The Project Gutenberg eBook, London Lyrics, by Frederick Locker, Edited by A. D. Godley, Illustrated by George Cruikshank This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: London Lyrics Author: Frederick Locker Editor: A. D. Godley Release Date: October 5, 2009 [eBook #30185] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONDON LYRICS***
Transcribed from the 1904 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
By FREDERICK LOCKER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND
NOTES
By A. D. GODLEY
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
By GEORGE CRUIKSHANK
london
METHUEN & CO.
36 essex street, w. c.
mdcccciv
|
page |
Introduction |
|
The Castle in the Air |
|
The Cradle |
|
O Tempora Mutantur! |
|
Piccadilly |
|
The Old Clerk |
|
The Garter |
|
The Pilgrims of Pall Mall |
|
The Russet Pitcher |
|
The Enchanted Rose |
|
Circumstance |
|
A Wish |
|
My Life is a— |
|
Vanity Fair |
|
Bramble-Rise |
|
Old Letters |
|
Susannah |
|
The Widow’s Mite |
|
St George’s, Hanover Square |
|
A Sketch in Seven Dials |
|
Miss Edith |
|
A Glimpse of Gretna Green, in the Distance |
|
The Four Seasons |
|
Enigma |
|
Enigma |
|
To the Printer’s Devil |
|
Notes |
|
The father of Frederick Locker Lampson (or Frederick Locker, according to the name by which he is generally known) was Edward Hawke Locker, at one time Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital. He is described in the “Dictionary of National Biography” as “a man of varied talents and accomplishments, Fellow of the Royal Society, an excellent artist in water-colour, a charming conversationalist, an esteemed friend of Southey and Scott.” Frederick, the author of “London Lyrics,” “was born,” Mr Augustine Birrell, his son-in-law, writes in Scribner’s Magazine (January 1896), “in Greenwich Hospital in 1821. After divers adventures in various not over well selected schools, and a brief experience of the City and of Somerset House, he became a clerk in the Admiralty, serving under Lord Haddington, Sir James Graham, and Sir Charles Wood. He was twice married—first, to Lady Charlotte Bruce, a daughter of Lord p. viiiElgin (of the Marbles); and secondly, to the only daughter of Sir Curtis Lampson, Bart., of Rowfant in Sussex.”
The present volume is Locker’s earliest literary venture; produced, however, at the comparatively mature age of thirty-six. “In 1857,” he says in “My Confidences,” “I published a thin volume—certain sparrow-flights of song, called ‘London Lyrics.’” Subsequently, about 1860, Thackeray, who was then editor of the Cornhill Magazine, invited Locker to contribute; and poems published there and elsewhere were collected and reprinted from time to time, the original title being always retained. Ten editions, besides some selections privately printed, appeared before the poet’s death. In almost all something new was added, in all something old was taken away; so that only eight of the twenty-five pieces composing the early “thin volume” survive in the issue of 1893, and some of these are much altered. It is hoped that readers of Locker’s later and more highly finished work will consider a republication of his “Primitiæ” justified by the interest which attaches to all beginnings.
So many people even now confuse minor p. ixpoetry with bad poetry that it is almost invidious to call a poet minor. Yet there is no doubt that minor poetry can be good in its way, just as major poetry can be good in its way. “If he [Locker] was a minor poet he was at least [why ‘at least’?] a master of the instrument he touched, which cannot,” writes Mr Coulson Kernahan in the Nineteenth Century for October 1895, “be said of all who would be accounted major.” Locker was not of those, in his own opinion, who would be accounted major. “My aim,” he says, “was humble. I used the ordinary metres and rhymes, the simplest language and ideas, I hope, flavoured with an individuality. I strove . . . not to be flat, and above all, not to be tedious.” It is not necessary to prove by argument and illustration that Locker is a minor poet, nor that he belongs to that honourable company of writers of what we now call “light verse”—the masters of which are, after all, among the immortals—Horace and Herrick. His place in that company is not so easy to define. Probably he stands half way between the serious singers—who succeed by virtue of grace and artistic finish, yet lack the touch of passion, the indefinable something that makes greatness—and the bards p. xwhose primary object, like Calverley’s, is to make the reader laugh. “He elected,” says Mr Coulson Kernahan, “to don the cap and bells when he might have worn the singing robes of the poet”: a description of one who chose to be a jester when he might have been serious, and hardly applicable to Locker, who is never a professed “funny man.” Mr Kernahan is far more just when he claims for “London Lyrics” a kind of sober gentleness which moves neither to laugh nor to weep: “his sad scenes may touch us to tender melancholy, but never to tears; his gay ones to smile, but seldom to laughter.” Locker’s Muse is not the Muse of high spirits. He does not start with the intention of jesting. He is the gentle and serious spectator of things which are not the most serious in life—with a sense of the humorous which is not repressible, and which enters into all his reflections, but which he never allows wholly to master him.
It is really impossible to classify poets on any satisfactory principle. Every good poet is a class by himself. But if the attempt must be made, one may say that the author of “London Lyrics” belongs to that school of which the other chief representatives, in p. xiEnglish or American literature, have been Praed, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Mr Austin Dobson. It has always been the fashion to class him with the first named of the trio as a writer of “occasional verse” or “vers de société.” These titles, like other parts of the nomenclature of the poetic art, are not satisfying. Why “smoothly written verse, where a boudoir decorum is or ought always to be preserved: where sentiment never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows into boisterous merriment” should be conventionally called “society verse,” or “occasional verse,” is not very clear. To write “society verse” is to be the laureate of the cultured, leisured, pleasure-loving upper classes; but some poets satisfy the above requirements—Locker himself included—yet certainly do not write exclusively of or for “Society.” Then again, what is “occasional”? Many serious poems are inspired by the transient occasion. But we are not, presumably, to class “Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints” among occasional pieces, nor is Wordsworth’s sonnet on London at dawn to be called occasional; yet the source of it, the fact that the poet happened to be upon Westminster Bridge in the p. xiiearly morning, was transient, not (apparently) inherent in the nature of things. However, these names must be accepted as we find them. Here is Locker’s own law: “Occasional verse,” he says, “should be short, graceful, refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful. The tone should not be pitched high: it should be terse and idiomatic, and rather in the conversational key; the rhythm should be crisp and sparkling, and the rhyme frequent and never forced, while the entire poem should be marked by tasteful moderation, high finish, and completeness: for, however trivial the subject-matter may be, indeed, rather in proportion to its triviality, subordination to the rules of composition, and perfection of execution, are of the utmost importance.” Among the enviable versifiers who can satisfy these requirements Praed and Locker both hold a high place. Praed, indeed, is the chief among writers of “vers de société,” for not only does his manner conform to the laws laid down by high authorities, but his theme is generally “Society” with a capital S. “Praed,” says Locker in “My Confidences,” “is the very best of his school: indeed, he has a unique p. xiiiposition; for in his narrower vein of whimsical wit, vernacular banter, and antithetical rhetoric, which may correctly be called vers de société in its most perfected form, and its exactest sense, he has never been equalled.” These phrases hit off Praed very well—if one does not exactly see what “Society” has to do with antithetical rhetoric.
These two poets, so often classed together, are not really very much alike. Both are certainly “in lighter vein”; but they differ apparently in temperament, and certainly in method. No one would deny to Praed the gift of humour. But the period in which he wrote was one which admired primarily wit; and while it would be too much to say that his heart is not in his theme—that he stands detached from it—still, his sympathies are indubitably subordinated to the effort, the successful effort, to bring off a neat point, to make a pun in the right place, to be striking, antithetical, epigrammatic. His verses have the finish, in their way, of Pope’s couplet and Ovid’s pentameter. His best known and most praised work appeals, primarily, to the taste and the ear: always, perhaps, to the head rather than to the heart. There is something p. xivof “hard brilliance” in Praed: he writes for effect, he is epideictic. Of course, this is one object of writers of “society verses”:
“Sole secret to jingle and scan,”
as an unduly severe critic says somewhere. One need hardly say that this is not Praed’s sole secret: but technique is certainly his strong point.
“Where are my friends? I am
alone:
No playmate shares my beaker:
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone
And some—before the Speaker:
And some compose a tragedy,
And some compose a rondo:
And some draw sword for Liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe.
Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes
Without the fear of sessions:
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities
As much as false professions:
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic:
And Medlar’s feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic.”
This is the art which does not conceal itself. One may not be able to do the trick; but it is possible to see how the trick is done.
p. xv“No one,” says Locker, when speaking of occasional or society verse, “has fully succeeded who did not possess a certain gift of irony.” That is profoundly true. A would-be writer of light verse who has not an ironical habit of mind had better change his purpose and write an epic. Locker has his full share of the necessary gift. Half gay, half melancholy, always ironical—dissembling most of pain and some of pleasure—he is in certain ways the appropriate spokesman of a society like our own, which is really most natural when most dissembling, or dismissing with a smile, its deeper emotions. There is nothing about Locker which is not natural. As he is, so (apparently) does he speak: far more candidly and with more of self-revelation than Praed, more candidly than Mr Austin Dobson, who is apt to veil his personality behind a mask of elegant antiquarianism. But Locker is more artless and naïve (which qualities are in him not the least inconsistent with irony) than any modern writer, except, perhaps, R. L. Stevenson now and then; and with the latter naïveté itself is sometimes an artifice. Mr Brander Matthews rightly lays stress on this aspect of Locker’s poetry; “individuality and directness of expression”—p. xvithat is the true note of “London Lyrics.” He is far more genuine and spontaneous than Praed. It is difficult and perhaps invidious to compare the two as “humorists.” It may be that Locker’s vein of humour is larger and truer than the earlier poet’s. Praed belongs, as has been said, to a period of other men and other manners. Probably he is the wittier of the two; yet this might be contradicted. Locker’s humour has the reflective vein, with a suggestion of pathos, of the great writers who flourished in the early and middle Victorian era. We are perhaps a little out of tune now with the sentiment of the middle of the nineteenth century and perhaps, too, with Praed’s “antithetical rhetoric”; but Locker’s humour can never be quite out of fashion. Readers will always smile (not laugh) at “The Housemaid” or “The Pilgrims of Pall Mall” or the lines “To my Grandmother”—
“With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,—
If Romney’s touch be true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
. . . . .
p. xviiWhat funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Fair Sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn’t
Marry thee?”
But perhaps, for a nutshell’s content of whimsical Lockerian humour, the gem which will occur to most is the delightful reminiscence of infancy:
“I recollect a nurse call’d Ann,
Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up, and kiss’d the pretty Lass:
She did not make the least objection!
Thinks I.
‘Aha!
When I can talk I’ll tell Mamma.’
—And that’s my earliest recollection.”
(Locker’s “mottoes,” of which this is one, often contain his most characteristic lines.) Praed could no more have written that, or the lines “To my Grandmother,” than Locker could have written “The Vicar.” Both poets have other strings. Praed’s more serious vein could win a contemporary reputation: but he would not have been remembered for this alone, after eighty years. In “At Her Window,” which p. xviiiMr Coulson Kernahan rightly calls “one of the most beautiful love-songs of the century,” Locker is no longer ironical, but rises to the heights of real passion:
“Beating Heart! we come again
Where my Love reposes:
This is Mabel’s window-pane:
These are Mabel’s roses.
. . . . .
Mabel will be deck’d anon,
Zoned in bride’s apparel;
Happy zone! Oh hark to yon
Passion-shaken carol!
Sing thy song, thou trancèd thrush,
Pipe thy best, thy clearest;—
Hush, her lattice moves, O hush—
Dearest Mabel!—dearest” .
. .
“I once tried,” says Locker in “My Confidences,” “to write like Praed.” The effort was not wholly successful: Locker is weakest where his manner is most Praedian; and the poet, either realising this, or moulded by the temper of his time, appears to have altered most of the obviously imitative passages. Thus in “Tempora Mutantur” the last stanza runs, in 1857:
p. xix“What brought this wanderer
here, and why
Was Pamela away?
It might be she had found her grave
Or he had found her gay”;
but the antithetical pun is excised in the 1893 edition, where the lines are:
“The pilgrim sees an empty chair
Where Pamela once sat:
It may be she had found her grave,
It might be worse than that.”
So in “Bramble-Rise”
“My bank of early violets
Is now a bank of savings”
(“you mark the paronomasia, play ’pon words”?) does not continue to please the taste of the pun-despising fin-de-siècle public or of Locker himself: the corresponding stanza in the poem as published in 1893 is purified of such tricks. These alterations are characteristic of Locker’s literary method. He was keenly critical of himself—“never,” says Mr Birrell, “could mistake good verses for bad”—and was therefore always changing and polishing his work, adding here, pruning there. Thus p. xxonly eight poems from the 1857 volume form part of the “London Lyrics” of 1893, and only five of these—“Bramble-Rise,” “Piccadilly,” “The Pilgrims of Pall Mall,” “Circumstance,” “The Widow’s Mite”—have maintained their footing throughout in all intervening editions: the three others are, as it were, “rusticated” from the very severely edited selection of 1881. The variety of forms under which his verses appear at different periods will probably make the poet’s works a happy hunting-ground for the future commentator, who will no doubt assign this “lay” (as he will probably call it) to Locker, that to Lampson, that again to the Lockeridae or the Lampsonschule. The method is familiar. No one, probably, ever was so careful of the “limae labor.” “He took,” we are told, “great pains with his verses,” always aiming at a more perfect finish, with no loss of that naturalness which, as has been said, characterises all his work. According to the saying quoted by Matthew Arnold of Joubert, he “s’inquiétait de perfection.” Perfection, to him, implied an appearance of spontaneity: what looked laboured or artificial must be elaborated till it looked spontaneous—as it was in thought p. xxiif not altogether in development. His critical sense seems to have grown keener with his interest in the making of verses: “he was a great student of verse,” Mr Birrell says, and a student especially of that kind of verse of which he was himself one of the masters. In 1867 he published the well-known collection “Lyra Elegantiarum,” assisted by Mr Kernahan: the preface, written by Locker, contains some excellent rules for “light verse,” from which the selections are made. This anthology ranges over the whole field of English poetry, and, like everything else of Locker’s, it shows the man. “Its charm,” writes the editor’s collaborator, “is entirely of the editor’s individuality”—at least, from his favourites in literature, one may make a very fair guess at some part of his character. So, too, “Patchwork”—a kind of scrap-book, a collection of miscellaneous anecdotes, mostly humorous, but not as a rule broadly or farcically funny—illustrates his delicate and subtle perception of the laughable.
Locker married Lady Charlotte Bruce in 1850, and soon after left the service of Government. Thenceforward he appears to have led a very placid life, happy in his family, seeing p. xxiimuch of his large circle of friends, devoted to poetry and book-collecting. “Lyra Elegantiarum” was published in 1867, “Patchwork” in 1879. In 1886 Locker published a catalogue of what he called the “Rowfant Library”—his collection of rare and valuable books (mostly the poetry of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries) and autographs—of which Mr Andrew Lang has sung:
“The Rowfant books, how fair they
shew,
The Quarto quaint, the Aldine tall,
Print, autograph, portfolio!
Back from the outer air they call
The athletes from the Tennis ball,
This Rhymer from his rod and hooks,
Would I could sing them, one and all,
The Rowfant
books!”
Locker’s first wife died in 1872. In 1874 he married Miss Lampson, adding her family name to his own. The rest of his life was spent for the most part at Rowfant: he died there, 30th May 1895. His autobiography, “My Confidences,” was published posthumously in 1896.
“I would build a cloudy house,
For my thoughts to live in,
When for earth too fancy loose,
And too low for heaven!Hush! I talk my dream alone:
I build it bright to see;
I build it on the moon-lit cloud,
To which I look with thee!”Mrs E. B. Browning.
You shake your curls, and ask me why
I don’t build castles in the sky;
You smile, and you are thinking too,
He’s nothing else on earth to do.
p.
2It needs, my dear, romantic ware
To raise such fabrics in the air—
Ethereal bricks, and rainbow beams,
The gossamer of Fancy’s dreams:
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 glad retreat,
Adorn’d with bloom and scented
briars,—
A Cupid’s model country-seat,
With all that such a seat requires.
A rustic thatch, a purple mountain,
A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain,
A terraced lawn, a summer lake,
By sun or moonbeam ever burnish’d;
And then my cot, by some mistake,
Unlike most cots was neatly furnish’d.
A trelliss’d porch, a mirror’d
hall,
A Hebe, laughing from the wall,
p.
3Frail vases from remote Cathay,—
While, under arms and armour wreath’d
In trophied guise, the marble
breath’d—
A peering fawn, a startled fay.
And cabinets with gems inlaid,
The legacy of parted years,
Full curtains of festoon’d brocade,
And Venice lent her chandeliers.
Quaint carvings dark, and, pillow’d light,
Meet couches for the Sybarite;
Embroider’d carpets, soft as down,
The last new novel fresh from town.
On silken cushion, rich with braid,
A shaggy pet from Skye was laid,
And, drowsy eyed, would dosing swing
A parrot in his golden ring.
All these I saw one happy day,
And more than now I care to name;
Here, lately shut, that workbox lay,
There stood your own embroidery frame.
p.
4And over this piano bent
A Form, from some pure region sent.
Her dusky 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,
Adorn’d my Castle in the Air;
And Life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We viewed, with much serene disdain,
The smoke and scandal of Cockaigne,
Its dupes and dancers, knaves and nuns,
Possess’d by blues, or bored by duns.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We gazed upon the moon together.
Our sympathy, from night to noon,
Rose crescent with that crescent moon,
p.
5We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And died (in rhymes) a thousand times.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorn’d 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? you ask;—why, love at
best
Is only a delightful jest;—
As sad for one, as bad for three,
So I suggest you jest with me.
You shake your head, and wonder why
A denizen of dear May-Fair
Should ever condescend to try
And build her Castle in the Air.
p. 6I’ve music, books, and all, you
say,
To make the gravest lady gay;
I’m told my essays show research,
My sketches have endow’d a church.
I’ve partners, who have witty parts;
I’ve lovers, who have broken hearts;
Quite undisturbed by nerves or blues,
My doctor gives me—all the news.
Poor Polly would not care to fly;
And Wasp, you know, was born in Skye.
To realise your
tête-à-tête
Might jeopardise a giddy pate;
And quel ennui! if, pride apart,
I lost my head, or you your heart.
I’m more than sorry, I’m afraid
My Castle is already made.
And is this all we gain by fancies
For noon-day dreams, and waking trances,—
p.
7Such dreams as brought poor souls mishap,
When Baby-Time was fond of pap:
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While women smile, and men are boys?
The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss coquetting flies the grasp:
And, waking up, snap goes the slight
Poor cord that held my foolish kite,—
Your slave, you may not care to know it,
Your humble slave will be your Poet.
Farewell!—can aught for her be
will’d
Whose every wish is all fulfill’d?
Farewell!—could wishing weave a spell,
There’s promise in those words “Fare well!”
I wish your wish may not be
marr’d;—
Now wish yourself a better Bard!
Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my
Jenny,
Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show
You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.
Your baby-days flow’d in a much-troubled
channel;
I see you as then in your impotent strife,—
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
Perplex’d with that newly-found fardel called
life.
p. 9To hint at an infantine
frailty’s a scandal;
All bye-gones are bye-gones—and somebody
knows
It was bliss such a baby to dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet—so rosy your
toes.
Aye, here is your cradle! and Hope, a bright
spirit,
With Love now is watching beside it, I know;
They guard o’er the nest you yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.
It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it
smiling;
Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to
ask,—
“My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?”
If mask’d, still it pleases, then raise not
its mask.
p. 10Is life a poor coil some would gladly
be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will
adjust;
For at most ’tis a footstep from cradle to
coffin,—
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.
Then smile as your future is smiling, my
Jenny!
I see you, except for that infantine woe,
Scarce changed since you were but a small pic-a-ninny,—
Your cheek is still velvet—pray what is your
toe?
Aye, here is your cradle! much, much to my
liking,
Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped;
p.
11But, hark! as I’m talking there’s six
o’clock striking,
It is time Jenny’s
Baby should be in its bed!
“O cruel Time! O tyrant Time!
Whose winter all the streams of rhyme,
The flowing waves of Love sublime,
In bitter passage freezes.
I only see the scrambling goat,
The lotos on the water float,
While an old shepherd with an oat
Pipes to the autumn breezes.”Mr M. Collins.
Yes! here, once more, a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,
Receive me with a grin:
p.
13They surely can’t remember me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I’m chang’d, so chang’d since I was
here—
“O tempora mutantur!”
The Angel’s not much alter’d
since
That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honey-moon!
I recollect it down to e’en
The shape of this decanter.
We’ve since been both much put about—
“O tempora mutantur!”
Aye, there’s the clock, and
looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vow’d her Love was very fair—
I see I’m very plain.
And there’s that daub of Prince Leboo,
’Twas Pamela’s fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
“O tempora mutantur!”
p. 14The curtains have been dyed; but
there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same cracked pane of glass
On which I scratch’d 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 wand’rer here, and
why
Was Pamela away?
It may be she had found her grave,
Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
May meet with a supplanter;—
How natural, how trite the cry,
“O tempora mutantur!”
“Often, when I have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed my humour till tears have wetted my cheek for unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving picture; * * nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes!”
C. Lamb.
Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and
breeze,
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees,
By night, or by day, whether 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,
p.
16And Beauty is whirl’d off to conquest, where
shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!
Bright days, when I leisurely pace to and
fro,
And meet all the people I do or don’t know.
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie;—
No wonder some pilgrims affect Piccadilly!
See yonder pair, fonder ne’er rode at a
canter,—
She smiles on her Poet, contented to saunter;
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.
p. 17Thus the high frolic by—thus
the lowly are seen,
As perched on the roof of yon bulky machine,
The Kensington dilly—and Tom Smith or Billy
Smoke doubtful cigars in ill-used Piccadilly.
And there’s the balcony, where, ages
ago,
Old Q sat and gazed on the damsels below.
There are plausible wolves even now, seeking silly
Red Riding Hoods small in thy woods, Piccadilly!
And there is a Statesman, the Man of the
Day,
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;
No darling of Fortune more manfully trod,
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more
chilly,—
“Old P or Old Q I must quit Piccadilly?”
p. 18Life is chequer’d, a patchwork
of smiles and of frowns;
We valued its ups, let us muse on its downs.
There’s a side that is bright, it will then turn the
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!
We knew an old Clerk, it was “once on
time,”
An era to set sober datists despairing;
Then let them despair!—Darby sat in a chair
Near a cross that takes name from the village of
Charing.
Though silent and lean, Darby was not
morose,
What hair he had left was more silver than sable,
His feet had begun to turn up at the toes,
From constantly being curled under a table.
p. 20His pay and expenditure, quite in
accord,
Were both on the strictest economy founded;
His rulers, in conclave, were known as the Board,
His rulers were sticks of mahogany rounded.
In his heart he looked down on this dignified
knot,—
For why, the forefather of one of these senators,
A rascal concern’d in the Gunpowder Plot,
Had been barber-surgeon to Darby’s
progenitors.
Poor fool! to resent the caprices of Luck.
Still, a long thirty years (it was rather
degrading)
He’d been writing despatches,—which means he had
stuck
Some heads and some tails to much
rhodomontading.
p. 21This sounds rather weary and dreary;
but, no!
Though strictly inglorious, his days were
quiescent,
And 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.
This greeting the silent old Clerk
understands.
Now 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.
p. 22And Darby, at least, is
resign’d 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 time must arrive when, in pitiful case,
He will drop from his Branch like a fruit more than
mellow:
Is he still 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.
The healthy-wealthy-wise, affirm,
That early birds secure the worm,
And doubtless so they do;
Who scorns his couch should earn, by rights,
A world of pleasant sounds and sights
That vanish with the dew.
Bright Phosphor, from his watch released,
Now fading from the purple East—
The morning waxing stronger;
The comely cock that vainly strives
To crow from sleep his drowsy wives,
Who would be dosing longer.
p. 24Uxorious Chanticleer! and hark!
Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,
That matutine musician,
Who heavenward soars on rapture’s wings,
Though sought, unseen, who mounts, and sings
In musical derision.
A daughter hast’ning to prepare
Her father’s humble morning fare—
The sturdy reaper’s meal.
In russet gown and apron blue,
The daughter sings; like “Lucy,” too,
She plies her spinning-wheel.
Anon the early reaper hies
To waving fields that clasp the skies,
Broad sheets of sunlit water.
All these were heard or seen by one
Who stole a march upon that sun,
And then—upon that Daughter!
p. 25This dainty maid, the hamlet’s
pride,
A lambkin trotting at her side,
Then hied her through the park;
A fond and gentle foster-dam—
May be she slumbered with her lamb,
Thus rising with the lark!
The lambkin frisk’d, the damsel fain
Would wile him back,—she called in vain.
The truant gamboll’d farther:
One follow’d for the maiden’s sake,
A pilgrim in an Angel’s wake—
A happy pilgrim, rather.
The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran,
As only woolly vagrant can,
Who never felt a crook;
But stay’d at length, as ’twere disposed
To drink, where tawny sands disclosed
The margent of a brook.
p. 26His mistress, who had follow’d
fast,
Cried, “Little rogue, you’re caught at last;
I’m fleeter, Sir, than you.”
Then straight the wanderer convey’d
Where tangled shrubs, in branching shade,
Protected her from view—
Of all save one. She glanced around,
All fearful lest the slightest sound
Might mortal footfall be.
Then shrinkingly she stepped aside
One moment, and her garter tied
The truant to a tree.
Perhaps the world may wish to know
The hue of this delightful bow,
And how it might be placed:
No, not from him, he only knows—
It might be purple, blue, or rose,—
’Twas tied—with maiden taste.
p. 27Suffice it that the nymph was
fair,
With dove-like eyes, and golden hair,
And feet of lily dye:
And, though these feet were pure from stain,
She turned her to the brook again,
And laved them dreamingly.
Awhile she sat in maiden mood,
And watch’d the shadows in the flood,
Which varied with the stream:
And as each pretty foot she dips,
The ripples ope their crystal lips
In welcome, as ’twould seem.
But reveries are fleeting things,
Which come and go on Fancy’s wings,
Now longer, and now shorter:
The Fair One well her day-dream nurst,
But, when the light-blown bubble burst,
She wearied of the water;
p. 28Betook her to the spot where yet
Safe tether’d lay her snowy pet,
To roving tastes a martyr:
But something met the damsel’s gaze,
Which made her cry in sheer amaze,
“Good gracious! where’s my
garter?”
Yes! where indeed? the echoes there,
Inquisitive, responded “where?”
And mourn’d the missing fetter:
A something else a little space
Must render duty in its place,
Till banish’d for a better.
The blushing Fair 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.
p. 29A fair white stone will mark this
morn—
He wears a prize, one lightly worn,
Love’s gage (though not intended);
Of course he’ll guard it near his heart,
Till suns and even stars depart,
And chivalry has ended.
And knighthood he’ll not envy you,
The crosses, stars, and cordons bleus,
Which pride for folly barters;
He’ll bear his cross ’mid mundane jars,
His ribbon prize, and thank his stars
He does not crave your garters!
My little Friend, so small and neat,
Whom years ago I used to meet
In Pall Mall daily;
How cheerily you tripp’d away
To work, it might have been to play,
You tripp’d 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 smil’d
At morn or eve, I know, dear child,
You were not frowning.
p. 31Each morning when we met, I think,
Some sentiment did us two link—
Nor joy, nor sorrow:
And then at eve, experience-taught,
Our hearts fell back 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 parlour next the stars,
A bird, some treasur’d plants in jars,
About your casement?
You must have dwelt au
cinquième,
Like little darling What’s-her-name,—
Eugène Sue’s glory:
Perchance, unwittingly, I’ve heard
Your thrilling-toned Canary-bird
From that fifth storey.
p. 32I’ve seen some 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.
I sometimes to Pall Mall repair,
And see the damsels passing there;
But though I try to
Obtain one glance, they look discreet,
As though they’d someone else to meet,—
As have not I too?
p. 33Yet still I often muse upon
Our many meetings—come and gone!
July—December!
Now let us make a tryste, and when,
Dear little soul, we meet again,
In some serener sphere, why then—
Thy Friend remember!
“The Pitcher may go often to the Well, but it gets broken at last.”
Away, ye simple ones, away!
Bring no vain fancies hither;
The brightest dreams of youth decay,
The fairest roses wither.
Aye, since this fountain first was
plann’d,
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.
From youth to age this waterfall
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, aye! tell me where, are all
Those constant lovers gone?
p. 35The falcon on the turtle preys,
And fondest vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
“Thy Russet Pitcher set adown,
Fair maid, and list to one
Who much this sorry world hath known,—
A muser thereupon.
Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold,
Youth flatters and beguiles,
Though Giles is young,—and I am old,—
Ne’er trust thy heart to Giles.
Thy Pitcher may some luckless day
Be broken coming hither,
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,—
The fairest roses wither.”
p. 36She laugh’d outright, she
scorn’d him quite,
She fill’d her Russet Pitcher;—
For that dear sight an anchorite
Might deem himself the richer.
Ill-fated maiden! go thy ways,
Thy lover’s vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
* * * * *
These days are soon the days of yore;
Six summers pass, and then
That musing man would see once more
The fountain in the glen.
Again to stray where once he stray’d,
Those woods with verdure richer;
Half hoping to espy the maid
Come tripping with her pitcher.
p. 37No light step comes, but,
evil-starr’d,
He finds a mournful token,—
There lies a Russet Pitcher marr’d,
The damsel’s pitcher broken!
Profoundly moved, that muser cried:
The spoiler hath been hither;
O! would the maiden first had died,—
The fairest rose must wither!
The tender flow’ret blooms apace,
But chilling winds blow o’er;
It fades unheeded, and its place
Shall never know it more.
He turn’d from that accursèd
ground,
His world-worn bosom throbbing;
A bow-shot thence a child he found,—
The little man was sobbing.
p. 38He gently stroked that curly
head,—
“My child, what brings thee hither?
Weep not, my simple child,” he said,
“Or let us weep together.
Thy world, I ween, my child, is green,
As garden undefil’d,
Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,—
Where dost thou dwell, my child?”
’Twas then the tiny urchin
spoke,—
“My daddy’s Giles the ditcher;
I water fetch, and, oh! I’ve broke
My mammy’s Russet Pitcher!”
“O where dost thou trip it,” the
patriarch said,
“A Rose in thy bosom so daintily laid?
A pilgrim, whose shadow extends to the tomb,
Would gaze on its beauty, would breathe its perfume!”
“O raise not thy hand,” cried the
maid, “nor suppose
I ever can part with this beautiful Rose;
The bloom is a gift of the fays, who declare it
Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.
p. 40And sigh not, old man, such a doleful
‘heigh-ho,’
Dost think I possess not the will to say, ‘No’?
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come even younger than thee.”
The damsel pass’d on with a confident
smile,
The old man extended his walk for a while,
His musings were trite, and their burthen, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.
Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is
there;
Rosy day dons the garb of a Penitent Fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.
p. 41And Echo was mute to the
patriarch’s tread,—
“How tranquil is Nature!” that patriarch said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade
A lonelier spot, and the barley is laid.
He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound upon earth, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows,
Neglected, unheeded—a beautiful Rose.
It ripen’d by the river banks,
Where, musk and moonlight aiding,
Dons Whiskerandos play sad pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.
By Moorish maiden it was pluck’d,
Who broke some hearts, they say, then,
By Saxon sweetheart it was suck’d,—
Who threw the peel away then.
How little thought the London Fair,
Or dark-eyed Girl of Seville,
That I should reel upon that peel,
And find my proper level!
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 which had 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.
p. 44They tenderly prattled,—what
was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new:
O! kenn’d ye, poor little ones, aught of the dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?
I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
That a 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 smil’d.
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.
p. 45And place not a stone to distinguish
my name,
For strangers and gossips to see,
But come with your lover as these lovers came,
And talk to him gaily of me.
And while you are smiling, your father will
smile
Such a sweet little daughter to have:
But mind, O yes! mind you are merry the while—
I wish you to visit my grave.
At Worthing an exile from Geraldine
G—,
How aimless, how wretched an exile is he!
Promenades are not even prunella and leather
To lovers, if lovers can’t foot them together.
He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands,
He traces a “Geraldine G” on the sands.
But a G, tho’ her lov’d patronymic is Green,
“I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.”
The fortunes of men have a time and a tide,
And Fate, the old fury, will not be denied;
p.
47That name was, of course, soon wip’d out by the
sea,—
And she jilted the exile, did Geraldine G—.
They meet, but they never have spoken since
that,—
He hopes she is happy—he knows she is fat;
She woo’d on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,
And I—it was I wrote her name on the sand!
“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity.”
Ecclesiastes.
“Vanitas Vanitatum” has rung in the
ears
Of gentle and simple for thousands of years;
The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare
Or simple, or gentle, from Vanity Fair.
This Fair has allurements alike to engage
The dimples of youth and the wrinkles of age;
Though mirth may be feigning, though sheen may be glare,
The gingerbread’s gilded in Vanity Fair.
p. 49Old Dives there rolls in his chariot
of state,
There Jack takes his Joan at a lowlier rate,
St Giles’, St James’, from alley and square,
Send votaries plenty to Vanity Fair.
That goal would be vain where the guerdon was
dross,
So come whence they may they must come by a loss:
The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare;
Heigh-ho! for the promise of Vanity Fair.
My son, the sham goddess I warn thee to
shun,
Beware of the beautiful temptress, my son;
Her blandishments fly,—or, despising the snare,
Go laugh at the follies of Vanity Fair.
That stupid old Dives, once honest enough,
His honesty sold for Stars, Ribbons, and Stuff;
p.
50And Joan’s pretty face has been clouded with
care
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives!—too credulous
Joan!
Yet each has a Vanity Fair of his own;—
My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,
Myself, I’ve a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are
vain,—
We go, we repent, we return there again;
To-night you will certainly meet with us there,
Exceedingly merry at Vanity Fair.
What changes greet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
Once fairest of its shire;
How alter’d 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 chang’d its sign,
The beer may not be stronger:
The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook,—the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
p. 52The thatch is slate, the plaster
bricks,
The trees have cut their ancient sticks,
Or else those sticks are stunted:
I’m sure these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once those pigs
More musically grunted.
Where early reapers whistled—shrill
A whistle may be noted still,
The locomotives’ ravings.
New custom newer want begets—
My bank of early violets
Is now a bank of—savings.
Ah! there’s a face I know again,
Fair Patty trotting down the Lane
To fetch a pail of water;
Yes, Patty! still I much suspect,
’Tis not the child I recollect,
But Patty, Patty’s daughter!
p. 53And has she too outliv’d 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
How some grow wise and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble;
And mouldy sages much aver
That if the Past’s a gossamer,
The Future is a bubble.
So let it be, at any rate
My Fate is not the cruel Fate
Which sometimes I have thought her:
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My frisky little daughter.
p. 54Come hither, Puss, and perch on
these
Your most unworthy Father’s knees,
And try and tell him—Can you?
Are Punch and Judy bits of wood?
Does Dolly boast of ancient blood,
Or is it only “bran new”?
We talk sad stuff,—and Bramble-Rise
Is lovely to the infant’s eyes,
Whose doll is ever charming;
She does not weigh the pros and cons,
Her pigs still please, her geese are swans,
Though more or less alarming!
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,
And, need be, share her sorrow!
p. 55My wife, though life is called a
jaunt,
In sadness rife, in sunshine scant,
Though mundane joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis:
’Tis something in this desert drear,
For thee so fresh, for me so sere,
To find in Puss, our daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!
“Fragile creations of still frailer man,
That men outlast,
Though to eternity, from whence he came,
The scribe be past.O there are tongues within these dry brown leaves
That speak as Autumns do;
They cry of death and sorrow,
To me—to you.”Mr George Thornbury.
Old letters! wipe away the tear,
And gaze upon these pale mementoes,
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first he took to walk on ten toes.
p. 57Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham
Rise,
Do mothers still their school-boys pamper?
O, how I hated Doctor Wise!
O, how I lov’d a well-fill’d hamper!
How strange to commune with the Dead—
Dead joys, dead loves, and wishes thwarted:
Here’s cruel proof of friendships fled,
And sad enough of friends departed.
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;
On looking back I acted like
A donkey upon that occasion.
p. 58And here a letter from “the
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 heap 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,
Whatever say your 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 sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore!
Shall we not meet as heretofore
Some summer morning?
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?”C. Lamb.
Susannah! still that name can raise
The memory of ancient days,
And hearts unwrung:
When all too bright our future smil’d,
When she was Mirth’s adopted child,
And I—was young.
p. 60I see the cot with spreading eaves
Embosom’d bright in summer leaves,
As heretofore:
The gables quaint, the pansy bed,—
Old Robin train’d the roses red
About the door.
A seat did most blithe Susan please,
Beneath two shady elder trees,
Of rustic make:
Old Robin’s handiwork again,
He dearly lov’d those elders twain
For Susan’s sake.
Her gleeful tones and laughter gay
Lent sunshine to a gloomy day,
And trouble fled:
Yet when her mirth was passing wild,
Though still the faithful Robin smil’d,
He shook his head.
p. 61Perchance the old man harbour’d
fears
That happiness is wed with tears
On this poor earth:
Or else, may be, his fancies were
That youth and beauty are a snare
If link’d with mirth.
* * * * *
And times are chang’d,—how
chang’d that scene,
For mark old Robin’s alter’d mien,
And feeble tread.
His toil has ceased to be his pride,
At Susan’s name he turns aside,
And shakes his head.
And summer smiles, but summer spells
Can never charm where sorrow dwells,
Nor banish care.
No fair young form the passer sees,
And still the much-lov’d elder trees
Throw shadows there.
p. 62The well-remember’d seat is
gone,
And where it stood is set a stone,
A simple square:
The worlding gay, or man austere,
May pass the name recorded here,
But we will stay to shed a tear,
And breathe a prayer.
“But thou that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day,
Her delicate creation!”Wordsworth.
It shall not be “Albert” nor
“Arthur,”
Though both are respectable men,
His name shall be that of his father,
My Benjamin shorten’d to
“Ben.”
Yes, much as I wish for a corner
In each of my relative’s wills,
I will not be reckon’d a fawner—
That creaking of boots must be Squills.
p. 64It is clear, though his means may be
narrow,
This infant his age will adorn;
I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow—
I wonder how soon he’ll be born.
A spouse thus was airing his fancies
Below—’twas a labour of love—
And calmly reflecting on Nancy’s
More practical labour above.
Yet while it so pleas’d him to ponder,
Elated, at ease, and alone,
That pale, patient victim up yonder
Had budding delights of her own;
Sweet thoughts in their essence diviner
Than dreams of ambition and pelf;
A cherub, no babe will be finer,
Invented and nursed by herself!
p. 65One breakfasting, dining, and
teaing,
With appetite nought can appease,
And quite a young Reasoning Being
When called on to yawn and to sneeze.
What cares that heart, trusting and tender,
For fame or avuncular wills;
Except for the name and the gender,
She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centr’d,
Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl,
Heard Squills—as the creaking boots
enter’d,—
Announce that his Boy was—a Girl.
St Mark’s Gospel, chap. xii. verses 42, 43, 44
The widow had but only one,
A puny and decrepid son;
But 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
sustain’d
She battled onward, nor complain’d
Though friends were fewer:
And, cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
p. 67I saw her then, and now I see,
Though cheerful and resign’d, still she
Has sorrow’d much:
She has—HE gave it tenderly—
Much faith—and carefully laid by
A little crutch.
“Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pas entièrement.”
She pass’d up the aisle on the arm of her
sire,
A delicate lady in bridal attire,
Fair emblem of virgin simplicity:
Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,
Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,
But envied Lord Nigel’s felicity.
O, beautiful bride, still so meek in thy
splendour,
So frank in thy love and its trusting surrender,
p. 69Going hence thou wilt leave us the
town dim!
May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,
And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,
Prove worthy thy worship, confound him!
Mary in her hand has sixpence,
Mary starts to fetch some butter,
Mary’s pinafore is spotless,
Off she goes across the gutter,
Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,
Proud to be so largely trusted.
One, two, three, small steps she’s
taken,
Blissfully away she’s tripping,
When good lack, and who’d a thought it,
Down goes Mary, slipping, slipping;
Daubs her clothes, the little slut—her
Sixpence, too, rolls in the gutter.
p. 71Never creep back so despairing,
Dry those eyes, my little Mary,
All of us start off in high glee,
Many come back quite
“contrairy”—
I’ve mourn’d sixpences in scores too,
Damag’d hopes and pinafores too.
Miss Edith lifts the latch with care,
And now she must brave the chill night air.
She has violet eyes and ruby lips,
A dancing shape—and away she skips;
She hies to the haunt of a hermit weird,
With flaming eyes and a forky beard,
A shocking wizard—who, gossips say,
Has dwelt in his cavern a year to-day.
“O, ancient man! I am filled with
fear,
My lover has left me full a year.
‘I swear to return in a year,’ said he,
‘Or question the man of mystery.
p.
73Your eyes are blue, and your lips are red;
I swear, my love, to come back,’ he said.
O, fearsome man! I pray of you,
Can he prove so false whom I think so true?”
“O, daughter fair! I am sad to say
That young men now and then betray:
Thy lover, I wis, has thy trust betray’d,
For he presently woos a witching maid:
Her eyes are blue, and, I tell thee this,
She has tempting lips that he fain would kiss;
But courage, my child, thou mayst yet discover
A clue to the heart of this worthless lover.”
He mutter’d, when thus he the maid had
cheer’d,
A strange sound that was drown’d in the forky beard;
Then all around loud thunders broke,
And the cave was wrapp’d in fire and smoke,
p.
74And that fearsome man has disappear’d
With his flaming eyes and his forky beard;
And Edith weeps in rapture sweet
To find her lover at her feet!
“My Kate, at the Waterloo column,
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!”
* * * * *
That evening seem’d strangely to
linger,
The licence and luggage were packt,
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly mark’d me exact.
Arrived, woman’s constancy blessing,
No end of nice people I see,
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,
But none of them waiting for me.
p. 76Time passes, my watch how I con
it,
I see her—she’s coming—no,
stuff!
Instead of Kate’s smart little bonnet,
It is aunt and her wonderful muff!
(Yes! Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One’s relatives always appear.)
Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vow’d to be mine;
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I’ve been waiting for nine.
p. 77O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!
Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears,
With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder,
Small pitchers with extensive ears,
And fingers prone to urchin plunder.
Two whisp’ring lovers—blissful
pair!
Is he the rogue? or hath she trick’d
him?
Unless he dupes his mistress there,
The chances are, he’ll fall a victim.
Two toiling ones of sober age
(Their bet with Care a losing wager);
They own, though now so very sage,
They might have been a trifle sager!
p. 79Two frail old wretches, sick and
sad,
Yet sore dismayed lest Death should take them,
—Come, hang it, things, though passing bad,
Are not so bad as some would make them:
For, like yon clock, when twelve shall
sound,
The call these poor old souls obeying,
Together shall their hands be found,
An earnest they are humbly praying!
He met her with her milking-cans,
Too fast the moments speeded,
For while they chat on this and that
My first may low unheeded.
And was she call’d a forward jade,
And was he graceless reckon’d,
Because he stopt the dairy-maid,
Enchanted by my second?
Though stars in thousands stud the pole,
The fields own stars as yellow,
And when I gave that last my whole,
She thank’d a happy fellow.
But she was call’d a forward jade,
And I was graceless reckon’d;—
I only kiss’d that dairy-maid,
Enraptur’d by my second.
Toll, toll the bell, its iron tongue
Is weighty as my second,
Dig, dig the grave, to life he clung,
But now his days are reckon’d.
Old man, who’ll ring a knell for thee,
Or dress thy couch of clay?
Why didst not thou thy death foresee,
And dig it for to-day?
King Death his journeyman demands,
On all he works his worst:
His dart he’s flung at old and young,—
Death heedeth not my first.
p. 82Old man, thou’st dug some
scores of graves,
Who’ll turn the mould for thine?
And when this spade thy bed hath made,
Who’ll lift a spade at mine?
Small imp of blackness, off at once,
Expend thy mirth as likes thee best:
Thy toil is over for the nonce;
Yes, “opus operatum est.”
When dreary authors vex thee sore,
Thy Mentor’s old, and would remind thee
That if thy griefs are all before,
Thy pleasures are not all behind thee.
the end
The Castle in the Air. Last published in 1872.
The Cradle. Last published in 1878.
O Tempora Mutantur. Written in 1856: last published in 1893: omitted from the 1881 edition. In 1893 the last stanza is different: I have quoted from it in the Introduction.
Piccadilly. Last published in 1893. After the words “If ‘yes,’ Piccadilly,” the 1893 version is as follows:—
“From Primrose balcony, long ages ago
‘Old Q’ sat at gaze,—who now passes below?
A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day,”
etc.
The Old Clerk. Written in 1856: last published in 1893: omitted in 1881. The final version (title, “The Old Government Clerk”) is a good deal elaborated, and a stanza added.
The Garter. Last published in 1878. In the 1862 and subsequent editions the title is “Arcadia.”
Pilgrims of Pall Mall. Written in 1856: last published in 1893. The first lines of the fifth stanza run, as finally revised:
p. 86“I often wander up and down,
When morning bathes the silent town
In dewy glory”;
and the seventh stanza is altered to:
“My heart grows chill! Can Soul
like thine,
Weary of this clear world of mine,
Have loosed its fetter,
To find a world whose promised bliss
Is better than the best of this?—
And is it better?”
These are the most important changes.
The Russet Pitcher. Last published in 1870: omitted in 1868.
The Enchanted Rose. “The Fairy Rose” in subsequent editions. Last published in 1870: omitted in 1868.
Circumstance. Written in 1856: last published in 1893, with some alteration. The last line runs, finally: “And—wish them at the devil.”
A Wish. Last published in 1878.
My Life is a—. Last published in 1893: omitted in 1881. Practically the same in the final version.
Vanity Fair. Last published in 1878.
Bramble-Rise. Written in 1857: last published in 1893, a good deal altered. It is less “Praedian” than in the original form: the puns in stanzas four and nine disappear.
Old Letters. Last published in 1878. Of all the p. 87London Lyrics this is the most obviously reminiscent of Praed: and as such it is rejected by Locker’s final judgment. It belongs evidently to the period when “I once tried to write like Praed.”
Susannah. Last published (as “Susan”) in 1872: omitted in 1868. The first verse, slightly altered, serves as “motto” for the serious poem, “Her quiet resting-place is far away,” which is in some of the later editions.
My Firstborn. Last published in 1878, omitted in 1868.
The Widow’s Mite. Last published in 1893. In the final form of the poem the pun is (characteristically) dropped.
St George’s. Last published in 1878: omitted in 1868.
Seven Dials. Last published in 1862.
Miss Edith. Not again published.
Gretna Green. Subsequently under the title “Vae Victis”: last published in 1870.
The Four Seasons. Not again published.
Enigma. 1. / 2. } Not again published.
The Printer’s Devil. Not again published.
p. 88the riverside press limited
edinburgh
***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONDON LYRICS***
***** This file should be named 30185-h.htm or 30185-h.zip******
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/0/1/8/30185
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://www.gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit:
http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.