The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 46

Mark that (as he masks the bilious Air, so softly supercilious) Chastened bow, and mock humility, Almost sickened to servility; Hear his tone, (which is to talking That which creeping is to walking-- Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe), Hear the tales he lends his lip to; Little hints of heavy scandals, Every friend in turn he handles; All which women or which men do, Glides forth in an innuendo, Clothed in odds and ends of humor-- Herald of each paltry rumor.

From divorces down to dresses, Women's frailties, men's excesses, All which life presents of evil Make for him a constant revel.

You're his foe--for that he fears you, And in absence blasts and sears you: You're his friend--for that he hates you, First caresses, and then baits you, Darting on the opportunity When to do it with impunity: You are neither--then he'll flatter Till he finds some trait for satire; Hunts your weak point out, then shows it Where it injures to disclose it, In the mode that's most invidious, Adding every trait that's hideous, From the bile, whose blackening river Rushes through his Stygian liver.

Then he thinks himself a lover: Why I really can't discover In his mind, age, face, or figure: Viper-broth might give him vigor.

Let him keep the caldron steady, He the venom has already.

For his faults, he has but ONE-- 'Tis but envy, when all's done.

He but pays the pain he suffers; Clipping, like a pair of snuffers, Lights which ought to burn the brighter For this temporary blighter.

He's the cancer of his species, And will eat himself to pieces; Plague personified, and famine; Devil, whose sole delight is d.a.m.ning!

For his merits, would you know 'em?

Once he wrote a pretty Poem.

MY PARTNER.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill Of folly and cold water, I danced, last year, my first quadrille With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.

Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, When summer's rose is newest; Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, When autumn's sky is bluest; And well my heart might deem her one Of life's most precious flowers, For half her thoughts were of its sun, And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels:--"Vivian Gray"

Was positively charming, And "Almack's" infinitely gay, And "Frankenstein" alarming; I said "De Vere" was chastely told.

Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"

Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"

And Lady Morgan's "racy;"

I vowed the last new thing of Hook's Was vastly entertaining; And Laura said--"I dote on books, Because it's always raining!"

I talked of music's gorgeous fane, I raved about Rossini, Hoped Ronzo would come back again, And criticized Paccini; I wished the chorus singers dumb.

The trumpets more pacific, And eulogized Brocard's APLOMB And voted Paul "terrific."

What cared she for Medea's pride Or Desdemona's sorrow?

"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We MUST have storms to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands; Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, Vast forests, trackless mountains; I painted bright Italian skies, I lauded Persian roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes, And jests for Indian noses; I laughed at Lisbon's love of ma.s.s, And Vienna's dread of treason; And Laura asked me where the gla.s.s Stood at Madrid last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds And Jane take up her Handel; Why Julia walked upon the heath, With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.

Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried--"Oh, G.o.d!

How could they in such weather?"

Was she a blue?--I put my trust In strata, petals, gases; A boudoir pedant?--I discussed The toga and the fasces; A c.o.c.kney-muse?--I mouthed a deal Of folly from Endymion: A saint?--I praised the pious zeal Of Messrs. Way and Simeon; A politician?--It was vain To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms come again, Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.

Flat flattery was my only chance, I acted deep devotion, Found magic in her every glance, Grace in her every motion; I wasted all a stripling's lore, Prayer, pa.s.sion, folly, feeling; And wildly looked upon the floor, And wildly on the ceiling; I envied gloves upon her arm, And shawls upon her shoulder; And when my wors.h.i.+p was most warm, She "never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land And she will have the giving Of an extremely pretty hand, Some thousands, and a living.

She makes silk purses, broiders stools, Sings sweetly, dances finely, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, And sits a horse divinely.

But to be linked for life to her!-- The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a barometer, And hang himself beside it!

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Years--years ago--ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at a country ball; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--oh, heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a t.i.ttle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.

My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen.

Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But t.i.tles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and t.i.thes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations?

Black eyes, fair forehead, cl.u.s.tering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand-- She made the Catalina jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an alb.u.m, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an alb.u.m's glories; Paintings of b.u.t.terflies and Rome, Patterns for tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's c.o.c.katoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Laboo, And recipes of elder water.

And she was flatter'd, wors.h.i.+p'd, bored, Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted.

She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolishd.

She smil'd on many just for fun-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first the only one Her heart thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely molded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh!

How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves-- A little glow, a little s.h.i.+ver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows--and then we parted.

We parted--months and years roll'd by; We met again for summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh-- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs.--Something--Rogers.

SORROWS OF WERTHER.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his pa.s.sion boiled and bubbled.

Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.