Part 5

Betook her to the spot where yet Safe tethered lay her captured pet, But lifting, with a start, her Astonished gaze, she spied a change, And screamed--it seemed so very strange!... Cried Echo,--"Where's my garter?"

The blushing girl her lamb led home, Perhaps resolved no more to roam At peep of day together; If chance so takes them, it is plain She will not venture forth again Without an extra tether!

A fair white stone will mark this morn, I wear a prize, one lightly worn, Love's gage--though not intended-- Of course I'll guard it near my heart, Till suns and even stars depart, And chivalry has ended.

Dull World! I now resign to you Those crosses, stars, and ribbons blue, With which you deck your martyrs: I'll bear my cross amid your jars, My ribbon prize, and thank my stars I do not crave your garters.

THE CROSSING-SWEEPER.

AZLA AND EMMA.

_A crossing-sweeper, black and tan, Tells how he came from Hindustan, And why he wears a hat, and shunned The fatherland of Pugree Bund._

My wife had charms, she worshipped me,-- Her father was a Caradee, His deity was aquatile, A rough and tough old Crocodile.

To gratify this monster's maw He sacrificed his sons-in-law; We married, tho' the neighbours said he Had lost five sons-in-law already.

Her father, when he played these pranks, Proposed "a turn" on Jumna's banks; He spoke so kind, she seemed so glum, I knew at once that mine had come.

I fled before this artful ruse To cook my too-confiding goose, And now I sweep, in chill despair, This crossing in St. James's Square;

Some old _Qui-hy_, some rural flat May drop a sixpence in my hat; Yet still I mourn the mango-tree Where Azla first grew fond of me.

These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny, Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee; What matters it if theirs are snowy, As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe!

Your town is vile. In Thames's stream The crocodiles get up the steam! Your juggernauts their victims bump From Camberwell to Aldgate pump!

A year ago, come Candlemas, I wooed a plump Feringhee lass; United at her idol fane, I furnished rooms in Idol Lane.

A moon had waned when virtuous Emma Involved me in a new dilemma: The Brahma faith that Emma scorns Impaled me tight on both its horns:

_She vowed to die if she survived me_; Of this sweet fancy she deprived me, She ran from all her obligations, And went to stay with her relations.

My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps, But Emma mocks my trials,-- She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks, At me in Seven Dials,-- She'd see me farther still, than be, Though Veeshnu wills it--my _Suttee_!

A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG.

Thou sayest our friends are only dead To idle mirth and sorrow, Regretful tears for what is fled, And yearnings for to-morrow. Alas, that love should know alloy-- How frail the cup that holds our joy!

Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to rove Those paths of asphodel; Where all we prize, and all who love, Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell? Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand, To lead thee through a better land.

Why wish the fleeting years to stay?-- When time for us is flown, There is this garden,--far away, An Eden all our own: And there I'll whisper in thine ear --Ah! what I may not tell thee here!

MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION.

"Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella."

_Letters from Rome._

Miss Tristram's _poulet_ ended thus: "Nota bene, We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini." Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina," (The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina).

We started--I'll own that my family deem That I'm soft--but I'm not quite so soft as I seem; As we crossed the stones gently the nursemaids said "La! There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa."

Our friends, some of whom may be mentioned anon, Had made _rendezvous_ at the Gate of St. John: That passed, off we spun over turf that's not green there, And soon were all met at the villa--you've been there?

I will try and describe, or I won't, if you please, The cheer that was set for us under the trees: You have read the _menu_, may you read it again, Champagne, perigord, galantine, and--champagne.

Suffice it to say that, by chance, I was thrust 'Twixt Selina and Brown--to the latter's disgust. Poor Brown, who believes in himself--and, another thing, Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks are so--t'other thing.

She sang, her sweet voice filled the gay garden alleys; I jested, but Brown would not smile at my sallies; And Selina remarked that a swell met at Rome, Is not always a swell when one meets him at home.

The luncheon despatched, we adjourned to croquet, A dainty, but difficult sport, in its way. Thus I counsel the Sage, who to play at it stoops,-- _Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon through thy hoops_.

Then we strolled, and discourse found its softest of tones: "How charming were solitude and--Mrs. Jones." "Indeed, Mr. Placid, I doat on these sheeny And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini."

A girl came with violet posies--and two Soft eyes, like her violets, laden with dew; And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air, As if she by accident found herself there.

I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it; She gave me a rose-bud to keep--and I've kept it. Thus the moments flew by, and I think, in my heart, When one vowed one must go, two were loth to depart.

The twilight is near, we no longer can stay; The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away. The ladies _condemn_ Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is, But vie with each other in chanting my praises.

"He has so much to say," cries the fair Mrs. Legge; "How amusing he was about missing the peg!" "What a beautiful smile!" says the plainest Miss Gunn. All echo, "He's charming! Delightful! What fun!"

This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear it Would have sounded more nice if I'd happened to hear it; The men were less civil, and gave me a rub, So I happened to hear when I went to the Club.

Says Brown, "I shall drop Mr. Placid's society;" But Brown is a prig of improper propriety. "Confound him," says Smith (who from cant's not exempt), "Why, he'll bring immorality into contempt."

Says I (to myself), when I found me alone, "My wife has my heart, is it wholly her own?" And further, says I (to myself), "I'll be shot If I know if Selina adores me or not."

Says Jones, "I've just come from the _scavi_, at Veii, And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabaei."

TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS.

Papa was deep in weekly bills, Mama was doing Fanny's frills, Her gentle face full Of woe; said she, "I do declare He can't go back in such a Pair, They're too disgraceful!"

"Confound it," quoth Papa--perhaps The ban was deeper, but the lapse Of time has drowned it: Besides, 'tis badness to suppose A worse, when goodness only knows He meant _Confound it_.

The butcher's book--that unctuous diary-- Had made my Parent's temper fiery, And bubble over: So quite in spite he flung it down, And spilt the ink, and spoilt his own Fine table-cover

Of scarlet cloth! Papa cried "pish!" Which did not mean he did not wish He'd been more heedful: "Good luck," said he, "this cloth will dip, And make a famous pair--get Snip To do the needful."

'Twas thus that I went back to school In garb no boy could ridicule, And eft becoming A jolly child--I plunged in debt For tarts--and promised fair to get The prize for summing.

But, no! my schoolmates soon began Again to mock my outward man, And make me hate 'em! Long sitting will broadcloth abrade, The dye wore off--and so displayed A red substratum!

To both my Parents then I flew-- Mama shed tears, Papa cried "Pooh, Come, stop this racket:" He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bid To stitch me on two tails; he did, And spoilt my jacket!

And then the boys, despite my wails, Would slily come and lift my tails, And smack me soundly. O, weak Mama! O, wrathful Dad! Although your exploits drove me mad, Ye loved me fondly.

Good Friends, our little ones (who feel Such bitter wounds, which only heal As wisdom mellows) Need sympathy in deed and word; So never let them look absurd Beside their fellows.

My wife, who likes the Things I've doft Sublimes her sentiments, for oft, She'll take, and ... air them! --You little Puss, you love this pair, And yet you never seem to care To let me wear them.

BEGGARS.

I am pacing Pall Mall in a wrapt reverie,-- I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,-- When up creeps a ragged and shivering wretch, Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch.

He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat, A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat; For he says, "Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear; Just try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air."

He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it; He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet. I pause ... and pass on--and beside the club fire I settle that Sophy is all I desire.

As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe, Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy, I half tumble over an "object" unnerving-- So frightful a hag must be "highly deserving."

She begs--my heart's moved--but I've much circumspection; I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection That cases of vice are by no means a rarity-- The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.

Am I right? How I wish that our clerical guides Would settle this question--and others besides! For always to harden one's fiddlestrings thus, If it's wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us.

A few minutes later--how pleasant for me!-- I am seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea: Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries, What cartloads of rubbish they send her from _Barry's_!

"There's a present for you!" Yes, my sweet Sophy's thrift Has enabled the darling to buy me a gift. And she slips in my hand--the delightfully sly Thing-- A paper-weight formed of a bronze lizard writhing.

"What a charming _cadeau_! and," says I, "so well made; But are you aware, you extravagant jade, That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?"

"Pooh, pooh," says my lady (I ought to defend her, Her head is too giddy, her heart's much too tender), "Hopgarten protests they've no feeling--and so It was nothing but muscular movement, you know."

Thinks I--when I've said _au revoir_, and depart-- (A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart),-- And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notion That begging is only a muscular motion.

The Angora Cat

Good pastry is vended In Cite Fadette,-- Madame Pons constructs splendid _Brioche_ and _galette_!

Monsieur Pons is so fat that He's laid on the shelf,-- Madame Pons had a cat that Was fat as herself.

Long hair--soft as satin,-- A musical purr-- 'Gainst the window she'd flatten Her delicate fur.

Once I drove Lou to see what Our neighbours were at, When, in rapture, cried she, "What An exquisite cat!

"What whiskers! She's purring All over. A gale Of contentment is stirring Her feathery tail.

"Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?"-- "_Ma femme est sortie_, Your offer I'll tell her, But--will she?" says he.

Yet Pons was persuaded To part with the prize! (Our bargain was aided, My Lou, by your eyes!)

From his _legitime_ save him-- My fate I prefer! For I warrant she gave him _Un mauvais quart d'heure_.

I'm giving a pleasant Grimalkin to Lou, --Ah, Puss, what a present I'm giving to you!

ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE,

BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

When Punch gives friend and foe their due, Can unwashed mirth grow riper? Yet when the curtain falls, how few Remain to pay the piper!

If pathos should thy bosom stir To tears, more sweet than laughter, Oh, bless its kind interpreter, And love him ever after!

Dear Parson of the roguish eye! Thy face has grown historic, Since saint and sinner flocked to buy The homilies of Yorick.

I fain would add one blossom to The chaplet Fame has wreathed thee. My friends, the crew that Yorick drew Accept, as friends bequeathed thee.

At Shandy Hall I like to stop And see my ancient crony, Or in the lane meet Dr. Slop Astride a slender pony.

Mine uncle, on his bowling-green, Still storms a breach in Flanders; And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean, With Bridget still philanders.

And here again they visit us By happy inspiration, The "fortunes of Pisistratus," A tale of fascination.

But lay his magic volume by, And thank the Great Enchanter;-- Our loins are girded, let us try A sentimental canter....

A Temple quaint of latest growth Expands, where Art and Science Astounded by our lack of both, Have founded an alliance.

One picture there all passers scan, It rivets friend and stranger: Come, gaze on yonder guileless man, And tremble for his danger.

Mine uncle's bluff--his waistcoat's buff,-- The heart beneath is tender.-- Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough! Thou fairest of thy gender.

The limner's art!--the poet's pen!-- Posterity the story Shall tell how these three gifted men Have wrought for Yorick's glory.

O name not easily forgot! Our love, dear Shade, we show thee, Regretting thy misdeeds, but not Forgetting what we owe thee.

A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS.

Minnie, in her hand a sixpence, Toddled off to buy some butter; (Minnie's pinafore was spotless) Back she brought it to the gutter, Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did, Proud to be so largely trusted.

One, two, three small steps she'd taken, Blissfully came little Minnie, When, poor darling! down she tumbled, Daubed her hands and face and pinny! Dropping too, the little slut, her Pat of butter in the gutter.

Never creep back so despairing-- Dry those eyes, my little fairy: All of us start off in high glee, Many come back quite _contrairy_. I've mourned sixpences in scores too, Damaged hopes and pinafores too.

LITTLE PITCHER.

(A BIRTHDAY ODE.)

The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine, Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine! 'Tis her _fete_--so, although retrospection is pleasant, While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present.

A Gift!--In their praise she has raved, sung, and written, Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten; Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol: She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!

Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips, For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips. Then her mouth--when she's happy--indeed, it appears To laugh at the tips of her comical EARS.

Her Ears,--Ah, her Ears!--I remember the squallings That greeted my own ears, when Rambert and Lawlings Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing-- Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring.

Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabaei That I bought of the old _contadino_ at Veii. They cost me some _pauls_, but, as history shows, For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose.

And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede, And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed,

For think of the woeful mishap that befel The damsel who dropt her pair into a well.

That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown, Or given her Ears to have let well alone; For when she got home her Instructress severe Dismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear.

What? Tell you that tale? Come, a tale with a sting Would be rather too much of an excellent thing! I can't point a moral--or sing you the song-- My Years are too short--and your Ears are too long.

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY.

(AN EXPERIMENT.)

When he whispers, "O Miss Bailey, Thou art brightest of the throng"-- She makes murmur, softly-gaily-- "Alfred, I have loved thee long."

Then he drops upon his knees, a Proof his heart is soft as wax: She's--I don't know who, but he's a Captain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such another Artless bride was never seen, Coachee thinks that she's his mother --Till they get to Gretna Green.

There they stand, by him attended, Hear the sable smith rehearse That which links them, when 'tis ended, Tight for better--or for worse.

Now her heart rejoices--ugly Troubles need disturb her less-- Now the Happy Pair are snugly Seated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion, So they journey through the night-- London is their land of Goshen-- See, its suburbs are in sight!

Hark! the sound of life is swelling, Pacing up, and racing down, Soon they reach her simple dwelling-- Burley Street, by Somers Town.

What is there to so astound them? She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!" When five brats emerge, confound them! Shouting out, "Mama!--PAPA!"

While at this he wonders blindly, Nor their meaning can divine, Proud she turns them round, and kindly, "All of these are mine and thine!"

* * * * *

Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic, Losing heart he loses pith-- Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic-- Swears that Moses was a myth.

Sees no evidence in Paley-- Takes to drinking ratifia: Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey While she's pouring out the tea.

One day, knocking up his quarters, Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, Hanging in his knotted garters, Which she knitted ere they wed.

ADVICE TO A POET.

Dear Poet, never rhyme at all!-- But if you must, don't tell your neighbours; Or five in six, who cannot scrawl, Will dub you donkey for your labours. This epithet may seem unjust To you--or any verse-begetter: Oh, must we own--I fear we must!-- That nine in ten deserve no better.

Then let them bray with leathern lungs, And match you with the beast that grazes,-- Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues, Or damn you with the faintest praises. Be patient--you will get your due Of honours, or humiliations: So look for sympathy--but do Not look to find it from relations.

When strangers first approved my books My kindred marvelled what the praise meant, They now wear more respectful looks, But can't get over their amazement. Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond That wielded by the fiercest hater, For all the time they are so fond-- Which makes the aggravation greater.

Most warblers now but half express The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter: If they attempted nought--or less! They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter. Fly low, my friend, then mount, and win The niche, for which the town's contesting; And never mind your kith and kin-- But never give them cause for jesting.

A bard on entering the lists Should form his plan, and, having conn'd it, Should know wherein his strength consists, And never, never go beyond it. Great Dryden all pretence discards, Does Cowper ever strain his tether? And Praed--(Watteau of English Bards)-- How well he keeps his team together!

Hold Pegasus in hand--control A vein for ornament ensnaring, Simplicity is still the soul Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. Long lays are not a lively sport, Reduce your own to half a quarter, Unless your Public thinks them short, Posterity will cut them shorter.

I look on Bards who whine for praise, With feelings of profoundest pity: They hunger for the Poets' bays And swear one's spiteful when one's witty. The critic's lot is passing hard-- Between ourselves, I think reviewers, When called to truss a crowing bard, Should not be sparing of the skewers.

We all--the foolish and the wise-- Regard our verse with fascination, Through asinine paternal eyes, And hues of Fancy's own creation; Then pray, Sir, pray, excuse a queer And sadly self-deluded rhymer, Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!) Has all the gust of _alt hochheimer_.

Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx, So tricksy, it were wrong to let her Rest satisfied with what she thinks Is perfect: try and teach her better. And if you only use, perchance, One half the pains to learn that we, Sir, Still use to hide our ignorance-- How very clever you will be, Sir!

NOTES.

NOTE TO "A HUMAN SKULL."

"In our last month's Magazine you may remember there were some verses about a portion of a skeleton. Did you remark how the poet and present proprietor of the human skull at once settled the sex of it, and determined off-hand that it must have belonged to a woman? Such skulls are locked up in many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Bluebeard, you know, had a whole museum of them--as that imprudent little last wife of his found out to her cost. And, on the other hand, a lady, we suppose, would select hers of the sort which had carried beards when in the flesh."--_The Adventures of Philip on his Way through the World. Cornhill Magazine, January, 1861._

NOTE TO "AN INVITATION TO ROME."

"He never sends a letter to her, but he begins a new one on the same day. He can't bear to let go her kind little hand as it were. He knows that she is thinking of him, and longing for him far away in Dublin yonder."--_English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century._

NOTE TO "TO MY MISTRESS."

"M. Deschanel quotes the following charming little poem, by Corneille, addressed to a young lady who had not been quite civil to him. He says with truth--'Le sujet est leger, le rhythme court, mais on y retrouve la fierte de l'homme, et aussi l'ampleur du tragique.' The verses are probably new to our readers. They are well worth reading:--

Marquise, si mon visage A quelques traits un peu vieux, Souvenez-vous, qu'a mon age Vous ne vaudrez guere mieux.

Le temps aux plus belles choses Se plait a faire un affront, Et saura faner vos roses Comme il a ride mon front.

Le meme cours des planetes Regle nos jours et nos nuits; On m'a vu ce que vous etes, Vous serez ce que je suis.

Cependant j'ai quelques charmes Qui sont assez eclatants Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes De ces ravages du temps.

Vous en avez qu'on adore, Mais ceux que vous meprisez Pourraient bien durer encore Quand ceux-la seront uses.

Ils pourront sauver la gloire Des yeux qui me semblent doux, Et dans mille ans faire croire Ce qu'il me plaira de vous.

Chez cette race nouvelle Ou j'aurai quelque credit, Vous ne passerez pour belle Qu'autant que je l'aurai dit.

Pensez-y, belle Marquise, Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi, Il vaut qu'on le courtise Quand il est fait comme moi.

The last four stanzas in particular are brimful of spirit, and the mixture of pride and vanity which they display is so remarkable that it seems impossible that it should have ever occurred in more than one person."--_Saturday Review, July 23rd, 1864._

NOTE TO "THE ROSE AND THE RING."