Safe stowed in many a package there, And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass," Were lots of all the illegal ware, Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. "O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue, With rosy blushes ready made; And teeth of ivory, good as new, For veterans in the smiling trade. "Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,—kept in bags for use, Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,— Lay ready here to be let loose, When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. "Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found, Sham invoices of flames and darts, Professedly for Paphos bound, But meant for Hymen's golden marts. "For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake, Those pirates all Love's signals knew, And hoisted oft his flag, to make Rich wards and heiresses bring-to.[1] "A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims, "In vain I rule the Paphian seas, "If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names "Are lent to cover frauds like these. "Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match— A broadside struck the smuggling foe, And swept the whole unhallowed batch Of Falsehood to the depths below. "Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!" Said Love the little Admiral.

[1] "To Bring-to, to check the course of a ship."—Falconer.



STILL THOU FLIEST.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee, Lovely phantom,—all in vain; Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee, Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain. Such doom, of old, that youth betided, Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms, But found a cloud that from him glided,— As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest," Ere thy light hath vanished by; And 'tis when thou look'st divinest Thou art still most sure to fly. Even as the lightning, that, dividing The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendor hiding.— Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.



THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers, Did Painting learn her fairy skill, And cull the hues of loveliest flowers, To picture woman lovelier still. For vain was every radiant hue, Till Passion lent a soul to art, And taught the painter, ere he drew, To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on, Till, lo, one touch his art defies; The brow, the lip, the blushes shone, But who could dare to paint those eyes? 'Twas all in vain the painter strove; So turning to that boy divine, "Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love, "No hand should paint such eyes but thine."



HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me Of past joys, now turned to pain; Of ties that long have ceased to bind me, But whose burning marks remain. In each tone, some echo falleth On my ear of joys gone by; Every note some dream recalleth Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me, Once more let thy numbers thrill; Tho' death were in the strain they sing me, I must woo its anguish still. Since no time can e'er recover Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,— Better to weep such pleasures over, Than smile o'er any left us yet.



BRIGHT MOON.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining, All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night Thy own Endymion lay reclining, And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!— By all the bliss thy beam discovers, By all those visions far too bright for day, Which dreaming bards and waking lovers Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,—

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven, Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea, Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me. Guide hither, guide her steps benighted, Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide; Let Love but in this bower be lighted, Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.



LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

Long years have past, old friend, since we First met in life's young day; And friends long loved by thee and me, Since then have dropt away;— But enough remain to cheer us on, And sweeten, when thus we're met, The glass we fill to the many gone, And the few who're left us yet. Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, And some hang white and chill; While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow, Retain youth's color still. And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one, Youth's sunny hopes have set, Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,— We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long May thou and I thus meet, To brighten still with wine and song This short life, ere it fleet. And still as death comes stealing on, Let's never, old friend, forget, Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone, How many are left us yet.



DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming, Life to the last, pursues its flight; Day hath its visions fairly beaming, But false as those of night. The one illusion, the other real, But both the same brief dreams at last; And when we grasp the bliss ideal, Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing, Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom Flit o'er its face till night is closing— Emblem of life's short doom! But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining, 'Tis still unlike man's changeful day, Whose light returns not, once declining, Whose cloud, once come, will stay.



THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells How near such April joy to weeping dwells. 'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel; And music never half so sweet appears, As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay— It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath. The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,— And passion's power can never lend the glow Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.



THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bower; Swift our sledge as lightning goes, Nor shall stop till morning's hour. Bright, my steed, the northern star Lights us from yon jewelled skies; But to greet us, brighter far, Morn shall bring my lady's eyes. Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers, Sleeping out their dream of time, Know not half the bliss that's ours, In this snowy, icy clime. Like yon star that livelier gleams From the frosty heavens around, Love himself the keener beams When with snows of coyness crowned. Fleet then on, my merry steed, Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;— What can match a lover's speed? See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! Brightly hath the northern star Lit us from yon radiant Skies; But, behold, how brighter far Yonder shine my lady's eyes!



A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.



BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way, When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray; The beams that flash on the oar awhile, As we row along thro' the waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees With an eye that feeling gave;— For him there's a story in every breeze, And a picture in every wave. Then sing to lighten the languid way; When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray.

* * * * *

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping, Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by; No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping, No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh. Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion, To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn. Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber Around us like summer-barks idly have played, When storms are abroad we may find in the number One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

* * * * *

When Lelia touched the lute, Not then alone 'twas felt, But when the sounds were mute, In memory still they dwelt. Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole Such breath from simple wire, Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales Her lute so sweetly told? In lofty themes she fails, And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!

* * * * *

Young Love lived once in a humble shed, Where roses breathing And woodbines wreathing Around the lattice their tendrils spread, As wild and sweet as the life he led. His garden flourisht, For young Hope nourisht. The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye Should e'er come hither, Such sweets to wither! The flowers laid down their heads to die, And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh. She came one morning. Ere Love had warning, And raised the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love—"is it you? good-by;" So he oped the window and flew away!

* * * * *

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear, They are not those to sorrow known; But breathe so soft, and drop so clear, That bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches even our tears to keep The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night Upon the spangled hedge at morn, Attempts to catch the drops of light, But wounds his finger with the thorn. Thus oft the brightest joys we seek, Are lost when touched, and turned to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, etc.

* * * * *

To sigh, yet feel no pain. To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won; This is love, careless love, Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame, Thro' life unchilled, unmoved, To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved; To feel that we adore To such refined excess. That tho' the heart would break with more, We could not live with less; This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above.

* * * * *

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love, When women like slaves were spurned, A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, To be teased by a fop, and returned! But women grow wiser as men improve. And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us, Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem As the heart to be played with or sullied by them; No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal What impression the heart will take; If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel What a poor impression 'twill make! Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal Of the fondling fop who pursues me, Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule, Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool; No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

* * * * *

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting, But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved, Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting. And oft at night when the tempest rolled He sung as he paced the dark deck over— "Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay, Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her— "Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death, The close he long wished to his cheerless roving, For Victory shone on his latest breath, And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. But still he remembered his sorrow,—and still He sung till the vision of life was over— "Come, death, come! thou art not so chill As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

* * * * *

When life looks lone and dreary, What light can dispel the gloom? When Time's swift wing grows weary, What charm can refresh his plume? 'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth O'er all that we feel or see; And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory, Too dearly the meed they gain; Let patriots live in story— Too often they die in vain; Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, This world can offer to me No throne like Beauty's bosom, No freedom like serving thee, O woman!



CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be; Two roguish eyes The highest prize In Cupid's scheming Lottery; And kisses, too, As good as new, Which weren't very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery, In Cupid's court went merrily, And Cupid played A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; For hearts, we're told, In shares he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts So well, each thought the whole his own. Chor.—A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

* * * * *

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth, And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant, But diest in languor in luxury's dome, Our vision when absent—our glory, when present— Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered! In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave! Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion. Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam! With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

* * * * *

Oh think, when a hero is sighing, What danger in such an adorer! What woman can dream' of denying The hand that lays laurels before her? No heart is so guarded around, But the smile of the victor will take it; No bosom can slumber so sound, But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping, And woe to the heart that allows him; For oh, neither smiling nor weeping Has power at those moments to rouse him. But tho' he was sleeping so fast, That the life almost seemed to forsake him, Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

* * * * *

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so! In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one was B alt, and the rest G below. Oh! oh, Orator Puff! One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?" Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down. Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones, "Help me out! help me out—I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?" Oh I oh! etc.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.



OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(Entering as if to announce the Play.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time—oh accents of delight To the poor author's ear, when three times three With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy! When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken, He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken, And sees his play-bill circulate—alas, The only bill on which his name will pass! Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name, While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends To help my night, and he, ye know, has friends. Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts, Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, There's nothing like him! wits, at his request. Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest; Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make, And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake; For him even lawyers talk without a fee, For him (oh friendship) I act tragedy! In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

With such a manager we can't but please, Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2] Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle, Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle; You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners, Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners: And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt— In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out; And, while we skim the cream of many a jest, Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past, At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last; And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods, Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.



EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

* * * * *

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1] Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain, Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train. But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails— As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why—but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual since we parted last. It seems but like a dream of yesternight. Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joy, we come to kindle new. Thus ever may the flying moments haste With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, But deeply print and lingeringly move, When thus they reach the sunny spots we love. Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.



THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported Her figure thro' the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted. And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, Are told, betimes, they must consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine— A Palace paved with diamonds all— And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The lower world of course was there, And all the best; but of the upper The sprinkling was but shy and rare,— A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices; Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—

Musical flint-mills—swiftly played By elfin hands—that, flashing round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun; And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wildfire run— Corked up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes Like little light-houses, were set up; And pretty phosphorescent fishes That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came That wicked Sylph whom Love we call— My Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarmed about his torch, advised He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan, And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, there he was—and dancing With the fair Sylph, light as a feather; They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well, But for that plaguy torch whose light, Though not yet kindled—who could tell How soon, how devilishly, it might?

And so it chanced—which, in those dark And fireless halls was quite amazing; Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled Her locks of jet—is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl Did drop a spark at some odd turning, Which by the waltz's windy whirl Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That curtain of protecting wire, Which DAVY delicately draws Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air, (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,) Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,— A sign, they say, that no good boded— Then quick the gas became unruly. And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together, With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, Like butterflies in stormy weather, Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch, The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part— Found lying with a livid scorch As if from lightning o'er her heart!

* * * * *

"Well done"—a laughing Goblin said— Escaping from this gaseous strife— "'Tis not the first time Love has made "A blow-up in connubial life!"



REMONSTRANCE.

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.

What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name— Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to run The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena, where all that is grand And devoted and pure and adorning in life, 'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think for an instant thy country can spare Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade, Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree Set apart for the Fane and its service divine, So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her Shrine.



MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"—what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said—"were he ordained to run "His long career of life again, "He would do all that he had done."— Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise—of time it tells, Lavished unwisely, carelessly: Of counsel mockt; of talents made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire, Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That crost my pathway, for his star.— All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again. With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away— All—but that Freedom of the Mind Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!



FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won,— No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single tint unborrowed from the sun; But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro', That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!



SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But between love and wine and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then wish me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny dearest, thy image lies; But ah! the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it thro' sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beams clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—

Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.



TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.



CARM. 70.

dicebas quondam, etc.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love, That I had all that heart of thine; That, even to share the couch of Jove, Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then! Not with the vague and vulgar fires Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,— But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;— I know thee now—and tho' these eyes Doat on thee wildly as before, Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress—mad as it may seem— With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee, That passion even outlives esteem. And I at once adore—and scorn thee.



CARM. II.

pauca nunciate meae puellae.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er The fates have willed thro' life I've roved, Now speed ye home, and with you bear These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run, Where'er her vain caprice may call; Of all her dupes not loving one, But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget—what now is past— Our once dear love, whose rain lies Like a fair flower, the meadow's last. Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!



CARM. 29.

peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye Of all peninsulas and isles, That in our lakes of silver lie, Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles—

How gladly back to thee I fly! Still doubting, asking—can it be That I have left Bithynia's sky, And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find Our hearts at ease, our perils past; When, anxious long, the lightened mind Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep, Again we tread the welcome floor Of our own home, and sink to sleep On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone The ills of all life's former track.— Shine out, my beautiful, my own Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!



TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., Lib. iv. Carm. 13.

"Never shall woman's smile have power "To win me from those gentle charms!"— Thus swore I, in that happy hour, When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight— Still, tho' our city proudly shine With forms and faces, fair and bright, I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me, And couldst no heart but mine allure!— To all men else unpleasing be, So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest Of others' envy, others' praise; But, in its silence safely blest, Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power All cares are husht, all ills subdued— My light in even the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would he for her forsake those arms!



IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam Made mischief enough in their day:— God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam, Depends not on us, the same way. For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple, The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple, Like Paris, at once give it to thee.



INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,— (And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)— For instance, that we have, instead Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, First course—a Phoenix, at the head. Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing. Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl: Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, When Cupid shoots his mother's pets. Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; And nightingales, berhymed to death— Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; But as for me, who've long been taught To eat and drink like other people; And can put up with mutton, bought Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple— If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, 'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup, Beneath his influence brightening up, Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.



VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!—even the pen, So lately at that mind's command, Carelessly lying, as if then Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have past, Since Life and Inspiration's power Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now—like talisman Found in some vanished wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone Around that pen's exploring track, Be now, with its great master, gone, Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, Each earth-born spell it worked arise Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; The unshrinking truth that lets her light Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall, Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along, O'er scenes which angels weep to see— Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong, In pity of the Misery.

True bard!—and simple, as the race Of true-born poets ever are, When, stooping from their starry place, They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall, 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced, In life, as in his perfect strain, With that pure, mellowing power of Taste, Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind, Pregnant with genius tho' it be, But half the treasures of a mind, Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:—

Friend of long years! of friendship tried Thro' many a bright and dark event; In doubts, my judge—in taste, my guide— In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day, And all were guests of one whose hand Hath shed a new and deathless ray Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes—as in those shells Where Ocean's voice of majesty Seems still to sound—immortal dwells Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then, Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, Who would not grasp such hand again, Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford To let such mists a moment stay, When thus one frank, atoning word, Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day—tho' one Unworthy brother there had place; As 'mong the horses of the Sun, One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, next to Genius is the power Of feeling where true Genius lies; And there was light around that hour Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze, Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, Like all such dreams of vanisht days, Brightly, indeed—but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.



TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair, Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring For ever round thee, which to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou art, Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart— The graceful child in Beauty's dawn Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out—like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tower I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away;— Or in the world's resplendent throng, As I have markt thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;— A creature circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell; And fresh and clear as from the source. Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa thro' the sea, Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And showd'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, The enamored muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!



A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.



TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life that, fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee!



LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever—ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking; And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows, The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;— One to whom all the world's a debtor— So Doctor Hymen was called in, And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Tho' still some ugly fever latent;— "Dose, as before"—a gentle opiate. For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call, So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.



LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

carbone notati.

Ay—down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er— Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word—let men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be, To think—as the Doomed often think of that heaven They had once within reach—that they might have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat Ever rose 'bove the zero of Castlereagh's heart. That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope—when a spirit that breathed The fresh air of the olden time whispered about; And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed, But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame, FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view, And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world—

That then—oh! disgrace upon manhood—even then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath; Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:—shout, Tyranny, shout Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"— If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss; Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!



SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal Life into her soul, Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said, One drop of Doubt into the bowl—

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips—she knew not why— Made even that blessed nectar seem As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love, A chill came o'er her heart—a fear That Death might, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed. Twining them round her snowy fingers; "That forehead, where a light unnamed, "Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever— "Say, are they mine, beyond all death, "My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not—I know that starry brow, "Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine, "Will always shine, as they do now— "But shall I live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes "On all that sparkles round thee here— "Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies, "And in these arms—what canst thou fear?"

In vain—the fatal drop, that stole Into that cup's immortal treasure, Had lodged its bitter near her soul. And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Here is the only face in heaven, That wears a cloud amid its joy.



A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, "There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake— "It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"— "Why, so it is, father—whose wife shall I take?"



ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky, Is that remembrance which the wise and good Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be, Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee— So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife, Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm, Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!



TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?— Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When first the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine! And thus awhile they keep their tint, So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would ever come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short, Each minute makes the sad truth plainer, Till life, like old and crusty port, When near its close, requires a strainer.

This friendship can alone confer, Alone can teach the drops to pass, If not as bright as once they were, At least unclouded, thro' the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine. Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if life grow like old wine, To have thy friendship for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.



FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last; Long as he breathed the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe past In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out, Whatever statesmen did or said, If not exactly brought about, 'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar— (Vide his pamphlet—price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo— As all but Frenchmen think she was— To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news—no envoy's bag E'er past so many secrets thro' it; Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in! From Russia, shefs and ofs in lots, From Poland, owskis by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed, Turned out the last Whig ministry, And men asked—who advised the deed? Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss, He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints thro' Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The Drama, Books, MS. and printed— Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there infused some soul in't— Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, Had—odd enough—an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In that Ned—trust him—had his finger.

* * * * *



WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ——.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remembered well As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head, My name as by some spirit said, And, looking up, saw two bright eyes Above me from a casement shine, Dazzling my mind with such surprise As they, who sail beyond the Line, Feel when new stars above them rise;— And it was thine, the voice that spoke, Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then; And thine the eye whose lustre broke— Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave A song of that sweet summer-eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy. Danced till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again Of the fresh light those moments cast.



COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance— (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, Preferring a coquette from France, That mincing thing, Mamselle quadrille)—

Having been chased from London down To that most humble haunt of all She used to grace—a Country Town— Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven "From London's gay and shining tracks— "Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven, "I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's—

"Tho' not a London Miss alive "Would now for her acquaintance own me; "And spinsters, even, of forty-five, "Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still, "And—spite of some few dandy Lancers. "Who vainly try to preach Quadrille— "See naught but true-blue Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, "My throne, like Magna Charta, raise "'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, "That scorn the threatened chaine anglaise."

'Twas thus she said, as mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's Head Inn, And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all, With young Squirinas, just come out, And my Lord's daughters from the Hall, (Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)—

All these, as light she tript upstairs, Were in the cloak-room seen assembling— When, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops—she listens—can it be? Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it— It is "Di tanti palpiti" As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however—in she goes, With her best, sweeping country grace; When, ah too true, her worst of foes, Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin, Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in, Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face (The beau-ideal of French beauty), A band-box thing, all art and lace Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine— From Hippolyte, her rouge and hair— Her poetry, from Lamartine— Her morals, from—the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced—so slidingly, So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate, No signs of life or motion showing. Like a bright pendule's dial-plate— So still, you'd hardly think 'twas going.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance— A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance— English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 'tis fair to own, And rather given to skips and bounces; Endangering thereby many a gown, And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike Mamselle—who would prefer (As morally a lesser ill) A thousand flaws of character, To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did She of Albion wear; Let her but run that two-heat race She calls a Set, not Dian e'er Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't Such anger now—whose eyes of blue (Eyes of that bright, victorious tint, Which English maids call "Waterloo")—

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk Of a warm evening, flashing broke. While—to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1] Which struck up now—she proudly spoke—

"Heard you that strain—that joyous strain? "'Twas such as England loved to hear, "Ere thou and all thy frippery train, "Corrupted both her foot and ear—

"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands, "Presumed, in sight of all beholders, "To lay his rude, licentious hands "On virtuous English backs and shoulders—

"Ere times and morals both grew bad, "And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads, "Happy John Bull not only had, "But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!—Oh, Londonderry, "Where is the land could 'scape disasters, "With such a Foreign Secretary, "Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops! "Rulers of day-books and of waves! "Quadrilled, on one side, into fops, "And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen, "Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition, "With elbows, a la crapaudine, "And feet, in—God knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons, "Inspectors of your airs and graces, "Who intercept all whispered tones, "And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored, "In that grim cordon of Mammas, "To interchange one tender word, "Tho' whispered but in queue-de-chats.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged, "Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle— "What looks in setting were exchanged, "What tender words in down the middle;

"How many a couple, like the wind, "Which nothing in its course controls, Left time and chaperons far behind, "And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve—ere stopt "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting— "How charmingly one's partner propt "The important question in poussetteing.

"While now, alas—no sly advances— "No marriage hints—all goes on badly— "'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances, "We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) "Declares not half so much is made "By Licences—and he must know well— "Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased—tears fell from every Miss— She now had touched the true pathetic:— One such authentic fact as this, Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!" And the maid saw with brightening face, The Steward of the night advance, And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, Now tuned again their summons sweet, And, for one happy night, at least, Old England's triumph was complete.

[1] An old English country dance.



GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in the unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye Can see the blush of future bowers; And joy it brings to thee and me, My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way, To feed the marble Founts of Kings, Now, loosened by the vernal ray, Upon its path exulting springs— As doth this bounding heart to thee, My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay; Enough if they awhile remain, Like Irem's bowers, that fade away. From time to time, and come again. And life shall all one Irem be For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart, Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, That rends its inmost leaves apart With passion for the nightingale; So languishes this soul for thee, My bright and blushing Maami!



LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.

If ever life was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife. The simple heart above all worldly wiles; Light wit that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower, Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves And brightens every gift by fortune given; That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.—Oh, thou who read'st this stone, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye like him may live, like him may die!



GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur. SENECA.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned, As Nature meant, supreme alone; With mind unchekt, and hands unchained, His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave With its own sceptre, could not last; So Genius' self became the slave Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, Was, ever after, doomed to wear it: His nods, his struggles all too late— "Qui semel jussit, semper paret."

To check young Genius' proud career, The slaves who now his throne invaded, Made Criticism his prime Vizir, And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school, Afraid of even his own ambition, His very victories were by rule, And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds—the same, That dazzled, when spontaneous actions— Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame, And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air, Instant, the Vizir's Council sat— "Good Lord, your Highness can't go there— "Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy Rich jewels for his diadem, "The taste was bad, the price was high— "A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers— "What trifling, what unmeaning things! "Fit for a woman's toilet hours, "But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere, He played no more the rambling comet— "A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear, "But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans, For realms more worthy to enthrone him?— "Saint Aristotle, what wild notions! "Serve a 'ne exeat regno' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do, They round him placed a guard of watchmen, Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue Turned up with yellow—chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about Like those in Longwood's prison grounds, Who at Napoleon's heels rode out, For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power, Some Ultra spirit, to set free, As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour, The thunders of his Royalty!—

To vindicate his ancient line, The first, the true, the only one, Of Right eternal and divine, That rules beneath the blessed sun.



TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Oh albums, albums, how I dread Your everlasting scrap and scrawl! How often wish that from the dead Old Omar would pop forth his head, And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band, The blushless blues, who, day and night, Like duns in doorways, take their stand, To waylay bards, with book in hand, Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain, That o'er me at this instant come, When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, Knocks at the portal of my brain, And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

November, 1828.



TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low, From Byron down to ***** and me, Should seek the fame which all bestow On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes, At once all errors are forgiven; As even old Sternhold still we prize, Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.



AT NIGHT.[1]

At night, when all is still around. How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light! What pleasure in the anxious beat, With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say "'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay, Tho' still the western clouds are bright; Oh! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress. With those we love exchanged at night!

[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.



TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up on her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

Paris, July, 1821



EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that, And wondering much what little knavish sprite Had put it first in women's heads to write:— Sudden I saw—as in some witching dream— A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam, From whose quick-opening folds of azure light Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head, Some sunny morning from a violet bed. "Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"— "A small he-devil, Ma'am—my name BAS BLEU— "A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading; "'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding, "The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, "The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, "And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain "With metaphysics twirl it back again!" I viewed him, as he spoke—his hose were blue, His wings—the covers of the last Review— Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue, And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear, Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair. "Inspired by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy)— "That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, "Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, "Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. "For me the eyes of young Camilla shine, "And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; "For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, "Looks wise—the pretty soul!—and thinks she's thinking. "By my advice Miss Indigo attends "Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, "''Pon honor!—(mimics)—nothing can surpass the plan "'Of that professor—(trying to recollect)—psha! that memory-man— "'That—what's his name?—him I attended lately— "''Pon honor, he improved my memory greatly.'" Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite, What share he had in this our play to-night. 'Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite— "What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time "When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme; "When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild, "Blushed without art, and without culture smiled— "Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone, "Ere Science called their brilliant world her own, "Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders, "And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!— "No, no—your gentle Inas will not do— "To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, "I'll come—(pointing downwards)—you understand—till then adieu!"

And has the sprite been here! No—jests apart— Howe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true The wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too— Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touched in the remotest one; Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown, When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne: If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and—Blue Devils.



THE DAY-DREAM.[1]

They both were husht, the voice, the chords,— I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words. My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there, Like echoes of some broken strain;— Links of a sweetness lost in air, That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled; And, tho' the charm still lingered on, That o'er each sense her song had shed, The song itself was faded, gone;—

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Tho' what they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains I wooed this truant air to come— As birds are taught on eastern plains To lure their wilder kindred home.

In vain:—the song that Sappho gave, In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave Than this within my memory.

At length, one morning, as I lay In that half-waking mood when dreams Unwillingly at last gave way To the full truth of daylight's beams,

A face—the very face, methought, From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought— Came with its music close to mine;

And sung the long-lost measure o'er,— Each note and word, with every tone And look, that lent it life before,— All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest They meet again, each widowed sound Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor even in waking did the clew, Thus strangely caught, escape again; For never lark its matins knew So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft when memory's wondrous spell Is talked of in our tranquil bower, I sing this lady's song, and tell The vision of that morning hour.

[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.



SONG.

Where is the heart that would not give Years of drowsy days and nights, One little hour, like this, to live— Full, to the brim, of life's delights? Look, look around, This fairy ground, With love-lights glittering o'er; While cups that shine With freight divine Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours, Memory lives in those gone by; Neither can see the moment's flowers Springing up fresh beneath the eye, Wouldst thou, or thou, Forego what's now, For all that Hope may say? No—Joy's reply, From every eye, Is, "Live we while we may,"



SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

haud curat Hippoclides. ERASM. Adag.

To those we love we've drank tonight; But now attend and stare not, While I the ampler list recite Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown, If on their fronts they bear not That noblest gem that decks a crown, The People's Love—WE CARE NOT.

For slavish men who bend beneath A despot yoke, yet dare not Pronounce the will whose very breath Would rend its links—WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men who covet sway And wealth, tho' they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way They never go—WE CARE NOT.

For martial men who on their sword, Howe'er it conquers, wear not The pledges of a soldier's word, Redeemed and pure—WE CARE NOT.

For legal men who plead for wrong. And, tho' to lies they swear not, Are hardly better than the throng Of those who do—WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men who feed upon The land, like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf where they can sun Their crawling limbs—WE CARE NOT.

For wealthy men who keep their mines In darkness hid, and share not The paltry ore with him who pines In honest want—WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men who hold the power Of Love aloof, and bare not Their hearts in any guardless hour To Beauty's shaft—WE CARE NOT.

For all, in short, on land or sea, In camp or court, who are not, Who never were, or e'er will be Good men and true—WE CARE NOT.



ANNE BOLEYN.

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL

"Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."

"S'elle estoit belle et de taille elegante, Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, Lesquelz scavoit bien conduyre a propos En les lenant quelquefoys en repos; Aucune foys envoyant en message Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage."

Much as her form seduced the sight, Her eyes could even more surely woo; And when and how to shoot their light Into men's hearts full well she knew. For sometimes in repose she hid Their rays beneath a downcast lid; And then again, with wakening air, Would send their sunny glances out, Like heralds of delight, to bear Her heart's sweet messages about.



THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente Prima raggio nel monte Citerea, Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente, Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea Donna vedere andar per una landa Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;— Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda, Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda— Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno; Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno.

Ell' e de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga, Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani; Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga.

DANTE, Purg. Canto xxvii.

'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above. The star of beauty beamed, While lulled by light so full of love, In slumber thus I dreamed— Methought, at that sweet hour, A nymph came o'er the lea, Who, gathering many a flower, Thus said and sung to me:— "Should any ask what Leila loves, "Say thou, To wreathe her hair "With flowerets culled from glens and groves, "Is Leila's only care.

"While thus in quest of flowers rare, "O'er hill and dale I roam, "My sister, Rachel, far more fair, "Sits lone and mute at home. "Before her glass untiring, "With thoughts that never stray, "Her own bright eyes admiring, "She sits the live-long day; "While I!—oh, seldom even a look "Of self salutes my eye; "My only glass, the limpid brook, "That shines and passes by."



SOVEREIGN WOMAN.

A BALLAD.

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams That fairy scene went on; Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams Tho' day itself is gone. And gracefully to music's sound, The same bright nymphs were gliding round; While thou, the Queen of all, wert there— The Fairest still, where all were fair. The dream then changed—in halls of state, I saw thee high enthroned; While, ranged around, the wise, the great, In thee their mistress owned; And still the same, thy gentle sway O'er willing subjects won its way— Till all confest the Right Divine To rule o'er man was only thine!

But, lo, the scene now changed again— And borne on plumed steed, I saw thee o'er the battle-plain Our land's defenders lead: And stronger in thy beauty's charms, Than man, with countless hosts in arms, Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free, Thy very smile was victory!

Nor reign such queens on thrones alone— In cot and court the same, Wherever woman's smile is known, Victoria's still her name. For tho' she almost blush to reign, Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain, Disguise our bondage as we will, 'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.



COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN.

A BALLAD.

Come, play me that simple air again, I used so to love, in life's young day, And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then Were wakened by that sweet lay The tender gloom its strain Shed o'er the heart and brow Grief's shadow without its pain— Say where, where is it now? But play me the well-known air once more, For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain Like dreams of some far, fairy shore We never shall see again.

Sweet air, how every note brings back Some sunny hope, some daydream bright, That, shining o'er life's early track, Filled even its tears with light. The new-found life that came With love's first echoed vow;— The fear, the bliss, the shame— Ah—where, where are they now? But, still the same loved notes prolong, For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay, In dreams of youth and love and song, To breathe life's hour away.



POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN

(1827.)



THE VALLEY OF THE NILE.

Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion, ever moves and lives, Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave Ascending, in procession slow and grave, Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands: While there, rich barks—fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts— Glide with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory, Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way To Sais or Bubastus, among beds Of lotos flowers that close above their heads, Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour, While haply, not far off, beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias, many a prank Is played in the cool current by a train Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast; But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.



SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS.

FIRST CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup—Osiris sips The same in his halls below; And the same he gives, to cool the lips Of the dead, who downward go.

Drink of this cup—the water within Is fresh from Lethe's stream; 'Twill make the past, with all its sin, And all its pain and sorrows, seem Like a long forgotten dream; The pleasure, whose charms Are steeped in woe; The knowledge, that harms The soul to know;

The hope, that bright As the lake of the waste, Allures the sight And mocks the taste;

The love, that binds Its innocent wreath, Where the serpent winds In venom beneath!—

All that of evil or false, by thee Hath ever been known or seen, Shalt melt away in this cup, and be Forgot as it never had been!

SECOND CUPBEARER.

Drink of this cup—when Isis led Her boy of old to the beaming sky, She mingled a draught divine and said.— "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

Thus do I say and sing to thee. Heir of that boundless heaven on high, Though frail and fallen and lost thou be, "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"

* * * * *

And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, Dreams of a former, happier day, When heaven was still the spirit's home, And her wings had not yet fallen away.

Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot, That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, What once hath been, what now is not. But oh! what again shall brightly be!"



SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL.

O Abyssinian tree, We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit And the violet hue of the flower, And the greeting mute Of thy boughs' salute To the stranger who seeks thy bow.

O Abyssinian tree! How the traveller blesses thee When the light no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near, And thou bend'st thy boughs To kiss his brows. Saying, "Come, rest thee here." O Abyssinian tree! Thus bow thy head to me!



THE SUMMER FETE.



TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON.

For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fete, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening—of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments—I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful and happy jeu d'esprit on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fete as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.

Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.

Sloperton Cottage,

November 1881

[1] Lord Francis Egerton.



THE SUMMER FETE

"Where are ye now, ye summer days, "That once inspired the poet's lays? "Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals— "Summers of light, undimmed by rains, "Whose only mocking trace remains "In watering-pots and parasols."

Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, As, on the morning of that Fete Which bards unborn shall celebrate, She backward drew her curtain's shade, And, closing one half-dazzled eye, Peeped with the other at the sky— The important sky, whose light or gloom Was to decide, this day, the doom Of some few hundred beauties, wits, Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.

Faint were her hopes; for June had now Set in with all his usual rigor! Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how To nurse a bud, or fan a bough, But Eurus in perpetual vigor; And, such the biting summer air, That she, the nymph now nestling there— Snug as her own bright gems recline At night within their cotton shrine— Had more than once been caught of late Kneeling before her blazing grate, Like a young worshipper of fire, With hands uplifted to the flame, Whose glow as if to woo them nigher. Thro' the white fingers flushing came.

But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, That now illumed this morning's heaven! Up sprung Iaenthe at the sight, Tho'—hark!—the clocks but strike eleven, And rarely did the nymph surprise Mankind so early with her eyes. Who now will say that England's sun (Like England's self, these spendthrift days) His stock of wealth hath near outrun, And must retrench his golden rays— Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, And to mere moonshine come at last?

"Calumnious thought!" Iaenthe cries, While coming mirth lit up each glance, And, prescient of the ball, her eyes Already had begun to dance: For brighter sun than that which now Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers, Had never bent from heaven his brow To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.

What must it be—if thus so fair. Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square— What must it be where Thames is seen Gliding between his banks of green, While rival villas, on each side, Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, And, like a Turk between two rows Of Harem beauties, on he goes— A lover, loved for even the grace With which he slides from their embrace.

In one of those enchanted domes, One, the most flowery, cool, and bright Of all by which that river roams, The Fete is to be held to-night— That Fete already linked to fame, Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight (When looked for long, at last they came,) Seemed circled with a fairy light;— That Fete to which the cull, the flower Of England's beauty, rank and power, From the young spinster, just come out, To the old Premier, too long in— From legs of far descended gout, To the last new-mustachioed chin— All were convoked by Fashion's spells To the small circle where she dwells, Collecting nightly, to allure us, Live atoms, which, together hurled, She, like another Epicurus, Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."

Behold how busy in those bowers (Like May-flies in and out of flowers.) The countless menials, swarming run, To furnish forth ere set of sun The banquet-table richly laid Beneath yon awning's lengthened shade, Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice, And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call, Breathe from her summer-throne of ice A spirit of coolness over all.

And now the important hour drew nigh, When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky, The west-end "world" for mirth let loose, And moved, as he of Syracuse[1] Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force Of four horse power, had all combined Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course, Leaving that portion of mankind, Whom they call "Nobody," behind; No star for London's feasts to-day, No moon of beauty, new this May, To lend the night her crescent ray;— Nothing, in short, for ear or eye, But veteran belles and wits gone by, The relics of a past beau-monde, A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned! Even Parliament this evening nods Beneath the harangues of minor Gods, On half its usual opiate's share; The great dispensers of repose, The first-rate furnishers of prose Being all called to—prose elsewhere.

Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square— That last impregnable redoubt, Where, guarded with Patrician care, Primeval Error still holds out— Where never gleam of gas must dare 'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt, Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare The dowagers one single jolt;— Where, far too stately and sublime To profit by the lights of time, Let Intellect march how it will, They stick to oil and watchman still:— Soon as thro' that illustrious square The first epistolary bell. Sounding by fits upon the air, Of parting pennies rung the knell; Warned by that tell-tale of the hours, And by the day-light's westering beam, The young Iaenthe, who, with flowers Half crowned, had sat in idle dream Before her glass, scarce knowing where Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair, While, all capriciously, she now Dislodged some curl from her white brow, And now again replaced it there:— As tho' her task was meant to be One endless change of ministry— A routing-up of Loves and Graces, But to plant others in their places.

Meanwhile—what strain is that which floats Thro' the small boudoir near—like notes Of some young bird, its task repeating For the next linnet music-meeting? A voice it was, whose gentle sounds Still kept a modest octave's bounds, Nor yet had ventured to exalt Its rash ambition to B alt, That point towards which when ladies rise, The wise man takes his hat and—flies. Tones of a harp, too, gently played, Came with this youthful voice communing; Tones true, for once, without the aid Of that inflictive process, tuning— A process which must oft have given Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; So pleased, among the joys of Heaven, He specifies "harps ever tuned." She who now sung this gentle strain Was our young nymph's still younger sister— Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train In their light legions to enlist her, But counted on, as sure to bring Her force into the field next spring.

The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, Gave forth "so sweetly and so well," Was one in Morning Post much famed, From a divine collection, named, "Songs of the Toilet"—every Lay Taking for subject of its Muse, Some branch of feminine array, Some item, with full scope, to choose, From diamonds down to dancing shoes; From the last hat that Herbault's hands Bequeathed to an admiring world, Down to the latest flounce that stands Like Jacob's Ladder—or expands Far forth, tempestuously unfurled.

Speaking of one of these new Lays, The Morning Post thus sweetly says:— "Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre, "That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, "Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire, "This fine Cantata upon Sleeves. "The very notes themselves reveal "The cut of each new sleeve so well; "A flat betrays the Imbecilles,[2] "Light fugues the flying lappets tell; "While rich cathedral chords awake 'Our homage for the Manches d'Eveque."

'Twas the first opening song the Lay Of all least deep in toilet-lore, That the young nymph, to while away The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:—

SONG.

Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all thy best array thee; The sun's below—the moon's above— And Night and Bliss obey thee. Put on thee all that's bright and rare, The zone, the wreath, the gem, Not so much gracing charms so fair, As borrowing grace from them. Array thee, love, array thee, love, In all that's bright array thee; The sun's below—the moon's above— And Night and Bliss obey thee.

Put on the plumes thy lover gave. The plumes, that, proudly dancing, Proclaim to all, where'er they wave, Victorious eyes advancing. Bring forth the robe whose hue of heaven From thee derives such light, That Iris would give all her seven To boast but one so bright. Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc.

Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee. And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Will beat when they come nigh thee. Thy every word shall be a spell, Thy every look a ray, And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell The glory of thy way! Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee, And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, Shall beat when they come nigh thee.

* * * * *

Now in his Palace of the West, Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, Like a tired monarch fanned to rest, Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; While round his couch's golden rim The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept— Struggling each other's light to dim, And catch his last smile e'er he slept. How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames The golden eve its lustre poured, Shone out the high-born knights and dames Now grouped around that festal board; A living mass of plumes and flowers. As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers— A peopled rainbow, swarming thro' With habitants of every hue; While, as the sparkling juice of France High in the crystal brimmers flowed, Each sunset ray that mixt by chance With the wine's sparkles, showed How sunbeams may be taught to dance. If not in written form exprest, 'Twas known at least to every guest, That, tho' not bidden to parade Their scenic powers in masquerade, (A pastime little found to thrive In the bleak fog of England's skies, Where wit's the thing we best contrive, As masqueraders, to disguise,) It yet was hoped-and well that hope Was answered by the young and gay— That in the toilet's task to-day Fancy should take her wildest scope;— That the rapt milliner should be Let loose thro fields of poesy, The tailor, in inventive trance, Up to the heights of Epic clamber, And all the regions of Romance Be ransackt by the femme de chambre.

Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas— Circassian slaves whom Love would pay Half his maternal realms to ransom;— Young nuns, whose chief religion lay In looking most profanely handsome;— Muses in muslin-pastoral maids With hats from the Arcade-ian shades, And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, As fortune-hunters formed their train.

With these and more such female groups, Were mixt no less fantastic troops Of male exhibitors—all willing To look even more than usual killing;— Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios, And brigands, charmingly ferocious:— M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then, Who, last night, voted for the Greeks; And Friars, stanch No-Popery men, In close confab with Whig Caciques.

But where is she—the nymph whom late We left before her glass delaying Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, In the clear wave her charms surveying, And saw in that first glassy mirror The first fair face that lured to error. "Where is she," ask'st thou?—watch all looks As centring to one point they bear, Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks, Turned to the sun—and she is there. Even in disguise, oh never doubt By her own light you'd track her out: As when the moon, close shawled in fog, Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven incog., Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray At every step, detects her way.

But not in dark disguise to-night Hath our young heroine veiled her light;— For see, she walks the earth, Love's own. His wedded bride, by holiest vow Pledged in Olympus, and made known To mortals by the type which now Hangs glittering on her snowy brow, That butterfly, mysterious trinket, Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it), And sparkling thus on brow so white, Tells us we've Psyche here tonight! But hark! some song hath caught her ears— And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'er Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres, Her goddess-ship approves the air; And to a mere terrestrial strain, Inspired by naught but pink champagne, Her butterfly as gayly nods As tho' she sate with all her train At some great Concert of the Gods, With Phoebus, leader—Jove, director, And half the audience drunk with nectar.

From the male group the carol came— A few gay youths whom round the board The last-tried flask's superior fame Had lured to taste the tide it poured; And one who from his youth and lyre Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire, Thus gayly sung, while, to his song, Replied in chorus the gay throng:—

SONG.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; But, as I'm not particular—wit, love, and wine, Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. Nay—humble and strange as my tastes may appear— If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven, To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven. So pledge me a bumper—your sages profound May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: But as we are not sages, why—send the cup round— We must only be happy the best way we can.