IV.
Fare thee well, fare thee well,
Most beautiful of earthly things!
I will not bid thy spirit stay,
Nor link to earth those glittering wings,
That burst like light away!
I know that thou art gone to dwell
In the sunny home of the fresh day-beam,
Before decay’s unpitying tread
Hath crept upon the dearest dream
That ever came and fled;
Fare thee well, fare thee well;
And go thy way, all pure and fair,
Into the starry firmament;
And wander there with the spirits of air,
As bright and innocent!
Fare thee well, fare thee well!
Strange feet will be upon thy clay,
And never stop to sigh or sorrow;
Yet many wept for thee to-day,
And one will weep to-morrow:
Alas! that melancholy knell
Shall often wake my wondering ear,
And thou shalt greet me for awhile,
Too beautiful to make me fear,
Too sad to let me smile!
Fare thee well, fare thee well!
I know that heaven for thee is won!
And yet I feel I would resign
Whole ages of my life, for one—
One little hour, of thine!
Fare thee well, fare thee well!
See, I have been to the sweetest bowers,
And culled from garden and from heath
The tenderest of all tender flowers,
And blended in my wreath
The violet and the blue harebell,
And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;
Alas! I meant it for thy hair,
And now I fling it on thy tomb,
To weep and wither there!
Fare ye well, fare ye well!
Sleep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,
Droop, droop, to-night, thou blushing token;
A fairer flower shall never fade,
Nor a fonder heart be broken!
V.
(FROM CANTO III.)
Clotilda! many hearts are light,
And many lips dissemble;
But I am thine till priests shall fight,
Or Cœur de Lion tremble!—
Hath Jerome burned his rosary,
Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But till you mean your hopes to die,
Engrave them not in water!
Sweet Ida, on my lonely way
Those tears I will remember,
Till icicles shall cling to May,
Or roses to December!—
Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer’s brow?
Is drowsy Winter waking?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lances, and a lover’s vow,
Were only made for breaking.
Lenora, I am faithful still,
By all the saints that listen,
Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,
Or these wild veins to glisten!—
This bosom,—is its pulse less high?
Or sleeps the storm within it?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lovers find eternity
In less than half a minute.
And thus to thee I swear to-night,
By thine own lips and tresses,
That I will take no further flight,
Nor break again my jesses:
And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,
And dream in spite of warning?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But go and lure the midnight cloud,
Or chain the mist of morning.
These words of mine, so false and bland,
Forget that they were spoken!
The ring is on thy radiant hand,—
Dash down the faithless token!
And will they say that Beauty sinned,
That Woman turned a rover?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lovers’ vows are like the wind—
And Vidal is a Lover.
THE SEPARATION.
“Lorsque l’on aime comme il faut
Le moindre éloignement nous tue
Et ce, dont on chérit la vue
Ne reviènt jamais assez tôt.”—Moliere.
He’s gone, dear Fanny!—gone at last—
We’ve said good-bye—and all is over;
’Twas a gay dream—but it is past—
Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover.
Well! gentle waves be round his prow!
But tear and prayer alike are idle;
Oh! who shall fill my album now?
And who shall hold my pony’s bridle?
Last night he left us after tea—
I never thought he’d leave us—never;
He was so pleasant, was’nt he?
Papa, too, said he was so clever.
And, Fanny, you’ll be glad to hear—
That little boy that looked so yellow,
Whose eyes were so like his—my dear,
Is a poor little orphan fellow!
That odious Miss Lucretia Browne,
Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles,
Is always running through the town,
And circulating tracts—and libels;
Because he never danced with her,
Told dear Mamma such horrid scandal
About his moral character,
For stooping, just to tie a sandal!
She said he went to fights and fairs—
That always gives Papa the fidgets;
She said he did not know his prayers—
He’s every Sunday at St. Bridget’s!
She said he squeezed one’s waist and hands
Whene’er he waltzed—a plague upon her—
I danced with him at Lady Eland’s—
He never squeezed me—’pon my honour!
His regiment have got the route,
(They came down here to quell the riot,
And now—what can they be about,
The stupid people are so quiet:)—
They say it is to India, too,
If there I’m sure he’ll get the liver!—
And should he bathe—he used to do—
They’ve crocodiles in every river.
There may be bright eyes there—and then!
(I’m sure I love him like a brother;)
His lute will soon be strung again,
His heart will soon beat for another.
I know him well! he is not false—
But when the song he loves is playing—
Or after he has danced a waltz—
He never knows what he is saying.
I know ’twas wrong—’twas very wrong—
To listen to his wild romancing;
Last night I danced with him too long,—
One’s always giddy after dancing:
But when he begged me so to sing,
And when he sighed, and asked me, “Would I?”
And when he took my turquoise ring,
I’m sure I could not help it, could I?
Papa was lecturing the girls,
And talked of settlements and rentals;—
I wore a white-lace frock—and pearls—
He looked so well in regimentals!
And just before we came away,
While we were waiting for the carriage,
I heard him, not quite plainly, say
Something of Blacksmiths—and of marriage.
He promised, if he could get leave,
He’d soon come back—I wonder can he?—
Lord Hill is very strict, I b’lieve;—
(What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny?)
He said he wished we ne’er had met,
I answered—it was lovely weather!—
And then he bade me not forget
The pleasant days we’d passed together.
He’s gone—and other lips may weave
A stronger spell than mine to bind him;
But bid him, if he loves me, leave
Those rhymes he made me love, behind him;
Tell him I know those waywards strings
Not always sound to mirthful measures;
But sighs are sometimes pleasant things,
And tears from those we love are treasures.
Tell him to leave off drinking wine,—
Tell him to break himself off smoking,—
Tell him to go to bed at nine,—
His hours are really quite provoking.
Tell him I hope he won’t get fat,—
Tell him to act with due reflection;—
Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat,
Or else he’ll ruin his complexion.
Tell him I am so ill to-day,—
Perhaps to-morrow I’ll be better;—-
Tell him before he goes away
To write me a consoling letter:
Tell him to send me down that song
He said he loved the best of any,—
Tell him I’m sure I can’t live long,—
And—bid him love me,—won’t you, Fanny?
AN INVITATION.
“If she be not fair to me,
What care I how fair she be.”—Suckling.
Wherefore, Fanny, look so lovely,
In your anger, in your glee?
Laughing, weeping, fair, capricious!
If you will look so delicious,
Prythee, look at me!
Wherefore, Fanny, sing so sweetly,
Like the bird upon the tree,—
Hearts in dozens round you bringing?
Siren! if you must be singing,
Prythee, sing to me!
Wherefore, Fanny, dance so lightly,
Like the wave upon the sea?
Motion every charm enhancing;
Fanny, if you will be dancing,
Prythee, dance with me!
Wherefore smile so like an angel,
Angel-like although you be?
Head and heart at once beguiling,—
Dearest! if you will be smiling,
Prythee, smile on me!
Wherefore flirt, and aim your arrows
At each harmless fop you see?
Coxcombs, hardly worth the hurting;
Tyrant! if you must be flirting,
Prythee, flirt with me!
Wherefore, Fanny, kiss and fondle
Half the ugly brats you see?
Waste not love among so many;—
Sweetest! if you fondle any,
Prythee, fondle me!
Wherefore wedlock’s lottery enter?
Chances for you, one to three!
Richest ventures oft miscarry,
Fanny, Fanny, if you marry,
Prythee, marry me!
A DISCOURSE DELIVERED BY A COLLEGE TUTOR,
AT A SUPPER PARTY, JULY 1ST, 1825.
Ye dons and ye doctors, ye provosts and proctors,
Who are paid to monopolise knowledge,
Come make opposition, by vote and petition,
To the radical infidel college;
Come put forth your powers, in aid of the towers
Which boast of their bishops and martyrs;
And arm all the terrors of privileged errors
Which live by the wax of their charters.
Let Mackintosh battle with Canning and V——,
Let Brougham be a friend to the niggers,
Burdett cure the nation’s misrepresentations,
And Hume make a figure in figures;
But let them not babble of Greek to the rabble,
Nor teach the mechanics their letters;
The labouring classes were born to be asses,
And not to be aping their betters.
’Tis a terrible crisis for Cam and for Isis,
Fat butchers are learning dissection;
And looking-glass makers become Sabbath breakers,
To study the laws of reflection;
Sin Φ and sin Θ, no sin can be sweeter,
Are taught to the poor of both sexes,
And weavers and spinners jump up from their dinners
To flirt with their y’s and their x’s.
Chuck farthing advances the doctrine of chances
In spite of the staff of the beadle;
And menders of breeches between the long stitches
Write books on the laws of the needle;
And chandlers all chatter of luminous matter,
Who communicate none to their tallows;
And rogues gets a notion of the pendulum’s motion
Which is only of use at the gallows.
The impurest of Attics read pure mathematics,
The gin-shops are turned into cloisters;
A Crawford next summer will fill up your rummer,
A Copleston open your oysters;
The bells of Old Bailey are practising gaily
The erudite tunes of St. Mary’s;
The Minories any day will rear you a Kennedy,
And Bishopsgate blossom with Airy’s.
The nature of granites, the tricks of the planets,
The forces of steam and of gases,
The engines mechanical, the long words botanical,
The ranging of beetles in classes,
The delicate junctions of symbols and functions,
The impossible roots of equations,
Are these proper questions for Cockney digestions,
Fit food for a cit’s lucubrations?
The eloquent pages of time-hallowed sages,
Embalmed by some critical German,
Old presents by Brunckius, new futures by Monckius,[6]
The squabbles of Porson with Hermann,
Your Alphas and Betas, your canons of metres,
Your infinite powers of particles,
Shall these and such like work make journeymen strike work,
And ’prentices tear up their articles.
But oh, since fair science will cruelly fly hence,
To smile upon vagrants and gypsies,
Since knights of the hammer must handle their grammar,
And nightmen account for eclipses,
Our handicraft neighbours shall share in our labours
If they leave us the whole of the honey,
And the sans culotte caitiff shall start for the plate if
He puts in no claim for plate-money.
Ye halls on whose daïs the don of to-day is
To feed on the beef and the benison,
Ye common room glories, where beneficed Tories
Digest their belief and their venison,
Ye duels scholastic, where quibbles monastic
Are asserted with none to confute them,
Ye grave congregations, where frequent taxations
Are settled with none to dispute them:
Far hence be the season when radical treason
Of port and of puddings shall bilk ye;
When the weavers aforesaid shall taste of our boar’s head,
The silk-winders swallow our silky:
When the mob shall eat faster than any vice-master,
The watermen try to out-tope us;
When Campbell shall dish up a bowl of our bishop,
Or Brougham and Co. cope with our Copus.[7]
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night to thee, lady!—though many
Have join’d in the dance to-night,
Thy form was the fairest of any,
Where all was seducing and bright;
Thy smile was the softest and dearest,
Thy form the most sylph-like of all,
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest
That e’er held a partner in thrall.
Good night to thee, lady!—’tis over—
The waltz, the quadrille, and the song—
The whisper’d farewell of the lover,
The heartless adieu of the throng;
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,
The eyelid that long’d for repose—
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,
The girls that were dreaming of beaux.
’Tis over—the lights are all dying,
The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;
And Beauty counts over her numbers
Of conquests, as homeward she drives—-
And some are gone home to their slumbers,
And some are gone home to their wives.
And I, while my cab in the shower
Is waiting, the last at the door
Am looking all around for the flower
That fell from your wreath on the floor,
I’ll keep it—if but to remind me,
Though withered and faded its hue—
Wherever next season may find me—
Of England—of Almack’s—and you!
There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely
Our path be o’er mountain or sea;
There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be;
There are hopes which our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten
With a light that is clearer than day.
There are names that we cherish, though nameless;
For aye on the lips they may be;
There are hearts that, though fetter’d, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpress’d, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,
And some for a husband too light.
—The ball and my dream are all over—
Good night to thee, lady! good night!
HOBBLEDEHOYS.
“Not a man—nor a boy—
But a Hobbledehoy.”—Old Song.
Oh! there is a time, a happy time,
When a boy is just half a man;
When ladies may kiss him without a crime,
And flirt with him like a fan:—
When mammas with their daughters will leave him alone,
If he only will seem to fear them;
While were he a man, or a little more grown,
They never would let him near them.
These, Lilly!—these were the days when you
Were my boyhood’s earliest flame,—
When I thought it an honour to tie your shoe,
And trembled to hear your name:—
When I scarcely ventured to take a kiss,
Though your lips seemed half to invite me;
But, Lilly! I soon got over this,—
When I kissed—and they did not bite me!
Oh! these were gladsome and fairy times,
And our hearts were then in their Spring,
When I passed my nights in writing you rhymes,
And my days in hearing you sing:—
And don’t you remember your mother’s dismay
When she found in your drawer my sonnet;
And the beautiful verses I wrote, one day,
On the ribbon that hung from your bonnet!
And the seat we made by the fountain’s gush,
Where your task you were wont to say,—
And how I lay under the holly-bush
Till your governess went away:—
And how, when too long at your task you sat,
Or whenever a kiss I wanted,
I brayed like an ass—or mewed like a cat,
Till she deemed that the place was haunted!
And do you not, love, remember the days
When I dressed you for the play,—
When I pinned your kerchief, and laced your stays
In the neatest and tidiest way!—
And do you forget the kiss you gave
When I tore my hand with the pin;—
And how you wondered men would not shave
The beards from their horrible chin.
And do you remember the garden wall
I climbed up every night,—
And the racket we made in the servants’ hall
When the wind had put out the light;—
When Sally got up in her petticoat,
And John came out in his shirt,—
And I silenced her with a guinea-note,
And blinded him with a squirt!
And don’t you remember the horrible bite
I got from the gardener’s bitch,
When John let her out of the kennel, for spite,
And she seized me, crossing the ditch;—
And how you wept when you saw my blood,
And numbered me with Love’s martyrs,—
And how you helped me out of the mud,
By tying together your garters!
But, Lilly! now I am grown a man,
And those days have all gone by,—
And Fortune may give me the best she can,
And the brightest destiny;
But I would give every hope and joy
That my spirit may taste again,
That I once more were that gladsome boy,
And that you were as young as then.
A CLASSICAL WALK.
“You have often promised to teach me Greek and Latin. Now, that we are in this classic land, do keep your promise.”—Conversation on the beach at Salerno.
Oh, yes! beside that moonlit creek,
Where sleep the silent waters,
I’ll teach thee all I know of Greek,
Young queen of beauty’s daughters!
And each sweet eve, by that lone shore,
Where no rude step can fright us,
We’ll cull sweet flowers of classic lore,
With the young stars to light us!
I’ll teach thee how the billows grieve,
Where Lesbian Sappho slumbers,
How young Catullus used to weave
Fresh heart-sighs with his numbers:
How Ariadne sighed and wept,
And watched her love’s returning;
And the young maid of Sestos kept
Her love-lamp ever burning.
There by the light the quiet sky
And the soft stars have made us,
Thou for my Commentary;—I
Thy Lexicon and Gradus;—
We’ll con each page of that bright lore,
Love taught those maiden sages
Who read in Paphos’ bowers of yore,
With moonlight on the pages!
And if, ere half our walk be done,
Some ruined fane we light on,
Which love once warmed,—some little one
That moonlight then is bright on;
We’ll kneel—and should some spark that glows
Still round the altar, reach us,
And light our hearts—Heaven only knows
What wondrous things ’twill teach us!