A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker

by Frederick Locker-Lampson

You shake your curls, and wonder why
I build no Castle in the Sky;
You smile, and you are thinking too,
He's nothing else on earth to do.
It needs Romance, my Lady Fair,
To raise such fabrics in the air—
Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam,
The gossamer of Fancy's dream,
And much the architect may lack
Who labours in the Zodiac
To rear what I, from chime to chime,
Attempted once upon a time.

My Castle was a gay retreat
In Air, that somewhat gusty shire,
A cherub's model country seat,—
Could model cherub such require.
Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured,
The cherubs even spared my orchard!
No worm destroyed the gourd I planted,
And showers arrived when rain was wanted.
I owned a range of purple mountain—
A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain—
A terraced lawn—a summer lake,
By sun- or moon-beam always burnished;
And then my cot, by some mistake,
Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.
A trellised porch—a pictured hall—
A Hebe laughing from the wall.
Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.
While under arms and armour wreathed
In trophied guise, the marble breathed,
A peering faun—a startled fay.
And flowers that Love's own language spoke,

Than these less eloquent of smoke,
And not so dear. The price in town
Is half a rose-bud—half-a-crown!
And cabinets and chandeliers,
The legacy of courtly years;
And missals wrought by hooded monks,
Who snored in cells the size of trunks,
And tolled a bell, and told a bead,
(Indebted to the hood indeed!)
Stained windows dark, and pillowed light,
Soft sofas, where the Sybarite
In bliss reclining, might devour
The best last novel of the hour.
On silken cushion, happy starred,
A shaggy Skye kept wistful guard:
While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing
A parrot in his golden ring.

All these I saw one blissful day,
And more than now I care to name;
Here, lately shut, that work-box lay,
There, stood your own embroidery frame.
And over this piano bent
A Form from some pure region sent.
Despair, some lively trope devise
To prove the splendour of her eyes!
Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue—
A most delicious rose-bud too.
Her auburn tresses lustrous shone,
In massy clusters, like your own;
And as her fingers pressed the keys,
How strangely they resembled these!

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorned a Castle in the Air,
Where life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We heard, with much sublime disdain,
The far-off thunder of Cockaigne;
And saw, through rifts of silver cloud,
The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We hymned the tender moon together.
Our sympathy from night to noon
Rose crescent with that crescent moon;
The night was shorter than the song,
And happy as the day was long.
We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And even died (in verse) sometimes.

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorned my Castle in the Air.
Now, tell me, could you dwell content
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you would settle in it,
'Twere built for love, in half a minute.

What's love? Why love (for two) at best,
Is only a delightful jest;
But sad indeed for one or three,
—I wish you'd come and jest with me.

You shake your head and wonder why
The cynosure of dear Mayfair
Should lend me even half a sigh
Towards building Castles in the Air.
"I've music, books, and all you say,
To make the gravest lady gay.
I'm told my essays show research,
My sketches have endowed a church;
I've partners who have brilliant parts,
I've lovers who have broken hearts.
Poor Polly has not nerves to fly,
And why should Mop return to Skye?
To realize your tête-à-tête
Might jeopardize a giddy pate;
As grief is not akin to guilt,
I'm sorry if your Castle's built."