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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Verses and Translations, by C. S. Calverley
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
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to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
Title: Verses and Translations
Author: C. S. Calverley
Release Date: November 4, 2014 [eBook #4096]
[This file was first posted on November 26, 2001]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS***
</pre>
<p>Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by
David Price, email ccx074@pglag.org</p>
<h1>VERSES<br />
<span class="GutSmall">AND</span><br />
TRANSLATIONS.</h1>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p style="text-align: center">BY C. S. C.</p>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall"><i>SECOND
EDITION</i></span><span class="GutSmall">, </span><span
class="GutSmall"><i>REVISED</i></span><span
class="GutSmall">.</span></p>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p style="text-align: center">CAMBRIDGE:<br />
DEIGHTON, BELL, AND CO.<br />
<span class="GutSmall">LONDON: BELL AND DALDY.</span><br />
1862.</p>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span
class="pagenum">p. iv</span><span
class="GutSmall">Cambridge:</span><br />
<span class="GutSmall">PRINTED BY JONATHAN PALMER, SIDNEY
STREET.</span></p>
<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
v</span>CONTENTS.</h2>
<table>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right">Page</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Visions</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page1">1</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Gemini and Virgo</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page6">6</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>“<span class="smcap">There Stands a
City</span>”</p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page14">14</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Striking</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page18">18</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Voices of the Night</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page21">21</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Lines Suggested by the 14th of
February</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page24">24</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>A, B, C.</p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page26">26</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">To Mrs. Goodchild</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page28">28</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Ode—‘On a Distant
Prospect’ of Making a Fortune</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page33">33</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Isabel</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page37">37</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Dirge</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page40">40</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Lines Suggested by the 14th of
February</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page45">45</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p>“<span class="smcap">Hic Vir, Hic
Est</span>”</p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page47">47</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Beer</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page52">52</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Ode to Tobacco</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page60">60</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Dover to Munich</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page63">63</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Charades</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page77">77</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Proverbial Philosophy</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page97">97</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
vi</span>TRANSLATIONS:</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">Lycidas</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page106">106</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">In
Memoriam</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page128">128</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">Laura
Matilda’s Dirge</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page132">132</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> “<span class="smcap">Leaves have
their time to Fall</span>”</p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page136">136</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> “<span class="smcap">Let us turn
Hitherward our Bark</span>”</p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page140">140</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Carmen Sæculare</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page144">144</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2"><p>TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE:</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To a Ship</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page152">152</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To Virgil</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page154">154</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To the Fountain of
Bandusia</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page156">156</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To Ibycus’s
Wife</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page158">158</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">Soracte</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page160">160</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To
Leuconöe</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page162">162</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">Juno’s
Speech</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page163">163</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To a Faun</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page168">168</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To Lyce</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page170">170</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">To his
Slave</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page172">172</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2"><p>TRANSLATIONS:</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">From
Virgil</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page173">173</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">From
Theocritus</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page175">175</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">Speech of
Ajax</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page177">177</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">From
Lucretius</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page180">180</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> <span class="smcap">From
Homer</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page188">188</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
1</span>VISIONS.</h2>
<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“She was a
phantom,” &c.</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> lone
Glenartney’s thickets lies couched the lordly stag,<br />
The dreaming terrier’s tail forgets its customary wag;<br
/>
And plodding ploughmen’s weary steps insensibly grow
quicker,<br />
As broadening casements light them on towards home, or
home-brewed liquor.</p>
<p class="poetry">It is (in fact) the evening—that pure and
pleasant time,<br />
When stars break into splendour, and poets into rhyme;<br />
<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>When in the
glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine—<br />
And when, of course, Miss Goodchild’s is prominent in
mine.</p>
<p class="poetry">Miss Goodchild!—Julia
Goodchild!—how graciously you smiled<br />
Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child:<br
/>
When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb’s
instruction,<br />
And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction!</p>
<p class="poetry">“She wore” her natural
“roses, the night when first we met”—<br />
Her golden hair was gleaming ’neath the coercive net:<br />
“Her brow was like the snawdrift,” her step was like
Queen Mab’s,<br />
<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>And gone was
instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb’s.</p>
<p class="poetry">The parlour-boarder chasséed
tow’rds her on graceful limb;<br />
The onyx decked his bosom—but her smiles were not for
him:<br />
With <i>me</i> she danced—till drowsily her eyes
“began to blink,”<br />
And <i>I</i> brought raisin wine, and said, “Drink, pretty
creature, drink!”</p>
<p class="poetry">And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of
snows,<br />
And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;<br />
Shall I—with that soft hand in mine—enact ideal
Lancers,<br />
And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned
answers:—</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
4</span>I know that never, never may her love for me
return—<br />
At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern—<br
/>
But ever shall I bless that day: (I don’t bless, as a
rule,<br />
The days I spent at “Dr. Crabb’s Preparatory
School.”)</p>
<p class="poetry">And yet—we two <i>may</i> meet
again—(Be still, my throbbing heart!)—<br />
Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry
tart:—<br />
One night I saw a vision—’Twas when musk-roses
bloom<br />
I stood—<i>we</i> stood—upon a rug, in a sumptuous
dining-room:</p>
<p class="poetry">One hand clasped hers—one easily reposed
upon my hip—<br />
<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>And
“<span class="smcap">Bless ye</span>!” burst abruptly
from Mr. Goodchild’s lip:<br />
I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering
gleam—<br />
My heart beat wildly—and I woke, and lo! it was a
dream.</p>
<h2><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>GEMINI
AND VIRGO.</h2>
<p class="poetry">Some vast amount of years ago,<br />
Ere all my youth had vanished from me,<br />
A boy it was my lot to know,<br />
Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.</p>
<p class="poetry">I love to gaze upon a child;<br />
A young bud bursting into blossom;<br />
Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled,<br />
And agile as a young opossum:</p>
<p class="poetry">And such was he. A calm-browed lad,<br />
Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter:<br />
Why hatters as a race are mad<br />
I never knew, nor does it matter.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
7</span>He was what nurses call a ‘limb;’<br />
One of those small misguided creatures,<br />
Who, though their intellects are dim,<br />
Are one too many for their teachers:</p>
<p class="poetry">And, if you asked of him to say<br />
What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7,<br />
He’d glance (in quite a placid way)<br />
From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven:</p>
<p class="poetry">And smile, and look politely round,<br />
To catch a casual suggestion;<br />
But make no effort to propound<br />
Any solution of the question.</p>
<p class="poetry">And so not much esteemed was he<br />
Of the authorities: and therefore<br />
He fraternized by chance with me,<br />
Needing a somebody to care for:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
8</span>And three fair summers did we twain<br />
Live (as they say) and love together;<br />
And bore by turns the wholesome cane<br />
Till our young skins became as leather:</p>
<p class="poetry">And carved our names on every desk,<br />
And tore our clothes, and inked our collars;<br />
And looked unique and picturesque,<br />
But not, it may be, model scholars.</p>
<p class="poetry">We did much as we chose to do;<br />
We’d never heard of Mrs. Grundy;<br />
All the theology we knew<br />
Was that we mightn’t play on Sunday;</p>
<p class="poetry">And all the general truths, that cakes<br />
Were to be bought at four a-penny,<br />
And that excruciating aches<br />
Resulted if we ate too many:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
9</span>And seeing ignorance is bliss,<br />
And wisdom consequently folly,<br />
The obvious result is this—<br />
That our two lives were very jolly.</p>
<p class="poetry">At last the separation came.<br />
Real love, at that time, was the fashion;<br />
And by a horrid chance, the same<br />
Young thing was, to us both, a passion.</p>
<p class="poetry">Old <span class="smcap">Poser</span> snorted
like a horse:<br />
His feet were large, his hands were pimply,<br />
His manner, when excited, coarse:—<br />
But Miss P. was an angel simply.</p>
<p class="poetry">She was a blushing gushing thing;<br />
All—more than all—my fancy painted;<br
/>
Once—when she helped me to a wing<br />
Of goose—I thought I should have fainted.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
10</span>The people said that she was blue:<br />
But I was green, and loved her dearly.<br />
She was approaching thirty-two;<br />
And I was then eleven, nearly.</p>
<p class="poetry">I did not love as others do;<br />
(None ever did that I’ve heard tell of;)<br />
My passion was a byword through<br />
The town she was, of course, the belle of.</p>
<p class="poetry">Oh sweet—as to the toilworn man<br />
The far-off sound of rippling river;<br />
As to cadets in Hindostan<br />
The fleeting remnant of their liver—</p>
<p class="poetry">To me was <span class="smcap">Anna</span>; dear
as gold<br />
That fills the miser’s sunless coffers;<br />
As to the spinster, growing old,<br />
The thought—the dream—that she had
offers.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
11</span>I’d sent her little gifts of fruit;<br />
I’d written lines to her as Venus;<br />
I’d sworn unflinchingly to shoot<br />
The man who dared to come between us:</p>
<p class="poetry">And it was you, my Thomas, you,<br />
The friend in whom my soul confided,<br />
Who dared to gaze on her—to do,<br />
I may say, much the same as I did.</p>
<p class="poetry">One night I <i>saw</i> him squeeze her hand;<br
/>
There was no doubt about the matter;<br />
I said he must resign, or stand<br />
My vengeance—and he chose the latter.</p>
<p class="poetry">We met, we ‘planted’ blows on
blows:<br />
We fought as long as we were able:<br />
My rival had a bottle-nose,<br />
And both my speaking eyes were sable.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
12</span>When the school-bell cut short our strife,<br />
Miss P. gave both of us a plaster;<br />
And in a week became the wife<br />
Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">I loved her then—I’d love her
still,<br />
Only one must not love Another’s:<br />
But thou and I, my Tommy, will,<br />
When we again meet, meet as brothers.</p>
<p class="poetry">It may be that in age one seeks<br />
Peace only: that the blood is brisker<br />
In boy’s veins, than in theirs whose cheeks<br />
Are partially obscured by whisker;</p>
<p class="poetry">Or that the growing ages steal<br />
The memories of past wrongs from us.<br />
But this is certain—that I feel<br />
Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
13</span>And wheresoe’er we meet again,<br />
On this or that side the equator,<br />
If I’ve not turned teetotaller then,<br />
And have wherewith to pay the waiter,</p>
<p class="poetry">To thee I’ll drain the modest cup,<br />
Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;<br />
And we will waft, while liquoring up,<br />
Forgiveness to the heartless <span
class="smcap">Anna</span>.</p>
<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
14</span>“There Stands a City.”</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Ingoldsby</span>.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Year</span> by year do
Beauty’s daughters,<br />
In the sweetest gloves and shawls,<br />
Troop to taste the Chattenham waters,<br />
And adorn the Chattenham balls.</p>
<p class="poetry">‘<i>Nulla non donanda lauru</i>’<br
/>
Is that city: you could not,<br />
Placing England’s map before you,<br />
Light on a more favoured spot.</p>
<p class="poetry">If no clear translucent river<br />
Winds ’neath willow-shaded paths,<br />
“Children and adults” may shiver<br />
All day in “Chalybeate baths:”</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
15</span>If “the inimitable Fechter”<br />
Never brings the gallery down,<br />
Constantly “the Great Protector”<br />
There “rejects the British crown:”</p>
<p class="poetry">And on every side the painter<br />
Looks on wooded vale and plain<br />
And on fair hills, faint and fainter<br />
Outlined as they near the main.</p>
<p class="poetry">There I met with him, my chosen<br />
Friend—the ‘long’ but not
‘stern swell,’ <a name="citation15a"></a><a
href="#footnote15a" class="citation">[15a]</a><br />
Faultless in his hats and hosen,<br />
Whom the Johnian lawns know well:—</p>
<p class="poetry">Oh my comrade, ever valued!<br />
Still I see your festive face;<br />
Hear you humming of “the gal you’d<br />
Left behind” in massive bass:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
16</span>See you sit with that composure<br />
On the eeliest of hacks,<br />
That the novice would suppose your<br />
Manly limbs encased in wax:</p>
<p class="poetry">Or anon,—when evening lent her<br />
Tranquil light to hill and vale,—<br />
Urge, towards the table’s centre,<br />
With unerring hand, the squail.</p>
<p class="poetry">Ah delectablest of summers!<br />
How my heart—that “muffled
drum”<br />
Which ignores the aid of drummers—<br />
Beats, as back thy memories come!</p>
<p class="poetry">Oh, among the dancers peerless,<br />
Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!<br />
Need I say to you that cheerless<br />
Must my days be till I die?</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
17</span>At my side she mashed the fragrant<br />
Strawberry; lashes soft as silk<br />
Drooped o’er saddened eyes, when vagrant<br />
Gnats sought watery graves in milk:</p>
<p class="poetry">Then we danced, we walked together;<br />
Talked—no doubt on trivial topics;<br />
Such as Blondin, or the weather,<br />
Which “recalled us to the tropics.”</p>
<p class="poetry">But—oh! in the deuxtemps peerless,<br />
Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!—<br />
Once more I repeat, that cheerless<br />
Shall my days be till I die.</p>
<p class="poetry">And the lean and hungry raven,<br />
As he picks my bones, will start<br />
To observe ‘M. N.’ engraven<br />
Neatly on my blighted heart.</p>
<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
18</span>STRIKING.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a railway
passenger,<br />
And he lept out jauntilie.<br />
“Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,<br />
My two chattèls to me.</p>
<p class="poetry">“Bring hither, bring hither my bag so
red,<br />
And portmanteau so brown:<br />
(They lie in the van, for a trusty man<br />
He labelled them London town:)</p>
<p class="poetry">“And fetch me eke a cabman bold,<br />
That I may be his fare, his fare;<br />
And he shall have a good shilling,<br />
If by two of the clock he do me bring<br />
To the Terminus, Euston Square.”</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
19</span>“Now,—so to thee the saints alway,<br />
Good gentleman, give luck,—<br />
As never a cab may I find this day,<br />
For the cabman wights have struck:<br />
And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,<br />
Or else at the Dog and Duck,<br />
Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,<br />
The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin<br />
Right pleasantly they do suck.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“Now rede me aright, thou stout
portèr,<br />
What were it best that I should do:<br />
For woe is me, an I reach not there<br />
Or ever the clock strike two.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“I have a son, a lytel son;<br />
Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s:<br />
Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,<br />
And he shall carry thy chattels down,<br />
<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>To Euston,
or half over London town,<br />
On one of the station trucks.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,<br
/>
The gent, and the son of the stout portèr,<br />
Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,<br />
Through all the mire and muck:<br />
“A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:<br />
For by two of the clock must I needs away.”<br />
“That may hardly be,” the clerk did say,<br />
“For indeed—the clocks have
struck.”</p>
<h2><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>VOICES
OF THE NIGHT.</h2>
<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“The tender Grace
of a day that is past.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> dew is on the
roses,<br />
The owl hath spread her wing;<br />
And vocal are the noses<br />
Of peasant and of king:<br />
“Nature” (in short) “reposes;”<br />
But I do no such thing.</p>
<p class="poetry">Pent in my lonesome study<br />
Here I must sit and muse;<br />
Sit till the morn grows ruddy,<br />
Till, rising with the dews,<br />
“Jeameses” remove the muddy<br />
Spots from their masters’ shoes.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
22</span>Yet are sweet faces flinging<br />
Their witchery o’er me here:<br />
I hear sweet voices singing<br />
A song as soft, as clear,<br />
As (previously to stinging)<br />
A gnat sings round one’s ear.</p>
<p class="poetry">Does Grace draw young Apollos<br />
In blue mustachios still?<br />
Does Emma tell the swallows<br />
How she will pipe and trill,<br />
When, some fine day, she follows<br />
Those birds to the window-sill?</p>
<p class="poetry">And oh! has Albert faded<br />
From Grace’s memory yet?<br />
Albert, whose “brow was shaded<br />
By locks of glossiest jet,”<br />
Whom almost any lady’d<br />
Have given her eyes to get?</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
23</span>Does not her conscience smite her<br />
For one who hourly pines,<br />
Thinking her bright eyes brighter<br />
Than any star that shines—<br />
I mean of course the writer<br />
Of these pathetic lines?</p>
<p class="poetry">Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter,<br />
“Time rolls his ceaseless course:<br />
“The Grace of yore” may alter—<br />
And then, I’ve one resource:<br />
I’ll invest in a bran-new halter,<br />
And I’ll perish without remorse.</p>
<h2><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>LINES
SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ere</span> the morn the
East has crimsoned,<br />
When the stars are twinkling there,<br />
(As they did in Watts’s Hymns, and<br />
Made him wonder what they were:)<br />
When the forest-nymphs are beading<br />
Fern and flower with silvery dew—<br />
My infallible proceeding<br />
Is to wake, and think of you.</p>
<p class="poetry">When the hunter’s ringing bugle<br />
Sounds farewell to field and copse,<br />
And I sit before my frugal<br />
Meal of gravy-soup and chops:<br />
When (as Gray remarks) “the moping<br />
Owl doth to the moon complain,”<br />
<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>And the
hour suggests eloping—<br />
Fly my thoughts to you again.</p>
<p class="poetry">May my dreams be granted never?<br />
Must I aye endure affliction<br />
Rarely realised, if ever,<br />
In our wildest works of fiction?<br />
Madly Romeo loved his Juliet;<br />
Copperfield began to pine<br />
When he hadn’t been to school yet—<br />
But their loves were cold to mine.</p>
<p class="poetry">Give me hope, the least, the dimmest,<br />
Ere I drain the poisoned cup:<br />
Tell me I may tell the chymist<br />
Not to make that arsenic up!<br />
Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbing;<br />
And when, musing o’er my bones,<br />
Travellers ask, “Who killed Cock Robin?”<br />
They’ll be told, “Miss Sarah J—s.”</p>
<h2><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>A, B,
C.</h2>
<p class="poetry">A is an Angel of blushing eighteen:<br />
B is the Ball where the Angel was seen:<br />
C is her Chaperone, who cheated at cards:<br />
D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards:<br />
E is the Eye which those dark lashes cover:<br />
F is the Fan it peeped wickedly over:<br />
G is the Glove of superlative kid:<br />
H is the Hand which it spitefully hid:<br />
I is the Ice which spent nature demanded:<br />
J is the Juvenile who hurried to hand it:<br />
K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art:<br />
L is the Lace which composed the chief part.<br />
M is the old Maid who watch’d the girls dance:<br />
N is the Nose she turned up at each glance:<br />
<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>O is the
Olga (just then in its prime):<br />
P is the Partner who wouldn’t keep time:<br />
Q ’s a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers:<br />
R the Remonstrances made by the dancers:<br />
S is the Supper, where all went in pairs:<br />
T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs:<br />
U is the Uncle who ‘thought we’d be going’:<br
/>
V is the Voice which his niece replied ‘No’ in:<br />
W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight:<br />
X is his Exit, not rigidly straight:<br />
Y is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball:<br />
Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.</p>
<h2><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>TO
MRS. GOODCHILD.</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">The</span> night-wind’s shriek is pitiless
and hollow,<br />
The boding bat flits by on sullen
wing,<br />
And I sit desolate, like that “one
swallow”<br />
Who found (with horror) that
he’d not brought spring:<br />
Lonely as he who erst with venturous thumb<br />
Drew from its pie-y lair the solitary plum.</p>
<p class="poetry"> And to my gaze the phantoms
of the Past,<br />
The cherished fictions of my
boyhood, rise:<br />
I see Red Ridinghood observe, aghast,<br />
The fixed expression of her
grandam’s eyes;<br />
I hear the fiendish chattering and chuckling<br />
Which those misguided fowls raised at the Ugly Duckling.</p>
<p class="poetry"> <a name="page29"></a><span
class="pagenum">p. 29</span>The House that Jack built—and
the Malt that lay<br />
Within the House—the Rat
that ate the Malt—<br />
The Cat, that in that sanguinary way<br />
Punished the poor thing for its
venial fault—<br />
The Worrier-Dog—the Cow with Crumpled
horn—<br />
And then—ah yes! and then—the Maiden all forlorn!</p>
<p class="poetry"> O Mrs. Gurton—(may I
call thee Gammer?)<br />
Thou more than mother to my infant
mind!<br />
I loved thee better than I loved my
grammar—<br />
I used to wonder why the Mice were
blind,<br />
And who was gardener to Mistress Mary,<br />
And what—I don’t know still—was meant by
“quite contrary”?</p>
<p class="poetry"> “Tota contraria,”
an “<i>Arundo Cami</i>”<br />
Has phrased it—which is
possibly explicit,<br />
Ingenious certainly—but all the same I<br />
Still ask, when coming on the
word, ‘What is it?’<br />
<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
30</span>There were more things in Mrs. Gurton’s eye,<br />
Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.</p>
<p class="poetry"> No doubt the Editor of
‘Notes and Queries’<br />
Or ‘Things not generally
known’ could tell<br />
That word’s real force—my only lurking
fear is<br />
That the great Gammer “didna
ken hersel”:<br />
(I’ve precedent, yet feel I owe apology<br />
For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).</p>
<p class="poetry"> Alas, dear Madam, I must ask
your pardon<br />
For making this unwarranted
digression,<br />
Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary’s
garden:—<br />
And beg to send, with every
expression<br />
Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes,<br />
For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.</p>
<p class="poetry"> There is a youth, who keeps a
‘crumpled Horn,’<br />
(Living next me, upon the selfsame
story,)<br />
And ever, ’twixt the midnight and the morn,<br
/>
<a name="page31"></a><span
class="pagenum">p. 31</span>He solaces his soul with Annie
Laurie.<br />
The tune is good; the habit p’raps
romantic;<br />
But tending, if pursued, to drive one’s neighbours
frantic.</p>
<p class="poetry"> And now,—at this
unprecedented hour,<br />
When the young Dawn is
“trampling out the stars,”—<br />
I hear that youth—with more than usual
power<br />
And pathos—struggling with
the first few bars.<br />
And I do think the amateur cornopean<br />
Should be put down by law—but that’s perhaps
Utopian.</p>
<p class="poetry"> Who knows what “things
unknown” I might have “bodied<br />
Forth,” if not checked by
that absurd Too-too?<br />
But don’t I know that when my friend has
plodded<br />
<a name="page32"></a><span
class="pagenum">p. 32</span>Through the first verse, the second
will ensue?<br />
Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely<br />
Send the aforesaid book—and am yours most sincerely.</p>
<h2><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
33</span>ODE—‘ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING
A FORTUNE.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the “rosy
morn appearing”<br />
Floods with light the dazzled heaven;<br />
And the schoolboy groans on hearing<br />
That eternal clock strike seven:—<br />
Now the waggoner is driving<br />
Towards the fields his clattering wain;<br />
Now the bluebottle, reviving,<br />
Buzzes down his native pane.</p>
<p class="poetry">But to me the morn is hateful:<br />
Wearily I stretch my legs,<br />
Dress, and settle to my plateful<br />
Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.<br />
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,<br />
Mentioned “rent,” which
“p’raps I’d pay;”<br />
<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>And I have
a dismal presage<br />
That she’ll call, herself, to-day.</p>
<p class="poetry">Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,<br />
Smoked through silver-mounted pipes—<br />
Then how my patrician nose would<br />
Turn up at the thought of “swipes!”<br
/>
Ale,—occasionally claret,—<br />
Graced my luncheon then:—and now<br />
I drink porter in a garret,<br />
To be paid for heaven knows how.</p>
<p class="poetry">When the evening shades are deepened,<br />
And I doff my hat and gloves,<br />
No sweet bird is there to “cheep and<br />
Twitter twenty million loves:”<br />
No dark-ringleted canaries<br />
Sing to me of “hungry foam;”<br />
No imaginary “Marys”<br />
Call fictitious “cattle home.”</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
35</span>Araminta, sweetest, fairest!<br />
Solace once of every ill!<br />
How I wonder if thou bearest<br />
Mivins in remembrance still!<br />
If that Friday night is banished<br />
Yet from that retentive mind,<br />
When the others somehow vanished,<br />
And we two were left behind:—</p>
<p class="poetry">When in accents low, yet thrilling,<br />
I did all my love declare;<br />
Mentioned that I’d not a shilling—<br />
Hinted that we need not care:<br />
And complacently you listened<br />
To my somewhat long address—<br />
(Listening, at the same time, isn’t<br />
Quite the same as saying Yes).</p>
<p class="poetry">Once, a happy child, I carolled<br />
O’er green lawns the whole day through,<br />
<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>Not
unpleasingly apparelled<br />
In a tightish suit of blue:—<br />
What a change has now passed o’er me!<br />
Now with what dismay I see<br />
Every rising morn before me!<br />
Goodness gracious, patience me!</p>
<p class="poetry">And I’ll prowl, a moodier Lara,<br />
Through the world, as prowls the bat,<br />
And habitually wear a<br />
Cypress wreath around my hat:<br />
And when Death snuffs out the taper<br />
Of my Life, (as soon he must),<br />
I’ll send up to every paper,<br />
“Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”</p>
<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
37</span>ISABEL.</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">Now</span> o’er the landscape crowd the
deepening shades,<br />
And the shut lily cradles not the bee;<br />
The red deer couches in the forest glades,<br />
And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:<br />
And ere I rest, one prayer I’ll breathe for
thee,<br />
The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams:<br />
Lady, forgive, that ever upon me<br />
Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams<br />
Linger on Merlin’s rock, or dark Sabrina’s
streams.</p>
<p class="poetry"> On gray Pilatus once we loved
to stray,<br />
And watch far off the glimmering roselight break<br
/>
O’er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray<br />
Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.<br />
<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
38</span>Oh! who felt not new life within him wake,<br />
And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn—<br />
(Save one we wot of, whom the cold <i>did</i>
make<br />
Feel “shooting pains in every joint in turn,”)<br />
When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne?</p>
<p class="poetry"> And years have past, and I
have gazed once more<br />
On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue;<br
/>
And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before—<br />
For all awakened memories of you.<br />
Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu<br />
Of that red matron,<sub> </sub>whom the flies would worry,<br />
(Flies in those parts unfortunately do,)<br />
Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry,<br />
And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!</p>
<p class="poetry">O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme<br
/>
That ere drew dreamer on to poësy,<br />
<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>Since
“Peggy’s locks” made Burns neglect his team,<br
/>
And Stella’s smile lured Johnson from his
tea—<br />
I may not tell thee what thou art to me!<br />
But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear,<br />
Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be,<br />
Would he but “do the duty that lies
near,”<br />
And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and
beer.</p>
<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
40</span>DIRGE.</h2>
<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“Dr.
Birch’s young friends will reassemble to-day, Feb.
1st.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">White</span> is the wold,
and ghostly<br />
The dank and leafless trees;<br />
And ‘M’s and ‘N’s are mostly<br />
Pronounced like ‘B’s and
‘D’s:<br />
’Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted,<br />
The sheep stands, mute and stolid:<br />
And ducks find out, disgusted,<br />
That all the ponds are solid.</p>
<p class="poetry">Many a stout steer’s work is<br />
(At least in this world) finished;<br />
The gross amount of turkies<br />
Is sensibly diminished:<br />
The holly-boughs are faded,<br />
The painted crackers gone;<br />
<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>Would I
could write, as Gray did,<br />
An Elegy thereon!</p>
<p class="poetry">For Christmas-time is ended:<br />
Now is “our youth” regaining<br />
Those sweet spots where are “blended<br />
Home-comforts and school-training.”<br />
Now they’re, I dare say, venting<br />
Their grief in transient sobs,<br />
And I am “left lamenting”<br />
At home, with Mrs. Dobbs.</p>
<p class="poetry">O Posthumus! “Fugaces<br />
Labuntur anni” still;<br />
Time robs us of our graces,<br />
Evade him as we will.<br />
We were the twins of Siam:<br />
Now <i>she</i> thinks <i>me</i> a bore,<br />
And I admit that <i>I</i> am<br />
Inclined at times to snore.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
42</span>I was her own Nathaniel;<br />
With her I took sweet counsel,<br />
Brought seed-cake for her spaniel,<br />
And kept her bird in groundsel:<br />
We’ve murmured, “How delightful<br />
A landscape, seen by night, is,”—<br />
And woke next day in frightful<br />
Pain from acute bronchitis.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">But ah! for them, whose laughter<br />
We heard last New Year’s Day,—<br />
(They reeked not of Hereafter,<br />
Or what the Doctor’d say,)—<br />
For those small forms that fluttered<br />
Moth-like around the plate,<br />
When Sally brought the buttered<br />
Buns in at half-past eight!</p>
<p class="poetry">Ah for the altered visage<br />
Of her, our tiny Belle,<br />
<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>Whom my
boy Gus (at his age!)<br />
Said was a “deuced swell!”<br />
P’raps now Miss Tickler’s tocsin<br />
Has caged that pert young linnet;<br />
Old Birch perhaps is boxing<br />
My Gus’s ears this minute.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet, though your young ears be as<br />
Red as mamma’s geraniums,<br />
Yet grieve not! Thus ideas<br />
Pass into infant craniums.<br />
Use not complaints unseemly;<br />
Tho’ you must work like bricks;<br />
And it <i>is</i> cold, extremely,<br />
Rising at half-past six.</p>
<p class="poetry">Soon sunnier will the day grow,<br />
And the east wind not blow so;<br />
Soon, as of yore, L’Allegro<br />
Succeed Il Penseroso:<br />
<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>Stick to
your Magnall’s Questions<br />
And Long Division sums;<br />
And come—with good digestions—<br />
Home when next Christmas comes.</p>
<h2><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>LINES
SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">Darkness</span> succeeds to twilight:<br />
Through lattice and through skylight<br />
The stars no doubt, if one looked out,<br />
Might be observed to shine:<br />
And sitting by the embers<br />
I elevate my members<br />
On a stray chair, and then and there<br />
Commence a Valentine.</p>
<p class="poetry"> Yea! by St. Valentinus,<br />
Emma shall not be minus<br />
What all young ladies, whate’er their grade is,<br />
Expect to-day no doubt:<br />
Emma the fair, the stately—<br />
Whom I beheld so lately,<br />
<a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>Smiling
beneath the snow-white wreath<br />
Which told that she was
“out.”</p>
<p class="poetry"> Wherefore fly to her,
swallow,<br />
And mention that I’d “follow,”<br
/>
And “pipe and trill,” et cetera, till<br />
I died, had I but wings:<br />
Say the North’s “true and
tender,”<br />
The South an old offender;<br />
And hint in fact, with your well-known tact,<br />
All kinds of pretty things.</p>
<p class="poetry"> Say I grow hourly thinner,<br
/>
Simply abhor my dinner—<br />
Tho’ I do try and absorb some viand<br />
Each day, for form’s sake
merely:<br />
And ask her, when all’s ended,<br />
And I am found extended,<br />
With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid,<br />
To think on Her’s
sincerely.</p>
<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
47</span>“HIC <i>VIR</i>, HIC EST.”</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Often</span>, when
o’er tree and turret,<br />
Eve a dying radiance flings,<br />
By that ancient pile I linger<br />
Known familiarly as “King’s.”<br
/>
And the ghosts of days departed<br />
Rise, and in my burning breast<br />
All the undergraduate wakens,<br />
And my spirit is at rest.</p>
<p class="poetry">What, but a revolting fiction,<br />
Seems the actual result<br />
Of the Census’s enquiries<br />
Made upon the 15th ult.?<br />
Still my soul is in its boyhood;<br />
Nor of year or changes recks.<br />
<a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>Though my
scalp is almost hairless,<br />
And my figure grows convex.</p>
<p class="poetry">Backward moves the kindly dial;<br />
And I’m numbered once again<br />
With those noblest of their species<br />
Called emphatically ‘Men’:<br />
Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,<br />
Through the streets, with tranquil mind,<br />
And a long-backed fancy-mongrel<br />
Trailing casually behind:</p>
<p class="poetry">Past the Senate-house I saunter,<br />
Whistling with an easy grace;<br />
Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet<br />
Still the beefy market-place;<br />
Poising evermore the eye-glass<br />
In the light sarcastic eye,<br />
Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid<br />
Pass, without a tribute, by.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
49</span>Once, an unassuming Freshman,<br />
Through these wilds I wandered on,<br />
Seeing in each house a College,<br />
Under every cap a Don:<br />
Each perambulating infant<br />
Had a magic in its squall,<br />
For my eager eye detected<br />
Senior Wranglers in them all.</p>
<p class="poetry">By degrees my education<br />
Grew, and I became as others;<br />
Learned to court delirium tremens<br />
By the aid of Bacon Brothers;<br />
Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,<br />
And colossal prints of Roe;<br />
And ignored the proposition<br />
That both time and money go.</p>
<p class="poetry">Learned to work the wary dogcart<br />
Artfully through King’s Parade;<br />
<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>Dress, and
steer a boat, and sport with<br />
Amaryllis in the shade:<br />
Struck, at Brown’s, the dashing hazard;<br />
Or (more curious sport than that)<br />
Dropped, at Callaby’s, the terrier<br />
Down upon the prisoned rat.</p>
<p class="poetry">I have stood serene on Fenner’s<br />
Ground, indifferent to blisters,<br />
While the Buttress of the period<br />
Bowled me his peculiar twisters:<br />
Sung ‘We won’t go home till morning’;<br />
Striven to part my backhair straight;<br />
Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller’s<br />
Old dry wines at 78:—</p>
<p class="poetry">When within my veins the blood ran,<br />
And the curls were on my brow,<br />
I did, oh ye undergraduates,<br />
Much as ye are doing now.<br />
<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>Wherefore
bless ye, O beloved ones:—<br />
Now unto mine inn must I,<br />
Your ‘poor moralist,’ <a name="citation51a"></a><a
href="#footnote51a" class="citation">[51a]</a> betake me,<br />
In my ‘solitary fly.’</p>
<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
52</span>BEER.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> those old days
which poets say were golden—<br />
(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:<br />
And, if they did, I’m all the more beholden<br />
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,<br />
Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden”<br />
Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,<br />
Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,<br />
And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)</p>
<p class="poetry">In those old days, the Nymph called
Etiquette<br />
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.<br />
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,<br />
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.<br />
<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>Just as
they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,<br />
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)<br />
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,<br />
And were no doubt extremely incorrect.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:<br />
And oft, I own, my ‘wayward fancy
roams’<br />
Back to those times, so different from the present;<br />
When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,<br />
Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,<br />
Nor ‘did’ their hair by means of
long-tailed combs,<br />
Nor migrated to Brighton once a-year,<br />
Nor—most astonishing of all—drank Beer.</p>
<p class="poetry">No, they did not drink Beer, “which
brings me to”<br />
(As Gilpin said) “the middle of my
song.”<br />
Not that “the middle” is precisely true,<br />
Or else I should not tax your patience long:<br />
If I had said ‘beginning,’ it might do;<br />
But I have a dislike to quoting wrong:<br />
<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>I was
unlucky—sinned against, not sinning—<br />
When Cowper wrote down ‘middle’ for
‘beginning.’</p>
<p class="poetry">So to proceed. That abstinence from
Malt<br />
Has always struck me as extremely curious.<br />
The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,<br />
That they should stick to liquors so
injurious—<br />
(Wine, water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)—<br />
And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,<br />
And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion<br />
Got on without it, is a startling question.</p>
<p class="poetry">Had they digestions? and an actual body<br />
Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on?<br />
Were they abstract ideas—(like Tom Noddy<br />
And Mr. Briggs)—or men, like Jones and
Jackson?<br />
Then Nectar—was that beer, or whiskey-toddy?<br />
Some say the Gaelic mixture, <i>I</i> the Saxon:<br
/>
I think a strict adherence to the latter<br />
Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
55</span>Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shews<br />
That the real beverage for feasting gods on<br />
Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose<br />
And also to the palate, known as
‘Hodgson.’<br />
I know a man—a tailor’s son—who rose<br />
To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on,<br />
(Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,)<br />
That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.</p>
<p class="poetry">O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop,
Bass!<br />
Names that should be on every infant’s
tongue!<br />
Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,<br />
And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?<br />
Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,<br />
And wished that lyre could yet again be strung<br />
Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her<br />
Misguided sons that “the best drink was water.”</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
56</span>How would he now recant that wild opinion,<br />
And sing—as would that I could sing—of
you!<br />
I was not born (alas!) the “Muses’ minion,”<br
/>
I’m not poetical, not even blue:<br />
And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion,<br />
Whoe’er he is that entertains the view<br />
Of emulating Pindar, and will be<br />
Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.</p>
<p class="poetry">Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned<br
/>
With all the lustre of the dying day,<br />
And on Cithæron’s brow the reaper turned,<br />
(Humming, of course, in his delightful way,<br />
How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned<br />
The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay;<br
/>
And how rock told to rock the dreadful story<br />
That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)</p>
<p class="poetry">What would that lone and labouring soul have
given,<br />
At that soft moment, for a pewter pot!<br />
<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>How had
the mists that dimmed his eye been riven,<br />
And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!<br />
If his own grandmother had died unshriven,<br />
In two short seconds he’d have recked it
not;<br />
Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath
canker’d<br />
Hath one unfailing remedy—the Tankard.</p>
<p class="poetry">Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;<br />
Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:<br />
When ‘Dulce et desipere in loco’<br />
Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.<br />
When a rapt audience has encored ‘Fra Poco’<br />
Or ‘Casta Diva,’ I have heard that
then<br />
The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,<br />
Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.</p>
<p class="poetry">But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,<br />
Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?<br />
<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>What is
Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,<br />
But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?<br />
Nay stout itself—(though good with oysters, very)—<br
/>
Is not a thing your reading man should take.<br />
He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,<br />
Should drink draught Allsop in its “native
pewter.”</p>
<p class="poetry">But hark! a sound is stealing on my
ear—<br />
A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.<br />
Its tinkling tells me that a time is near<br />
Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.<br />
O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,<br />
Thou bringest good things more than tongue may
tell:<br />
Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubdued<br />
Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.</p>
<p class="poetry">I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen:<br
/>
But on one statement I may safely venture;<br />
<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>That few
of our most highly gifted men<br />
Have more appreciation of the trencher.<br />
I go. One pound of British beef, and then<br />
What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest
quencher;”<br />
That home-returning, I may ‘soothly say,’<br />
“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”</p>
<h2><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>ODE TO
TOBACCO.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> who, when fears
attack,<br />
Bid’st them avaunt, and Black<br />
Care, at the horseman’s back<br />
Perching, unseatest;<br />
Sweet when the morn is grey;<br />
Sweet, when they’ve cleared away<br />
Lunch; and at close of day<br />
Possibly sweetest:</p>
<p class="poetry">I have a liking old<br />
For thee, though manifold<br />
Stories, I know, are told,<br />
Not to thy credit;<br />
<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>How one
(or two at most)<br />
Drops make a cat a ghost—<br />
Useless, except to roast—<br />
Doctors have said it:</p>
<p class="poetry">How they who use fusees<br />
All grow by slow degrees<br />
Brainless as chimpanzees,<br />
Meagre as lizards;<br />
Go mad, and beat their wives;<br />
Plunge (after shocking lives)<br />
Razors and carving knives<br />
Into their gizzards.</p>
<p class="poetry">Confound such knavish tricks!<br />
Yet know I five or six<br />
Smokers who freely mix<br />
Still with their neighbours;<br />
Jones—who, I’m glad to say,<br />
<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>Asked
leave of Mrs. J.)—<br />
Daily absorbs a clay<br />
After his labours.</p>
<p class="poetry">Cats may have had their goose<br />
Cooked by tobacco-juice;<br />
Still why deny its use<br />
Thoughtfully taken?<br />
We’re not as tabbies are:<br />
Smith, take a fresh cigar!<br />
Jones, the tobacco-jar!<br />
Here’s to thee, Bacon!</p>
<h2><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>DOVER
TO MUNICH.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Farewell</span>,
farewell! Before our prow<br />
Leaps in white foam the noisy channel,<br />
A tourist’s cap is on my brow,<br />
My legs are cased in tourists’ flannel:</p>
<p class="poetry">Around me gasp the invalids—<br />
(The quantity to-night is fearful)—<br />
I take a brace or so of weeds,<br />
And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.</p>
<p class="poetry">The night wears on:—my thirst I quench<br
/>
With one imperial pint of porter;<br />
Then drop upon a casual bench—<br />
(The bench is short, but I am shorter)—</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
64</span>Place ’neath my head the <i>harve-sac</i><br />
Which I have stowed my little all in,<br />
And sleep, though moist about the back,<br />
Serenely in an old tarpaulin.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">Bed at Ostend at 5 <span
class="GutSmall">A.M.</span><br />
Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.<br />
Tickets to Königswinter (mem.<br />
The seats objectionably dirty).</p>
<p class="poetry">And onward through those dreary flats<br />
We move, with scanty space to sit on,<br />
Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats,<br />
And waists that paralyse a Briton;—</p>
<p class="poetry">By many a tidy little town,<br />
Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting;<br />
(The men’s pursuits are, lying down,<br />
Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
65</span>And doze, and execrate the heat,<br />
And wonder how far off Cologne is,<br />
And if we shall get aught to eat,<br />
Till we get there, save raw polonies:</p>
<p class="poetry">Until at last the “grey old
pile”<br />
Is seen, is past, and three hours later<br />
We’re ordering steaks, and talking vile<br />
Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">Königswinter, hateful
Königswinter!<br />
Burying-place of all I loved so well!<br />
Never did the most extensive printer<br />
Print a tale so dark as thou could’st
tell!</p>
<p class="poetry">In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered,<br
/>
Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold;<br />
Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered,<br />
Changed Rhine’s waters into molten
gold;—</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
66</span>While still nearer did his light waves splinter<br />
Into silvery shafts the streaming light;<br />
And I said I loved thee, Königswinter,<br />
For the glory that was thine that night.</p>
<p class="poetry">And we gazed, till slowly disappearing,<br />
Like a day-dream, passed the pageant by,<br />
And I saw but those lone hills, uprearing<br />
Dull dark shapes against a hueless sky.</p>
<p class="poetry">Then I turned, and on those bright hopes
pondered<br />
Whereof yon gay fancies were the type;<br />
And my hand mechanically wandered<br />
Towards my left-hand pocket for a pipe.</p>
<p class="poetry">Ah! why starts each eyeball from its socket,<br
/>
As, in Hamlet, start the guilty Queen’s?<br />
There, deep-hid in its accustomed pocket,<br />
Lay my sole pipe, smashed to smithereens!</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
67</span>On, on the vessel steals;<br />
Round go the paddle-wheels,<br />
And now the tourist feels<br />
As he should;<br />
For king-like rolls the Rhine,<br />
And the scenery’s divine,<br />
And the victuals and the wine<br />
Rather good.</p>
<p class="poetry">From every crag we pass’ll<br />
Rise up some hoar old castle;<br />
The hanging fir-groves tassel<br />
Every slope;<br />
And the vine her lithe arms stretches<br />
O’er peasants singing catches—<br />
And you’ll make no end of sketches,<br />
I should hope.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
68</span>We’ve a nun here (called Therèse),<br />
Two couriers out of place,<br />
One Yankee, with a face<br />
Like a ferret’s:<br />
And three youths in scarlet caps<br />
Drinking chocolate and schnapps—<br />
A diet which perhaps<br />
Has its merits.</p>
<p class="poetry">And day again declines:<br />
In shadow sleep the vines,<br />
And the last ray through the pines<br />
Feebly glows,<br />
Then sinks behind yon ridge;<br />
And the usual evening midge<br />
Is settling on the bridge<br />
Of my nose.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
69</span>And keen’s the air and cold,<br />
And the sheep are in the fold,<br />
And Night walks sable-stoled<br />
Through the trees;<br />
And on the silent river<br />
The floating starbeams quiver;—<br />
And now, the saints deliver<br />
Us from fleas.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">Avenues of broad white houses,<br />
Basking in the noontide glare;—<br />
Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from,<br />
As on hot plates shrinks the bear;—</p>
<p class="poetry">Elsewhere lawns, and vista’d gardens,<br
/>
Statues white, and cool arcades,<br />
Where at eve the German warrior<br />
Winks upon the German maids;—</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
70</span>Such is Munich:—broad and stately,<br />
Rich of hue, and fair of form;<br />
But, towards the end of August,<br />
Unequivocally <i>warm</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry">There, the long dim galleries threading,<br />
May the artist’s eye behold,<br />
Breathing from the “deathless canvass”<br />
Records of the years of old:</p>
<p class="poetry">Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno,<br />
“Take” once more “their walks
abroad,”<br />
Under Titian’s fiery woodlands<br />
And the saffron skies of Claude:</p>
<p class="poetry">There the Amazons of Rubens<br />
Lift the failing arm to strike,<br />
And the pale light falls in masses<br />
On the horsemen of Vandyke;</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
71</span>And in Berghem’s pools reflected<br />
Hang the cattle’s graceful shapes,<br />
And Murillo’s soft boy-faces<br />
Laugh amid the Seville grapes;</p>
<p class="poetry">And all purest, loveliest fancies<br />
That in poets’ souls may dwell<br />
Started into shape and substance<br />
At the touch of Raphael.—</p>
<p class="poetry">Lo! her wan arms folded meekly,<br />
And the glory of her hair<br />
Falling as a robe around her,<br />
Kneels the Magdalene in prayer;</p>
<p class="poetry">And the white-robed Virgin-mother<br />
Smiles, as centuries back she smiled,<br />
Half in gladness, half in wonder,<br />
On the calm face of her Child:—</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
72</span>And that mighty Judgment-vision<br />
Tells how man essayed to climb<br />
Up the ladder of the ages,<br />
Past the frontier-walls of Time;</p>
<p class="poetry">Heard the trumpet-echoes rolling<br />
Through the phantom-peopled sky,<br />
And the still voice bid this mortal<br />
Put on immortality.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">Thence we turned, what time the blackbird<br />
Pipes to vespers from his perch,<br />
And from out the clattering city<br />
Pass’d into the silent church;</p>
<p class="poetry">Marked the shower of sunlight breaking<br />
Thro’ the crimson panes o’erhead,<br />
And on pictured wall and window<br />
Read the histories of the dead:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
73</span>Till the kneelers round us, rising,<br />
Cross’d their foreheads and were gone;<br />
And o’er aisle and arch and cornice,<br />
Layer on layer, the night came on.</p>
<h2><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
74</span>CHARADES.</h2>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> stood at
Greenwich, motionless amid<br />
The ever-shifting crowd of passengers.<br />
I marked a big tear quivering on the lid<br />
Of her deep-lustrous eye, and knew that hers<br />
Were days of bitterness. But, “Oh! what
stirs”<br />
I said “such storm within so fair a breast?”<br />
Even as I spoke, two apoplectic curs<br />
Came feebly up: with one wild cry she prest<br />
Each singly to her heart, and faltered, “Heaven be
blest!”</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet once again I saw her, from the deck<br />
Of a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall.<br
/>
<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>She walked
upon <i>my first</i>. Her stately neck<br />
Bent o’er an object shrouded in her shawl:<br
/>
I could not see the tears—the glad
tears—fall,<br />
Yet knew they fell. And “Ah,” I said,
“not puppies,<br />
Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pall<br />
From hearts who <i>know</i> what tasting misery’s cup
is,<br />
As Niobe’s, or mine, or Mr. William
Guppy’s.”</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza
Spinks the cook:<br />
“Mrs. Spinks,” says he, “I’ve foundered:
‘Liza dear, I’m overtook.<br />
Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn;<br />
Speak the word, my blessed ‘Liza; speak, and John the
coachman’s yourn.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the
coachman John:<br />
<a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
76</span>“John, I’m born and bred a spinster:
I’ve begun and I’ll go on.<br />
Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a
wife:<br />
Cooking for a genteel family, John, it’s a goluptious
life!</p>
<p class="poetry">“I gets £20 per annum—tea and
things o’ course not reckoned,—<br />
There’s a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and
breaks <i>my second</i>:<br />
There’s soci’ty—James the footman;—(not
that I look after him;<br />
But he’s aff’ble in his manners, with amazing length
of limb;)—</p>
<p class="poetry">“Never durst the missis enter here until
I’ve said ‘Come in’:<br />
If I saw the master peeping, I’d catch up the
rolling-pin.<br />
<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
77</span>Christmas-boxes, that’s a something; perkisites,
that’s something too;<br />
And I think, take all together, John, I won’t be on with
you.”</p>
<p class="poetry">John the coachman took his hat up, for he
thought he’d had enough;<br />
Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff;<br />
Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents
mild,<br />
“She’s a fine young ’oman, cook is; but
that’s where it is, she’s spiled.”</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p>
<p class="poetry">I have read in some not marvellous tale,<br />
(Or if I have not, I’ve dreamed)<br />
Of one who filled up the convivial cup<br />
Till the company round him seemed</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
78</span>To be vanished and gone, tho’ the lamps upon<br />
Their face as aforetime gleamed:<br />
And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept<br />
O’er his powerful brain, and the young man slept.</p>
<p class="poetry">Then they laid him with care in his moonlit
bed:<br />
But first—having thoughtfully fetched some
tar—<br />
Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather’s<br />
Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh.</p>
<p class="poetry">They staid in his room till the sun was
high:<br />
But still did the feathered one give no sign<br />
Of opening a peeper—he might be a sleeper<br />
Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line.</p>
<p class="poetry">At last he woke, and with profound<br />
Bewilderment he gazed around;<br />
Dropped one, then both feet to the ground,<br />
But never spake a word:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
79</span>Then to my <i>whole</i> he made his way;<br />
Took one long lingering survey;<br />
And softly, as he stole away,<br />
Remarked, “By Jove, a bird!”</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a
name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>II.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> you’ve seen
a short man swagger tow’rds the footlights at
Shoreditch,<br />
Sing out “Heave aho! my hearties,” and perpetually
hitch<br />
Up, by an ingenious movement, trousers innocent of brace,<br />
Briskly flourishing a cudgel in his pleased companion’s
face;</p>
<p class="poetry">If he preluded with hornpipes each successive
thing he did,<br />
From a sun-browned cheek extracting still an ostentatious
quid;<br />
And expectorated freely, and occasionally cursed:—<br />
<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>Then have
you beheld, depicted by a master’s hand, <i>my
first</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry">O my countryman! if ever from thy arm the
bolster sped,<br />
In thy school-days, with precision at a young companion’s
head;<br />
If ’twas thine to lodge the marble in the centre of the
ring,<br />
Or with well-directed pebble make the sitting hen take wing:</p>
<p class="poetry">Then do thou—each fair May morning, when
the blue lake is as glass,<br />
And the gossamers are twinkling star-like in the beaded grass;<br
/>
When the mountain-bee is sipping fragrance from the
bluebell’s lip,<br />
And the bathing-woman tells you, Now’s your time to take a
dip:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
82</span>When along the misty valleys fieldward winds the lowing
herd,<br />
And the early worm is being dropped on by the early bird;<br />
And Aurora hangs her jewels from the bending rose’s cup,<br
/>
And the myriad voice of Nature calls thee to <i>my second</i>
up:—</p>
<p class="poetry">Hie thee to the breezy common, where the
melancholy goose<br />
Stalks, and the astonished donkey finds that he is really
loose;<br />
There amid green fern and furze-bush shalt thou soon <i>my
whole</i> behold,<br />
Rising ‘bull-eyed and majestic’—as Olympus
queen of old:</p>
<p class="poetry">Kneel,—at a respectful distance,—as
they kneeled to her, and try<br />
<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>With
judicious hand to put a ball into that ball-less eye:<br />
Till a stiffness seize thy elbows, and the general public
wake—<br />
Then return, and, clear of conscience, walk into thy well-earned
steak.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a
name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>III.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ere</span> yet
“knowledge for the million”<br />
Came out “neatly bound in boards;”<br />
When like Care upon a pillion<br />
Matrons rode behind their lords:<br />
Rarely, save to hear the Rector,<br />
Forth did younger ladies roam;<br />
Making pies, and brewing nectar<br />
From the gooseberry-trees at home.</p>
<p class="poetry">They’d not dreamed of Pan or Vevay;<br />
Ne’er should into blossom burst<br />
At the ball or at the levée;<br />
Never come, in fact, <i>my first</i>:<br />
Nor illumine cards by dozens<br />
With some labyrinthine text,<br />
Nor work smoking-caps for cousins<br />
Who were pounding at <i>my next</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
85</span>Now have skirts, and minds, grown ampler;<br />
Now not all they seek to do<br />
Is create upon a sampler<br />
Beasts which Buffon never knew:<br />
But their venturous muslins rustle<br />
O’er the cragstone and the snow,<br />
Or at home their biceps muscle<br />
Grows by practising the bow.</p>
<p class="poetry">Worthier they those dames who, fable<br />
Says, rode “palfreys” to the war<br />
With gigantic Thanes, whose “sable<br />
Destriers caracoled” before;<br />
Smiled, as—springing from the war-horse<br />
As men spring in modern
‘cirques’—<br />
They plunged, ponderous as a four-horse<br />
Coach, among the vanished Turks:—</p>
<p class="poetry">In the good times when the jester<br />
Asked the monarch how he was,<br />
<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>And the
landlady addrest her<br />
Guests as ‘gossip’ or as
‘coz’;<br />
When the Templar said, “Gramercy,”<br />
Or, “’Twas shrewdly thrust, i’
fegs,”<br />
To Sir Halbert or Sir Percy<br />
As they knocked him off his legs:</p>
<p class="poetry">And, by way of mild reminders<br />
That he needed coin, the Knight<br />
Day by day extracted grinders<br />
From the howling Israelite:<br />
And <i>my whole</i> in merry Sherwood<br />
Sent, with preterhuman luck,<br />
Missiles—not of steel but firwood—<br />
Thro’ the two-mile-distant buck.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a
name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>IV.</p>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">Evening</span> threw soberer hue<br />
Over the blue sky, and the few<br
/>
Poplars that grew just in the
view<br />
Of the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle:<br />
“Answer me true,”
pleaded Sir Hugh,<br />
(Striving to woo no matter
who,)<br />
“What shall I do, Lady, for
you?<br />
’Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle.<br
/>
Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter,<br />
And bid a decanter contain the Levant, or<br />
The brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter?<br />
Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar—<br />
(That <i>r</i>, for the sake of the line, we must grant
her,)—<br />
<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>And race
with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter,<br />
Like that first of equestrians Tam o’ Shanter?<br />
I talk not mere banter—say not that I can’t, or<br />
By this <i>my first</i>—(a Virginia planter<br />
Sold it me to kill rats)—I will die instanter.”<br />
The Lady bended her ivory neck, and<br />
Whispered mournfully, “Go for—<i>my
second</i>.”<br />
She said, and the red from Sir Hugh’s cheek
fled,<br />
And “Nay,” did he say, as he stalked
away<br />
The fiercest of injured men:<br />
“Twice have I humbled my haughty soul,<br />
And on bended knee I have pressed <i>my
whole</i>—<br />
But I never will press it
again!”</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a
name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>V.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> pinnacled St.
Mary’s<br />
Lingers the setting sun;<br />
Into the street the blackguards<br />
Are skulking one by one:<br />
Butcher and Boots and Bargeman<br />
Lay pipe and pewter down;<br />
And with wild shout come tumbling out<br />
To join the Town and Gown.</p>
<p class="poetry">And now the undergraduates<br />
Come forth by twos and threes,<br />
From the broad tower of Trinity,<br />
From the green gate of Caius:<br />
The wily bargeman marks them,<br />
And swears to do his worst;<br />
To turn to impotence their strength,<br />
And their beauty to <i>my first</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
90</span>But before Corpus gateway<br />
<i>My second</i> first arose,<br />
When Barnacles the freshman<br />
Was pinned upon the nose:<br />
Pinned on the nose by Boxer,<br />
Who brought a hobnailed herd<br />
From Barnwell, where he kept a van,<br />
Being indeed a dogsmeat man,<br />
Vendor of terriers, blue or tan,<br />
And dealer in <i>my third</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry">’Twere long to tell how Boxer<br />
Was ‘countered’ on the cheek,<br />
And knocked into the middle<br />
Of the ensuing week:<br />
How Barnacles the Freshman<br />
Was asked his name and college;<br />
And how he did the fatal facts<br />
Reluctantly acknowledge.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
91</span>He called upon the Proctor<br />
Next day at half-past ten;<br />
Men whispered that the Freshman cut<br />
A different figure then:—<br />
That the brass forsook his forehead,<br />
The iron fled his soul,<br />
As with blanched lip and visage wan<br />
Before the stony-hearted Don<br />
He kneeled upon <i>my whole</i>.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a
name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>VI.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sikes</span>, housebreaker,
of Houndsditch,<br />
Habitually swore;<br />
But so surpassingly profane<br />
He never was before,<br />
As on a night in winter,<br />
When—softly as he stole<br />
In the dim light from stair to stair,<br />
Noiseless as boys who in her lair<br />
Seek to surprise a fat old hare—<br />
He barked his shinbone, unaware<br />
Encountering <i>my whole</i>.</p>
<p class="poetry">As pours the Anio plainward,<br />
When rains have swollen the dykes,<br />
So, with such noise, poured down <i>my first</i>,<br />
Stirred by the shins of Sikes.<br />
<a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>The Butler
Bibulus heard it;<br />
And straightway ceased to snore,<br />
And sat up, like an egg on end,<br />
While men might count a score:<br />
Then spake he to Tigerius,<br />
A Buttons bold was he:<br />
“Buttons, I think there’s thieves about;<br />
Just strike a light and tumble out;<br />
If you can’t find one, go without,<br />
And see what you may see.”</p>
<p class="poetry">But now was all the household,<br />
Almost, upon its legs,<br />
Each treading carefully about<br />
As if they trod on eggs.<br />
With robe far-streaming issued<br />
Paterfamilias forth;<br />
And close behind him,—stout and true<br />
And tender as the North,—<br />
<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Came Mrs.
P., supporting<br />
On her broad arm her fourth.</p>
<p class="poetry">Betsy the nurse, who never<br />
From largest beetle ran,<br />
And—conscious p’raps of pleasing caps—<br />
The housemaids, formed the van:<br />
And Bibulus the Butler,<br />
His calm brows slightly arched;<br />
(No mortal wight had ere that night<br />
Seen him with shirt unstarched;)<br />
And Bob, the shockhaired knifeboy,<br />
Wielding two Sheffield blades,<br />
And James Plush of the sinewy legs,<br />
The love of lady’s maids:<br />
And charwoman and chaplain<br />
Stood mingled in a mass,<br />
And “Things,” thought he of Houndsditch,<br />
“Is come to a pretty pass.”</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
95</span>Beyond all things a Baby<br />
Is to the schoolgirl dear;<br />
Next to herself the nursemaid loves<br />
Her dashing grenadier;<br />
Only with life the sailor<br />
Parts from the British flag;<br />
While one hope lingers, the cracksman’s fingers<br />
Drop not his hard-earned ‘swag.’</p>
<p class="poetry">But, as hares do <i>my second</i><br />
Thro’ green Calabria’s copses,<br />
As females vanish at the sight<br />
Of short-horns and of wopses;<br />
So, dropping forks and teaspoons,<br />
The pride of Houndsditch fled,<br />
Dumbfoundered by the hue and cry<br />
He’d raised up overhead.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * *</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
96</span>They gave him—did the Judges—<br />
As much as was his due.<br />
And, Saxon, should’st thou e’er be led<br />
To deem this tale untrue;<br />
Then—any night in winter,<br />
When the cold north wind blows,<br />
And bairns are told to keep out cold<br />
By tallowing the nose:<br />
When round the fire the elders<br />
Are gathered in a bunch,<br />
And the girls are doing crochet,<br />
And the boys are reading Punch:—<br />
Go thou and look in Leech’s book;<br />
There haply shalt thou spy<br />
A stout man on a staircase stand,<br />
With aspect anything but bland,<br />
And rub his right shin with his hand,<br />
To witness if I lie.</p>
<h2><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
97</span>PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.</h2>
<h3>Introductory.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Art</span> thou beautiful,
O my daughter, as the budding rose of April?<br />
Are all thy motions music, and is poetry throned in thine eye?<br
/>
Then hearken unto me; and I will make the bud a fair flower,<br
/>
I will plant it upon the bank of Elegance, and water it with the
water of Cologne;<br />
And in the season it shall “come out,” yea bloom, the
pride of the parterre;<br />
Ladies shall marvel at its beauty, and a Lord shall pluck it at
the last.</p>
<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Of
Propriety.</h3>
<p class="poetry">Study first Propriety: for she is indeed the
Polestar<br />
Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity
Fair;<br />
Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society;<br
/>
The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her
Eros.<br />
Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked;<br />
Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of
artifice:<br />
And when she is drest, behold! she knoweth not herself
again.—<br />
I walked in the Forest; and above me stood the Yew,<br />
<a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>Stood like
a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;<br />
Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a
tree clipt into shape,<br />
(The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Dalilahshears of
Decorum;)<br />
And I said, “Surely nature is goodly; but how much goodlier
is Art!”<br />
I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue
sky,<br />
And my foolish heart went after him, and lo! I blessed him as he
rose;<br />
Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bulfinch,<br />
Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up
water:<br />
And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed
with thunder,<br />
<a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Must
yield to him that danceth and ‘moveth in the circles’
at Astley’s.<br />
For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,<br />
And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself
another:<br />
A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and
struggling upwards,<br />
And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork
of Propriety:<br />
He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,<br />
Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth
of the cork.</p>
<h3>Of Friendship.</h3>
<p class="poetry">Choose judiciously thy friends; for to discard
them is undesirable,<br />
<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>Yet it
is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy
‘H’s’.<br />
Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of
light?<br />
Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the
Morning Post?<br />
If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and
mind;<br />
Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her
bidding:<br />
So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be
“formed,”<br />
And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great
shall fly open:<br />
Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his
creation,<br />
His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth
remove:<br />
<a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>Thou
shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning’s
papers,<br />
Side by side with rumours of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and
sieges,<br />
Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress
and petticoat,<br />
For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal
muffin.</p>
<h3>Of Reading.</h3>
<p class="poetry">Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor
Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life;<br />
Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet
intelligible:<br />
Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth
not:<br />
Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not
dream, but do.<br />
<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>Read
incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,<br
/>
Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and
Beautiful:<br />
Likewise study the “creations” of “the Prince
of modern Romance;”<br />
Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy:<br
/>
Learn how “love is the dram-drinking of
existence;”<br />
And how we “invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,<br
/>
The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the
pen.”<br />
Listen how Maltravers and the orphan “forgot all but
love,”<br />
And how Devereux’s family chaplain “made and unmade
kings:”<br />
How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,<br />
<a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>Yet,
being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind.<br />
So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and
master-spirits;<br />
And if thou canst not realise the Ideal, thou shalt at least
idealise the Real.</p>
<h2>TRANSLATIONS. <a name="citation105"></a><a
href="#footnote105" class="citation">[105]</a></h2>
<h3><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
106</span>LYCIDAS.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yet</span> once more, O ye
laurels! and once more<br />
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,<br />
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,<br />
And with forced fingers rude<br />
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.<br />
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,<br />
Compels me to disturb your season due;<br />
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,<br />
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:<br />
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew<br />
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.<br />
He must not float upon his watery bier<br />
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,<br />
Without the meed of some melodious tear.<br />
<a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
108</span>Begin then, sisters, of the sacred well,<br />
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;<br />
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.<br />
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,<br />
So may some gentle muse<br />
With lucky words favour my destined urn,<br />
And, as he passes, turn<br />
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud:<br />
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,<br />
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.<br />
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared<br />
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,<br />
We drove afield, and both together heard<br />
What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn,<br />
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,<br />
Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright,<br />
Toward Heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.<br
/>
<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
110</span>Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,<br />
Tempered to the oaten flute;<br />
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel<br />
From the glad sound would not be absent long,<br />
And old Damætas loved to hear our song.<br />
But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone,<br />
Now thou art gone, and never must return!<br />
Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves<br />
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,<br />
And all their echoes mourn.<br />
The willows, and the hazel copses green,<br />
Shall now no more be seen,<br />
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.<br />
As killing as the canker to the rose,<br />
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,<br />
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,<br />
When first the white-thorn blows;<br />
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear<br />
Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep<br
/>
<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>Closed
o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?<br />
For neither were ye playing on the steep,<br />
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie;<br />
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,<br />
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:<br />
Ay me! I fondly dream!<br />
Had ye been there, for what could that have done?<br />
What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,<br />
The muse herself for her enchanting son,<br />
Whom universal nature did lament,<br />
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,<br />
His gory visage down the stream was sent,<br />
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?<br />
Alas! what boots it with incessant care<br />
To tend the homely slighted shepherd’s trade,<br />
And strictly meditate the thankless muse?<br />
Were it not better done as others use,<br />
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,<br />
Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?<br />
<a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>Fame is
the spur that the clear spirit doth raise<br />
(That last infirmity of noble mind)<br />
To scorn delights, and live laborious days,<br />
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,<br />
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,<br />
Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,<br />
And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the
praise,”<br />
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;<br />
“Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,<br />
Nor in the glistering foil<br />
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,<br />
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,<br />
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;<br />
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,<br />
Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.”<br />
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,<br />
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,<br />
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:<br />
<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>But now
my oat proceeds,<br />
And listens to the herald of the sea<br />
That came in Neptune’s plea;<br />
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,<br />
What hard mishap had doomed this gentle swain?<br />
And questioned every gust of rugged wings,<br />
That blows from off each beaked promontory:<br />
They knew not of his story,<br />
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,<br />
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed,<br />
The air was calm, and on the level brine<br />
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.<br />
It was that fatal and perfidious bark<br />
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,<br />
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.<br />
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,<br />
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,<br />
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,<br />
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.<br />
“Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, “my dearest
pledge?”<br />
<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Last
came, and last did go,<br />
The pilot of the Galilean lake,<br />
Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain<br />
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).<br />
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:<br />
“How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,<br />
Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake<br />
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!<br />
Of other care they little reckoning make,<br />
Than how to scramble at the shearer’s feast,<br />
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;<br />
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold<br />
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least<br />
That to the faithful herdsman’s art belongs!<br />
What reeks it them? What need they? They are sped;<br
/>
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs<br />
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;<br />
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,<br />
But swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw,<br />
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:<br />
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw<br />
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.<br />
<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>But that
two-handed engine at the door<br />
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”<br />
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,<br />
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,<br />
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast<br />
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.<br />
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use<br />
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,<br />
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,<br />
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,<br />
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,<br />
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.<br />
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,<br />
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,<br />
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,<br />
The glowing violet,<br />
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,<br />
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,<br />
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:<br />
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,<br />
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,<br />
<a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>To strow
the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.<br />
For so to interpose a little ease,<br />
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.<br />
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas<br />
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurled,<br />
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,<br />
Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide<br />
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;<br />
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,<br />
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,<br />
Where the great vision of the guarded mount<br />
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;<br />
Look homeward, angel now, and melt with ruth:<br />
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.<br />
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,<br />
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,<br />
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;<br />
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,<br />
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,<br />
<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>And
tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore<br />
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:<br />
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,<br />
Through the dear might of him that walked the waves,<br />
Where other groves and other streams along,<br />
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,<br />
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,<br />
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.<br />
There entertain him all the saints above,<br />
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,<br />
That sing, and singing in their glory move,<br />
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.<br />
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;<br />
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,<br />
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good<br />
To all that wander in that perilous flood.<br />
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and
rills,<br />
While the still morn went out with sandals gray,<br />
<a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>He
touched the tender stops of various quills,<br />
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:<br />
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,<br />
And now was dropped into the western bay;<br />
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue,<br />
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.</p>
<h2><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
107</span>LYCIDAS.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">En</span>! iterum laurus,
iterum salvete myricæ<br />
Pallentes, nullique hederæ quæ ceditis ævo.<br
/>
Has venio baccas, quanquam sapor asper acerbis,<br />
Decerptum, quassumque manu folia ipsa proterva,<br />
Maturescentem prævortens improbus annum.<br />
Causa gravis, pia cansa, subest, et amara deûm lex;<br />
Nec jam sponte mea vobis rata tempora turbo.<br />
Nam periit Lycidas, periit superante juventa<br />
Imberbis Lycidas, quo non præstantior alter.<br />
Quis cantare super Lycida neget? Ipse quoque artem<br />
Nôrat Apollineam, versumque imponere versu<br />
Non nullo vitreum fas innatet ille feretrum<br />
Flente, voluteturque arentes corpus ad auras,<br />
Indotatum adeo et lacrymæ vocalis egenum.<br />
<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
109</span>Quare agite, o sacri fontis queis cura, sorores,<br />
Cui sub inaccessi sella Jovis exit origo:<br />
Incipite, et sonitu graviore impellite chordas.<br />
Lingua procul male prompta loqui, suasorque morarum<br />
Sit pudor: alloquiis ut mollior una secundis<br />
Pieridum faveat, cui mox ego destiner, urnæ:<br />
Et gressus prætergrediens convertat, et
“Esto”<br />
Dicat “amoena quies atra tibi veste latenti:”<br />
Uno namque jugo duo nutribamur: eosdem<br />
Pavit uterque greges ad fontem et rivulum et umbram.<br />
Tempore nos illo, nemorum convexa priusquam,<br />
Aurora reserante oculos, cæpere videri,<br />
Urgebamus equos ad pascua: novimus horam<br />
Aridus audiri solitus qua clangor asili;<br />
Rore recentes greges passi pinguescere noctis<br />
Sæpius, albuerat donec quod vespere sidus<br />
Hesperios axes prono inclinasset Olympo.<br />
<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>At
pastorales non cessavere camœnæ,<br />
Fistula disparibus quas temperat apta cicutis:<br />
Saltabant Satyri informes, nec murmure læto<br />
Capripedes potuere diu se avertere Fauni;<br />
Damætasque modos nostros longævus amabat.<br />
Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata videntur<br />
Rura—relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressûs!<br />
Te sylvæ, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum,<br />
Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci,<br />
Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo.<br />
Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videbo<br />
Molles ad numeros lætum motare cacumen:—<br />
Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermis<br />
Depulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos;<br />
Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinæ<br />
Floribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris:<br />
Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis.<br />
Qua, Nymphæ, latuistis, ubi crudele
profundum<br />
<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>Delicias
Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit?<br />
Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illis<br />
Quos veteres, Druidæ, Vates, illustria servant<br />
Nomina; nec celsæ setoso in culmine Monæ,<br />
Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis.<br />
Væ mihi! delusos exercent somnia sensus:<br />
Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret?<br />
Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei,<br />
Pieris ipsa suæ sobolis, qui carmine rexit<br />
Corda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat,<br />
Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva,<br />
Ora secundo amni missa, ac foedata cruore,<br />
Lesbia præcipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus?<br />
Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesque<br />
Pastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo,<br />
Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camoenam?<br />
Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra,<br />
(Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive Neæram<br />
Sectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis?<br />
<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>Scilcet
ingenuum cor Fama, novissimus error<br />
Illa animi majoris, uti calcaribus urget<br />
Spernere delicias ac dedi rebus agendis.<br />
Quanquam—exoptatam jam spes attingere dotem;<br />
Jam nec opinata remur splendescere flamma:—<br />
Cæca sed invisa cum forfice venit Erinnys,<br />
Quæ resecet tenui hærentem subtemine vitam.<br />
“At Famam non illa,” refert, tangitque trementes<br
/>
Phœbus Apollo aures. “Fama haud, vulgaris ad
instar<br />
Floris, amat terrestre solum, fictosque nitores<br />
Queis inhiat populus, nec cum Rumore patescit.<br />
Vivere dant illi, dant increbrescere late<br />
Puri oculi ac vox summa Jovis, cui sola Potestas.<br />
Fecerit ille semel de facto quoque virorum<br />
Arbitrium: tantum famæ manet æthera nactis.”<br
/>
Fons Arethusa! sacro placidus qui laberis alveo,<br
/>
Frontem vocali prætextus arundine, Minci!<br />
Sensi equidem gravius carmen. Nunc cetera pastor<br />
<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
117</span>Exsequor. Adstat enim missus pro rege marino,<br
/>
Seque rogâsse refert fluctus, ventosque rapaces,<br />
Quæ sors dura nimis tenerum rapuisset agrestem.<br />
Compellasse refert alarum quicquid ab omni<br />
Spirat, acerba sonans, scopulo, qui cuspidis instar<br />
Prominet in pelagus; fama haud pervenerat illuc.<br />
Hæc ultro pater Hippotades responsa ferebat:<br />
“Nulli sunt nostro palati carcere venti.<br />
Straverat æquor aquas, et sub Jove compta sereno<br />
Lusum exercebat Panope nymphæque sorores.<br />
Quam Furiæ struxere per interlunia, leto<br />
Fetam ac fraude ratem,—malos velarat Erinnys,—<br />
Credas in mala tanta caput mersisse sacratum.”<br />
Proximus huic tardum senior se Camus agebat;<br />
Cui setosa chlamys, cui pileus ulva: figuris<br />
Idem intertextus dubiis erat, utque cruentos<br />
Quos perhibent flores, inscriptus margine luctum.<br />
“Nam quis,” ait, “prædulce meum me pignus
ademit?”<br />
<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
119</span>Post hos, qui Galilæa regit per stagna
carinas,<br />
Post hos venit iturus: habet manus utraque clavim,<br />
(Queis aperit clauditque) auro ferrove gravatam.<br />
Mitra tegit crines; quassis quibus, acriter infit:<br />
“Scilicet optassem pro te dare corpora leto<br />
Sat multa, o juvenis: quot serpunt ventribus acti,<br />
Vi quot iter faciunt spretis in ovilia muris.<br />
Hic labor, hoc opus est, pecus ut tondente magistro<br />
Præripiant epulas, trudatur dignior hospes.<br />
Capti oculis, non ore! pedum tractare nec ipsi<br />
Norunt; quotve bonis sunt upilionibus artes.<br />
Sed quid enim refert, quove eat opus, omnia nactis?<br />
Fert ubi mens, tenue ac deductum carmen avenam<br />
Radit stridentem stipulis. Pastore negato<br />
Suspicit ægra pecus: vento gravis ac lue tracta<br />
Tabescit; mox foeda capit contagia vulgus.<br />
Quid dicam, stabulis ut clandestinus oberrans<br />
Expleat ingluviem tristis lupus, indice nullo?<br />
<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>Illa
tamen bimanus custodit machina portam,<br />
Stricta, paratque malis plagam non amplius unam.”<br />
En, Alphee, redi! Quibus ima cohorruit unda<br
/>
Voces præteriere: redux quoque Sicelis omnes<br />
Musa voca valles; huc pendentes hyacinthos<br />
Fac jaciant, teneros huc flores mille colorum.<br />
O nemorum depressa, sonant ubi crebra susurri<br />
Umbrarum, et salientis aquæ, Zephyrique protervi;<br />
Queisque virens gremium penetrare Canicula parcit:<br />
Picturata modis jacite huc mihi lumina miris,<br />
Mellitos imbres queis per viridantia rura<br />
Mos haurire, novo quo tellus vere rubescat.<br />
Huc ranunculus, ipse arbos, pallorque ligustri,<br />
Quæque relicta perit, vixdum matura feratur<br />
Pnimula: quique ebeno distinctus, cætera flavet<br />
Flos, et qui specie nomen detrectat eburna.<br />
Ardenti violæ rosa proxima fundat odores;<br />
Serpyllumque placens, et acerbo flexile vultu<br />
Verbascum, ac tristem si quid sibi legit amictum.<br />
<a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>Quicquid
habes pulcri fundas, amarante: coronent<br />
Narcissi lacrymis calices, sternantque feretrum<br />
Tectus ubi lauro Lycidas jacet: adsit ut oti<br />
Saltem aliquid, ficta ludantur imagine mentes.<br />
Me miserum! Tua nam litus, pelagusque sonorum<br />
Ossa ferunt, queiscunque procul jacteris in oris;<br />
Sive procellosas ultra Symplegadas ingens<br />
Jam subter mare visis, alit quæ monstra profundum;<br />
Sive (negavit enim precibus te Jupiter udis)<br />
Cum sene Bellero, veterum qui fabula, dormis,<br />
Qua custoditi montis prægrandis imago<br />
Namancum atque arces longe prospectat Iberas.<br />
Verte retro te, verte deum, mollire precando:<br />
Et vos infaustum juvenem delphines agatis.<br />
Ponite jam lacrymas, sat enim flevistis,
agrestes.<br />
Non periit Lycidas, vestri moeroris origo,<br />
Marmorei quanquam fluctus hausere cadentem.<br />
Sic et in æquoreum se condere sæpe cubile<br />
Luciferum videas; nec longum tempus, et effert<br />
<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Demissum
caput, igne novo vestitus; et, aurum<br />
Ceu rutilans, in fronte poli splendescit Eoi.<br />
Sic obiit Lycidas, sic assurrexit in altum;<br />
Illo, quem peditem mare sustulit, usus amico.<br />
Nunc campos alios, alia errans stagna secundum,<br />
Rorantesque lavans integro nectare crines,<br />
Audit inauditos nobis cantari Hymenæos,<br />
Fortunatorum sedes ubi mitis amorem<br />
Lætitiamque affert. Hic illum, quotquot Olympum<br />
Prædulces habitant turbæ, venerabilis ordo,<br />
Circumstant: aliæque canunt, interque canendum<br />
Majestate sua veniunt abeuntque catervæ,<br />
Omnes ex oculis lacrymas arcere paratæ.<br />
Ergo non Lycidam jam lamentantur agrestes.<br />
Divus eris ripæ, puer, hoc ex tempore nobis,<br />
Grande, nec immerito, veniens in munus; opemque<br />
Poscent usque tuam, dubiis quot in æstubus errant.<br />
Hæc incultus aquis puer ilicibusque
canebat;<br />
Processit dum mane silens talaribus albis.<br />
<a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>Multa
manu teneris discrimina tentat avenis,<br />
Dorica non studio modulatus carmina segni:<br />
Et jam sol abiens colles extenderat omnes,<br />
Jamque sub Hesperium se præcipitaverat alveum.<br />
Surrexit tandem, glaucumque retraxit amictum;<br />
Cras lucos, reor, ille novos, nova pascua quæret.</p>
<h2><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>IN
MEMORIAM.</h2>
<h3><span class="GutSmall">CVI.</span></h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> time admits not
flowers or leaves<br />
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies<br />
The blast of North and East, and ice<br />
Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves,</p>
<p class="poetry">And bristles all the brakes and thorns<br />
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs<br />
Above the wood which grides and clangs<br />
Its leafless ribs and iron horns</p>
<p class="poetry">Together, in the drifts that pass,<br />
To darken on the rolling brine<br />
That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,<br
/>
Arrange the board and brim the glass;</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
130</span>Bring in great logs and let them lie,<br />
To make a solid core of heat;<br />
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat<br />
Of all things ev’n as he were by:</p>
<p class="poetry">We keep the day with festal cheer,<br />
With books and music. Surely we<br />
Will drink to him whate’er he be,<br />
And sing the songs he loved to hear.</p>
<h2><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>IN
MEMORIAM.</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Non</span> hora myrto, non
violis sinit<br />
Nitere mensas. Trux Aquilo foras<br />
Bacchatur, ac passim pruina<br />
Tigna sagittifera coruscant;</p>
<p class="poetry">Horretque saltus spinifer, algidæ<br />
Sub falce lunæ, dum nemori imminet,<br />
Quod stridet illiditque costis<br />
Cornua, jam vacuis honorum,</p>
<p class="poetry">Ferrata; nimbis prætereuntibus,<br />
Ut incubent tandem implacido sali<br />
Qui curvat oras. Tu Falernum<br />
Prome, dapes strue, dic
coronent</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
131</span>Crateras: ignis cor solidum, graves<br />
Repone truncos. Jamque doloribus<br />
Loquare securus fugatis<br />
Quæ socio loquereris
illo;</p>
<p class="poetry">Hunc dedicamus lætitiæ diem<br />
Lyræque musisque. Illius, illius<br />
Da, quicquid audit: nec silebunt<br />
Qui numeri placuere vivo.</p>
<h2><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
132</span>LAURA MATILDA’S DIRGE.</h2>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">From</span>
‘<span class="smcap">Rejected Addresses</span>.’</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Balmy</span> Zephyrs,
lightly flitting,<br />
Shade me with your azure wing;<br />
On Parnassus’ summit sitting,<br />
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.</p>
<p class="poetry">Softly slept the dome of Drury<br />
O’er the empyreal crest,<br />
When Alecto’s sister-fury<br />
Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.</p>
<p class="poetry">Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,<br />
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,<br />
Cytherea yielding tamely<br />
To the Cyclops dark and dire.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
134</span>Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,<br />
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,<br />
Soon must yield to haughty sadness;<br />
Mercy holds the veil to Truth.</p>
<p class="poetry">See Erostratas the second<br />
Fires again Diana’s fane;<br />
By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,<br />
Clouds envelop Drury Lane.</p>
<p class="poetry">Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?<br />
Billowy ecstasy of woe,<br />
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,<br />
Where the stagnant torrents flow.</p>
<p class="poetry">Blood in every vein is gushing,<br />
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;<br />
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!<br />
Never, never let us part.</p>
<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
133</span>NÆNIA.</h2>
<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">quot</span> odoriferi
voitatis in aëre venti,<br />
Cæruleum tegmen vestra sit ala mihi:<br />
Tuque sedens Parnassus ubi caput erigit ingens,<br />
Dextra veni, Clio: teque docente canam.</p>
<p class="poetry">Jam suaves somnos Tholus affectare Theatri<br
/>
Cœperat, igniflui trans laqueare poli:<br />
Alectûs consanguineam quo tempore Erinnyn,<br />
Suave soporatam, coepit adire quies.</p>
<p class="poetry">Lustra sed ecce labans claudo pede Lemnia
linquit<br />
Luridus (at lente lugubriterque) Deus:<br />
Amisit veteres, amisit inultus, amores;<br />
Teter habet Venerem terribilisque Cyclops.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
135</span>Electri nebulas, potioraque somnia vero;<br />
Quotque placent pueris gaudia, quotque joci;<br />
Omnia tristiæ fas concessisse superbæ:<br />
Admissum Pietas scitque premitque nefas.</p>
<p class="poetry">Respice! Nonne vides ut Erostratus alter
ad ædem<br />
Rursus agat flammas, spreta Diana, tuam?<br />
Mox, Acheronteis quas Parca eduxit ab antris,<br />
Druriacam nubes corripuere domum.</p>
<p class="poetry">O ubi purpurei motus pueri alitis? o qui<br />
Me mihi turbineis surripis, angor, aquis!<br />
Duc, labyrintheum, duc me, mare, tramite recto<br />
Quo rapidi fontes, pigra caterva, ruunt!</p>
<p class="poetry">Jamque—soporat enim pectus Vindicta
Virago;<br />
Omnibus a venis sanguinis unda salit;<br />
Gorgoneique greges præceps (adverte!) feruntur—<br />
Sim, precor, o! semper sim tibi junctus ego.</p>
<h2><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
136</span>“LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL.”</h2>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Felicia
Hemans</span>.</p>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Leaves</span> have their
time to fall,<br />
And flowers to wither at the North-wind’s
breath,<br />
And stars to set: but all,<br />
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!</p>
<p class="poetry">Day is for mortal care,<br />
Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth,<br />
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,<br />
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!</p>
<p class="poetry">The banquet has its hour,<br />
The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine:<br />
There comes a day for grief’s overwhelming shower,<br />
A time for softer tears: but all are thine.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
138</span>Youth and the opening rose<br />
May look like things too glorious for decay,<br />
And smile at thee!—but thou art not of those<br />
That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their
prey!</p>
<h2><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
137</span>“FRONDES EST UBI DECIDANT.”</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">Frondes</span> est ubi decidant,<br />
Marcescantque rosæ flatu Aquilonio:<br />
Horis astra cadunt suis;<br />
Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.</p>
<p class="poetry"> Curis nata virûm
dies;<br />
Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum;<br />
Somnis nox magis, et preci:<br />
Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.</p>
<p class="poetry"> Festis hora epulis datur,<br
/>
(Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;)<br />
Fusis altera lacrymis<br />
Aut fletu tacito: quæque tamen tua.</p>
<p class="poetry"> <a name="page139"></a><span
class="pagenum">p. 139</span>Virgo, seu rosa pullulans,<br />
Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori?<br />
Rident te? Neque enim soles<br />
Prædæ parcere, dum flos adoleverit.</p>
<h2><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
140</span>“LET US TURN HITHERWARD OUR BARK.”</h2>
<p style="text-align: center">R. C. <span
class="smcap">Trench</span>.</p>
<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Let</span> us turn
hitherward our bark,” they cried,<br />
“And, ’mid the blisses of this happy
isle,<br />
Past toil forgetting and to come, abide<br />
In joyfulness awhile.</p>
<p class="poetry">And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,<br
/>
If other tasks we yet are bound unto,<br />
Combing the hoary tresses of the main<br />
With sharp swift keel anew.”</p>
<p class="poetry">O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,<br />
O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,<br />
What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,<br />
And of your race divine?</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
142</span>But they, by these prevailing voices now<br />
Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land,<br />
Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,<br />
That strewed that fatal strand;</p>
<p class="poetry">Or seeing, feared not—warning taking
none<br />
From the plain doom of all who went before,<br />
Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,<br />
And whitened all the shore.</p>
<h2><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
141</span>“QUIN HUC, FREMEBANT.”</h2>
<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Quin</span>
huc,” fremebant, “dirigimus ratem:<br />
Hic, dote læti divitis insulæ,<br />
Paullisper hæremus, futuri<br />
Nec memores operis, nec acti:</p>
<p class="poetry">“Curas refecti cras iterabimus,<br />
Si qua supersunt emeritis novæ<br />
Pexisse pernices acuta<br />
Canitiem pelagi carina.”</p>
<p class="poetry">O rebus olim nobilioribus<br />
Pares: origo Dî quibus ac Deæ<br />
Heroës! oblitine famiæ<br />
Hæc struitis, generisque
summi?</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
143</span>Atqui propinquant jam magis ac magis,<br />
Ducti magistra voce, solum: neque<br />
Videre prorarum nefandas<br />
Fragmina nobilium per oras;</p>
<p class="poetry">Vidisse seu non poenitet—ominis<br />
Incuriosos tot præëuntium,<br />
Quorum ossa sol siccantque venti,<br />
Candet adhuc quibus omnis ora.</p>
<h2><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
144</span>CARMEN SÆCULARE.</h2>
<p style="text-align: center"><span
class="GutSmall">MDCCCLIII.</span></p>
<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“Quicquid agunt
homines, nostri est farrago libelli.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">Acris</span> hyems jam venit: hyems genus omne
perosa<br />
Foemineum, et senibus glacies non æqua rotundis:<br />
Apparent rari stantes in tramite glauco;<br />
Radit iter, cogitque nives, sua tela, juventus.<br />
Trux matrona ruit, multos dominata per annos,<br />
Digna indigna minans, glomeratque volumina crurum;<br />
Illa parte senex, amisso forte galero,<br />
Per plateas bacchatur; eum chorus omnis agrestum<br />
Ridet anhelantem frustra, et jam jamque tenentem<br />
Quod petit; illud agunt venti prensumque resorbent.<br />
Post, ubi compositus tandem votique potitus<br />
Sedit humi; flet crura tuens nive candida lenta,<br />
<a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>Et
vestem laceram, et venturas conjugis iras:<br />
Itque domum tendens duplices ad sidera palmas,<br />
Corda miser, desiderio perfixa galeri.<br />
At juvenis (sed cruda viro viridisque juventus)<br
/>
Quærit bacciferas, tunica pendente, <a
name="citation145a"></a><a href="#footnote145a"
class="citation">[145a]</a> tabernas:<br />
Pervigil ecce Baco furva depromit ab arca<br />
Splendidius quiddam solito, plenumque saporem<br />
Laudat, et antiqua jurat de stripe Jamaicæ.<br />
O fumose puer, nimium ne crede Baconi:<br />
Manillas vocat; hoc prætexit nomine caules.<br />
Te vero, cui forte dedit maturior ætas<br />
Scire potestates herbarum, te quoque quanti<br />
Circumstent casus, paucis (adverte) docebo.<br />
Præcipue, seu raptat amor te simplicis herbæ, <a
name="citation145b"></a><a href="#footnote145b"
class="citation">[145b]</a><br />
Seu potius tenui Musam meditaris avena,<br />
Procuratorem fugito, nam ferreus idem est.<br />
<a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>Vita
semiboves catulos, redimicula vita<br />
Candida: de coelo descendit σῶζε
σεαυτόν.<br />
Nube vaporis item conspergere præter euntes<br />
Jura vetant, notumque furens quid femina possit:<br />
Odit enim dulces succos anus, odit odorem;<br />
Odit Lethæi diffusa volumina fumi.<br />
Mille modis reliqui fugiuntque feruntque laborem.<br
/>
Hic vir ad Eleos, pedibus talaria gestans,<br />
Fervidus it latices, nec quidquam acquirit eundo: <a
name="citation146a"></a><a href="#footnote146a"
class="citation">[146a]</a><br />
Ille petit virides (sed non e gramine) mensas,<br />
Pollicitus meliora patri, tormentaque <a
name="citation146b"></a><a href="#footnote146b"
class="citation">[146b]</a> flexus<br />
Per labyrintheos plus quam mortalia tentat,<br />
Acre tuens, loculisque pilas immittit et aufert.<br />
Sunt alii, quos frigus aquæ, tenuisque
phaselus<br />
Captat, et æquali surgentes ordine remi.<br />
<a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>His
edura cutis, nec ligno rasile tergum;<br />
Par saxi sinus: esca boves cum robore Bassi.<br />
Tollunt in numerum fera brachia, vique feruntur<br />
Per fluctus: sonuere viæ clamore secundo:<br />
Et piceâ de puppe fremens immane bubulcus<br />
Invocat exitium cunctis, et verbera rapto<br />
Stipite defessis onerat graviora caballis.<br />
Nil humoris egent alii. Labor arva vagari,<br
/>
Flectere ludus equos, et amantem devia <a
name="citation147a"></a><a href="#footnote147a"
class="citation">[147a]</a> currum.<br />
Nosco purpureas vestes, clangentia nosco<br />
Signa tubæ, et caudas inter virgulta caninas.<br />
Stat venator equus, tactoque ferocior armo<br />
Surgit in arrectum, vix auditurus habenam;<br />
Et jam prata fuga superat, jam flumina saltu.<br />
Aspicias alios ab iniqua sepe rotari<br />
In caput, ut scrobibus quæ sint fastigia quærant;<br
/>
Eque rubis aut amne pigro trahere humida crura,<br />
Et fœdam faciem, defloccatumque galerum.<br />
<a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
148</span>Sanctius his animal, cui quadravisse rotundum <a
name="citation148a"></a><a href="#footnote148a"
class="citation">[148a]</a><br />
Musæ suadet amor, Camique ardentis imago,<br />
Inspicat calamos contracta fronte malignos,<br />
Perque Mathematicum pelagus, loca turbida, anhelat.<br />
Circum dirus “Hymers,” nec pondus inutile,
“Lignum,”<br />
“Salmoque,” et pueris tu detestate,
“Colenso,”<br />
Horribiles visu formæ; livente notatæ<br />
Ungue omnes, omnes insignes aure canina. <a
name="citation148b"></a><a href="#footnote148b"
class="citation">[148b]</a><br />
Fervet opus; tacitum pertentant gaudia pectus<br />
Tutorum; “pulchrumque mori,” dixere,
“legendo.”<br />
Nec vero juvenes facere omnes omnia possunt.<br />
Atque unum memini ipse, deus qui dictus amicis,<br />
Et multum referens de rixatore <a name="citation148c"></a><a
href="#footnote148c" class="citation">[148c]</a> secundo,<br />
Nocte terens ulnas ac scrinia, solus in alto<br />
Degebat tripode; arcta viro vilisque supellex;<br />
<a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>Et sic
torva tuens, pedibus per mutua nexis,<br />
Sedit, lacte mero mentem mulcente tenellam.<br />
Et fors ad summos tandem venisset honores;<br />
Sed rapidi juvenes, queis gratior usus equorum,<br />
Subveniunt, siccoque vetant inolescere libro.<br />
Improbus hos Lector pueros, mentumque virili<br />
Lævius, et duræ gravat inclementia Mortis: <a
name="citation149a"></a><a href="#footnote149a"
class="citation">[149a]</a><br />
Agmen iners; queis mos alienâ vivere quadrâ, <a
name="citation149b"></a><a href="#footnote149b"
class="citation">[149b]</a><br />
Et lituo vexare viros, calcare caballos.<br />
Tales mane novo sæpe admiramur euntes<br />
Torquibus in rigidis et pelle Libystidis ursæ;<br />
Admiramur opus <a name="citation149c"></a><a href="#footnote149c"
class="citation">[149c]</a> tunicæ, vestemque <a
name="citation149d"></a><a href="#footnote149d"
class="citation">[149d]</a> sororem<br />
Iridis, et crurum non enarrabile tegmen.<br />
<a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>Hos
inter comites implebat pocula sorbis<br />
Infelix puer, et sese reereabat ad ignem,<br />
“Evœ, <a name="citation150a"></a><a
href="#footnote150a" class="citation">[150a]</a> <span
class="smcap">Basse</span>,” fremens: dum velox
præterit ætas;<br />
Venit summa dies; et Junior Optimus exit.<br />
Saucius at juvenis nota intra tecta refugit,<br />
Horrendum ridens, lucemque miserrimus odit:<br />
Informem famulus laqueum pendentiaque ossa<br />
Mane videt, refugitque feri meminisse magistri.<br />
Di nobis meliora! Modum re servat in omni<br
/>
Qui sapit: haud ilium semper recubare sub umbra,<br />
Haud semper madidis juvat impallescere chartis.<br />
Nos numerus sumus, et libros consumere nati;<br />
Sed requies sit rebus; amant alterna Camenæ.<br />
Nocte dieque legas, cum tertius advenit annus:<br />
Tum libros cape; claude fores, et prandia defer.<br />
Quartus venit: ini, <a name="citation150b"></a><a
href="#footnote150b" class="citation">[150b]</a> rebus jam rite
paratis,<br />
Exultans, et coge gradum conferre magistros.<br />
<a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
151</span>His animadversis, fugies immane Barathrum.<br />
His, operose puer, si qua fata aspera rumpas,<br />
Tu rixator eris. Saltem non crebra revises<br />
Ad stabulum, <a name="citation151a"></a><a href="#footnote151a"
class="citation">[151a]</a> et tota moerens carpere juventa;<br
/>
Classe nec amisso nil profectura dolentem<br />
Tradet ludibriis te plena leporis <span
class="smcap">Hirudo</span>. <a name="citation151b"></a><a
href="#footnote151b" class="citation">[151b]</a></p>
<h2><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
152</span>TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.</h2>
<h3>TO A SHIP.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. i. 14.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yet</span> on fresh billows
seaward wilt thou ride,<br />
O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav’n, and
there<br />
Rest thee: for lo! thy side<br />
Is oarless all and bare,</p>
<p class="poetry">And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy
mast,<br />
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,<br />
Yield must thy keel at last<br />
On pitiless sea-waves tossed</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
153</span>Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,<br />
Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:—<br />
Though thou—a Pontic pine,<br />
Child of a stately
forest,—</p>
<p class="poetry">Boastest high name and empty pedigree,<br />
Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:<br />
Stay, unless doomed to be<br />
The plaything of the gale.</p>
<p class="poetry">Flee—what of late sore burden was to
me,<br />
Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,—<br />
Those shining Cyclads flee<br />
That stud the far-off main.</p>
<h3><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>TO
VIRGIL.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. i. 24.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Unshamed</span>, unchecked,
for one so dear<br />
We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,<br />
Melpomene, to whom thy sire<br />
Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!</p>
<p class="poetry">Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn?<br />
Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right,<br />
Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,<br />
When shall again his like be born?</p>
<p class="poetry">Many a kind heart for Him makes moan;<br />
Thine, Virgil, first. But ah! in vain<br />
Thy love bids heaven restore again<br />
That which it took not as a loan:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
155</span>Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given<br />
To thee, did trees thy voice obey;<br />
The blood revisits not the clay<br />
Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven</p>
<p class="poetry">Into his dark assemblage, who<br />
Unlocks not fate to mortal’s prayer.<br />
Hard lot! Yet light their griefs who <span
class="GutSmall">BEAR</span><br />
The ills which they may not undo.</p>
<h3><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>TO
THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. iii. 13.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bandusia</span>, stainless
mirror of the sky!<br />
Thine is the flower-crown’d bowl, for thee shall die,<br />
When dawns again yon sun, the kid;<br />
Whose budding horns, half-seen, half-hid,</p>
<p class="poetry">Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in
vain!<br />
Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain,<br />
And those cold springs of thine<br />
With blood incarnadine.</p>
<p class="poetry">Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery
beam<br />
Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream<br />
To labour-wearied ox,<br />
Or wanderer from the flocks:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
157</span>And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:<br />
My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,<br />
Topt by the brown oak-tree,<br />
Thou breakest babblingly.</p>
<h3><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>TO
IBYCUS’S WIFE.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. ii. 15.</h3>
<p class="poetry"> <span
class="smcap">Spouse</span> of penniless Ibycus,<br />
Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies,<br />
All thy studious infamy:—<br />
Nearing swiftly the grave—(that not an early one)—<br
/>
Cease girls’ sport to participate,<br />
Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant.<br />
What suits her who is beautiful<br />
Suits not equally thee: rightly devastates<br />
Thy fair daughter the homes of men,<br />
Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums.<br />
Nothus’ beauty constraining her,<br />
Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry:<br />
<a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
159</span>Thy years stately Luceria’s<br />
Wools more fitly become—not din of harpsichords,<br />
Not pink-petallèd roseblossoms,<br />
Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment.</p>
<h3><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
160</span>SORACTE.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. i. 9.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">One</span> dazzling mass of
solid snow<br />
Soracte stands; the bent woods fret<br />
Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set<br />
With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.</p>
<p class="poetry">Pile on great faggots and break up<br />
The ice: let influence more benign<br />
Enter with four-years-treasured wine,<br />
Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:</p>
<p class="poetry">Leave to the Gods all else. When they<br
/>
Have once bid rest the winds that war<br />
Over the passionate seas, no more<br />
Grey ash and cypress rock and sway.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
161</span>Ask not what future suns shall bring,<br />
Count to-day gain, whate’er it chance<br />
To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,<br />
Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,</p>
<p class="poetry">Ere Time thy April youth hath changed<br />
To sourness. Park and public walk<br />
Attract thee now, and whispered talk<br />
At twilight meetings pre-arranged;</p>
<p class="poetry">Hear now the pretty laugh that tells<br />
In what dim corner lurks thy love;<br />
And snatch a bracelet or a glove<br />
From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.</p>
<h3><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>TO
LEUCONÖE.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. i. 11.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Seek</span> not, for thou
shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;<br />
Ask not of Chaldæa’s science what God wills,
Leuconöe:<br />
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry
blast<br />
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy
last,<br />
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate
sandstone-reef.<br />
Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is
brief,<br />
Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath
stol’n away<br />
Jealous Time. Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of
To-day.</p>
<h3><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
163</span>JUNO’S SPEECH.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. iii. 3.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> just man’s
single-purposed mind<br />
Not furious mobs that prompt to ill<br />
May move, nor kings’ frowns shake his will<br
/>
Which is as rock; not warrior-winds</p>
<p class="poetry">That keep the seas in wild unrest;<br />
Nor bolt by Jove’s own finger hurled:<br />
The fragments of a shivered world<br />
Would crash round him still self-possest.</p>
<p class="poetry">Jove’s wandering son reached, thus
endowed,<br />
The fiery bastions of the skies;<br />
Thus Pollux; with them Cæsar lies<br />
Beside his nectar, radiant-browed.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
164</span>For this rewarded, tiger-drawn<br />
Rode Bacchus, reining necks before<br />
Untamed; for this War’s horses bore<br />
Quirinus up from Acheron,</p>
<p class="poetry">When in heav’n’s conclave Juno
said,<br />
Thrice welcomed: “Troy is in the dust;<br />
Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust,<br />
And that strange woman prostrated.</p>
<p class="poetry">“The day Laomedon ignored<br />
His god-pledged word, resigned to me<br />
And Pallas ever-pure, was she,<br />
Her people, and their traitor lord.</p>
<p class="poetry">“No more the Greek girl’s guilty
guest<br />
Sits splendour-girt: Priam’s perjured sons<br
/>
Find not against the mighty ones<br />
Of Greece a shield in Hector’s breast:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
165</span>“And, long drawn out by private jars,<br />
The war sleeps. Lo! my wrath is o’er:<br
/>
And him the Trojan vestal bore<br />
(Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,</p>
<p class="poetry">“To Mars restore I. His be rest<br
/>
In halls of light: by him be drained<br />
The nectar-bowl, his place obtained<br />
In the calm companies of the blest.</p>
<p class="poetry">“While betwixt Rome and Ilion raves<br />
A length of ocean, where they will<br />
Rise empires for the exiles still:<br />
While Paris’s and Priam’s graves</p>
<p class="poetry">“Are hoof-trod, and the she-wolf
breeds<br />
Securely there, unharmed shall stand<br />
Rome’s lustrous Capitol, her hand<br />
Impose proud laws on trampled Medes.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
166</span>“Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borne<br />
Her story; where the central main<br />
Europe and Libya parts in twain,<br />
Where full Nile laves a land of corn:</p>
<p class="poetry">“The buried secret of the mine,<br />
(Best left there) resolute to spurn,<br />
And not to man’s base uses turn<br />
With hand that spares not things divine.</p>
<p class="poetry">“Earth’s utmost end, where’er
it be,<br />
May her hosts reach; careering proud<br />
O’er lands where watery rain and cloud,<br />
Or where wild suns hold revelry.</p>
<p class="poetry">“But, to the soldier-sons of Rome,<br />
Tied by this law, such fates are willed;<br />
That they seek never to rebuild,<br />
Too fond, too bold, their grandsires’ home.</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
167</span>“With darkest omens, deadliest strife,<br />
Shall Troy, raised up again, repeat<br />
Her history; I the victor-fleet<br />
Shall lead, Jove’s sister and his wife.</p>
<p class="poetry">“Thrice let Apollo rear the wall<br />
Of brass; and thrice my Greeks shall hew<br />
The fabric down; thrice matrons rue<br />
In chains their sons’, their husbands’
fall.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.<br />
Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearse<br />
God-utterances in puny verse<br />
That may but mar a mighty theme.</p>
<h3><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 168</span>TO A
FAUN.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. iii. 18.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wooer</span> of young
Nymphs who fly thee,<br />
Lightly o’er my sunlit lawn<br />
Trip, and go, nor injured by thee<br />
Be my weanling herds, O Faun:</p>
<p class="poetry">If the kid his doomed head bows, and<br />
Brims with wine the loving cup,<br />
When the year is full; and thousand<br />
Scents from altars hoar go up.</p>
<p class="poetry">Each flock in the rich grass gambols<br />
When the month comes which is thine;<br />
And the happy village rambles<br />
Fieldward with the idle kine:</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
169</span>Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour:<br />
Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;<br />
And with glee the sons of labour<br />
Stamp thrice on their foe, the soil.</p>
<h3><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>TO
LYCE.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. iv. 13.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lyce</span>, the gods have
listened to my prayer;<br />
The gods have listened, Lyce. Thou art grey,<br />
And still would’st thou seem fair;<br />
Still unshamed drink, and
play,</p>
<p class="poetry">And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with
weak<br />
Shrill pipings. With young Chia He doth dwell,<br />
Queen of the harp; her cheek<br />
Is his sweet citadel:—</p>
<p class="poetry">He marked the withered oak, and on he flew<br
/>
Intolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled,<br />
Whose teeth are ghastly-blue,<br />
Whose temples
snow-besprinkled:—</p>
<p class="poetry"><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
171</span>Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows,<br />
Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast,<br />
Time hath once shut in those<br />
Dark annals of the Past.</p>
<p class="poetry">Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hue<br />
And motions soft? Oh, what of Her doth rest,<br />
Her, who breathed love, who drew<br />
My heart out of my breast?</p>
<p class="poetry">Fair, and far-famed, and subtly sweet, thy
face<br />
Ranked next to Cinara’s. But to Cinara fate<br />
Gave but a few years’ grace;<br />
And lets live, all too late,</p>
<p class="poetry">Lyce, the rival of the beldam crow:<br />
That fiery youth may see with scornful brow<br />
The torch that long ago<br />
Beamed bright, a cinder now.</p>
<h3><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>TO
HIS SLAVE.<br />
<span class="smcap">Od</span>. i. 38.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Persian</span> grandeur I
abhor;<br />
Linden-wreathèd crowns, avaunt:<br />
Boy, I bid thee not explore<br />
Woods which latest roses haunt:</p>
<p class="poetry">Try on nought thy busy craft<br />
Save plain myrtle; so arrayed<br />
Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught<br />
Fitliest ’neath the scant vine-shade.</p>
<h3><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>THE
DEAD OX.<br />
<span class="smcap">Georg</span>. <span
class="smcap">iv</span>.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lo</span>! smoking in the
stubborn plough, the ox<br />
Falls, from his lip foam gushing crimson-stained,<br />
And sobs his life out. Sad of face the ploughman<br />
Moves, disentangling from his comrade’s corpse<br />
The lone survivor: and its work half-done,<br />
Abandoned in the furrow stands the plough.<br />
Not shadiest forest-depths, not softest lawns,<br />
May move him now: not river amber-pure,<br />
That volumes o’er the cragstones to the plain.<br />
Powerless the broad sides, glazed the rayless eye,<br />
And low and lower sinks the ponderous neck.<br />
What thank hath he for all the toil he toiled,<br />
The heavy-clodded land in man’s behoof<br />
<a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
174</span>Upturning? Yet the grape of Italy,<br />
The stored-up feast hath wrought no harm to him:<br />
Green leaf and taintless grass are all their fare;<br />
The clear rill or the travel-freshen’d stream<br />
Their cup: nor one care mars their honest sleep.</p>
<h3><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>FROM
THEOCRITUS.<br />
<span class="smcap">Idyll</span>. VII.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Scarce</span> midway were
we yet, nor yet descried<br />
The stone that hides what once was Brasidas:<br />
When there drew near a wayfarer from Crete,<br />
Young Lycidas, the Muses’ votary.<br />
The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell<br />
So much: for every inch a herdsman he.<br />
Slung o’er his shoulder was a ruddy hide<br />
Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,<br />
That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped<br />
A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff<br />
A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.<br />
Soon with a quiet smile he spoke—his eye<br />
Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:<br />
“And whither ploddest thou thy weary way<br />
<a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>Beneath
the noontide sun, Simichides?<br />
For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,<br />
The crested lark hath closed his wandering wing.<br />
Speed’st thou, a bidd’n guest, to some
reveller’s board?<br />
Or townwards, to the treading of the grape?<br />
For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet<br />
The pavement-stones ring out right merrily.”</p>
<h3><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
177</span>SPEECH OF AJAX.<br />
<span class="smcap">Soph</span>. <span class="smcap">Aj</span>.
645.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">All</span> strangest things
the multitudinous years<br />
Bring forth, and shadow from us all we know.<br />
Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve;<br />
And none shall say of aught, ‘This may not be.’<br />
Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong,<br />
As new-dipt steel am weak and all unsexed<br />
By yonder woman: yea I mourn for them,<br />
Widow and orphan, left amid their foes.<br />
But I will journey seaward—where the shore<br />
Lies meadow-fringed—so haply wash away<br />
My sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down.<br />
And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way,<br />
I will bury this my lance, this hateful thing,<br />
Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see—<br />
<a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>Night
and Hell keep it in the underworld!<br />
For never to this day, since first I grasped<br />
The gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe,<br />
Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks.<br />
So true that byword in the mouths of men,<br />
“A foeman’s gifts are no gifts, but a
curse.”<br />
Wherefore henceforward shall I know that God<br />
Is great; and strive to honour Atreus’ sons.<br />
Princes they are, and should be obeyed. How else?<br />
Do not all terrible and most puissant things<br />
Yet bow to loftier majesties? The Winter,<br />
Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anon<br />
To fruitage-laden Summer; and the orb<br />
Of weary Night doth in her turn stand by,<br />
And let shine out, with her white steeds, the Day:<br />
Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullaby<br />
To groaning seas: even the arch-tyrant, Sleep,<br />
Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for ever.<br />
<a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>And
shall not mankind too learn discipline?<br />
<i>I</i> know, of late experience taught, that him<br />
Who is my foe I must but hate as one<br />
Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves me<br />
Will I but serve and cherish as a man<br />
Whose love is not abiding. Few be they<br />
Who, reaching Friendship’s port, have there found rest.<br
/>
But, for these things they shall be well. Go
thou,<br />
Lady, within, and there pray that the Gods<br />
May fill unto the full my heart’s desire.<br />
And ye, my mates, do unto me with her<br />
Like honour: bid young Teucer, if he come,<br />
To care for me, but to be <i>your</i> friend still.<br />
For where my way leads, thither I shall go:<br />
Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear,<br />
Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace.</p>
<h3><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>FROM
LUCRETIUS.<br />
<span class="smcap">Book</span> II.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, when the
great sea’s water is stirred to his depths by the
storm-winds,<br />
Standing ashore to descry one afar-off mightily struggling:<br />
Not that a neighbour’s sorrow to you yields blissful
enjoyment;<br />
But that the sight hath a sweetness, of ills ourselves are exempt
from.<br />
Sweet ’tis too to behold, on a broad plain mustering,
war-hosts<br />
Arm them for some great battle, one’s self unscathed by the
danger:—<br />
Yet still happier this:—To possess, impregnably guarded,<br
/>
<a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>Those
calm heights of the sages, which have for an origin Wisdom;<br />
Thence to survey our fellows, observe them this way and that
way<br />
Wander amidst Life’s paths, poor stragglers seeking a
highway:<br />
Watch mind battle with mind, and escutcheon rival escutcheon;<br
/>
Gaze on that untold strife, which is waged ’neath the sun
and the starlight,<br />
Up as they toil to the surface whereon rest Riches and Empire.<br
/>
O race born unto trouble! O minds all lacking of
eyesight!<br />
’Neath what a vital darkness, amidst how terrible
dangers,<br />
Move ye thro’ this thing, Life, this fragment! Fools,
that ye hear not<br />
Nature clamour aloud for the one thing only; that, all pain<br />
<a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>Parted
and past from the Body, the Mind too bask in a blissful<br />
Dream, all fear of the future and all anxiety over!<br />
So, as regards Man’s Body, a few things only
are needful,<br />
(Few, tho’ we sum up all,) to remove all misery from
him;<br />
Aye, and to strew in his path such a lib’ral carpet of
pleasures,<br />
That scarce Nature herself would at times ask happiness
ampler.<br />
Statues of youth and of beauty may not gleam golden around
him,<br />
(Each in his right hand bearing a great lamp lustrously
burning,<br />
Whence to the midnight revel a light may be furnished always);<br
/>
Silver may not shine softly, nor gold blaze bright, in his
mansion,<br />
<a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>Nor to
the noise of the tabret his halls gold-cornicèd
echo:—<br />
Yet still he, with his fellow, reposed on the velvety
greensward,<br />
Near to a rippling stream, by a tall tree canopied over,<br />
Shall, though they lack great riches, enjoy all bodily
pleasure.<br />
Chiefliest then, when above them a fair sky smiles, and the young
year<br />
Flings with a bounteous hand over each green meadow the
wild-flowers:—<br />
Not more quickly depart from his bosom fiery fevers,<br />
Who beneath crimson hangings and pictures cunningly broidered<br
/>
Tosses about, than from him who must lie in beggarly raiment.<br
/>
Therefore, since to the Body avail not Riches,
avails not<br />
<a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
184</span>Heraldry’s utmost boast, nor the pomp and the
pride of an Empire;<br />
Next shall you own, that the Mind needs likewise nothing of these
things.<br />
Unless—when, peradventure, your armies over the
champaign<br />
Spread with a stir and a ferment, and bid War’s image
awaken,<br />
Or when with stir and with ferment a fleet sails forth upon
Ocean—<br />
Cowed before these brave sights, pale Superstition abandon<br />
Straightway your mind as you gaze, Death seem no longer
alarming,<br />
Trouble vacate your bosom, and Peace hold holiday in you.<br />
But, if (again) all this be a vain impossible
fiction;<br />
If of a truth men’s fears, and the cares which hourly beset
them,<br />
<a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>Heed not
the jav’lin’s fury, regard not clashing of
broadswords;<br />
But all-boldly amongst crowned heads and the rulers of empires<br
/>
Stalk, not shrinking abashed from the dazzling glare of the red
gold,<br />
Not from the pomp of the monarch, who walks forth
purple-apparelled:<br />
These things shew that at times we are bankrupt, surely, of
Reason;<br />
When too all Man’s life through a great Dark laboureth
onward.<br />
For, as a young boy trembles, and in that mystery, Darkness,<br
/>
Sees all terrible things: so do we too, ev’n in the
daylight,<br />
Ofttimes shudder at that, which is not more really alarming<br />
Than boys’ fears, when they waken, and say some danger is
o’er them.<br />
<a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
186</span>So this panic of mind, these clouds which gather around
us,<br />
Fly not the bright sunbeam, nor the ivory shafts of the
Day-star:<br />
Nature, rightly revealed, and the Reason only, dispel them.<br />
Now, how moving about do the prime material atoms<br
/>
Shape forth this thing and that thing; and, once shaped, how they
resolve them;<br />
What power says unto each, This must be; how an inherent<br />
Elasticity drives them about Space vagrantly onward;—<br />
I shall unfold: thou simply give all thyself to my teaching.<br
/>
Matter mingled and massed into indissoluble union<br
/>
Does not exist. For we see how wastes each separate
substance;<br />
So flow piecemeal away, with the length’ning centuries, all
things,<br />
<a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>Till
from our eye by degrees that old self passes, and is not.<br />
Still Universal Nature abides unchanged as aforetime.<br />
Whereof this is the cause. When the atoms part from a
substance,<br />
That suffers loss; but another is elsewhere gaining an
increase:<br />
So that, as one thing wanes, still a second bursts into
blossom,<br />
Soon, in its turn, to be left. Thus draws this Universe
always<br />
Gain out of loss; thus live we mortals one on another.<br />
Bourgeons one generation, and one fades. Let but a few
years<br />
Pass, and a race has arisen which was not: as in a racecourse,<br
/>
One hands on to another the burning torch of Existence.</p>
<h3><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>FROM
HOMER.<br />
<i>Il</i>. I.</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sing</span>, O daughter of
heaven, of Peleus’ son, of Achilles,<br />
Him whose terrible wrath brought thousand woes on Achaia.<br />
Many a stalwart soul did it hurl untimely to Hades,<br />
Souls of the heroes of old: and their bones lay strown on the
sea-sands,<br />
Prey to the vulture and dog. Yet was Zeus fulfilling a
purpose;<br />
Since that far-off day, when in hot strife parted asunder<br />
Atreus’ sceptred son, and the chos’n of heaven,
Achilles.<br />
Say then, which of the Gods bid arise up battle
between them?<br />
<a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
189</span>Zeus’s and Leto’s son. With the king
was kindled his anger:<br />
Then went sickness abroad, and the people died of the
sickness:<br />
For that of Atreus’ son had his priest been lightly
entreated,<br />
Chryses, Apollo’s priest. For he came to the ships of
Achaia,<br />
Bearing a daughter’s ransom, a sum not easy to number:<br
/>
And in his hand was the emblem of Him, far-darting Apollo,<br />
High on a sceptre of gold: and he made his prayer to the
Grecians;<br />
Chiefly to Atreus’ sons, twin chieftains, ordering
armies<br />
“Chiefs sprung of Atreus’ loins; and ye,
brazen-greavèd Achaians!<br />
So may the Gods this day, the Olympus-palacèd, grant
you<br />
<a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
190</span>Priam’s city to raze, and return unscathed to
your homesteads:<br />
Only my own dear daughter I ask; take ransom and yield her,<br />
Rev’rencing His great name, son of Zeus, far-darting
Apollo.”<br />
Then from the host of Achaians arose tumultuous
answer:<br />
“Due to the priest is his honour; accept rich ransom and
yield her.”<br />
But there was war in the spirit of Atreus’ son,
Agamemnon;<br />
Disdainful he dismissed him, a right stern fiat
appending:—<br />
“Woe be to thee, old man, if I find thee
lingering longer,<br />
Yea or returning again, by the hollow ships of Achaians!<br />
Scarce much then will avail thee the great god’s sceptre
and emblem.<br />
<a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>Her will
I never release. Old age must first come upon her,<br />
In my own home, yea in Argos, afar from the land of her
fathers,<br />
Following the loom and attending upon my bed. But avaunt
thee!<br />
Go, and provoke not me, that thy way may be haply
securer.”<br />
These were the words of the king, and the old man
feared and obeyed him:<br />
Voiceless he went by the shore of the great dull-echoing
ocean,<br />
Thither he got him apart, that ancient man; and a long prayer<br
/>
Prayed to Apollo his Lord, son of golden-ringleted Leto.<br />
“Lord of the silver bow, whose arm girds
Chryse and Cilla,—<br />
Cilla, loved of the Gods,—and in might sways Tenedos,
hearken!<br />
<a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>Oh! if,
in days gone by, I have built from floor unto cornice,<br />
Smintheus, a fair shrine for thee; or burned in the flames of the
altar<br />
Fat flesh of bulls and of goats; then do this thing that I ask
thee:<br />
Hurl on the Greeks thy shafts, that thy servant’s tears be
avengèd!”<br />
So did he pray, and his prayer reached the ears of
Phoebus Apollo.<br />
Dark was the soul of the god as he moved from the heights of
Olympus,<br />
Shouldering a bow, and a quiver on this side fast and on that
side.<br />
Onward in anger he moved. And the arrows, stirred by the
motion,<br />
Rattled and rang on his shoulder: he came, as cometh the
midnight.<br />
<a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>Hard by
the ships he stayed him, and loosed one shaft from the
bow-string;<br />
Harshly the stretched string twanged of the bow all
silvery-shining;<br />
First fell his wrath on the mules, and the swift-footed hound of
the herdsman;<br />
Afterward smote he the host. With a rankling arrow he smote
them<br />
Aye; and the morn and the even were red with the glare of the
corpse-fires.<br />
Nine days over the host sped the shafts of the god:
and the tenth day<br />
Dawned; and Achilles said, “Be a council called of the
people.”<br />
(Such thought came to his mind from the goddess, Hera the
white-armed,<br />
Hera who loved those Greeks, and who saw them dying around
her.)<br />
<a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>So when
all were collected and ranged in a solemn assembly,<br />
Straightway rose up amidst them and spake swift-footed
Achilles:—<br />
“Atreus’ son! it were better, I think
this day, that we wandered<br />
Back, re-seeking our homes, (if a warfare <i>may</i> be
avoided);<br />
Now when the sword and the plague, these two things, fight with
Achaians.<br />
Come, let us seek out now some priest, some seer amongst us,<br
/>
Yea or a dreamer of dreams—for a dream too cometh of
God’s hand—<br />
Whence we may learn what hath angered in this wise Phoebus
Apollo.<br />
Whether mayhap he reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;<br
/>
<a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>Whether,
accepting the incense of lambs and of blemishless he-goats,<br />
Yet it be his high will to remove this misery from us.”<br
/>
Down sat the prince: he had spoken. And uprose
to them in answer<br />
Kalchas Thestor’s son, high chief of the host of the
augurs.<br />
Well he knew what is present, what will be, and what was
aforetime;<br />
He into Ilion’s harbour had led those ships of Achaia,<br
/>
All by the Power of the Art, which he gained from Phoebus
Apollo.<br />
Thus then, kindliest-hearted, arising spake he before them:<br />
“Peleus’ son! Thou demandest, a
man heavenfavor’d, an answer<br />
<a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 196</span>Touching
the Great King’s wrath, the afar-off-aiming Apollo:<br />
Therefore I lift up my voice. Swear thou to me, duly
digesting<br />
All,—that with right good will, by word and by deed, thou
wilt aid me.<br />
Surely the ire will awaken of one who mightily ruleth<br />
Over the Argives all: and upon him wait the Achaians.<br />
Aye is the battle the king’s, when a poor man kindleth his
anger:<br />
For, if but this one day he devour his indignation,<br />
Still on the morrow abideth a rage, that its end be
accomplished,<br />
Deep in the soul of the king. So bethink thee, wilt thou
deliver.”<br />
Then unto him making answer arose swift-footed
Achilles:<br />
<a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
197</span>“Fearing nought, up and open the god’s
will, all that is told thee:<br />
For by Apollo’s self, heaven’s favourite, whom thou,
Kalchas,<br />
Serving aright, to the armies aloud God-oracles op’nest:<br
/>
None—while as yet I breathe upon earth, yet walk in the
daylight—<br />
Shall, at the hollow ships, lift hand of oppression against
thee,<br />
None out of all yon host—not and if thou said’st
Agamemnon,<br />
Who now sits in his glory, the topmost flower of the
armies.”<br />
Then did the blameless prophet at last wax valiant
and answer:<br />
“Lo! He doth not reprove us of prayer or of oxen
unoffered;<br />
<a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>But for
his servant’s sake, the disdained of king Agamemnon,<br />
(In that he loosed not his daughter, inclined not his ear to a
ransom,)—<br />
Therefore the Far-darter sendeth, and yet shall send on us,
evil.<br />
Nor shall he stay from the slaughter the hand that is heavy upon
you,<br />
Till to her own dear father the bright-eyed maiden is yielded,<br
/>
No price asked, no ransom; and ships bear hallowèd oxen<br
/>
Chryse-wards:—then, it may be, will he shew mercy and hear
us.”<br />
These words said, sat he down. Then rose in
his place and addressed them<br />
Atreus’ warrior son, Agamemnon king of the nations,<br />
<a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>Sore
grieved. Fury was working in each dark cell of his
bosom,<br />
And in his eye was a glare as a burning fiery furnace:<br />
First to the priest he addressed him, his whole mien boding a
mischief.<br />
“Priest of ill luck! Never heard I of
aught good from thee, but evil.<br />
Still doth the evil thing unto thee seem sweeter of
utt’rance;<br />
Leaving the thing which is good all unspoke, all
unaccomplished.<br />
Lo! this day to the people thou say’st, God-oracles
opening,<br />
What, but that <i>I</i> am the cause why the god’s hand
worketh against them,<br />
For that in sooth I rejected a ransom, aye and a rich one,<br />
<a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>Brought
for the girl Briseis. I did. For I chose to possess
her,<br />
Rather, at home: less favour hath Clytemnestra before me,<br />
Clytemnestra my wife: unto her Briseis is equal,<br />
Equal in form and in stature, in mind and in womanly wisdom.<br
/>
Still, even thus, am I ready to yield her, so it be better:<br />
Better is saving alive, I hold, than slaying a nation.<br />
Meanwhile deck me a guerdon in her stead, lest of Achaians<br />
I should alone lack honour; an unmeet thing and a shameful.<br />
See all men, that my guerdon, I wot not whither it
goeth.”<br />
Then unto him made answer the swift-foot chieftain
Achilles:<br />
<a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>“O
most vaunting of men, most gain-loving, off-spring of Atreus!<br
/>
How shall the lords of Achaia bestow fresh guerdon upon thee?<br
/>
Surely we know not yet of a treasure piled in abundance:<br />
That which the sacking of cities hath brought to us, all hath an
owner,<br />
Yea it were all unfit that the host make redistribution.<br />
Yield thou the maid to the god. So threefold surely and
fourfold<br />
All we Greeks will requite thee, should that day dawn, when the
great Gods<br />
Grant that of yon proud walls not one stone rest on
another.”</p>
<p style="text-align: center">* * * * * *</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">THE
END.</span></p>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2>
<p><a name="footnote15a"></a><a href="#citation15a"
class="footnote">[15a]</a> “The kites know well the
long stern swell<br />
That bids the Romans close.”</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span
class="smcap">Macaulay</span>.</p>
<p><a name="footnote51a"></a><a href="#citation51a"
class="footnote">[51a]</a> “Poor moralist, and what
art thou?<br />
A solitary fly.”</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Gray</span>.</p>
<p><a name="footnote105"></a><a href="#citation105"
class="footnote">[105]</a> In the printed book the
translation appears on one page and the Latin on the facing
page. In this transcription the Latin has been moved to end
of the English, hence the strange page numbering on both.</p>
<p><a name="footnote145a"></a><a href="#citation145a"
class="footnote">[145a]</a> <i>tunicâ pendente</i>:
h. e. ‘suspensâ e brachio.’ Quod
procuratoribus illis valde, ut ferunt, displicebat. Dicunt
vero morem a barbaris tractum, urbem Bosporiam in fl. Iside
habitantibus. <i>Bacciferas tabernas</i>: id q.
nostri vocant “tobacco-shops.”</p>
<p><a name="footnote145b"></a><a href="#citation145b"
class="footnote">[145b]</a>
<i>herbæ—avenâ</i>. Duo quasi genera
artis poeta videtur distinguere. ‘Weed,’
‘pipe,’ recte Scaliger.</p>
<p><a name="footnote146a"></a><a href="#citation146a"
class="footnote">[146a]</a> <i>nil acquirit
eundo</i>. Aqua enim aspera, et radentibus parum
habilis. Immersum hic aliquem et vix aut ne vix quidem
extractum refert schol.</p>
<p><a name="footnote146b"></a><a href="#citation146b"
class="footnote">[146b]</a> <i>tormenta p. q.
mortalia</i>. Eleganter, ut solet, Peile, ‘unearthly
cannons.’ (Cf. Ainaw. D. s. v.)
Perrecondita autem est quæstio de lusibus illorum temporum,
neque in Smithii Dict. Class. satis elucidata. Consule
omnino Kentf. de Bill. <i>Loculis</i>, bene vertas,
‘pockets.<sup>’</sup></p>
<p><a name="footnote147a"></a><a href="#citation147a"
class="footnote">[147a]</a> <i>amantem devio</i>.
Quorsum hoc, quærunt Interpretes. Suspicor equidem
respiciendos, vv. 19–23, de precuratoribus.</p>
<p><a name="footnote148a"></a><a href="#citation148a"
class="footnote">[148a]</a> <i>quadr.
rotm</i>.—<i>Cami ard. im</i><sup><i>o</i></sup>.
Quadrando enim rotundum (Ang. ‘squaring the circle’)
Camum accendere, juvenes ingenui semper nitebantur. Fecisse
vero quemquam non liquet.</p>
<p><a name="footnote148b"></a><a href="#citation148b"
class="footnote">[148b]</a> <i>aure caninâ</i>.
Iterum audi Peile, ‘dog’s-eared.’</p>
<p><a name="footnote148c"></a><a href="#citation148c"
class="footnote">[148c]</a> <i>rixatore</i>. non male
Heins. cum Aldinâ, ‘wrangler.’</p>
<p><a name="footnote149a"></a><a href="#citation149a"
class="footnote">[149a]</a> <i>Mortis</i>. Verbum
generali fere sensu dictum inveni. Suspicor autem poetam
virum quendam innuisse, qui currus, caballos, id genus omne,
mercede non minimâ locaret.</p>
<p><a name="footnote149b"></a><a href="#citation149b"
class="footnote">[149b]</a> <i>aliessâ
quadrâ</i>. Sunt qui de pileis Academicis
accipiunt. Rapidiores enim suas fere amittebant. Sed
judicet sibi lector.</p>
<p><a name="footnote149c"></a><a href="#citation149c"
class="footnote">[149c]</a> <i>opus tunicæ</i>,
‘shirt-work.’ Alii <i>opes</i>. Perperam.</p>
<p><a name="footnote149d"></a><a href="#citation149d"
class="footnote">[149d]</a> <i>vestem</i>. Nota
proprietatem verbi. ‘Vest,’ enim apud politos
id. q. vulgo ‘waistcoat’ appellatur. Quod et
feminæ usurpahant, ut hodiernæ, fibula revinctum,
teste Virgillo:</p>
<blockquote><p> ‘crines nodantur in
aurum,<br />
Aurea purpuream subnectit fibula vestem.’</p>
</blockquote>
<p><a name="footnote150a"></a><a href="#citation150a"
class="footnote">[150a]</a> <i>Basse</i>. cft.
Interpretes illud Horatianum, “Bassum Threicâ vincat
amystide.” Non perspexere viri docti alterum hic
alludi, Anglicanæ originis, neque illum, ut perhibent, a
potu aversum.</p>
<p><a name="footnote150b"></a><a href="#citation150b"
class="footnote">[150b]</a> <i>Ini</i>. Sic nostri,
‘Go in and win.’ <i>rebus</i>,
‘subjects.’</p>
<p><a name="footnote151a"></a><a href="#citation151a"
class="footnote">[151a]</a> <i>crebra r. a.
stabulum</i>. “Turn up year after year at the old
diggings, (i. e. the Senate House,) and be plucked,”
&c. Peile. Quo quid jejunius?</p>
<p><a name="footnote151b"></a><a href="#citation151b"
class="footnote">[151b]</a> Classe—Hirudo.
Obscurior allusio ad picturam quandam (in collectione viri, vel
plusquam viri, Punchii repositam,) in qua juvenis custodem
stationis moerens alloquitur.</p>
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