SONG.
Tell him I love him yet,
As in that joyous time;
Tell him I ne’er forget,
Though memory now be crime;
Tell him, when sad moonlight
Is over earth and sea,
I dream of him by night,—
He must not dream of me!
Tell him to go where Fame
Looks proudly on the brave;
Tell him to win a name
By deeds on land and wave;
Green—green upon his brow
The laurel wreath shall be;
Although the laurel now
May not be shared with me.
Tell him to smile again
In Pleasure’s dazzling throng,
To wear another’s chain,
To praise another’s song.
Before the loveliest there
I’d have him bend his knee,
And breathe to her the prayer
He used to breathe to me.
And tell him, day by day,
Life looks to me more dim;
I falter when I pray,
Although I pray for him.
And bid him when I die,
Come to our favourite tree;
I shall not hear him sigh,—
Then let him sigh for me!
CONFESSIONS.
From the Manuscript of a Sexagenarian.
In youth, when pen and fingers first
Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek ’em,
Ere luring hope’s gay bubbles burst,
Or Chitty was my vade mecum,
Ere years had charactered my brow
With the deep lines, that well become it,
Or told me that warm hearts could grow
Cold as Mont Blanc’s snow-covered summit—
When my slow step and solemn swing
Were steadier and somewhat brisker,
When velvet collars were “the thing,”
And long before I wore a whisker,
Ere I had measured six foot two,
Or bought Havannas by the dozen,
I fell in love—as many do—
She was an angel—hem—my cousin.
Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance
Cast back on memory’s shorthand record,
I wonder—if by any chance
Life’s future page will be so checkered!
My angel cousin!—ah! her form—
Her lofty brow—her curls of raven,
Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,
Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.
Her lips with music eloquent
As her own grand upright piano;
No—never yet was Peri lent
To earth like thee, sweet Adriana.
I may not—dare not—call to mind
The joys that once my breast elated,
Though yet, methinks, the morning wind
Sweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted:
And then I pause, and turn aside
From pleasure’s throng of pangless-hearted,
To weep! No. Sentiment and pride
Are by each other always thwarted!
I press my hand upon my brow,
To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it,
Recall my boyhood’s faltered vow,
And marvel—if she still believes it.
But she is woman—and her heart,
Like her tiara’s brightest jewel,
Cold—hard—till kindled by some art,
Then quenchless burns—itself its fuel—
So poets say. Well, let it pass,
And those who list may yield it credit;
But as for constancy, alas!
I’ve never known—I’ve only read it.
Love! ’tis a roving fire, at most
The cuerpo santa of life’s ocean;
Now flashing through the storm, now lost—
Who trust, ’tis said, rue their devotion.
It may be, ’tis a mooted creed—
I have my doubts, and it—believers,
Though one is faithless—where’s the need
Of shunning all—as gay deceivers?
I said I loved. I did. But ours
Was felt, not growled hyæna fashion!
We wandered not at midnight hours,
Some dignity restrained the passion!
We loved—I never stooped to woo;
We met—I always doffed my beaver;
She smiled a careless “How d’ye do—
Good morning, sir,”—I rose to leave her.
She loved—she never told me so;
I never asked—I could not doubt it;
For there were signs on cheek and brow;
And asking! Love is known without it!
’Twas understood—we were content,
And rode, and sang, and waltzed together!
Alone, without embarrassment
We talked of something—not the weather!
Time rolled along—the parting hour
With arrowy speed brought its distresses,
A kiss—a miniature—a flower—
A ringlet from those raven tresses;
And the tears that would unbidden start,
(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,)
In the far chambers of my heart,
I swore her image should be cherished.
I’ve looked on peril—it has glared
In fashionable forms upon me,
From levelled aim—from weapon bared—
And doctors three attending on me!
But never did my sternness wane
At pang by shot or steel imparted;
I’d not recall that hour of pain
For years of bliss—it passed—we parted.
We parted—though her tear-gemmed cheeks,
Her heaving breast had thus unmanned me—
She quite forgot me in three weeks!
And other beauties soon trepanned me.
We met—and did not find it hard
Joy’s overwhelming tide to smother—
There was a “Mrs.” on her card,
And I—was married to another.
SONG.[9]
LORD ROLAND.
Lord Roland rose, and went to mass,
And doffed his mourning weed!
And bade them bring a looking-glass,
And saddle fast a steed;
“I’ll deck with gems my bonnet’s loop,
And wear a feather fine,
And when lorn lovers sit and droop
Why, I will sit and dine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!
Though Elgitha be thus untrue,
Adèle is beauteous yet;
And he that’s baffled by the blue
May bow before the jet;
So welcome—welcome hall or heath!
So welcome shower or shine!
And wither there, thou willow wreath,
Thou never shalt be mine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!
Proud Elgitha! a health to thee,—
A health in brimming gold!
And store of lovers after me,
As honest, and less cold:
My hand is on my bugle horn,
My boat is on the brine;
If ever gallant died of scorn,
I shall not die of thine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily!
And fill the cup of wine!
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.
Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers:
Happy—he knew not whence or how,—
And smiling,—who could choose but love him?
For not more glad than Childhood’s brow
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.
Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley’s green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded.
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.
With curling lip and glancing eye
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;
But Childhood’s glance of purity
Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,
And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.
Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup
Full to the brim of bitter water;
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;
And when the beldame muttered—“Sorrow,”
He said—“Don’t interrupt my game;
I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.”
The Muse of Pindus thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet’s slumbers;
Though sweet the music of the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle,
And, “Oh,” he cried, “do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle!”
Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him, with most sage endeavour,
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last for ever.
She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature’s open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.
Sleep on, sleep on! oh! Manhood’s dreams
Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,
Of cherished love or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,
And glimpses of remembered Heaven!
LOVE AT A ROUT.
When some mad poet stops to muse
About the moonlight and the dews,
The Fairies and the Fauns,
He’s apt to think, he’s apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere
Except in groves and lawns,
That none have vulnerable livers
But bards who haunt the banks of rivers,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who roam through dells and ditches,
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Innocence grows pure on pottage.
Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine;
I like the dawning of the day,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,
I like the peaches and the posies,—
But chiefly, when the season closes,
I wander from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,
To hear beneath those hoary trees
The far-off murmur of the seas,
Or trace yon river’s many channels
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,
Combining foolish rhymes together,
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.
Then, as I see some village maid
Go dancing down the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer
As nobler dames have done before her,
“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet bliss
Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where damsels eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,
Where day is day, and night is night,
Where frocks—and morals—both are white;
Blue eyes below—blue skies above—
Here are the homes, the hearts, for Love!”
But this is idle; I have been
A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot;
He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in desert and in town.
I think fair faces not more fair
In Peebles, than in Portman Square,
And glances not a ray more bright
In moonbeams, than in candle-light;
I think much witchcraft oft reposes
In wreaths of artificial roses,
And ringlets—I have ne’er disdained them
Because the barber has profaned them;
I’ve been half mad with half a million
Whose legs have never crossed a pillion,
Whose hands have never dressed a salad,
Whose lips have never sung a ballad:
I think that many a modern dance
Breeds pretty subjects for romance;
And many a concert has its springs
For breaking hearts as well as strings:
In short, I’m very sure that all
Who seek or sigh for Beauty’s thrall
May breathe their vows, and feed their passion,
Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,
And make the most enchanting sonnets,
In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!
BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS.
I looked for Beauty:—on a throne,
A dazzling throne of light, I found her;
And Music poured its softest tone
And flowers their sweetest breath, around her.
A score or two of idle gods,
Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants,
Were watching all her smiles and nods,
And making compliments and presents.
And first young Love, the rosy boy,
Exhibited his bow and arrows,
And gave her many a pretty toy,
Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:
She told him, as he passed, she knew
Her court would scarcely do without him;
But yet—she hoped they were not true—
There were some awkward tales about him.
Wealth deemed that magic had no charm
More mighty than the gifts he brought her,
And linked around her radiant arm
Bright diamonds of the purest water:
The goddess, with a scornful touch,
Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter;
And said,—she thanked him very much,—
She liked a wreath of roses better.
Then Genius snatched his golden lute,
And told a tale of love and glory:
The crowd around were hushed and mute
To hear so sad and sweet a story;
And Beauty marked the minstrel’s cheek,
So very pale—no bust was paler;
Vowed she could listen for a week;
But really—he should change his tailor!
As died the echo of the strings,
A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,
Looked all unutterable things,
And swore, to see was to adore her;
He called her veil a cruel cloud,
Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:
She fancied it was Wit that bowed;—
I’m almost certain it was Flattery.
There was a beldame finding fault
With every person’s every feature:
And by the sneer, and by the halt,
I knew at once the odious creature:
“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am come
To bow—as is my bounden duty;—
They tell me Beauty is at home;—
Impossible! that can’t be Beauty!”
I heard a murmur far and wide
Of “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”
As Time threw down at Beauty’s side
The prettiest of his clocks and glasses;
But it was noticed in the throng
How Beauty marred the maker’s cunning;
For when she talked, the hands went wrong;
And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.
Death, in a doctor’s wig and gown,
Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,
And crowned her with a withered crown,
And hinted, Beauty too must wither!
“Avaunt!” she cried,—“how came he here?
The frightful fiend! he’s my abhorrence!”
I went and whispered in her ear,
“He shall not hurt you!—sit to Lawrence!”
THE FORSAKEN.
He never meets me as of old,
As friends less cherished meet me;
His glance is even calm and cold,
To welcome or to greet me:
His sighs ne’er follow where I move,
Or tell what others’ sighs do;—
But though his lips ne’er say, “I love,”
I often think his eyes do!
He never turns, amid the throng,
Where colder ears will listen;
Or gives one thought to that poor song
Once made his eyelids glisten;
But sometimes when our glances meet,
As looks less warm—more wise—do,
Albeit his lips ne’er say, “’Tis sweet,”—
I often think his eyes do!
Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glass
His hours of mirth or sorrow;
And fairer forms than mine may pass
Across his path to-morrow:
But something whispers solace yet,
As stars through darkened skies do;—
His lips ne’er say, “I don’t forget,”—
I often think his eyes do!
SECOND LOVE.
“L’on n’ aime bien qu’ une seule fois; c’est la premierè. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires!”—La Bruyere.
How shall I woo her!—I will stand
Beside her when she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o’er the quivering strings:
And I will tell her I have heard,
Though sweet her song may be,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was more than song to me.
How shall I woo her?—I will gaze
In sad and silent trance
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:
And I will tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon me in my dream.
How shall I woo her?—I will try
The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth, and sea, and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And I will tell her, when I bent,
My knee in other years,—
I was not half so eloquent,—
I could not speak for tears!
How shall I woo her?—I will bow
Before the holy shrine;
And pray the prayer and vow the vow,
And press her lips to mine;
And I will tell her, when she parts
From passion’s thrilling kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.
Away, away, the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love’s toil, I know, is little cost,
Love’s perjury is light sin;
But souls that lose what I have lost,
What have they left to win?
HOPE AND LOVE.
One day through Fancy’s telescope,
Which is my richest treasure,
I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope
Set out in search of pleasure:
All mirth and smiles I saw them go;
Each was the other’s banker;
For Hope took up her brother’s bow,
And Love, his sister’s anchor.
They rambled on o’er vale and hill,
They passed by cot and tower;
Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill,
Through sunshine and through shower:
But what did those fond playmates care
For climate, or for weather?
All scenes to them were bright and fair
On which they gazed together.
Sometimes they turned aside to bless
Some Muse and her wild numbers,
Or breathe a dream of holiness
On Beauty’s quiet slumbers:
“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,
“I teach my friends to doubt you:”
“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,
“My heart is cold without you.”
When Poverty beset their path
And threatened to divide them,
They coaxed away the beldame’s wrath
Ere she had breath to chide them,
By vowing all her rags were silk,
And all her bitters, honey,
And showing taste for bread and milk,
And utter scorn of money.
They met stern Danger in their way
Upon a ruin seated;
Before him kings had quaked that day,
And armies had retreated:
But he was robed in such a cloud
As Love and Hope came near him,
That though he thundered long and loud,
They did not see or hear him.
A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;
And Love was nearly crazy
To find that he was very lame,
And also very lazy:
Hope, as he listened to her tale,
Tied wings upon his jacket;
And then they far outran the mail,
And far outsailed the packet.
And so, when they had safely passed
O’er many a land and billow,
Before a grave they stopped at last,
Beneath a weeping willow:
The moon upon the humble mound
Her softest light was flinging;
And from the thickets all around
Sad nightingales were singing.
“I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,
As hoarse as any raven;
And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme
Upon the rude stone graven:
But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,
And whispered, “Dearest brother—
We’re parted on this side the grave,—
We’ll meet upon the other.”