London. Edward Moxon & Co. Dover Street.

MOXON'S MINIATURE POETS.

A
Selection From the Works
OF
FREDERICK LOCKER

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY RICHARD DOYLE.

LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON & CO., DOVER STREET.
1865.

PRINTED BY BRADBURY AND EVANS, WHITEFRIARS.
THE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. MILLAIS, R.A., AND RICHARD DOYLE
THE COVER FROM A DESIGN BY JOHN LEIGHTON, F.S.A.
THE SERIES PROJECTED AND SUPERINTENDED BY

Some of these pieces appeared in a volume called "London Lyrics," of which there have been two editions, the first in 1857, and the second in 1862; a few of the pieces have been restored to the reading of the First Edition.

TO C. C. L.

I PAUSE upon the threshold, Charlotte dear,
To write thy name; so may my book acquire
One golden leaf. For Some yet sojourn here
Who come and go in homeliest attire,
Unknown, or only by the few who see
The cross they bear, the good that they have wrought:
Of such art thou, and I have found in thee
The love and truth that He, the Master, taught;
Thou likest thy humble poet, canst thou say
With truth, dear Charlotte?—"And I like his lay."

Rome, May, 1862.

CONTENTS.

PAGE
[THE JESTERS MORAL] 1
[BRAMBLE-RISE] 6
[THE WIDOW'S MITE] 10
[ON AN OLD MUFF] 11
[A HUMAN SKULL] 15
[TO MY GRANDMOTHER] 17
[O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!] 20
[REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR] 22
[THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK] 25
[AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY:—]
[THE INVITATION] 31
[THE REPLY] 36
[OLD LETTERS] 40
[MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE] 43
[PICCADILLY] 47
[THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL] 50
[GERALDINE] 53
[O DOMINE DEUS] 56
[THE HOUSEMAID] 58
[THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK] 61
[A WISH] 64
[THE JESTER'S PLEA] 67
[THE OLD CRADLE] 70
[TO MY MISTRESS] 73
[TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS] 75
[THE ROSE AND THE RING] 78
[TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS] 80
[RUSSET PITCHER] 82
[THE FAIRY ROSE] 87
[1863] 89
[GERALDINE GREEN:—]
[I. THE SERENADE] 92
[II. MY LIFE IS A] 93
[MRS. SMITH] 95
[THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD] 98
[THE VICTORIA CROSS] 101
[ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE] 104
[SORRENTO] 105
[JANET] 106
[BÉRANGER] 109
[THE BEAR PIT] 110
[THE CASTLE IN THE AIR] 112
[GLYCERE] 119
[VÆ VICTIS] 121
[IMPLORA PACE] 123
[VANITY FAIR] 125
[THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES] 127
[MY FIRST-BORN] 133
[SUSANNAH:—]
[I. THE ELDER TREES] 135
[II. A KIND PROVIDENCE] 137
[CIRCUMSTANCE] 139
[ARCADIA] 140
[THE CROSSING-SWEEPER] 145
[A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG] 148
[MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION] 154
[TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS] 157
[BEGGARS] 160
[ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE] 163
[A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS] 166
[LITTLE PITCHER] 167
[UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY] 170
[ADVICE TO A POET] 173
[NOTES] 177

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE
[ PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR, BY J. E. MILLAIS, R.A. ] To face Title
[ THE JESTER ] On Title
[ THE JESTER'S MORAL ] 1
[ ON AN OLD MUFF ] 11
[ THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK ] 25
[ OLD LETTERS ] 40
[ PICCADILLY ] 47
[ A WISH ] 64
[ THE OLD CRADLE ] 70
[ TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS ] 75
[ THE ROSE AND THE RING ] 78
[ THE RUSSET PITCHER ] 82
[ TAIL PIECE ] 86
[ MRS. SMITH ] 95
[ THE CASTLE IN THE AIR ] 112
[ THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES ] 127
[ ARCADIA ] 140
[ MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION ] 149
[ THE ANGORA CAT ] 160
[ LITTLE PITCHER ] 167

THE JESTERS MORAL

I wish that I could run away
From House, and Court, and Levee:
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys grown heavy.—W. M. Praed.

Is human life a pleasant game
That gives a palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame?
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say, I've realised
My fondest aspiration?

Alas, not one! for rest assured
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late—and granted
'Tis even better—still 'tis not
Exactly what we wanted.

My school-boy time! I wish to praise
That bud of brief existence,
The vision of my youthful days
Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here,
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.

Such thoughts just now disturb my soul
With reason good—for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And crossed the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who used rare sport to show me:
My Mentor once on snares and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.

"Goodlord!" at last exclaimed the churl,
"Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?"
And then he fell to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remembered pranks,
In half forgotten places.

It pleased the man to tell his brief
And somewhat mournful story,
Old Bliss's school had come to grief—
And Bliss had "gone to glory."
His trees were felled, his house was razed—
And what less keenly pained me,
A venerable donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.

And where have all my playmates sped,
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's prior—
And Travers, the attorney's son,
Is member for the shire.

Dame Fortune, that inconstant jade,
Can smile when least expected,
And those who languish in the shade,
Need never be dejected.
Poor Pat, who once did nothing right,
Has proved a famous writer;
While Mat "shirked prayers" (with all his might!)
And wears, withal, his mitre.

Dull maskers we! Life's festival
Enchants the blithe new-comer;
But seasons change, and where are all
These friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track—
Cold looks attend the meeting—
We only greet them, glancing back,
Or pass without a greeting!

I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride
Constrains me to postpone 'em,
He taught me something, 'ere he died,
About nil nisi bonum.
I've met with wiser, better men,
But I forgive him wholly;
Perhaps his jokes were sad—but then
He used to storm so drolly.

I still can laugh, is still my boast,
But mirth has sounded gayer;
And which provokes my laughter most—
The preacher, or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what
Once made us laugh so freely,
For Nestroy and Grassot are not—
And where is Mr. Keeley?

O, shall I run away from hence,
And dress and shave like Crusoe?
Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense,
Forbid that I should do so.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss—
Or get proposed for Boodle's.

We prate of Life's illusive dyes,
Yet still fond Hope enchants us;
We all believe we near the prize,
Till some fresh dupe supplants us!
A bright reward, forsooth! And though
No mortal has attained it,
I still can hope, for well I know
That Love has so ordained it.

Paris, November, 1864.

BRAMBLE-RISE.

What changes greet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
Once smallest of its shire?
How altered is each pleasant nook!
The dumpy church used not to look
So dumpy in the spire.

This village is no longer mine;
And though the Inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger:
The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook,—the cottages
Are cottages no longer.

The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,
The trees have cut their ancient sticks,
Or else the sticks are stunted:
I'm sure these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once these pigs
More musically grunted.

Where early reapers whistled, shrill
A whistle may be noted still,—
The locomotive's ravings.
New custom newer want begets,—
My bank of early violets
Is now a bank for savings!

That voice I have not heard for long!
So Patty still can sing the song
A merry playmate taught her;
I know the strain, but much suspect
'Tis not the child I recollect,
But Patty,—Patty's daughter;

And has she too outlived the spells
Of breezy hills and silent dells
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Then Life was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.

Whence comes the change? 'Twere easy told
That some grow wise, and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble:
If Life an empty bubble be,
How sad are those who will not see
A rainbow in the bubble!

And senseless too, for mistress Fate
Is not the gloomy reprobate
That mouldy sages thought her;
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My frisky little daughter.

Come hither, Pussy, perch on these
Thy most unworthy father's knees,
And tell him all about it:
Are dolls but bran? Can men be base?
When gazing on thy blessed face
I'm quite prepared to doubt it.

O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf,
Some day a pet just like thyself,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes,—
Accept her childish ecstacies,—
If need be, share her sorrow!

The wisdom of thy prattle cheers
This heart; and when outworn in years
And homeward I am starting,
My Darling, lead me gently down
To Life's dim strand: the dark waves frown,
But weep not for our parting.

Though Life is called a doleful jaunt,
In sorrow rife, in sunshine scant,
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis;
'Tis something in a desert sere,
For her so fresh—for me so drear,
To find in Puss, my daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!

April, 1857.

THE WIDOW'S MITE.

The Widow had but only one,
A puny and decrepit son;
Yet, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's might,—yes! so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained
When friends were fewer:
And, cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.

I saw her then,—and now I see,
Though cheerful and resigned, still she
Has sorrowed much:
She has—He gave it tenderly—
Much faith—and, carefully laid by,
A little crutch.

ON AN OLD MUFF

Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Covered with fluff?
Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? no, it can't—
Yes,—I declare 'tis Aunt
Prudence's Muff!

Years ago—twenty-three!
Old Uncle Barnaby
Gave it to Aunty P.—
Laughing and teasing—
"Pru., of the breezy curls,
Whisper these solemn churls,
What holds a pretty girl's
Hand without squeezing?"

Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful: if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice:
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
"Awfully nice!"

I see, in retrospect,
Aunt, in her best bedecked,
Gliding, with mien erect,
Gravely to Meeting:
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peeped from the muff of Pru.—
Young men—and pious too—
Giving her greeting.

Pure was the life she led
Then—from this Muff, 'tis said,
Tracts she distributed:—
Scapegraces many,
Seeing the grace they lacked,
Followed her—one, in fact,
Asked for—and got his tract
Oftener than any.

Love has a potent spell!
Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's sweet susceptible
Heart undermining,
Slipped, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff—triple-cornered ones—
Pink as its lining!

Worse even, soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade!)
Whilst her friends thought that they'd
Locked her up tightly:
After such shocking games
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest—and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.

In female conduct flaw
Sadder I never saw,
Still I've faith in the law
Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray—
Smoked, joked, and swore away—
Sworn by, he's now, by a
Large congregation!

Changed is the Child of Sin,
Now he's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin,—
Blest be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore,—
Preacher was never more
Prized than is Uncle for
Pulpit or platform.

If all's as best befits
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff, and its
Fair Owner pardon:
All's for the best,—indeed
Such is my simple creed—
Still I must go and weed
Hard in my garden.

A HUMAN SKULL.

A human skull! I bought it passing cheap,—
It might be dearer to its first employer;
I thought mortality did well to keep
Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer.

Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin,
Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender;—
Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chin,
And never had my doubt about its gender!

Did she live yesterday or ages back?
What colour were the eyes when bright and waking?
And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little head! that long has done with aching?

It may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry,—or Baron Byron's,
The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts,—
Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens!

But this I surely knew before I closed
The bargain on the morning that I bought it;
It was not half so bad as some supposed,
Nor quite as good as many may have thought it.

Who love, can need no special type of death;
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
"Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?

O, cara mine, what lines of care are these?
The heart still lingers with the golden hours,
An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees,
And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers?

If life no more can yield us what it gave,
It still is linked with much that calls for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.

TO MY GRANDMOTHER.

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)

This relative of mine
Was she seventy and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,—
As a bride.

Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,—
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!

In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!

Her lips are sweet as love,—
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?—
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come."

What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity, in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?

That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.

Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite,
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.

Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:—
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not?

Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropt away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."

In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,—
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.

I'm fain to meet you there,—
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.

O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!

Yes, here, once more, a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men
Receive me with a grin:
They surely can't remember me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I'm changed, so changed since I was here—
"O tempora mutantur!"

The Angel's not much altered since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honeymoon!
I recollect it down to e'en
The shape of this decanter,—
We've since been both much put about—
"O tempora mutantur!"

Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vowed her Love was very fair—
I see I'm very plain.
And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo:
'Twas Pamela's fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
"O tempora mutantur!"

The curtains have been dyed; but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same cracked pane of glass
On which I scratched her name.
Yes, there's her tiny flourish still,
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one—
"O tempora mutantur!"

* * * * *

What brought this wanderer here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It might be she had found her grave,
Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
May meet with a supplanter;—
I wish the times would change their cry
Of "tempora mutantur."

REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR.

"My darling wants to see you soon,"—
I bless the little maid, and thank her;
To do her bidding, night and noon
I draw on Hope—Love's kindest banker!

Old MSS.

If you were false, and if I'm free,
I still would be the slave of yore,
Then joined our years were thirty-three,
And now,—yes now, I'm thirty-four!
And though you were not learnèd—well,
I was not anxious you should grow so,—
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so!

Bright season! why will Memory
Still haunt the path our rambles took;
The sparrow's nest that made you cry,—
The lilies captured in the brook.
I lifted you from side to side,
You seemed as light as that poor sparrow;
I know who wished it twice as wide,
I think you thought it rather narrow.

Time was,—indeed, a little while!
My pony did your heart compel;
But once, beside the meadow-stile,
I thought you loved me just as well;
I kissed your cheek; in sweet surprise
Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?"
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,—
"He could not wish to vex me, could he?"

As year succeeds to year, the more
Imperfect life's fruition seems,
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,
Are not the same enchanting dreams.
The girls I love now vote me slow—
How dull the boys who once seemed witty!
Perhaps I'm getting old—I know
I'm still romantic—more's the pity!

Ah, vain regret! to few, perchance,
Unknown—and profitless to all:
The wisely-gay, as years advance,
Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall
We'll laugh—at folly, whether seen
Beneath a chimney or a steeple,
At yours, at mine—our own, I mean,
As well as that of other people.

They cannot be complete in aught,
Who are not humorously prone,
A man without a merry thought
Can hardly have a funny-bone!
To say I hate your gloomy men
Might be esteemed a strong assertion,
If I've blue devils, now and then,
I make them dance for my diversion.

And here's your letter débonnaire!
"My friend, my dear old friend of yore,"
And is this curl your daughter's hair?
I've seen the Titian tint before.
Are we that pair who used to pass
Long days beneath the chesnuts shady?
You then were such a pretty lass!—
I'm told you're now as fair a lady.

I've laughed to hide the tear I shed,
As when the Jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.
A jesting vein your poet vexed,
And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine,
Without a parson, or a text,
Has proved a somewhat prosy sermon.

THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK.

A mighty growth! The county side
Lamented when the Giant died,
For England loves her trees:
What misty legends round him cling!
How lavishly he once did fling
His acorns to the breeze!

To strike a thousand roots in fame,
To give the district half its name,
The fiat could not hinder;
Last spring he put forth one green bough,—
The red leaves hang there still,—but now
His very props are tinder.

Elate, the thunderbolt he braved,
Long centuries his branches waved
A welcome to the blast;
An oak of broadest girth he grew,
And woodman never dared to do
What Time has done at last.

The monarch wore a leafy crown,
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down,
Found shelter at his foot;
Unnumbered squirrels gambolled free,
Glad music filled the gallant tree
From stem to topmost shoot.

And it were hard to fix the tale
Of when he first peered forth a frail
Petitioner for dew;
No Saxon spade disturbed his root,
The rabbit spared the tender shoot,
And valiantly he grew,

And showed some inches from the ground
When Saint Augustine came and found
Us very proper Vandals:
When nymphs owned bluer eyes than hose,
When England measured men by blows,
And measured time by candles.

Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade
Ere Richard led the first crusade,
And maidens led the dance
Where, boy and man, in summer-time,
Sweet Chaucer pondered o'er his rhyme;
And Robin Hood, perchance,

Stole hither to maid Marian,
(And if they did not come, one can
At any rate suppose it);
They met beneath the mistletoe,—
We did the same, and ought to know
The reason why they chose it.

And this was called the traitor's branch,—
Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch
Along its mighty fork;
Uncivil wars for them! The fair
Red rose and white still bloom,—but where
Are Lancaster and York?

Right mournfully his leaves he shed
To shroud the graves of England's dead,
By English falchion slain;
And cheerfully, for England's sake,
He sent his kin to sea with Drake,
When Tudor humbled Spain.

A time-worn tree, he could not bring
His heart to screen the merry king,
Or countenance his scandals;—
Then men were measured by their wit,—
And then the mimic statesmen lit
At either end their candles!

While Blake was busy with the Dutch
They gave his poor old arms a crutch:
And thrice four maids and men ate
A meal within his rugged bark,
When Coventry bewitched the park,
And Chatham swayed the senate.

His few remaining boughs were green,
And dappled sunbeams danced between,
Upon the dappled deer,
When, clad in black, a pair were met
To read the Waterloo Gazette,—
They mourned their darling here.

They joined their boy. The tree at last
Lies prone—discoursing of the past,
Some fancy-dreams awaking;
Resigned, though headlong changes come,—
Though nations arm to tuck of drum,
And dynasties are quaking.

Romantic spot! By honest pride
Of eld tradition sanctified;
My pensive vigil keeping,
I feel thy beauty like a spell,
And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell,
That fill my heart to weeping.

* * * * *

The Squire affirms, with gravest look,
His oak goes up to Domesday Book!—
And some say even higher!
We rode last week to see the ruin,
We love the fair domain it grew in,
And well we love the Squire.

A nature loyally controlled,
And fashioned in that righteous mould
Of English gentleman;—
My child may some day read these rhymes,—
She loved her "godpapa" betimes,—
The little Christian!

I love the Past, its ripe pleasànce,
Its lusty thought, and dim romance,
And heart-compelling ditties;
But more, these ties, in mercy sent,
With faith and true affection blent,
And, wanting them, I were content
To murmur, "Nunc dimittis."

Hallingbury, April, 1859.

AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY.

THE INVITATION.

O, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place,
Your London sun is here seen shining brightly:
The Briton too puts on a cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly.
The Romans are a kind and cordial race,
The women charming, if one takes them rightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
More proud than duchesses—and more imposing.

A "far niente" life promotes the graces;—
They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,
And in their bearing, and their speech, one traces
A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy
That are not found in more inclement places;
Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony;
The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,
Is often cold—and always in a hurry.

Though "far niente" is their passion, they
Seem here most eloquent in things most slight;
No matter what it is they have to say,
The manner always sets the matter right.
And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day
They sweetly wish you "a most happy night."
Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you,
'Tis always something that they've wished to please you.

O, come to Rome, nor be content to read
Alone of stately palaces and streets
Whose fountains ever run with joyous speed,
And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets
Great Memnon's monoliths—or, gay with weed,
Rich capitals, as corner stones, or seats—
The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder
Old ruins, hiding ruin even older.

Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches,
Although the last are commonplace, or florid.
Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,—
Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.
The sombre streets are worthy your researches:
The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid,
But pleasant sights, which squeamishness disparages,
Are missed by all who roll about in carriages.

About one fane I deprecate all sneering,
For during Christmas-time I went there daily,
Amused, or edified—or both—by hearing
The little preachers of the Ara Cœli.
Conceive a four-year-old bambina rearing
Her small form on a rostrum, tricked out gaily,
And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful,
With action quite dramatic and delightful.

O come! We'll charter such a pair of nags!
The country's better seen when one is riding:
We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags
At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding
With giant march (now whole, now broken crags
With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding
Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar—
That melt in light beneath the evening star.

A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant—
The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood;
There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sun-burnt peasant
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,
And seems to wake the past time in the present.
Fair contadina, mark his mirthful mood,
No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow
Can join with jollity your Salterello.

Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath
Of life to unsophisticated man.
Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath,
"Per dar' al mio bene." When you can,
Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death
And Time are grudging of Life's little span:
Wan Time speeds swiftly o'er the waving corn,
Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo—
Such theme were all too splendid for my pen.
And if I breathe the name of Sanzio
(The brightest of Italian gentlemen),
It is that love casts out my fear—and so
I claim with him a kindredship. Ah! when
We love, the name is on our hearts engraven,
As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon!

Nor is the Colosseum theme of mine,
'Twas built for poet of a larger daring;
The world goes there with torches—I decline
Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.
Some time in May our forces we'll combine
(Just you and I) and try a midnight airing,
And then I'll quote this rhyme to you—and then
You'll muse upon the vanity of men.

O come—I send a leaf of tender fern,
'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay:
The ashes buried in a sculptured urn
Are not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!
That better time, for which the patriots yearn,
Enchants the gaze, again to fade away.
They wait and pine for what is long denied,
And thus I wait till thou art by my side.

Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still
Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine;
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,
I cannot yet thy little hand resign!
The plain is fading into darkness chill,
The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine,
I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee,
O come to Rome—O come, O come to me!

THE REPLY.

Dear Exile, I was pleased to get
Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton;
You know that you are all to "Pet,"
I feared that I was quite forgotten:
Mama, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists—and she is wise as gentle—
That I am still in love—I hope
That you are rather sentimental.

Perhaps you think a child should not
Be gay unless her slave is with her;
Of course you love old Rome, and, what
Is more, would like to coax me thither:
What! quit this dear delightful maze
Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways—
I like your confidence immensely!

Some girls who love to ride and race,
And live for dancing—like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place,
In spite of all the stupid ruins:
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those banks of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing—of which
Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.

To see stone pines, and marble gods,
In garden alleys—red with roses—
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant giros—when we may;
Jump stagionate—where they're easy;
And play croquet—the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi.

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my "Golden Treasury,"
Manzoni—and, of course, a "Murray;"
A Tupper, whom you men despise;
A Dante—Auntie owns a quarto—
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the muro torto.

But can I go? La Madre thinks
It would be such an undertaking:—
I wish we could consult a sphynx;—
The thought alone has set her quaking.
Papa—we do not mind Papa—
Has got some "notice" of some "motion,"
And could not stay; but, why not,—Ah,
I've not the very slightest notion.

The Browns have come to stay a week,
They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em,
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum:
Your Rover too affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it ...
It makes me think of you, and then ...
And then I cry—I cannot help it.

Ah, yes—before you left me, ere
Our separation was impending,
These eyes had seldom shed a tear—
For mine was joy that knew no ending;
Yes, soon there came a change, too soon:
The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me
Was knowledge I possessed the boon,
And then a fear such bliss might leave me.

This strain is sad: yet, understand,
Your words have made my spirit better:
And when I first took pen in hand,
I meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull,—Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go—I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.

The sun now glances o'er the Park,
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kissed your rhymes, for—hark!
My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter.
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing,
And, hark! The minster bells ring out—
"She ought to go! Of course she's going."

OLD LETTERS.

Old letters! wipe away the tear
For vows and hopes so vainly worded?
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first his youthful loins were girded.

Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove,
How could philosophy expect us
To live with Dr. Wise, and love
Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus?

Explain why childhood's path is sown
With moral and scholastic tin-tacks;
Ere sin original was known,
Did Adam groan beneath the syntax?

How strange to parley with the dead!
Keep ye your green, wan leaves? How many
From Friendship's tree untimely shed!
And here is one as sad as any;

A ghastly bill! "I disapprove,"
And yet She help'd me to defray it—
What tokens of a Mother's love!
O, bitter thought! I can't repay it.

And here's the offer that I wrote
In '33 to Lucy Diver;
And here John Wylie's begging note,—
He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike,
Our bet about the French Invasion;
I must confess I acted like
A donkey upon that occasion.

Here's news from Paternoster Row!
How mad I was when first I learnt it:
They would not take my Book, and now
I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a pile of notes, at last,
With "love," and "dove," and "sever," "never,"—
Though hope, though passion may be past,
Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two,
Despite the scoffs of single scorners;
And all the hearths I ever knew
Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet—
Two locks of hair—a deal of scandal;
I'll burn what only brings regret—
Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.

MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE.

Though slender walls our hearths divide,
No word has passed from either side,
Your days, red-lettered all, must glide
Unvexed by labour:
I've seen you weep, and could have wept;
I've heard you sing, and may have slept;
Sometimes I hear your chimneys swept,
My charming neighbour!

Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset!
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse. She much esteems
Yon sunny wall—and sleeps and dreams
Of mice she once ate.

Our tastes agree. I doat upon
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon,
The "Wedding March" of Mendelssohn,
And Penseroso.
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin,
Fair Virtuoso!

At times an Ariel, cruel-kind,
Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind,
And whisper low, "She hides behind;
Thou art not lonely."
The tricksy sprite did erst assist
At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst;
Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed
By light winds only.

I miss the simple days of yore,
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And chat botté was wondered o'er,
In corner cosy.
But gaze not back for tales like those:
'Tis all in order, I suppose,
The Bud is now a blooming Rose,—
A rosy posy!

Indeed, farewell to bygone years;
How wonderful the change appears—
For curates now and cavaliers
In turn perplex you:
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey;
I'd scare them all had I my way,
But that might vex you.

At times I've envied, it is true,
That joyous hero, twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets-doux,
And wore a sabre.
The rogue! how tenderly he wound
His arm round one who never frowned;
He loves you well. Now, is he bound
To love my neighbour?

The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favours fascinate the street,
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet
'Twixt tears and laughter:
They crowd the door to see her go—
The bliss of one brings many woe—
Oh! kiss the bride, and I will throw
The old shoe after.

What change in one short afternoon,—
My Charming Neighbour gone,—so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon
Slow rising hither?
O lady, wan and marvellous,
How often have we communed thus;
Sweet memories shall dwell with us,
And joy go with her!

PICCADILLY.

Piccadilly!—shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze,
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees,
By daylight, or nightlight,—or noisy, or stilly,—
Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly.

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming,
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,
And Beauty is whirled off to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!

Bright days, when we leisurely pace to and fro,
And meet all the people we do or don't know,—
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie;
—No wonder, young pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter!
She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter:
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,
He envies them both,—he's an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet,
I would choose me a house in my favourite street;
Yes or no—I would carry my point, willy, nilly,
If "no,"—pick a quarrel, if "yes,"—Piccadilly!

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago,
"Old Q" sat at gaze,—who now passes below?
A frolicsome Statesman, the Man of the Day,
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;
No hero of story more manfully trod,
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Heu, anni fugaces! The wise and the silly,—
Old P or old Q,—we must quit Piccadilly.

Life is chequered,—a patchwork of smiles and of frowns;
We value its ups, let us muse on its downs;

There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other,—
One turn, if a good one, deserves such another.
These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly,—
Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly.

THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL.

My little friend, so small and neat,
Whom years ago I used to meet
In Pall Mall daily;
How cheerily you tripped away
To work, it might have been to play,
You tripped so gaily.

And Time trips too. This moral means
You then were midway in the teens
That I was crowning;
We never spoke, but when I smiled
At morn or eve, I know, dear Child,
You were not frowning.

Each morning when we met, I think
Some sentiment did us two link—
Nor joy, nor sorrow;
And then at eve, experience-taught,
Our hearts returned upon the thought,—
We meet to-morrow!

And you were poor; and how?—and why?
How kind to come! it was for my
Especial grace meant!
Had you a chamber near the stars,
A bird,—some treasured plants in jars,
About your casement?

I often wander up and down,
When morning bathes the silent town
In golden glory:
Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard
Your thrilling-toned canary-bird
From some third story.

I've seen great changes since we met;—
A patient little seamstress yet,
With small means striving,
Have you a Lilliputian spouse?
And do you dwell in some doll's house?
—Is baby thriving?

Can bloom like thine—my heart grows chill—
Have sought that bourne unwelcome still
To bosom smarting?
The most forlorn—what worms we are!—
Would wish to finish this cigar
Before departing.

Sometimes I to Pall Mall repair,
And see the damsels passing there;
But if I try to
Obtain one glance, they look discreet,
As though they'd some one else to meet;—
As have not I too?

Yet still I often think upon
Our many meetings, come and gone!
July—December!
Now let us make a tryst, and when,
Dear little soul, we meet again,—
The mansion is preparing—then
Thy Friend remember!

GERALDINE.

This simple child has claims
On your sentiment—her name's
Geraldine.
Be tender—but beware,
For she's frolicsome as fair,
And fifteen.

She has gifts that have not cloyed,
For these gifts she has employed,
And improved:
She has bliss which lives and leans
Upon loving—and that means
She is loved.

She has grace. A grace refined
By sweet harmony of mind:
And the Art,
And the blessed Nature, too,
Of a tender, and a true
Little heart.

And yet I must not vault
Over any little fault
That she owns:
Or others might rebel,
And might enviously swell
In their zones.

She is tricksy as the fays,
Or her pussy when it plays
With a string:
She's a goose about her cat,
And her ribbons—and all that
Sort of thing.

These foibles are a blot,
Still she never can do what
Is not nice,
Such as quarrel, and give slaps—
As I've known her get, perhaps,
Once or twice.

The spells that move her soul
Are subtle—sad or droll—
She can show
That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim
Long-ago.

A love that is not sham
For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known
Cordelia's sad eyes
Cause angel-tears to rise
In her own.

Her gentle spirit yearns
When she reads of Robin Burns—
Luckless Bard!
Had she blossomed in thy time,
How rare had been the rhyme
—And reward!

Thrice happy then is he
Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom
To shelter him—indeed
We have sorrow as we speed
To our doom!

I am happy having grown
Such a Sapling of my own;
And I crave
No garland for my brows,
But peace beneath its boughs
Till the grave.

O DOMINE DEUS

"O DOMINE DEUS,
SPERAVI IN TE,
O CARE MI JESU,
NUNC LIBERA ME."

Her quiet resting-place is far away,
None dwelling there can tell you her sad story:
The stones are mute. The stones could only say,
"A humble spirit passed away to glory."

She loved the murmur of this mighty town,
The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison;
A streamlet soothes her now,—the bird has flown,—
Some dust is waiting there—a soul has risen.

No city smoke to stain the heather bells,—
Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping,—
She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells
Where scorner never came, and none are weeping.

O cough! O cruel cough! O gasping breath!
These arms were round my darling at the latest:
All scenes of death are woe—but painful death
In those we dearly love is surely greatest!

I could not die. He willed it otherwise;
My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older,
Weighs down the heart, but does not fill the eyes,
And even friends may think that I am colder.

I might have been more kind, more tender; now
Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful
No eye can see this mark upon my brow,
Yet even gay companionship is hateful.

But when at times I steal away from these,
And find her grave, and pray to be forgiven,
And when I watch beside her on my knees,
I think I am a little nearer heaven.

THE HOUSEMAID.

"Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide."

Alone she sits, with air resigned
She watches by the window-blind:
Poor girl! No doubt
The pilgrims here despise thy lot:
Thou canst not stir—because 'tis not
Thy Sunday out.

To play a game of hide and seek
With dust and cobwebs all the week,
Small pleasure yields:
O dear, how nice it is to drop
One's scrubbing-brush, one's pail and mop—
And scour the fields!

Poor Bodies some such Sundays know;
They seldom come. How soon they go!
But Souls can roam.
And, lapt in visions airy-sweet,
She sees in this too doleful street
Her own loved Home!

The road is now no road. She pranks
A brawling stream with thymy banks;
In Fancy's realm
This post sustains no lamp—aloof
It spreads above her parents' roof
A gracious elm.

How often has she valued there
A father's aid—a mother's care:—
She now has neither:
And yet—such work in dreams is done,
She still may sit and smile with one
More dear than either.

The poor can love through woe and pain,
Although their homely speech is fain
To halt in fetters:
They feel as much, and do far more
Than those, at times of meaner ore,
Miscalled their Betters.

Sometimes, on summer afternoons
Of sundry sunny Mays and Junes—
Meet Sunday weather,
I pass her window by design,
And wish her Sunday out and mine
Might fall together.

For sweet it were my lot to dower
With one brief joy, one white-robed flower;
And prude, or preacher,
Could hardly deem it much amiss
To lay one on the path of this
Forlorn young creature.

Yet if her thought on wooing runs—
And if her swain and she are ones
Who fancy strolling,
She'd like my nonsense less than his,
And so it's better as it is—
And that's consoling.

Her dwelling is unknown to fame—
Perchance she's fair—perchance her name
Is Car, or Kitty;
She may be Jane—she might be plain—
For need the object of one's strain
Be always pretty?

THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK.

We knew an old Scribe, it was "once on a time,"—
An era to set sober datists despairing;—
Then let them despair! Darby sat in a chair
Near the Cross that gave name to the village of Charing.

Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign,—
What hair he had left was more silver than sable;—
He had also contracted a curve in his spine
From bending too constantly over a table.

His pay and expenditure, quite in accord,
Were both on the strictest economy founded;
His masters were known as the Sealing-wax Board,
Who ruled where red tape and snug places abounded.

In his heart he looked down on this dignified knot,—
For why, the forefather of one of these senators,
A rascal concerned in the Gunpowder Plot,
Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors.

Poor fool! Life is all a vagary of Luck,—
Still, for thirty long years of genteel destitution
He'd been writing State Papers, which means he had stuck
Some heads and some tails to much circumlocution.

This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no!
Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent,
His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow
Each night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.

There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there,
His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things;
Of his advent the dog and the cat are aware,
And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things.

East wind! sob eerily! sing, kettle! cheerily!
Baby's abed,—but its father will rock it;
Little ones boast your permission to toast
The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket.

This greeting the silent old Clerk understands,—
His friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them;
So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,—
Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them.

And Darby, at least, is resigned to his lot,
And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning,
Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot,
And he won't recall it till ten the next morning.

A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame,
His heart still is green, though his head shows a hoar lock;
Perhaps his particular star is to blame,—
It may be, he never took time by the forelock.

A day must arrive when, in pitiful case,
He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow;
Is he yet to be found in his usual place?
Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow?

If still at his duty he soon will arrive,—
He passes this turning because it is shorter,—
If not within sight as the clock's striking five,
We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter.

A WISH.

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,
A pair of child-lovers I've seen,
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.

They sat on the grave that has never a stone
The name of the dead to determine,
It was Life paying Death a brief visit—alone
A notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled; what was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new;
Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
Her father beneath them was laid:
I wish to believe,—I will take it on trust,
That father knew all that they said.

My own, you are five, very nearly the age
Of that poor little fatherless child:
And some day a true-love your heart will engage,
When on earth I my last may have smiled.

Then visit my grave, like a good little lass,
Where'er it may happen to be,
And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name,
For strangers to see and discuss:
But come with your lover, as these lovers came,
And talk to him sweetly of us.

And while you are smiling, your father will smile
Such a dear little daughter to have,
But mind,—O yes, mind you are happy the while—
I wish you to visit my Grave.

THE JESTER'S PLEA.

These verses were published in 1862, in a volume of Poems by several hands, entitled "An Offering to Lancashire."

The World! Was jester ever in
A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be—as sin,
It almost is—as pleasant!
It is a merry world (pro tem.)
And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them—but some condemn
The fun they do not care for.

It is an ugly world. Offend
Good people—how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend!
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,
And go to church on Sunday—
And many are afraid of God—
And more of Mrs. Grundy.

The time for Pen and Sword was when
"My ladye fayre," for pity
Could tend her wounded knight, and then
Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,—
And some make pretty nurses:—
Some men are good for righting wrongs,—
And some for writing verses.

I wish We better understood
The tax that poets levy!—
I know the Muse is very good—
I think she's rather heavy:
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest—
Methinks the lays of now-a-days
Are painfully in earnest.

When Wisdom halts, I humbly try
To make the most of Folly:
If Pallas be unwilling, I
Prefer to flirt with Polly,—
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers—
But Pallas is a haughty jade—
And beggars can't be choosers.

I do not wish to see the slaves
Of party, stirring passion,
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety "the fashion."
I bless the Hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!

A righteous Work!—My Masters, may
A Jester by confession,
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle,
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.

THE OLD CRADLE.

And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show
You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.