The Book of Ballads Part 14

From beauty to beauty I pa.s.sed, like the wind; Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame, While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest; They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest: And the harp of my country--neglected it slept-- In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour!--Life's summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.

No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend.

The Laureate.

BY A--- T---.

Who would not be The Laureate bold, With his b.u.t.t of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.

I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds that are listless as I, Lazily, lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; And I'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birthday ode, Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me, With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle all day to the Queen's c.o.c.katoo, Trance-somely, trance-somely!

Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, And say to each other--"Just look down there, At the nice young man, so tidy and small, Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely!"

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled-up b.a.l.l.s of the royal bills, Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, From the broad of my back to the points of my toes, When a pellet of paper hit my nose, Teasingly, sneezingly.

Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers; And I'd challenge them all to come down to me, And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me, Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life, Apart from care and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day?

Oh, that would be the post for me!

With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's c.o.c.katoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And empty at evening a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would be The Laureate bold, With my b.u.t.t of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

A Midnight Meditation.

BY SIR E--- B--- L---.

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!

Another board of oysters, ladye mine!

To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.

These mute inglorious Miltons {177} are divine And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkin's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A n.o.bler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; I s.n.a.t.c.h the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!

This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there.

Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead!

They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual b.u.t.t--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Maca.s.sar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams-- There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- And in my flas.h.i.+ng eyes the radiance beams, That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When, as his fancies cl.u.s.ter thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!

How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!

Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the a.s.sa.s.sin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!

Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other flam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new pa.s.sions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well.

Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are gra.s.sed: Battered and broken are their early lyres, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor b.u.t.t desires.

But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!

Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,'

Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'?

No! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about.

What ho! within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

Montgomery.

A POEM.

Like one who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him and before; Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the ma.s.s around Servetus' pile,-- So once again I s.n.a.t.c.h this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine.

Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer; Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life; But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,-- That on this brow, with native honours graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed!

Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek!

No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn.

There are who move so far above the great, Their very look disarms the glance of hate; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold.

Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage.

I, who have bathed, in bright Castalia's tide By cla.s.sic Isis and more cla.s.sic Clyde; I, who have handled, in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; I, who on mount--no, "honey-dew" have fed; I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw; I, who have done what Milton dared not do,-- I fear no rival for the vacant throne; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own!

Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays, Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays, Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell, Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,-- I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall; One down, another on, I'll smash them all!

Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; This brow alone is privileged to wear The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine.

Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice: A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice.

Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before, On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand.

Little John and the Red Friar.