THE WATER PERI'S SONG.

Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter.

The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;

The Mussulman, coming to fish in this water,

Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,

This grayish bath cloak is her funeral pall;

And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear

Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!

Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,

My mother's own daughter—the last of her race—

She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,

And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

[THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.]

Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think

How Learning doth in rugged states abide,

And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,

In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;

Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,

Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,

But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,

In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,

In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!

II.

This College looketh South and West alsoe,

Because it hath a cast in windows twain;

Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow

Through transparent holes in every pane,

Which Pan, with many paines, makes whole again

With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach

To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain

Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach,"

Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.

III.

And in the midst a little door there is,

Whereon a board that doth congratulate

With painted letters, red as blood I wis,

Thus written,

"CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE":

And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,

Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,

And moans of infants that bemoan their fate,

In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek,

Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.

IV.

For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,

And some for Doctors of Divinitie,

Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,

And soe win academical degree;

But some are bred for service of the sea,

Howbeit, their store of learning is but small,

For mickle waste he counteth it would be

To stock a head with bookish wares at all,

Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon-ball.

Six babes he sways,—some little and some big,

Divided into classes six; alsoe,

He keeps a parlor boarder of a pig,

That in the College fareth to and fro,

And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,

And eke the learned rudiments they scan,

And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,—

Hereafter to be shown in caravan,

And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.

VI.

Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,

Whereof, above his head, some two or three

Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls,

But on the branches of no living tree,

And overlook the learned family;

While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,

Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,

Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research

In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.

VII.

No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue,

Such as would magisterial hams imbed,

But sitteth lowly on a beechen log,

Secure in high authority and dread:

Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head,

And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays,

Because his locks are so unkempt and red,

And stand abroad in many several ways:—

No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.

VIII.

And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows

O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,

That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows

A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;

His nose,—it is a coral to the view;

Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,—

For much he loves his native mountain dew;—

But to depict the dye would lack, I ween,

A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.

IX.

As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short

As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales;

But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,

So that the wind his airy breast assails;

Below, he wears the nether garb of males,

Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—

Thence further down the native red prevails,

Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:—

Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie.

Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap

His function in a magisterial gown,

That shows more countries in it than a map,—

Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,

Besides some blots, standing for country-town;

And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;

But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,

He turns the garment of the other side,

Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!

XI.

And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,

That look for shady or for sunny noon,

Within his visage, like an almanack,—

His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:

But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,

With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,

Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,

And with forebodings of near wrath and storms

They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.

XII.

Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat

"Corduroy Colloquy,"—or "Ki, Kæ, Kod,"—

Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat

More sodden, tho' already made of sod,

For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,—

Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,

He never spoils the child and spares the rod,

But spoils the rod and never spares the child,

And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.

XIII.

But, surely, the just sky will never wink

At men who take delight in childish throe,

And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink

Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;

Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,

By useless birches, that forlorn recess,

Which is no holiday, in Pit below,

Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,—

A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?

XIV.

Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use

Of needful discipline, in due degree.

Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,

Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.

This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,

Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,

And Learning's help be used for infamie,

By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,

In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.

XV.

But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm

The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,

All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,

And cackling chorus with the human scream;

Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam

In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,

Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,

That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,

Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win.

XVI.

No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;—

Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,

And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,

Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof,

Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,

Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,

Or, whilst he labors, weaves a fancy-woof,

Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;—

Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!

XVII.

Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,

When first the scholar lists in Learning's train,

And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,

Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,

From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,

Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,

For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain,

Another weepeth over chilblains fell,

Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!

XVIII.

Anon a third, for his delicious root,

Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,

So soon is human violence afoot,

So hardly is the harmless biter bit!

Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit

And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,

Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,

Alack,—mischance comes seldomtimes alone,

But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.

XIX.

For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,

Smites his scald-head, that is already sore,—

Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub!

Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,

And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,

That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry;

Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,

His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,

Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.

XX.

So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,

And with his natural untender knack,

By new distress, bids former grievance cease,

Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,

That sets the mournful visage all awrack;

Yet soon the childish countenance will shine

Even as thorough storms the soonest slack,

For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,

This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.

XXI.

Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,

The Dominie lays ope the learned page;

(So be it called) although he doth expound

Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage;

Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age,

How Romulus was bred in savage wood,

By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage;

And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud,

But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.

XXII.

Anon, he turns to that Homeric war,

How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town;

And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car,

Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown;

And eke the bard, that sung of their renown,

In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn,

He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down,

Because, at once, in seven cities born;

And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.

XXIII.

Anon, through old Mythology he goes,

Of Gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,

But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows

How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,

Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;

But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope

Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys,

And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope,

Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope!

XXIV.

From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,

To new philosophies, that still are green,

And shows what railroads have been track'd, to guide

The wheels of great political machine;

If English corn should grow abroad, I ween,

And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet;

How many pigs be born to each spalpeen;

And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,—

With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!

XXV.

Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth,

That stood around with serious look intense,

Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth,

Which they had opened to his eloquence,

As if their hearing were a threefold sense.

But now the current of his words is done,

And whether any fruits shall spring from thence,

In future time, with any mother's son,

It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.

XXVI.

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,

The hour is come to lay aside their lore;

The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon,

And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,—and four

Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door,

Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,

All blithe and boisterous,—but leave two more,

With Reading made Uneasy for a task,

To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,

XXVII.

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod,

With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,

That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,

So soothly kind is Erin to her own!

And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,—

For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow;

Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone!

Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,

And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow!

XXVIII.

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,

Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;

But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift

His college gown, because of solar glow,

And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow:

Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,

Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,

Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,

With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen.

XXIX.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,

Linked each to each by labor, like a bee;

Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;—

Would there were many more such wights as he,

To sway each capital academie

Of Cam and Isis; for, alack! at each

There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,

That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,

But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

[FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.]

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,

And used to war's alarms;

But a cannon-ball took off his legs,

So he laid down his arms!

Now as they bore him off the field,

Said he, "Let others shoot,

For here I leave my second leg,

And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs:

Said he,—"They're only pegs:

But there's as wooden members quite,

As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,

Her name was Nelly Gray;

So he went to pay her his devours,

When he'd devour'd his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,

She made him quite a scoff;

And when she saw his wooden legs,

Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!

Is this your love so warm?

The love that loves a scarlet coat

Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once,

For he was blithe and brave;

But I will never have a man

With both legs in the grave!"

"Before you had those timber toes,

Your love I did allow,

But then, you know, you stand upon

Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!

For all your jeering speeches,

At duty's call, I left my legs

In Badajos's breaches!"

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet

Of legs in war's alarms,

And now you cannot wear your shoes

Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!

I know why you refuse:—

Though I've no feet—some other man

Is standing in my shoes!"

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;

But, now, a long farewell!

For you will be my death:—alas!

You will not be my Nell!"

Now when he went from Nelly Gray,

His heart so heavy got—

And life was such a burthen grown,

It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck

A rope he did entwine,

And, for his second time in life,

Enlisted in the Line!

One end he tied around a beam,

And then removed his pegs,

And, as his legs were off,—of course,

He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead

As any nail in town,—

For though distress had cut him up,

It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,

To find out why he died—

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,

With a stake in his inside!

[BIANCA'S DREAM.]

A VENETIAN STORY.

Bianca!—fair Bianca!—who could dwell

With safety on her dark and hazel gaze,

Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell,

Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days?

The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell,

She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze;

Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it,

That he could light his link at in a minute.

II.

So that, wherever in her charms she shone,

A thousand breasts were kindled into flame;

Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own,

And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came;

All hearts indeed were conquer'd but her own,

Which none could ever temper down or tame:

In short, to take our haberdasher's hints,

She might have written over it,—"from Flints."

III.

She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex,

At least in Venice—where with eyes of brown

Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex

An amorous gentle with a needless frown;

Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks,

And Love at casements climbeth up and down,

Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind,

Some have considered a Venetian blind.

IV.

Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught,

Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailer,

To hapless Julio—all in vain he sought

With each new moon his hatter and his tailor;

In vain the richest padusoy he bought,

And went in bran new beaver to assail her—

As if to show that Love had made him smart

All over—and not merely round his heart.

In vain he labor'd thro' the sylvan park

Bianca haunted in—that where she came,

Her learned eyes in wandering might mark

The twisted cypher of her maiden name,

Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark:

No one was touched or troubled by his flame,

Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow

In trees,—like wooden dolls in embryo.

VI.

In vain complaining elegies he writ,

And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve,

And sang in quavers how his heart was split,

Constant beneath her lattice with each eve;

She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit,

And slash'd his suit so that it matched his sleeve,

Till he grew silent at the vesper star,

And, quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar.

VII.

Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er

With snows unmelting—an eternal sheet,

But his was red within him, like the core

Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat;

And oft he longed internally to pour

His flames and glowing lava at her feet,

But when his burnings he began to spout.

She stopp'd his mouth, and put the crater out.

VIII.

Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men,

So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key

Suspended at death's door—so pale—and then

He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree;

The life of man is three score years and ten,

But he was perishing at twenty-three,

For people truly said, as grief grew stronger,

"It could not shorten his poor life—much longer."

IX.

For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed,

Nor relished any kind of mirth below;

Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head,

Love had become his universal foe,

Salt in his sugar—nightmare in his bed,

At last, no wonder wretched Julio,

A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth

Of hope,—made up his mind to cut her girth!

For hapless lovers always died of old,

Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud;

So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told,

The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood;

And so poor Sappho when her boy was cold,

Drown'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood,

Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past,

For those old suitors lived beyond their last.

XI.

So Julio went to drown,—when life was dull,

But took his corks, and merely had a bath;

And once he pull'd a trigger at his skull,

But merely broke a window in his wrath;

And once, his hopeless being to annul,

He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath,

A line so ample, 'twas a query whether

'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether.

XII.

Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust

His sorrows thro'—'tis horrible to die!

And come down, with our little all of dust,

That dun of all the duns to satisfy:

To leave life's pleasant city as we must,

In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie,

Where even all our personals must go

To pay the debt of nature that we owe!

XIII.

So Julio liv'd:—'twas nothing but a pet

He took at life—a momentary spite;

Besides, he hoped that time would some day get

The better of love's flame, howover bright;

A thing that time has never compass'd yet,

For love, we know, is an immortal light.

Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt,

Was always in,—for none have found it out.

XIV.

Meanwhile, Bianca dream'd—'twas once when Night

Along the darken'd plain began to creep,

Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright,

Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep:

The flow'rs had shut their eyes—the zephyr light

Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep.

And all the little birds had laid their heads

Under their wings—sleeping in feather beds.

XV.

Lone in her chamber sate the dark-ey'd maid,

By easy stages jaunting thro' her pray'rs,

But list'ning side-long to a serenade,

That robb'd the saints a little of their shares;

For Julio underneath the lattice play'd

His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs,

Born only underneath Italian skies,

Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs.

XVI.

Sweet was the tune—the words were even sweeter—

Praising her eyes, her lips, her nose, her hair,

With all the common tropes wherewith in metre

The hackney poets overcharge their fair.

Her shape was like Diana's, but completer;

Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare:

Cupid, alas! was cruel Sagittarius,

Julio—the weeping water-man Aquarius.

XVII.

Now, after listing to such laudings rare,

'Twas very natural indeed to go—

What if she did postpone one little pray'r—

To ask her mirror "if it was not so?"

'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear,

Reflecting her at once from top to toe:

And there she gazed upon that glossy track,

That show'd her front face tho' it "gave her back."

XVIII.

And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall,

By that dear page where first the woman reads:

That Julio was no flatt'rer, none at all,

She told herself—and then she told her beads;

Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall

Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds;

For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares,

Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs.

XIX.

Then like a drooping rose so bended she,

Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed;

But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see,

That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed,

A beauty-bright as it was wont to be,

A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed:

'Tis very natural some people say,

To dream of what we dwell on in the day.

XX.

Still shone her face—yet not, alas! the same,

But 'gan some dreary touches to assume,

And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came—

Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom,

Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same,

Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum:

There was a throbbing at her heart within,

For, oh! there was a shooting in her chin.

XXI.

And lo! upon her sad desponding brow,

The cruel trenches of besieging age,

With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show

Her place was booking for the seventh stage;

And where her raven tresses used to flow,

Some locks that Time had left her in his rage.

And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady,

A compound (like our Psalms) of tête and braidy.

XXII.

Then for her shape—alas! how Saturn wrecks,

And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about,

Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks,

Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout,

Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex:

Witness those pensioners called In and Out,

Who all day watching first and second rater,

Quaintly unbend themselves—but grow no straighter.

XXIII.

So Time with fair Bianca dealt, and made

Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow;

His iron hand upon her spine he laid,

And twisted all awry her "winsome marrow."

In truth it was a change!—she had obey'd

The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow,

But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her

Something between a Glassite and a Quaker.

XXIV.

Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme,

And she had ample reason for her trouble;

For what sad maiden can endure to seem

Set in for singleness, tho' growing double.

The fancy madden'd her; but now the dream,

Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble,

Burst,—but still left some fragments of its size,

That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes.

XXV.

And here—just here—as she began to heed

The real world, her clock chimed out its score;

A clock it was of the Venetian breed,

That cried the hour from one to twenty-four;

The works moreover standing in some need

Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more;

A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears,

Such strokes referring doubtless to her years.

XXVI.

At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun,

By twenty she had quite renounced the veil;

She thought of Julio just at twenty-one,

And thirty made her very sad and pale,

To paint that ruin where her charms would run;

At forty all the maid began to fail,

And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her,

Of single blessedness, than single Gloster.

XXVII.

And so Bianca changed;—the next sweet even,

With Julio in a black Venetian bark,

Row'd slow and stealthily—the hour, eleven,

Just sounding from the tow'r of old St. Mark;

She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n,

Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark

That veil'd her blushing cheek,—for Julio brought her

Of course—to break the ice upon the water.

XXVIII.

But what a puzzle is one's serious mind

To open;—oysters, when the ice is thick,

Are not so difficult and disinclin'd;

And Julio felt the declaration stick

About his throat in a most awful kind;

However, he contrived by bits to pick

His trouble forth,—much like a rotten cork

Grop'd from a long-necked bottle with a fork.

XXIX.

But love is still the quickest of all readers;

And Julio spent besides those signs profuse

That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders,

In help of language, are so apt to use,

Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders,

Nods, shrugs, and bends,—Bianca could not choose

But soften to his suit with more facility,

He told his story with so much agility.

XXX.

"Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear,

(So he began at last to speak or quote;)

Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier,

(For passion takes this figurative note;)

Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier;

Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote:

My lily be, and I will be thy river;

Be thou my life—and I will be thy liver."

XXXI.

This, with more tender logic of the kind,

He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear,

That timidly against his lips inclin'd;

Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere

That even now began to steal behind

A dewy vapor, which was lingering near,

Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale,

Just like a virgin putting on the veil:—

XXXII.

Bidding adieu to all her sparks—the stars,

That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train,

Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars—

Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again.

Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars,

Bianca did not watch these signs in vain,

But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse,

With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips.

XXXIII.

He took the hint full speedily, and, back'd

By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness,

Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd

(Tho' quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness;

That made her think all other kisses lack'd

Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness;

Being used but sisterly salutes to feel,

Insipid things—like sandwiches of veal.

XXXIV.

He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring

The pretty fingers all instead of one;

Anon his stealthy arm began to cling

About her waist that had been clasp'd by none,

Their dear confessions I forbear to sing,

Since cold description would but be outrun;

For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r,

In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour!

[THE DEMON-SHIP.]

'Twas off the Wash—the sun went down—the sea look'd black and grim,

For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim;

Titanic shades! enormous gloom!—as if the solid night

Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light!

It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye

With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!

Down went my-helm—close reef'd—the tack held freely in my hand—

With ballast snug—I put about, and scudded for the land.

Loud hiss'd the sea beneath her lee—my little boat flew fast,

But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.

Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!

What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!

What darksome caverns yawn'd before! what jagged steeps behind!

Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind.

Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,

But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place;

As black as night—they turned to white, and cast against the cloud

A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud:—

Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run!

Behold yon fatal billow rise—ten billows heap'd in one!

With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast,

As if the scooping sea contain'd one only wave at last!

Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;

It seem'd as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave!

Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face—

I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!

I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine!

Another pulse—and down it rush'd—an avalanche of brine!

Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home;

The waters clos'd—and when I shriek'd, I shriek'd below the foam!

Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed—

For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.

"Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?"

With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath;

My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound—

And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem'd around?

A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft;

But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft?

A face, that mock'd the human face, before me watch'd alone;

But were those eyes the eyes of man that look'd against my own?

Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight

As met my gaze, when first I look'd, on that accursed night!

I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes

Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams—

Hyenas—cats—blood-loving bats—and apes with hateful stare,—

Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls—the lion, and she-bear—

Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite—

Detested features, hardly dimm'd and banish'd by the light!

Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs—

All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms—

Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,—

But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!

His cheek was black—his brow was black—his eyes and hair as dark;

His hand was black, and where it touch'd, it left a sable mark;

His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look'd beneath,

His breast was black—all, all, was black, except his grinning teeth.

His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves!

Oh, horror! e'en the ship was black that plough'd the inky waves!

"Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake,

Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?"

"What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal?

It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain'd my soul!

Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil'd

My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child,—

My mother dear—my native fields, I never more shall see:

I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea!"

Loud laugh'd that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return

His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern—

A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce—

As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once:

A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy'd the merry fit,

With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit.

They crow'd their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole;—

"Our skins," said he, "are black, ye see, because we carry coal;

You'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields—

For this here ship has pick'd you up—the Mary Ann of Shields!"

[TIM TURPIN.]

A PATHETIC BALLAD.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,

And ne'er had seen the skies:

For Mature, when his head was made,

Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue,

Poor Tim was forc'd to do—

Look out for pupils, for he had

A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight

Of objects dim and small:

But Tim had specks within his eyes,

And could not see at all.

Now Tim he woo'd a servant-maid,

And took her to his arms;

For he, like Pyramus, had cast

A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down

Where'er he wished to jog,

A happy wife, altho' she led

The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had liv'd a month

In honey with his wife,

A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes,

Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were open'd thus,

He wish'd them dark again:

For when he look'd upon his wife,

He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse,

He couldn't bear to eat:

For she was any thing but like

A Grace before his meat.

Tim he was a feeling man:

For when his sight was thick,

It made him feel for every thing—

But that was with a stick.

So with a cudgel in his hand—

It was not light or slim—

He knocked at his wife's head until

It open'd unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold,

He took his slaughter'd spouse,

And laid her in a heap with all

The ashes of her house.

But like a wicked murderer,

He lived in constant fear

From day to day, and so he cut

His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetch'd a doctor in:

Said he, this wound I dread

Can hardly be sew'd up—his life

Is hanging on a thread.

But when another week was gone,

He gave him stronger hope—

Instead of hanging on a thread,

Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work

In ashes round about,

How little he supposed the truth

Would soon be sifted out.

But when the parish dustman came,

His rubbish to withdraw,

He found more dust within the heap

Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact,

Were sworn that very day;

But tho' they all were jurors, yet

No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen,

You need not waste your breath,

For I confess myself at once

The author of her death.

And, oh! when I reflect upon

The blood that I have spilt,

Just like a button is my soul,

Inscrib'd with double guilt!

Then turning round his head again,

He saw before his eyes

A great judge, and a little judge,

The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment cap,

And put it on his head,

And sentenc'd Tim by law to hang,

'Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung

(Fit punishment for such)

On Horsham-drop, and none can say

It was a drop too much.

[DEATH'S RAMBLE.][27]

One day the dreary old King of Death

Inclined for some sport with the carnal,

So he tied a pack of darts on his back,

And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,

His body was lean and lank,

His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur

Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,

This goblin of grisly bone?

He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd

Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd, it made him laugh,

(For the man was a coffin-maker,)

To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,

Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,

Quoth he, "We shall not differ."

And he let them alone, like figures of stone,

For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,

In fear they could not smother;

And he shot one through at once—for he knew

They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,

And he gave a snore infernal;

Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep

Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving his coach

So slow, that his fare grew sick;

But he let him stray on his tedious way,

For Death only wars on the quick.

Death saw a toll-man taking a toll,

In the spirit of his fraternity;

But he knew that sort of man would extort,

Though summon'd to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,

But he let him write no further;

For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,

Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pull'd out his purse,

And a doctor that took the sum;

But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee"

Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell,

And he gave him a mortal thrust;

For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,

Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he marked him out for slaughter;

For on water he scarcely had cared for Death,

And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,

But the game wasn't worth a dump,

For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,

To wait for the final trump!

[A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.]

There's some is born with their straight legs by natur—

And some is born with bow-legs from the first—

And some that should have grow'd a good deal straighter,

But they were badly nurs'd,

And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs

Astride of casks and kegs:

I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard,

And starboard,

And this is what it was that warp'd my legs.—

'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say,

That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip;

But on the tenth of May,

When I gets under weigh,

Down there in Hertfordshire, to join my ship,

I sees the mail

Get under sail,

The only one there was to make the trip.

Well—I gives chase,

But as she run

Two knots, to one,

There warn't no use in keeping on the race!

Well—casting round about, what next to try on,

And how to spin,

I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,

And bears away to leeward for the inn,

Beats round the gable,

And fetches up before the coach-horse stable:

Well—there they stand, four kickers in a row.

And so

I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable.

But riding isn't in a seaman's natur—

So I whips out a toughish end of yarn,

And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter

To splice me, heel to heel,

Under the she-mare's keel,

And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn!

My eyes! how she did pitch!

And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line,

Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line,

But always making lee-way to the ditch,

And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways.

The devil sink the craft!

And wasn't she trimendus slack in stays!

We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft!

Well—I suppose

We hadn't run a knot—or much beyond—

(What will you have on it?)—but off she goes,

Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond!

There I am!—all a-back!

So I looks forward for her bridle-gears,

To heave her head round on the t'other tack;

But when I starts,

The leather parts,

And goes away right over by the ears!

What could a fellow do,

Whose legs, like mine, you know, we're in the bilboes,

But trim myself upright for bringing-to,

And square his yard-arms, and brace up his elbows,

In rig all snug and clever,

Just while his craft was taking in her water?

I didn't like my berth tho', howsomdever,

Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter,—

Says I—I wish this job was rayther shorter!

The chase had gain'd a mile

A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking;

Now, all the while

Her body didn't take of course to shrinking.

Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking—

And so she swell'd, and swell'd,

And yet the tackle held,

'Till both my legs began to bend like winkin.

My eyes! but she took in enough to founder!

And there's my timbers straining every bit,

Ready to split,

And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder!

Well, there—off Hertford Ness,

We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together,

And can't contrive a signal of distress;

Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather,

Tho' sick of riding out—and nothing less;

When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn:—

Hollo! says I, come underneath her quarter!—

And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn.

So I gets off, and lands upon the road,

And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn,

A-standing by the water.

If I get on another, I'll be blow'd!—

And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd!

[THE VOLUNTEER.]

"The clashing of my armor in my ears

Sounds like a passing bell; my buckler puts me

In mind of a bier; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe

To dig my grave."