamours, laughs, and a peculiar sound, 'Like, like--
_Sampson_. Like geese, I warrant, in a pound. I like this mainly!
_Gosling_. Some began to cough, Some cried--
_Sampson_. Go on--
_Gosling_. A few--and some--"Go off!" I can't suppress it. Gods! I hear it now; It was in fact a most confounded row. Dire was the din, as when some storm confounds Earth, sea, and sky, with all terrific sounds. Not hungry lions sent forth notes more strange, Not bulls and bears, that have been hoaxed on 'Change.
_Sampson_. Exeter 'Change you mean--I've seen they bears.
_Gosling_. The beasts I mean are far less tame than theirs. Change Alley Bruins, nattier though their dress, Might at Polito's study politesse. Brief let me be. My gentle Sampson, pray, Fight Larry Whack, but never write a play.
_Sampson_. I won't, Sir: and these christian souls petition, To spare all wretched folks in such condition.
EPILOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF "RICHARD II."
(1824)
Of all that act, the hardest task is theirs, Who, bred no Players, play at being Players; Copy the shrug--in Kemble once approved;-- Mere mimics' mimics--nature twice removed. Shades of a shadow! who but must have seen The stage-struck hero, in some swelling scene Aspiring to be Lear--stumble on Kean? The admired actor's faults our steps betray,-- No less his very beauties lead astray!
In "sad civility" once Garrick sate To see a Play, mangled in form and state; Plebeian Shakspeare must the words supply,-- The actors all were Fools--of Quality. The scenes--the dresses--were above rebuke;-- Scarce a Performer there below a Duke. He sate, and mused how in his Shakspeare's mind The idea of old Nobility enshrined Should thence a grace and a refinement have Which passed these living Nobles to conceive,-- Who with such apish, base gesticulation, Remnants of starts, and dregs of playhouse passion, So foul belied their great forefathers' fashion! He saw--and true Nobility confessed Less in the high-born blood, than lowly poet's breast.
If Lords enacting Lords sometimes may fail, What gentle plea, Spectators, can avail For wight of low degree who dares to stir The long-raked ashes of old Lancaster, And on his nothing-martial front to set Of warlike Gaunt the lofty burgonet? For who shall that Plantagenet display, Majestical in sickness and decay? Or paint the shower of passions fierce and thick On Richard's head--that Royal Splenetic?
Your pardon, not your plaudits, then we claim If we've come short, where Garrick had been tame!
PROLOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"
(1833)
_Untoward_ fate no luckless wight invades More sorely than the Man who drives _two trades_; Like Esop's bat, between two natures placed, Scowl'd at by _mice_, among the _birds_ disgraced. Our author thus, of two-fold fame exactor, Is doubly scouted,--both as Bard, and Actor! Wanting in haste a Prologue, he applied To three poetic friends; was thrice denied. Each glared on him with supercilious glance, As on a Poor Relation met by chance; And one was heard, with more repulsive air, To mutter "Vagabond," "Rogue," "Strolling Player!" A poet once, he found--and look'd aghast-- By turning actor, he had lost his _caste_. The verse patch'd up at length--with like ill fortune His friends behind the scenes he did importune To speak his lines. He found them all fight shy, Nodding their heads in cool civility. "There service in the Drama was enough, The poet might recite the poet's stuff!" The rogues--they like him hugely--but it stung 'em, Somehow--to think a Bard had got among 'em. Their mind made up--no earthly pleading shook it, In pure compassion 'till I undertook it. Disown'd by Poets, and by Actors too, Dear Patrons of both arts, he turns to you! If in your hearts some tender feelings dwell From sweet Virginia, or heroic Tell: If in the scenes which follow you can trace What once has pleased you--an unbidden grace-- A touch of nature's work--an awkward start Or ebullition of an Irish heart-- Cry, clap, commend it! If you like them not, Your former favours cannot be forgot. Condemn them--damn them--hiss them, if you will-- Their author is your grateful servant still!
EPILOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"
(1833)
When first our Bard his simple will express'd, That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd, My fears were with my vanity at strife, How I could act that untried part--a "Wife." But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew, Where Mariana like a wild flower grew, Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I Liked her condition, willing to comply With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch, Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche, Startling my mountain-project! "Take this spade," Said Fancy then; "dig low, adventurous Maid, For hidden wealth." I did: and, Ladies, lo! } Was e'er romantic female's fortune so, } To dig a life-warm lover from the--snow? }
A Wife and Princess see me next, beset With subtle toils, in an Italian net; While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear, Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear. I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein; Racks, cords, stilettos, rush'd upon my brain! By poor, good, weak Antonio, too disowned-- I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd: And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop, Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop: And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn, Some lean Apothecary should suborn To take my hated life? A "tortoise" hung Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled "alligators" rung. But _my_ Othello, to his vows more zealous-- Twenty Iagos could not make _him_ jealous!
New raised to reputation, and to life-- } At your commands behold me, without strife, } Well-pleased, and ready to repeat--"The Wife." }
* * * * *
JOHN WOODVIL
A TRAGEDY
(1798-1802. _Text of_ 1818)
* * * * *
CHARACTERS
SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
JOHN. } SIMON. } _his sons._
LOVEL. } GRAY. } _Pretended friends of John._
SANDFORD. _Sir Walter's old steward._ MARGARET. _Orphan ward of Sir Walter._ FOUR GENTLEMEN. _John's riotous companions._ SERVANTS.
SCENE--_for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in_ DEVONSHIRE; _at other times in the forest of_ SHERWOOD.
TIME--_soon after the_ RESTORATION.
* * * * *
ACT THE FIRST
SCENE.--_A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall._
Servants drinking--_Time, the morning._
* * * * *
A Song by DANIEL
_"When the King enjoys his own again."_
PETER A delicate song. Where did'st learn it, fellow?
DANIEL Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics--at our master's table.--Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?
MARTIN Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel!--his oaths and his politics! excellent!
FRANCIS And where did'st pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
PETER That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience.
MARTIN Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.
DANIEL I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?
MARTIN Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!
FRANCIS See--if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.
DANIEL No offence, brother Martin--I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and with-holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.
MARTIN Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.
FRANCIS Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.
DANIEL _Quot homines tot sententiae._
MARTIN And what is that?
DANIEL 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.
MARTIN I hope there is none between us.
DANIEL Here's to thee, brother Martin. (_Drinks._)
MARTIN And to thee, Daniel. (_Drinks._)
FRANCIS And to thee, Peter. (_Drinks._)
PETER Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (_Drinks._)
MARTIN I shall be fuddled anon.
DANIEL And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.
ALL O! a shocking vice. (_They drink round._)
PETER In as much as it taketh away the understanding.
DANIEL And makes the eyes red.
PETER And the tongue to stammer.
DANIEL And to blab out secrets.
(_During this conversation they continue drinking._)
PETER Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.
DANIEL Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.
MARTIN Now I know I am going to be drunk.
DANIEL How can'st tell, dry-bones?
MARTIN Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.
FRANCIS Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.
(_Martin drops asleep._)
PETER Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.
ALL Greatly altered.
FRANCIS I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.
PETER In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping.
ALL None.
DANIEL
For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.
PETER
Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast--his quart!
ALL A quart!! (_in derision_.)
DANIEL Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.
PETER Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were--discreet and reasonable serving-men.
ALL Like beasts.
MARTIN (_Opening his eyes_.) Like beasts.
DANIEL To sleep, wag-tail!
FRANCIS I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?
DANIEL Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.
MARTIN Now that is wilful.
FRANCIS But can any tell me the place of his concealment?
PETER That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.
DANIEL Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.
FRANCIS Well, I have my suspicions.
PETER And so have I.
MARTIN And I can keep a secret.
FRANCIS (_To Peter_.) Warwickshire you mean. (_Aside_.)
PETER Perhaps not.
FRANCIS Nearer perhaps.
PETER I say nothing.
DANIEL I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.
ALL O Lord, surely not. (_They drink to Sir Walter's safety_.)
FRANCIS I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.
DANIEL Shall I tell the reason?
ALL Aye, do.
DANIEL 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.
ALL O! monstrous!
PETER Fellow servants, a thought strikes me.--Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment.
ALL Truly a sad consideration.
_To them enters Sandford suddenly._
SANDFORD You well-fed and unprofitable grooms, Maintained for state, not use; You lazy feasters at another's cost, That eat like maggots into an estate, And do as little work, Being indeed but foul excrescences, And no just parts in a well-order'd family; You base and rascal imitators, Who act up to the height your master's vices, But cannot read his virtues in your bond: Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying? Was it you, or you, or, thin-face, was it you?
MARTIN Whom does he call thin-face?
SANDFORD No prating, loon, but tell me who he was, That I may brain the villain with my staff, That seeks Sir Walter's life? You miserable men, With minds more slavish than your slave's estate, Have you that noble bounty so forgot, Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs, Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, cloth'd ye, And entertain'd ye in a worthy service, Where your best wages was the world's repute, That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live? Have you forgot too, How often in old times Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?-- Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies Out of the reach of your poor treacheries. This learn from me, Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues, Than will unlock themselves to carls like you. Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff Shall teach you better manners else.
ALL Well, we are going.
SANDFORD And quickly too, ye had better, for I see Young mistress Margaret coming this way. (_Exeunt all but Sandford._)
_Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse. Sandford, Margaret._
SANDFORD Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance I saw you, lady, so intent was I On chiding hence these graceless serving-men, Who cannot break their fast at morning meals Without debauch and mis-timed riotings. This house hath been a scene of nothing else But atheist riot and profane excess, Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
MARGARET Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests, And free discourses, of the dissolute men, That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.
SANDFORD Does my young master know of these affronts?
MARGARET I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told. Perhaps he might have seen them if he would. I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass. All things seem chang'd, I think. I had a friend, (I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,) These things are best forgotten; but I knew A man, a young man, young, and full of honor, That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw, And fought it out to the extremity, E'en with the dearest friend he had alive, On but a bare surmise, a possibility, That Margaret had suffer'd an affront. Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.
SANDFORD 'Twere best he should be _told_ of these affronts.
MARGARET I am the daughter of his father's friend, Sir Walter's orphan-ward. I am not his servant maid, that I should wait The opportunity of a gracious hearing, Enquire the times and seasons when to put My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, And sue to him for slow redress, who was Himself a suitor late to Margaret. I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride. I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy, And joyful mistress of his youth. None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret. His conscience, his religion, Margaret was, His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart, And all dear things summ'd up in her alone. As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died: His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all Being fashion'd to her liking. His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem, His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. The world esteem'd her happy, who had won His heart, who won all hearts; And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
SANDFORD He doth affect the courtier's life too much, Whose art is to forget, And that has wrought this seeming change in him, That was by nature noble. 'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy With images of state, preferment, place, Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
MARGARET I know not how it is; A cold protector is John grown to me. The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil Can never stoop so low to supplicate A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, Which he was bound first to prevent; But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather, Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect, And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love, His love which long has been upon the wane. For me, I am determined what to do: To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John, And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
SANDFORD O lady, have a care Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves. You know not half the dangers that attend Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely, Portray without its terrors, painting _lies_ And representments of fallacious liberty-- You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.
MARGARET I have thought on every possible event, The dangers and discouragements you speak of, Even till my woman's heart hath ceas'd to fear them, And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents. Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think, Of practicable schemes.
SANDFORD Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.
MARGARET I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford, And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.
SANDFORD But what course have you thought on?
MARGARET To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood. I have letters from young Simon, Acquainting me with all the circumstances Of their concealment, place, and manner of life, And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners, Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.-- All which I have perus'd with so attent And child-like longings, that to my doting ears Two sounds now seem like one, One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty. And, gentle Mr. Sandford, 'Tis you that must provide now The means of my departure, which for safety Must be in boy's apparel.
SANDFORD Since you will have it so (My careful age trembles at all may happen) I will engage to furnish you. I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you With garments to your size. I know a suit Of lively Lincoln Green, that shall much grace you In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom. Young Stephen Woodvil wore them, while he lived. I have the keys of all this house and passages, And ere day-break will rise and let you forth. What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you; And will provide a horse and trusty guide, To bear you on your way to Nottingham.
MARGARET That once this day and night were fairly past! For then I'll bid this house and love farewell; Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John; For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone. Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.-- (_Exeunt divers ways._)
ACT THE SECOND
SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall._
_John Woodvil--alone._
(_Reading Parts of a Letter._)
"When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account _that_ dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have taken (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured, tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.
"MARGARET."
Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret! And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves, And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies, And shew red eyes at parting. Who bids "farewell" In the same tone he cries "God speed you, Sir?" Or tells of joyful victories at sea, Where he hath ventures? does not rather muffle His organs to emit a leaden sound, To suit the melancholy dull "farewell," Which they in Heaven not use?-- So peevish, Margaret? But 'tis the common error of your sex, When our idolatry slackens, or grows less, (As who of woman born can keep his faculty Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty, For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure Make it renewable, as some appetites are, As, namely, Hunger, Thirst?--) this being the case, They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold, Coin plainings of the perfidy of men, Which into maxims pass, and apothegms To be retailed in ballads.-- I know them all. They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here For more disturbers of my sleep than one. Love shall have part, but Love shall not have all. Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns, Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking; Yet Love not be excluded.--Foolish wench, I could have lov'd her twenty years to come, And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so, Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow! I'll try To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance sake. I shall not grudge so much.--
_To him enters Lovel_.
LOVEL Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping.
WOODVIL Nothing is the matter, only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.
LOVEL I cannot conceive you.
WOODVIL Margaret is flown.
LOVEL Upon what pretence?
WOODVIL Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.
LOVEL Then, you confess the charge?
WOODVIL To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side idolatry.
LOVEL As all good Christians' should, I think.
WOODVIL I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.
LOVEL A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.
WOODVIL We should have made excellent man and wife in time.
LOVEL A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.
WOODVIL While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.
LOVEL Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.
WOODVIL Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.
LOVEL What made you neglect her, then?
WOODVIL Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men, physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor. (_A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing_.)
LOVEL Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours.
(_Enter one drunk_.)
DRUNKEN MAN Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.
WOODVIL And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?
DRUNKEN MAN I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birth-day? the day, of all days in the year, on which King Charles the second was graciously pleased to be born. (_Sings_) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year."
LOVEL Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!
DRUNKEN MAN And why not drunk in a morning? can'st tell, bully?
WOODVIL Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.
DRUNKEN MAN I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (_Sings_) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."--At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (_Sings_) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then makes valour burgeon in tall men."--But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.
WOODVIL Who are they?
DRUNKEN MAN Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me. (_Exit, singing._)
WOODVIL This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.
(Enter, at another door, Three calling for Harry Freeman._)
Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman. He is not here. Let us go look for him. Where is Freeman? Where is Harry?
(_Exeunt the Three, calling for Freeman._)
WOODVIL Did you ever see such gentry? (_laughing_). These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper, to prove their loyalty.
LOVEL Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?
WOODVIL No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will shew you the _Vandyke_ I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of his children."
LOVEL I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. (_Exit Lovel._)
JOHN WOODVIL (_alone_) Now Universal England getteth drunk For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored: And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, And weareth now a suit of morris bells, With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages. The baffled factions in their houses sculk: The common-wealthsman, and state machinist, The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, Who heareth of these visionaries now? They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits, Who live by observation, note these changes Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs on one of them? I to myself am chief.--I know, Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place, And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods, Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit In place of worship at the royal masques, Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, For none of these, Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, Do I affect the favours of the court. I would be great, for greatness hath great _power_, And that's the fruit I reach at.-- Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, With these prophetic swellings in my breast, That prick and goad me on, and never cease, To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? Who, with such monitors within to stir him, Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, A unit, a thing without a name in the state, A something to be govern'd, not to govern, A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? (_Exit_.)
SCENE.--_Sherwood Forest_.
SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (_Disguised as Frenchmen_.)
SIR WALTER How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born, My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late. Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false? It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, Grown proud upon the favours of the court; Court manners, and court fashions, he affects, And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, Harbours a company of riotous men, All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself, Most skilful to devour a patrimony; And these have eat into my old estates, And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry; But these so common faults of youth not named, (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,) I know no quality that stains his honor. My life upon his faith and noble mind, Son John could never play thy father false.
SIMON I never thought but nobly of my brother, Touching his honor and fidelity. Still I could wish him charier of his person, And of his time more frugal, than to spend In riotous living, graceless society, And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd (With those persuasive graces nature lent him) In fervent pleadings for a father's life.
SIR WALTER I would not owe my life to a jealous court, Whose shallow policy I know it is, On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times, In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, And recollection smarting from old wounds,) On these to build a spurious popularity. Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. For this cause have I oft forbid my son, By letters, overtures, open solicitings, Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee, To beg or bargain with the court for my life.
SIMON And John has ta'en you, father, at your word, True to the letter of his paternal charge.
SIR WALTER Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy, Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false. Men die but once, and the opportunity Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune: It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.
SIMON I would not wrong my brother by surmise; I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, Incapable of base compliances, No prodigal in his nature, but affecting This shew of bravery for ambitious ends. He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court, And drink may one day wrest the secret from him, And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel.
SIR WALTER Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his. Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason: Who seem the Aborigines of this place, Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.
SIMON 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt, Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe The antique tale?
SIR WALTER
There is much likelihood, Such bandits did in England erst abound, When polity was young. I have read of the pranks Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied On travellers, whatever their degree, Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods, Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre For spiritual regards; nay, once, 'tis said, He robb'd the king himself.
SIMON A perilous man. (_Smiling_.)
SIR WALTER How quietly we live here, Unread in the world's business, And take no note of all its slippery changes. 'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, A little world, Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater: We two being all the inhabitants of ours, And kings and subjects both in one.
SIMON Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits, Which make the business of that greater world, Must have no place in ours: As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy, Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises, Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, Humours particular, Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good, Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships, Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies, And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.
(_Margaret enters in boy's apparel_.)
SIR WALTER What pretty boy have we here?
MARGARET _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces, I should have ta'en you else for other two, I came to seek in the forest.
SIR WALTER Who are they?
MARGARET A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs, That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy, More than the manner of their countrymen.
SIMON We have here a wonder. The face is Margaret's face.
SIR WALTER The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometimes wore.
(_To Margaret_)
Suppose us them; whom do men say we are? Or know you what you seek?
MARGARET A worthy pair of exiles, Two whom the politics of state revenge, In final issue of long civil broils, Have houseless driven from your native France, To wander idle in these English woods, Where now ye live; most part Thinking on home, and all the joys of France, Where grows the purple vine.
SIR WALTER These woods, young stranger, And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves, Are they less beauteous than the land of France, Where grows the purple vine?
MARGARET I cannot tell. To an indifferent eye both shew alike. 'Tis not the scene, But all familiar objects in the scene, Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference. Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now; Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing; Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you, I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily; And there is reason, exiles, ye should love Our English earth less than your land of France, Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow, Old custom has made pleasant.
SIR WALTER You, that are read So deeply in our story, what are you?
MARGARET A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, That put strange garments on, and came thus far To seek an ancient friend: And having spent her stock of idle words, And feeling some tears coming, Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, And beg a boon for Margaret, his poor ward. (_Kneeling_.)
SIR WALTER Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.
MARGARET Yes, till her suit is answer'd.
SIR WALTER Name it.
MARGARET A little boon, and yet so great a grace, She fears to ask it.
SIR WALTER Some riddle, Margaret?
MARGARET No riddle, but a plain request.
SIR WALTER Name it.
MARGARET Free liberty of Sherwood, And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
SIR WALTER A scant petition, Margaret, but take it, Seal'd with an old man's tears.-- Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
(_Addresses them both._)
O you most worthy, You constant followers of a man proscribed, Following poor misery in the throat of danger; Fast servitors to craz'd and penniless poverty, Serving poor poverty without hope of gain; Kind children of a sire unfortunate; Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd, Which needs must bring on you timeless decay; Fair living forms to a dead carcase join'd;-- What shall I say? Better the dead were gather'd to the dead, Than death and life in disproportion meet.-- Go, seek your fortunes, children.--
SIMON Why, whither should we go?
SIR WALTER _You_ to the Court, where now your brother John Commits a rape on Fortune.
SIMON Luck to John! A light-heel'd strumpet, when the sport is done.
SIR WALTER _You_ to the sweet society of your equals, Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.
MARGARET Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty, There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, There sweet humility withers.
SIMON Mistress Margaret, How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?
MARGARET John was well, Sir.
SIMON 'Tis now nine months almost, Since I saw home. What new friends has John made? Or keeps he his first love?--I did suspect Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know, John has prov'd false to her, for Margaret weeps. It is a scurvy brother.
SIR WALTER Fie upon it. All men are false, I think. The date of love Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale, O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale Of Hero and Leander.
SIMON I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a _general_ lover.
MARGARET In the name of the boy God, who plays at hood-man-blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it _you_ love?
SIMON Simply, all things that live, From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly, That makes short holyday in the sun beam, And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird With little wings, yet greatly venturous In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, That knows no touch of eloquence. What else? Yon tall and elegant stag, Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns In the water, where he drinks.
MARGARET I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference:-- for example, some animals better than others, some men rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humour goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the forest?--
SIMON Not many; some few, as thus:-- To see the sun to bed, and to arise, Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, With all his fires and travelling glories round him. Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn; And how the woods berries and worms provide Without their pains, when earth has nought beside To answer their small wants. To view the graceful deer come tripping by, Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, Like bashful younkers in society. To mark the structure of a plant or tree, And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.
MARGARET (_smiling_) And, afterwards them paint in simile.
SIR WALTER Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within.
MARGARET Indeed I stand in need of them.
SIR WALTER Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree, Upon the grass, no better carpeting, We'll eat our noon-tide meal; and, dinner done, One of us shall repair to Nottingham, To seek some safe night-lodging in the town, Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell, By day, in the forest, expecting better times, And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.
SIMON _Allons_, young Frenchman--
MARGARET _Allons_, Sir Englishman. The time has been, I've studied love-lays in the English tongue, And been enamour'd of rare poesy: Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu; For Margaret has got new name and language new.
(_Exeunt._)
ACT THE THIRD
SCENE.--_An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall--Cavaliers drinking._
JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, _and four more._
JOHN More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen--Mr. Gray, you are not merry.--
GRAY More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (_Fills._)
FIRST GENTLEMAN I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.
SECOND GENTLEMAN And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work.
LOVEL I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such virtues in cold water.
GRAY Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!--
JOHN Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal wine-presses.
THIRD GENTLEMAN What may be the name of this wine?
JOHN It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive name is _fancy_.
THIRD GENTLEMAN And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?
JOHN Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from the quality and neighbourhood of their noble relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.
THIRD GENTLEMAN But is your poet-born alway tipsy with this liquor?
JOHN He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.
THIRD GENTLEMAN Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with canaries.
FOURTH GENTLEMAN I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked catches?
JOHN They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.
LOVEL Gentlemen, the Duke. (_Fills_.)
ALL The Duke. (_They drink_.)
GRAY Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist--
JOHN Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this his Majesty's birth-day?
GRAY What follows?
JOHN That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions.
SECOND GENTLEMAN Damn politics, they spoil drinking.
THIRD GENTLEMAN For certain,'tis a blessed monarchy.
SECOND GENTLEMAN The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been when swearing was out of fashion.
THIRD GENTLEMAN And drinking.
FIRST GENTLEMAN And wenching.
GRAY The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but strait the air was thought to be infected.
LOVEL 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan _Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech_ used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as he termed it.
ALL Ha! ha! ha!
GRAY But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint _Resist-the-devil- and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pure-man_ was overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visûs, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things.
ALL Ha! ha! ha!
JOHN Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.
GRAY Shall we hang a puritan?
JOHN No, that has been done already in Coleman-Street.
SECOND GENTLEMAN Or fire a conventicle?
JOHN That is stale too.
THIRD GENTLEMAN Or burn the assembly's catechism?
FOURTH GENTLEMAN Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his head naked?
JOHN (_to Lovel_) We have here some pleasant madness.
THIRD GENTLEMAN Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon our knees?
LOVEL Why on our knees, Cavalier?
JOHN (_smiling_) For more devotion, to be sure. (_To a servant_.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.
(_The goblets are brought. They drink the king's health, kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the goblets_.)
JOHN We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapours curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we!
GRAY (_aside to Lovel_) Observe how he is ravished.
LOVEL Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness.
(_While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, John advances to the front of the stage and soliloquises_.)
JOHN My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast. My joys are turbulent, my hopes shew like fruition. These high and gusty relishes of life, sure, Have no allayings of mortality in them. I am too hot now and o'ercapable, For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom, Of human acts, and enterprizes of a man. I want some seasonings of adversity, Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity, To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.
FIRST GENTLEMAN Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.
SECOND GENTLEMAN Where is Woodvil?
GRAY Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth.
JOHN (_continuing to soliloquize_) O for some friend now, To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets. How fine and noble a thing is confidence, How reasonable too, and almost godlike! Fast cement of fast friends, band of society, Old natural go-between in the world's business, Where civil life and order, wanting this cement, Would presently rush back Into the pristine state of singularity, And each man stand alone.
(_A Servant enters._) Gentlemen, the fire-works are ready.
FIRST GENTLEMAN What be they?
LOVEL The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honour of this day.
SECOND GENTLEMAN 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?
LOVEL Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his liquor.
THIRD GENTLEMAN There is reason in what he says.
SECOND GENTLEMAN Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.
(_They go out, singing. Only Level remains, who observes Woodvil_.)
JOHN (_still talking to himself_) This Lovel here's of a tough honesty, Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort, Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors, And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine, Spend vows as fast as vapours, which go off Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one, Whose sober morning actions Shame not his o'ernight's promises; Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises; Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate Might trust her counsels of predestination with, And the world be no loser. Why should I fear this man? (_Seeing Lovel_.) Where is the company gone?
LOVEL To see the fire-works, where you will be expected to follow. But I perceive you are better engaged.
JOHN I have been meditating this half-hour On all the properties of a brave friendship, The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses, Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries. _Exempli gratia_, how far a man May lawfully forswear himself for his friend; What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones, He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf; What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels, Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning, He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.
LOVEL I think many men would die for their friends.
JOHN Death! why 'tis nothing. We go to it for sport, To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour, When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare, Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it, To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy. A friend, sir, must do more.
LOVEL Can he do more than die?
JOHN To serve a friend this he may do. Pray mark me. Having a law within (great spirits feel one) He cannot, ought not to be bound by any Positive laws or ord'nances extern, But may reject all these: by the law of friendship He may do so much, be they, indifferently, Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages, As public fame, civil compliances, Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets, All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion, (Binding our morning knowledge to approve What last night's ignorance spake); The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin. Sir, these weak terrors Must never shake me. I know what belongs To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.
LOVEL I hope you think me worthy.
JOHN You will smile to hear now-- Sir Walter never has been out of the island.
LOVEL You amaze me.
JOHN That same report of his escape to France Was a fine tale, forg'd by myself--Ha! ha! I knew it would stagger him.
LOVEL Pray, give me leave. Where has he dwelt, how liv'd, how lain conceal'd? Sure I may ask so much.
JOHN From place to place, dwelling in no place long, My brother Simon still hath borne him company, ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues.) Disguis'd in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen, Two Protestant exiles from the Limosin Newly arriv'd. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham, Where no soul knows them.
LOVEL Can you assign any reason, why a gentleman of Sir Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly?
JOHN I believe, a certain fondness, A child-like cleaving to the land that gave him birth, Chains him like fate.
LOVEL I have known some exiles thus To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, To the hazard of being known.
JOHN You may suppose sometimes They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport, Their exercise and freer recreation.-- I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.
LOVEL I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.
JOHN But some men have been known to talk in their sleep, And tell fine tales that way.
LOVEL I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone.
JOHN Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely? Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.
LOVEL Why do you question me, who know my habits?
JOHN I think you are no sot, No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape; But all men drink sometimes, And veriest saints at festivals relax, The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birth-day.
LOVEL How much, sir, may a man with safety drink? (_Smiling_.)
JOHN Sir, three half pints a day is reasonable; I care not if you never exceed that quantity.
LOVEL I shall observe it; On holidays two quarts.
JOHN Or stay; you keep no wench?
LOVEL Ha!
JOHN No painted mistress for your private hours? You keep no whore, sir?
LOVEL What does he mean?
JOHN Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin, And amorous praising of your worship's breath, In rosy junction of four melting lips, Can kiss out secrets from you?
LOVEL How strange this passionate behaviour shews in you! Sure you think me some weak one.
JOHN Pray pardon me some fears. You have now the pledge of a dear father's life. I am a son--would fain be thought a loving one; You may allow me some fears: do not despise me, If, in a posture foreign to my spirit, And by our well-knit friendship I conjure you, Touch not Sir Walter's life. (_Kneels_.) You see these tears. My father's an old man. Pray let him live.
LOVEL I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms Shew most unhandsome in you.
JOHN (_rising_) Ha! do you say so? Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret! Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling. No doubt a garrulous and hard-fac'd traitor-- But I'll not give you leave. (_Draws_.)
LOVEL What does this madman mean?
JOHN Come, sir; here is no subterfuge. You must kill me, or I kill you.
LOVEL (_drawing_) Then self-defence plead my excuse. Have at you, sir. (_They fight_.)
JOHN Stay, sir. I hope you have made your will. If not, 'tis no great matter. A broken cavalier has seldom much He can bequeath: an old worn peruke, A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert, A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby, Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place; And, if he's very rich, A cheap edition of the _Icon Basilike_, Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. You say few prayers, I fancy;-- So to it again. (_They fight again. Lovel is disarmed_.)
LOVEL You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.
JOHN (_musing_) No:--Men will say I fear'd him, if I kill'd him. Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish, But never act thy thought, being a coward. That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for, And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for, Still have the will without the power to execute. So now I leave you, Feeling a sweet security. No doubt My secret shall remain a virgin for you!-- (_Goes out, smiling in scorn_.)
LOVEL (_rising_) For once you are mistaken in your man. The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done. A bird let loose, a secret out of hand, Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy To menace him who hath it in his keeping. I will go look for Gray; Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood, Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.
ACT THE FOURTH
SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall_.
JOHN WOODVIL (_alone_) A weight of wine lies heavy on my head, The unconcocted follies of last night. Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes, Children of wine, go off like dreams. This sick vertigo here Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better. These black thoughts, and dull melancholy, That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me? Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk; Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves; And some, the most resolved fools of all, Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.
SCENE.--_The Forest_.
SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.
LOVEL Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.
GRAY Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise.
LOVEL Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.
GRAY Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.
LOVEL And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.
SIMON John has betrayed us, father.
LOVEL Come, Sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, Sir.
SIMON Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort of bed and board worms--locusts that infest our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.
GRAY We are his friends.
SIMON Fie, Sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall I whip off their heads, father? (_Draws_.)
LOVEL Come, Sir, though this shew handsome in you, being his son, yet the law must have its course.
SIMON And if I tell you the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?--Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, Sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?
GRAY 'Tis a brave youth--I cannot strike at him.
SIMON Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water: quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut? (_They both slink off_.) How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, Sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned, and distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow _talking_ world, where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse, nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity.--Brother, adieu!
There lies the parent stock which gave us life, Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth. Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me, Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.
(_Bears in the body_.)
SCENE.--_Another Part of the Forest_.
MARGARET (_alone_) It was an error merely, and no crime, An unsuspecting openness in youth, That from his lips the fatal secret drew, Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries, Unveil'd by any man. Well, he is dead! And what should Margaret do in the forest? O ill-starr'd John! O Woodvil, man enfeoffed to despair! Take thy farewell of peace. O never look again to see good days, Or close thy lids in comfortable nights, Or ever think a happy thought again, If what I have heard be true.-- Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live, If he did tell these men. No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning; Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live In amity with thee, must for thy sake Abide the world's reproach. What then? Shall Margaret join the clamours of the world Against her friend? O undiscerning world, That cannot from misfortune separate guilt, No, not in thought! O never, never, John. Prepar'd to share the fortunes of her friend _For better or for worse_ thy Margaret comes, To pour into thy wounds a healing love, And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, Who, in compassion to the wretched living, Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.
SCENE.--_Woodvil Hall_.
SANDFORD. MARGARET.
(_As from a Journey_.)
SANDFORD The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humour of dejection, that I have never seen any thing more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.
MARGARET How bears he up against the common rumour?
SANDFORD With a strange indifference, which whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.
MARGARET I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?
SANDFORD As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.
MARGARET I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.
SANDFORD I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shewn. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him) and appeared to be touched with a sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.
MARGARET The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour should have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit.--Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?
SANDFORD An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.
MARGARET A good rest to us all.
SANDFORD Thanks, lady.
ACT THE FIFTH
JOHN WOODVIL (_dressing_).
JOHN How beautiful, (_handling his mourning_) And comely do these mourning garments shew! Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly By outward types the serious man within.-- Alas! what part or portion can I claim In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, Which other mourners use? as namely, This black attire, abstraction from society, Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles, A cleaving sadness native to the brow, All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, (That steal away the sense of loss almost) Men's pity, and good offices Which enemies themselves do for us then, Putting their hostile disposition off, As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks. (_Pauses, and observes the pictures_.) These pictures must be taken down: The portraitures of our most antient family For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd, To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, And pointing to the pictures where they hung, Repeat by course their worthy histories, (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, And Ann the handsome, Stephen, and famous John: Telling me, I must be his famous John.) But that was in old times. Now, no more Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. I rather, I, by most unheard of crimes, Have backward tainted all their noble blood, Rased out the memory of an ancient family, And quite revers'd the honors of our house. Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes? The secret history of his own times, And fashions of the world when he was young: How England slept out three and twenty years, While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king: The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, And Beauties of the court of James the First.
_Margaret enters._
JOHN Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, And diminution of my honor's brightness. You bring some images of old times, Margaret, That should be now forgotten.
MARGARET Old times should never be forgotten, John. I came to talk about them with my friend.
JOHN I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.
MARGARET If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone, The offence no longer lives. O Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, Under pretence of visiting my father, (Being then a stripling nigh upon my age) You came a wooing to his daughter, John. Do you remember, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, (Young maidens must be chary of their speech,) I kept the honors of my maiden pride? I was your favourite then.
JOHN O Margaret, Margaret! These your submissions to my low estate, And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness. Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, Could not so separate, but now in this My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, You only visit me, love, and forgive me.
MARGARET Dost yet remember the green arbour, John, In the south gardens of my father's house, Where we have seen the summer sun go down, Exchanging true love's vows without restraint? And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, There dwell
"Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure,"
And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; And make confession seven times a day Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; And I your saint the penance should appoint-- Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid Aside, like an old fashion.
JOHN O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts, My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, I have no part in any good man's love, In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, I fade and wither in my own esteem, This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. I was not always thus. (_Weeps_.)
MARGARET Thou noble nature, Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John, Upon her knees (regard her poor request) Your favourite, once-beloved Margaret, kneels.
JOHN What would'st thou, lady, ever-honor'd Margaret?
MARGARET That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) O not for one offence mistrust heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-- John yet has many happy days to live; To live and make atonement.
JOHN Excellent lady, Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
MARGARET (_rising_) Go whither, John?
JOHN Go in with me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
MARGARET That I will, John.-- (_Exeunt_.)
SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.
(_John is discovered kneeling.--Margaret standing over him_.)
JOHN (_rises_) I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am.
MARGARET John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.
JOHN They are gone.-- Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is.
MARGARET Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.
JOHN Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth. (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know.
MARGARET Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humours, And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to levity, This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."
JOHN How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!
MARGARET To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen. Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And prais'd it in a youth.
JOHN Now Margaret weeps herself. (_A noise of bells heard_.)
MARGARET Hark the bells, John.
JOHN Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.
MARGARET I know it.
JOHN Saint Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells.
MARGARET Wilt go to church, John?
JOHN I have been there already.
MARGARET How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?
JOHN I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
MARGARET Well, John.
JOHN Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people.
And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the offices?" And then I at my own presumption smiled; And then I wept that I should smile at all, Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; Tears like a river flooded all my face, And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open, (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf'd, For all things felt like mystery).
MARGARET Yes.
JOHN So entering in, not without fear, I past into the family pew, And covering up my eyes for shame, And deep perception of unworthiness, Upon the little hassock knelt me down, Where I so oft had kneel'd, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; And, thinking so, I wept a second flood More poignant than the first; But afterwards was greatly comforted. It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me Even in the act and agony of tears, And all my sins forgiven.
* * * * *
THE WITCH
A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY (1798)
* * * * *
CHARACTERS
_Old Servant in the Family of Sir Francis Pairford. Stranger._
* * * * *
SERVANT One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. Being o'er-task'd in thought, he heeded not The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, And begged an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate With angry chiding; but I can never think (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he could use a woman, an old woman, With such discourtesy: but he refused her-- And better had he met a lion in his path Than that old woman that night; For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. She looked at him as one that meant to blast him, And with a frightful noise, ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake,) She nothing said but this:-- (Sir Francis told the words)
_A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times-killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, And shuts up the womb of his purse_.
And still she cried
_A mischief, And a nine-fold-withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, Both all that thou fearest and worse_.
So saying, she departed, Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; So he described it.
STRANGER A terrible curse! What followed?
SERVANT Nothing immediate, but some two months after Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay, And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there; And, when they asked him his complaint, he laid His hand upon his heart to shew the place, Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, And prick'd him with a pin.-- And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway And begged an alms.
STRANGER But did the witch confess?
SERVANT All this and more at her death.
STRANGER I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.
* * * * *
Mr. H----
A FARCE IN TWO ACTS
As it was performed at Drury Lane Theatre, _December, 1806_
"Mr. H----, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see Mr. H----, and answering that they would certainly; but before night the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived. But thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off----."
--_Theatrical Examiner._
* * * * *
CHARACTERS
Mr. H---- _Mr. Elliston_. BELVIL _Mr. Bartley_. LANDLORD PRY _Mr. Wewitzer_. MELESINDA _Miss Mellon_. Maid to Melesinda. _Mrs. Harlowe_. Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.
SCENE.--_Bath_
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
_Spoken by Mr. Elliston_
If we have sinn'd in paring down a name, All civil well-bred authors do the same. Survey the columns of our daily writers-- You'll find that some Initials are great fighters. How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar, When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R. With two stout seconds, just of their own gizard, Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard! Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms, Till half the Alphabet is up in arms. Nor with less lustre have Initials shone, To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con. Where the dispensers of the public lash Soft penance give; a letter and a dash-- Where vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing, And loses half her grossness by curtailing. Faux pas are told in such a modest way,-- The affair of Colonel B---- with Mrs. A---- You must forgive them--for what is there, say, Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant To such a very pressing Consonant? Or who poetic justice dares dispute, When, mildly melting at a lover's suit, The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute? Even in the homelier scenes of honest life, The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife, Initials I am told have taken place Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashioned race; And Cabbage, ask'd by Brother Snip to tea, Replies, "I'll come--but it don't rest with me-- I always leaves them things to Mrs. C." O should this mincing fashion ever spread From names of living heroes to the dead, How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head, As each lov'd syllable should melt away-- Her Alexander turned into Great A---- A single C. her Caesar to express-- Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S---- And nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech, Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H----.
* * * * *
MR. H----
A FARCE IN TWO ACTS
* * * * *