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Title: Verses and Translations
Author: Calverley, Charles Stuart
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Verses and Translations" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglag.org


                                * * * * *

                               BY C. S. C.

                                * * * * *

                       _SECOND EDITION_, _REVISED_.

                                * * * * *

                         DEIGHTON, BELL, AND CO.
                         LONDON: BELL AND DALDY.

                                * * * * *



VISIONS                                                  1
GEMINI AND VIRGO                                         6
“THERE STANDS A CITY”                                   14
STRIKING                                                18
VOICES OF THE NIGHT                                     21
A, B, C.                                                26
TO MRS. GOODCHILD                                       28
ISABEL                                                  37
DIRGE                                                   40
“HIC VIR, HIC EST”                                      47
BEER                                                    52
ODE TO TOBACCO                                          60
DOVER TO MUNICH                                         63
CHARADES                                                77
PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY                                   97
   LYCIDAS                                             106
   IN MEMORIAM                                         128
   LAURA MATILDA’S DIRGE                               132
   “LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL”                    136
   “LET US TURN HITHERWARD OUR BARK”                   140
CARMEN SÆCULARE                                        144
   TO A SHIP                                           152
   TO VIRGIL                                           154
   TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA                         156
   TO IBYCUS’S WIFE                                    158
   SORACTE                                             160
   TO LEUCONÖE                                         162
   JUNO’S SPEECH                                       163
   TO A FAUN                                           168
   TO LYCE                                             170
   TO HIS SLAVE                                        172
   FROM VIRGIL                                         173
   FROM THEOCRITUS                                     175
   SPEECH OF AJAX                                      177
   FROM LUCRETIUS                                      180
   FROM HOMER                                          188


                           “She was a phantom,” &c.

   IN lone Glenartney’s thickets lies couched the lordly stag,
   The dreaming terrier’s tail forgets its customary wag;
   And plodding ploughmen’s weary steps insensibly grow quicker,
   As broadening casements light them on towards home, or home-brewed

   It is (in fact) the evening—that pure and pleasant time,
   When stars break into splendour, and poets into rhyme;
   When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine—
   And when, of course, Miss Goodchild’s is prominent in mine.

   Miss Goodchild!—Julia Goodchild!—how graciously you smiled
   Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child:
   When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb’s instruction,
   And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction!

   “She wore” her natural “roses, the night when first we met”—
   Her golden hair was gleaming ’neath the coercive net:
   “Her brow was like the snawdrift,” her step was like Queen Mab’s,
   And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb’s.

   The parlour-boarder chasséed tow’rds her on graceful limb;
   The onyx decked his bosom—but her smiles were not for him:
   With _me_ she danced—till drowsily her eyes “began to blink,”
   And _I_ brought raisin wine, and said, “Drink, pretty creature,

   And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,
   And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;
   Shall I—with that soft hand in mine—enact ideal Lancers,
   And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers:—

   I know that never, never may her love for me return—
   At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern—
   But ever shall I bless that day: (I don’t bless, as a rule,
   The days I spent at “Dr. Crabb’s Preparatory School.”)

   And yet—we two _may_ meet again—(Be still, my throbbing heart!)—
   Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry tart:—
   One night I saw a vision—’Twas when musk-roses bloom
   I stood—_we_ stood—upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:

   One hand clasped hers—one easily reposed upon my hip—
   And “BLESS YE!” burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild’s lip:
   I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam—
   My heart beat wildly—and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.


   Some vast amount of years ago,
      Ere all my youth had vanished from me,
   A boy it was my lot to know,
      Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.

   I love to gaze upon a child;
      A young bud bursting into blossom;
   Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled,
      And agile as a young opossum:

   And such was he.  A calm-browed lad,
      Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter:
   Why hatters as a race are mad
      I never knew, nor does it matter.

   He was what nurses call a ‘limb;’
      One of those small misguided creatures,
   Who, though their intellects are dim,
      Are one too many for their teachers:

   And, if you asked of him to say
      What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7,
   He’d glance (in quite a placid way)
      From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven:

   And smile, and look politely round,
      To catch a casual suggestion;
   But make no effort to propound
      Any solution of the question.

   And so not much esteemed was he
      Of the authorities: and therefore
   He fraternized by chance with me,
      Needing a somebody to care for:

   And three fair summers did we twain
      Live (as they say) and love together;
   And bore by turns the wholesome cane
      Till our young skins became as leather:

   And carved our names on every desk,
      And tore our clothes, and inked our collars;
   And looked unique and picturesque,
      But not, it may be, model scholars.

   We did much as we chose to do;
      We’d never heard of Mrs. Grundy;
   All the theology we knew
      Was that we mightn’t play on Sunday;

   And all the general truths, that cakes
      Were to be bought at four a-penny,
   And that excruciating aches
      Resulted if we ate too many:

   And seeing ignorance is bliss,
      And wisdom consequently folly,
   The obvious result is this—
      That our two lives were very jolly.

   At last the separation came.
      Real love, at that time, was the fashion;
   And by a horrid chance, the same
      Young thing was, to us both, a passion.

   Old POSER snorted like a horse:
      His feet were large, his hands were pimply,
   His manner, when excited, coarse:—
      But Miss P. was an angel simply.

   She was a blushing gushing thing;
      All—more than all—my fancy painted;
   Once—when she helped me to a wing
      Of goose—I thought I should have fainted.

   The people said that she was blue:
      But I was green, and loved her dearly.
   She was approaching thirty-two;
      And I was then eleven, nearly.

   I did not love as others do;
      (None ever did that I’ve heard tell of;)
   My passion was a byword through
      The town she was, of course, the belle of.

   Oh sweet—as to the toilworn man
      The far-off sound of rippling river;
   As to cadets in Hindostan
      The fleeting remnant of their liver—

   To me was ANNA; dear as gold
      That fills the miser’s sunless coffers;
   As to the spinster, growing old,
      The thought—the dream—that she had offers.

   I’d sent her little gifts of fruit;
      I’d written lines to her as Venus;
   I’d sworn unflinchingly to shoot
      The man who dared to come between us:

   And it was you, my Thomas, you,
      The friend in whom my soul confided,
   Who dared to gaze on her—to do,
      I may say, much the same as I did.

   One night I _saw_ him squeeze her hand;
      There was no doubt about the matter;
   I said he must resign, or stand
      My vengeance—and he chose the latter.

   We met, we ‘planted’ blows on blows:
      We fought as long as we were able:
   My rival had a bottle-nose,
      And both my speaking eyes were sable.

   When the school-bell cut short our strife,
      Miss P. gave both of us a plaster;
   And in a week became the wife
      Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.

                                    * * *

   I loved her then—I’d love her still,
      Only one must not love Another’s:
   But thou and I, my Tommy, will,
      When we again meet, meet as brothers.

   It may be that in age one seeks
      Peace only: that the blood is brisker
   In boy’s veins, than in theirs whose cheeks
      Are partially obscured by whisker;

   Or that the growing ages steal
      The memories of past wrongs from us.
   But this is certain—that I feel
      Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!

   And wheresoe’er we meet again,
      On this or that side the equator,
   If I’ve not turned teetotaller then,
      And have wherewith to pay the waiter,

   To thee I’ll drain the modest cup,
      Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;
   And we will waft, while liquoring up,
      Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA.

“There Stands a City.”


   YEAR by year do Beauty’s daughters,
      In the sweetest gloves and shawls,
   Troop to taste the Chattenham waters,
      And adorn the Chattenham balls.

   ‘_Nulla non donanda lauru_’
      Is that city: you could not,
   Placing England’s map before you,
      Light on a more favoured spot.

   If no clear translucent river
      Winds ’neath willow-shaded paths,
   “Children and adults” may shiver
      All day in “Chalybeate baths:”

   If “the inimitable Fechter”
      Never brings the gallery down,
   Constantly “the Great Protector”
      There “rejects the British crown:”

   And on every side the painter
      Looks on wooded vale and plain
   And on fair hills, faint and fainter
      Outlined as they near the main.

   There I met with him, my chosen
      Friend—the ‘long’ but not ‘stern swell,’ {15a}
   Faultless in his hats and hosen,
      Whom the Johnian lawns know well:—

   Oh my comrade, ever valued!
      Still I see your festive face;
   Hear you humming of “the gal you’d
      Left behind” in massive bass:

   See you sit with that composure
      On the eeliest of hacks,
   That the novice would suppose your
      Manly limbs encased in wax:

   Or anon,—when evening lent her
      Tranquil light to hill and vale,—
   Urge, towards the table’s centre,
      With unerring hand, the squail.

   Ah delectablest of summers!
      How my heart—that “muffled drum”
   Which ignores the aid of drummers—
      Beats, as back thy memories come!

   Oh, among the dancers peerless,
      Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!
   Need I say to you that cheerless
      Must my days be till I die?

   At my side she mashed the fragrant
      Strawberry; lashes soft as silk
   Drooped o’er saddened eyes, when vagrant
      Gnats sought watery graves in milk:

   Then we danced, we walked together;
      Talked—no doubt on trivial topics;
   Such as Blondin, or the weather,
      Which “recalled us to the tropics.”

   But—oh! in the deuxtemps peerless,
      Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!—
   Once more I repeat, that cheerless
      Shall my days be till I die.

   And the lean and hungry raven,
      As he picks my bones, will start
   To observe ‘M. N.’ engraven
      Neatly on my blighted heart.


   IT was a railway passenger,
      And he lept out jauntilie.
   “Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,
      My two chattèls to me.

   “Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,
      And portmanteau so brown:
   (They lie in the van, for a trusty man
      He labelled them London town:)

   “And fetch me eke a cabman bold,
      That I may be his fare, his fare;
   And he shall have a good shilling,
   If by two of the clock he do me bring
      To the Terminus, Euston Square.”

   “Now,—so to thee the saints alway,
      Good gentleman, give luck,—
   As never a cab may I find this day,
      For the cabman wights have struck:
   And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,
      Or else at the Dog and Duck,
   Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,
   The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin
      Right pleasantly they do suck.”

   “Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr,
      What were it best that I should do:
   For woe is me, an I reach not there
      Or ever the clock strike two.”

   “I have a son, a lytel son;
      Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s:
   Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,
   And he shall carry thy chattels down,
   To Euston, or half over London town,
      On one of the station trucks.”

   Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,
   The gent, and the son of the stout portèr,
   Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,
      Through all the mire and muck:
   “A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:
   For by two of the clock must I needs away.”
   “That may hardly be,” the clerk did say,
      “For indeed—the clocks have struck.”


                  “The tender Grace of a day that is past.”

   THE dew is on the roses,
      The owl hath spread her wing;
   And vocal are the noses
      Of peasant and of king:
   “Nature” (in short) “reposes;”
      But I do no such thing.

   Pent in my lonesome study
      Here I must sit and muse;
   Sit till the morn grows ruddy,
      Till, rising with the dews,
   “Jeameses” remove the muddy
      Spots from their masters’ shoes.

   Yet are sweet faces flinging
      Their witchery o’er me here:
   I hear sweet voices singing
      A song as soft, as clear,
   As (previously to stinging)
      A gnat sings round one’s ear.

   Does Grace draw young Apollos
      In blue mustachios still?
   Does Emma tell the swallows
      How she will pipe and trill,
   When, some fine day, she follows
      Those birds to the window-sill?

   And oh! has Albert faded
      From Grace’s memory yet?
   Albert, whose “brow was shaded
      By locks of glossiest jet,”
   Whom almost any lady’d
      Have given her eyes to get?

   Does not her conscience smite her
      For one who hourly pines,
   Thinking her bright eyes brighter
      Than any star that shines—
   I mean of course the writer
      Of these pathetic lines?

   Who knows?  As quoth Sir Walter,
      “Time rolls his ceaseless course:
   “The Grace of yore” may alter—
      And then, I’ve one resource:
   I’ll invest in a bran-new halter,
      And I’ll perish without remorse.


   ERE the morn the East has crimsoned,
      When the stars are twinkling there,
   (As they did in Watts’s Hymns, and
      Made him wonder what they were:)
   When the forest-nymphs are beading
      Fern and flower with silvery dew—
   My infallible proceeding
      Is to wake, and think of you.

   When the hunter’s ringing bugle
      Sounds farewell to field and copse,
   And I sit before my frugal
      Meal of gravy-soup and chops:
   When (as Gray remarks) “the moping
      Owl doth to the moon complain,”
   And the hour suggests eloping—
      Fly my thoughts to you again.

   May my dreams be granted never?
      Must I aye endure affliction
   Rarely realised, if ever,
      In our wildest works of fiction?
   Madly Romeo loved his Juliet;
      Copperfield began to pine
   When he hadn’t been to school yet—
      But their loves were cold to mine.

   Give me hope, the least, the dimmest,
      Ere I drain the poisoned cup:
   Tell me I may tell the chymist
      Not to make that arsenic up!
   Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbing;
      And when, musing o’er my bones,
   Travellers ask, “Who killed Cock Robin?”
   They’ll be told, “Miss Sarah J—s.”

A, B, C.

   A is an Angel of blushing eighteen:
   B is the Ball where the Angel was seen:
   C is her Chaperone, who cheated at cards:
   D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards:
   E is the Eye which those dark lashes cover:
   F is the Fan it peeped wickedly over:
   G is the Glove of superlative kid:
   H is the Hand which it spitefully hid:
   I is the Ice which spent nature demanded:
   J is the Juvenile who hurried to hand it:
   K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art:
   L is the Lace which composed the chief part.
   M is the old Maid who watch’d the girls dance:
   N is the Nose she turned up at each glance:
   O is the Olga (just then in its prime):
   P is the Partner who wouldn’t keep time:
   Q ’s a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers:
   R the Remonstrances made by the dancers:
   S is the Supper, where all went in pairs:
   T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs:
   U is the Uncle who ‘thought we’d be going’:
   V is the Voice which his niece replied ‘No’ in:
   W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight:
   X is his Exit, not rigidly straight:
   Y is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball:
   Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.


      THE night-wind’s shriek is pitiless and hollow,
         The boding bat flits by on sullen wing,
      And I sit desolate, like that “one swallow”
         Who found (with horror) that he’d not brought spring:
      Lonely as he who erst with venturous thumb
   Drew from its pie-y lair the solitary plum.

      And to my gaze the phantoms of the Past,
         The cherished fictions of my boyhood, rise:
      I see Red Ridinghood observe, aghast,
         The fixed expression of her grandam’s eyes;
      I hear the fiendish chattering and chuckling
   Which those misguided fowls raised at the Ugly Duckling.

      The House that Jack built—and the Malt that lay
         Within the House—the Rat that ate the Malt—
      The Cat, that in that sanguinary way
         Punished the poor thing for its venial fault—
      The Worrier-Dog—the Cow with Crumpled horn—
   And then—ah yes! and then—the Maiden all forlorn!

      O Mrs. Gurton—(may I call thee Gammer?)
         Thou more than mother to my infant mind!
      I loved thee better than I loved my grammar—
         I used to wonder why the Mice were blind,
      And who was gardener to Mistress Mary,
   And what—I don’t know still—was meant by “quite contrary”?

      “Tota contraria,” an “_Arundo Cami_”
         Has phrased it—which is possibly explicit,
      Ingenious certainly—but all the same I
         Still ask, when coming on the word, ‘What is it?’
      There were more things in Mrs. Gurton’s eye,
   Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

      No doubt the Editor of ‘Notes and Queries’
         Or ‘Things not generally known’ could tell
      That word’s real force—my only lurking fear is
         That the great Gammer “didna ken hersel”:
      (I’ve precedent, yet feel I owe apology
   For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

      Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon
         For making this unwarranted digression,
      Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary’s garden:—
         And beg to send, with every expression
      Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes,
   For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

      There is a youth, who keeps a ‘crumpled Horn,’
         (Living next me, upon the selfsame story,)
      And ever, ’twixt the midnight and the morn,
         He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie.
      The tune is good; the habit p’raps romantic;
   But tending, if pursued, to drive one’s neighbours frantic.

      And now,—at this unprecedented hour,
         When the young Dawn is “trampling out the stars,”—
      I hear that youth—with more than usual power
         And pathos—struggling with the first few bars.
      And I do think the amateur cornopean
   Should be put down by law—but that’s perhaps Utopian.

      Who knows what “things unknown” I might have “bodied
         Forth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too?
      But don’t I know that when my friend has plodded
         Through the first verse, the second will ensue?
      Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely
   Send the aforesaid book—and am yours most sincerely.


   NOW the “rosy morn appearing”
      Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
   And the schoolboy groans on hearing
      That eternal clock strike seven:—
   Now the waggoner is driving
      Towards the fields his clattering wain;
   Now the bluebottle, reviving,
      Buzzes down his native pane.

   But to me the morn is hateful:
      Wearily I stretch my legs,
   Dress, and settle to my plateful
      Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.
   Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,
      Mentioned “rent,” which “p’raps I’d pay;”
   And I have a dismal presage
      That she’ll call, herself, to-day.

   Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,
      Smoked through silver-mounted pipes—
   Then how my patrician nose would
      Turn up at the thought of “swipes!”
   Ale,—occasionally claret,—
      Graced my luncheon then:—and now
   I drink porter in a garret,
      To be paid for heaven knows how.

   When the evening shades are deepened,
      And I doff my hat and gloves,
   No sweet bird is there to “cheep and
      Twitter twenty million loves:”
   No dark-ringleted canaries
      Sing to me of “hungry foam;”
   No imaginary “Marys”
      Call fictitious “cattle home.”

   Araminta, sweetest, fairest!
      Solace once of every ill!
   How I wonder if thou bearest
      Mivins in remembrance still!
   If that Friday night is banished
      Yet from that retentive mind,
   When the others somehow vanished,
      And we two were left behind:—

   When in accents low, yet thrilling,
      I did all my love declare;
   Mentioned that I’d not a shilling—
      Hinted that we need not care:
   And complacently you listened
      To my somewhat long address—
   (Listening, at the same time, isn’t
      Quite the same as saying Yes).

   Once, a happy child, I carolled
      O’er green lawns the whole day through,
   Not unpleasingly apparelled
      In a tightish suit of blue:—
   What a change has now passed o’er me!
      Now with what dismay I see
   Every rising morn before me!
      Goodness gracious, patience me!

   And I’ll prowl, a moodier Lara,
      Through the world, as prowls the bat,
   And habitually wear a
      Cypress wreath around my hat:
   And when Death snuffs out the taper
      Of my Life, (as soon he must),
   I’ll send up to every paper,
      “Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”


      NOW o’er the landscape crowd the deepening shades,
      And the shut lily cradles not the bee;
   The red deer couches in the forest glades,
      And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:
      And ere I rest, one prayer I’ll breathe for thee,
   The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams:
      Lady, forgive, that ever upon me
      Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams
   Linger on Merlin’s rock, or dark Sabrina’s streams.

      On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray,
      And watch far off the glimmering roselight break
   O’er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray
      Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.
      Oh! who felt not new life within him wake,
   And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn—
      (Save one we wot of, whom the cold _did_ make
   Feel “shooting pains in every joint in turn,”)
   When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne?

      And years have past, and I have gazed once more
      On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue;
   And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before—
      For all awakened memories of you.
      Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu
   Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry,
      (Flies in those parts unfortunately do,)
   Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry,
   And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!

   O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme
      That ere drew dreamer on to poësy,
   Since “Peggy’s locks” made Burns neglect his team,
      And Stella’s smile lured Johnson from his tea—
      I may not tell thee what thou art to me!
   But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear,
      Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be,
      Would he but “do the duty that lies near,”
   And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer.


        “Dr. Birch’s young friends will reassemble to-day, Feb. 1st.”

   WHITE is the wold, and ghostly
      The dank and leafless trees;
   And ‘M’s and ‘N’s are mostly
      Pronounced like ‘B’s and ‘D’s:
   ’Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted,
      The sheep stands, mute and stolid:
   And ducks find out, disgusted,
      That all the ponds are solid.

   Many a stout steer’s work is
      (At least in this world) finished;
   The gross amount of turkies
      Is sensibly diminished:
   The holly-boughs are faded,
      The painted crackers gone;
   Would I could write, as Gray did,
      An Elegy thereon!

   For Christmas-time is ended:
      Now is “our youth” regaining
   Those sweet spots where are “blended
      Home-comforts and school-training.”
   Now they’re, I dare say, venting
      Their grief in transient sobs,
   And I am “left lamenting”
      At home, with Mrs. Dobbs.

   O Posthumus!  “Fugaces
      Labuntur anni” still;
   Time robs us of our graces,
      Evade him as we will.
   We were the twins of Siam:
      Now _she_ thinks _me_ a bore,
   And I admit that _I_ am
      Inclined at times to snore.

   I was her own Nathaniel;
      With her I took sweet counsel,
   Brought seed-cake for her spaniel,
      And kept her bird in groundsel:
   We’ve murmured, “How delightful
   A landscape, seen by night, is,”—
      And woke next day in frightful
      Pain from acute bronchitis.

                                    * * *

   But ah! for them, whose laughter
      We heard last New Year’s Day,—
   (They reeked not of Hereafter,
      Or what the Doctor’d say,)—
   For those small forms that fluttered
      Moth-like around the plate,
   When Sally brought the buttered
      Buns in at half-past eight!

   Ah for the altered visage
      Of her, our tiny Belle,
   Whom my boy Gus (at his age!)
      Said was a “deuced swell!”
   P’raps now Miss Tickler’s tocsin
      Has caged that pert young linnet;
   Old Birch perhaps is boxing
      My Gus’s ears this minute.

   Yet, though your young ears be as
      Red as mamma’s geraniums,
   Yet grieve not!  Thus ideas
      Pass into infant craniums.
   Use not complaints unseemly;
      Tho’ you must work like bricks;
   And it _is_ cold, extremely,
      Rising at half-past six.

   Soon sunnier will the day grow,
      And the east wind not blow so;
   Soon, as of yore, L’Allegro
      Succeed Il Penseroso:
   Stick to your Magnall’s Questions
      And Long Division sums;
   And come—with good digestions—
      Home when next Christmas comes.


      DARKNESS succeeds to twilight:
      Through lattice and through skylight
   The stars no doubt, if one looked out,
         Might be observed to shine:
      And sitting by the embers
      I elevate my members
   On a stray chair, and then and there
         Commence a Valentine.

      Yea! by St. Valentinus,
      Emma shall not be minus
   What all young ladies, whate’er their grade is,
         Expect to-day no doubt:
      Emma the fair, the stately—
      Whom I beheld so lately,
   Smiling beneath the snow-white wreath
         Which told that she was “out.”

      Wherefore fly to her, swallow,
      And mention that I’d “follow,”
   And “pipe and trill,” et cetera, till
         I died, had I but wings:
      Say the North’s “true and tender,”
      The South an old offender;
   And hint in fact, with your well-known tact,
         All kinds of pretty things.

      Say I grow hourly thinner,
      Simply abhor my dinner—
   Tho’ I do try and absorb some viand
         Each day, for form’s sake merely:
      And ask her, when all’s ended,
      And I am found extended,
   With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid,
         To think on Her’s sincerely.


   OFTEN, when o’er tree and turret,
      Eve a dying radiance flings,
   By that ancient pile I linger
      Known familiarly as “King’s.”
   And the ghosts of days departed
      Rise, and in my burning breast
   All the undergraduate wakens,
      And my spirit is at rest.

   What, but a revolting fiction,
      Seems the actual result
   Of the Census’s enquiries
      Made upon the 15th ult.?
   Still my soul is in its boyhood;
      Nor of year or changes recks.
   Though my scalp is almost hairless,
      And my figure grows convex.

   Backward moves the kindly dial;
      And I’m numbered once again
   With those noblest of their species
      Called emphatically ‘Men’:
   Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,
      Through the streets, with tranquil mind,
   And a long-backed fancy-mongrel
      Trailing casually behind:

   Past the Senate-house I saunter,
      Whistling with an easy grace;
   Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet
      Still the beefy market-place;
   Poising evermore the eye-glass
      In the light sarcastic eye,
   Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid
      Pass, without a tribute, by.

   Once, an unassuming Freshman,
      Through these wilds I wandered on,
   Seeing in each house a College,
      Under every cap a Don:
   Each perambulating infant
      Had a magic in its squall,
   For my eager eye detected
      Senior Wranglers in them all.

   By degrees my education
      Grew, and I became as others;
   Learned to court delirium tremens
      By the aid of Bacon Brothers;
   Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,
      And colossal prints of Roe;
   And ignored the proposition
      That both time and money go.

   Learned to work the wary dogcart
      Artfully through King’s Parade;
   Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with
      Amaryllis in the shade:
   Struck, at Brown’s, the dashing hazard;
      Or (more curious sport than that)
   Dropped, at Callaby’s, the terrier
      Down upon the prisoned rat.

   I have stood serene on Fenner’s
      Ground, indifferent to blisters,
   While the Buttress of the period
      Bowled me his peculiar twisters:
   Sung ‘We won’t go home till morning’;
      Striven to part my backhair straight;
   Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller’s
      Old dry wines at 78:—

   When within my veins the blood ran,
      And the curls were on my brow,
   I did, oh ye undergraduates,
      Much as ye are doing now.
   Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:—
      Now unto mine inn must I,
   Your ‘poor moralist,’ {51a} betake me,
      In my ‘solitary fly.’


   IN those old days which poets say were golden—
      (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
   And, if they did, I’m all the more beholden
      To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
   Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden”
      Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
   Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,
   And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

   In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
      (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.
   They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
      No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
   Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,
      Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)
   And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
   And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

   Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:
      And oft, I own, my ‘wayward fancy roams’
   Back to those times, so different from the present;
      When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,
   Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,
      Nor ‘did’ their hair by means of long-tailed combs,
   Nor migrated to Brighton once a-year,
   Nor—most astonishing of all—drank Beer.

   No, they did not drink Beer, “which brings me to”
      (As Gilpin said) “the middle of my song.”
   Not that “the middle” is precisely true,
      Or else I should not tax your patience long:
   If I had said ‘beginning,’ it might do;
      But I have a dislike to quoting wrong:
   I was unlucky—sinned against, not sinning—
   When Cowper wrote down ‘middle’ for ‘beginning.’

   So to proceed.  That abstinence from Malt
      Has always struck me as extremely curious.
   The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,
      That they should stick to liquors so injurious—
   (Wine, water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)—
      And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,
   And artful beverage, Beer.  How the digestion
   Got on without it, is a startling question.

   Had they digestions? and an actual body
      Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on?
   Were they abstract ideas—(like Tom Noddy
      And Mr. Briggs)—or men, like Jones and Jackson?
   Then Nectar—was that beer, or whiskey-toddy?
      Some say the Gaelic mixture, _I_ the Saxon:
   I think a strict adherence to the latter
   Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.

   Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shews
      That the real beverage for feasting gods on
   Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose
      And also to the palate, known as ‘Hodgson.’
   I know a man—a tailor’s son—who rose
      To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on,
   (Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,)
   That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.

   O Beer!  O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!
      Names that should be on every infant’s tongue!
   Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,
      And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
   Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,
      And wished that lyre could yet again be strung
   Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her
   Misguided sons that “the best drink was water.”

   How would he now recant that wild opinion,
      And sing—as would that I could sing—of you!
   I was not born (alas!) the “Muses’ minion,”
      I’m not poetical, not even blue:
   And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion,
      Whoe’er he is that entertains the view
   Of emulating Pindar, and will be
   Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.

   Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned
      With all the lustre of the dying day,
   And on Cithæron’s brow the reaper turned,
      (Humming, of course, in his delightful way,
   How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned
      The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay;
   And how rock told to rock the dreadful story
   That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)

   What would that lone and labouring soul have given,
      At that soft moment, for a pewter pot!
   How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven,
      And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!
   If his own grandmother had died unshriven,
      In two short seconds he’d have recked it not;
   Such power hath Beer.  The heart which Grief hath canker’d
   Hath one unfailing remedy—the Tankard.

   Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;
      Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:
   When ‘Dulce et desipere in loco’
      Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.
   When a rapt audience has encored ‘Fra Poco’
      Or ‘Casta Diva,’ I have heard that then
   The Prima Donna, smiling herself out,
   Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

   But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,
      Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?
   What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,
      But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?
   Nay stout itself—(though good with oysters, very)—
      Is not a thing your reading man should take.
   He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,
   Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

   But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—
      A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.
   Its tinkling tells me that a time is near
      Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.
   O blessed Bell!  Thou bringest beef and beer,
      Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:
   Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubdued
   Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

   I go.  Untaught and feeble is my pen:
      But on one statement I may safely venture;
   That few of our most highly gifted men
      Have more appreciation of the trencher.
   I go.  One pound of British beef, and then
      What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;”
   That home-returning, I may ‘soothly say,’
   “Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”


   THOU who, when fears attack,
   Bid’st them avaunt, and Black
   Care, at the horseman’s back
      Perching, unseatest;
   Sweet when the morn is grey;
   Sweet, when they’ve cleared away
   Lunch; and at close of day
      Possibly sweetest:

   I have a liking old
   For thee, though manifold
   Stories, I know, are told,
      Not to thy credit;
   How one (or two at most)
   Drops make a cat a ghost—
   Useless, except to roast—
      Doctors have said it:

   How they who use fusees
   All grow by slow degrees
   Brainless as chimpanzees,
      Meagre as lizards;
   Go mad, and beat their wives;
   Plunge (after shocking lives)
   Razors and carving knives
      Into their gizzards.

   Confound such knavish tricks!
   Yet know I five or six
   Smokers who freely mix
      Still with their neighbours;
   Jones—who, I’m glad to say,
   Asked leave of Mrs. J.)—
   Daily absorbs a clay
      After his labours.

   Cats may have had their goose
   Cooked by tobacco-juice;
   Still why deny its use
      Thoughtfully taken?
   We’re not as tabbies are:
   Smith, take a fresh cigar!
   Jones, the tobacco-jar!
      Here’s to thee, Bacon!


   FAREWELL, farewell!  Before our prow
      Leaps in white foam the noisy channel,
   A tourist’s cap is on my brow,
      My legs are cased in tourists’ flannel:

   Around me gasp the invalids—
      (The quantity to-night is fearful)—
   I take a brace or so of weeds,
      And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

   The night wears on:—my thirst I quench
      With one imperial pint of porter;
   Then drop upon a casual bench—
      (The bench is short, but I am shorter)—

   Place ’neath my head the _harve-sac_
      Which I have stowed my little all in,
   And sleep, though moist about the back,
      Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

                                    * * *

   Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M.
      Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.
   Tickets to Königswinter (mem.
      The seats objectionably dirty).

   And onward through those dreary flats
      We move, with scanty space to sit on,
   Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats,
      And waists that paralyse a Briton;—

   By many a tidy little town,
      Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting;
   (The men’s pursuits are, lying down,
      Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)

   And doze, and execrate the heat,
      And wonder how far off Cologne is,
   And if we shall get aught to eat,
      Till we get there, save raw polonies:

   Until at last the “grey old pile”
      Is seen, is past, and three hours later
   We’re ordering steaks, and talking vile
      Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.

                                    * * *

   Königswinter, hateful Königswinter!
      Burying-place of all I loved so well!
   Never did the most extensive printer
      Print a tale so dark as thou could’st tell!

   In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered,
      Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold;
   Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered,
      Changed Rhine’s waters into molten gold;—

   While still nearer did his light waves splinter
      Into silvery shafts the streaming light;
   And I said I loved thee, Königswinter,
      For the glory that was thine that night.

   And we gazed, till slowly disappearing,
      Like a day-dream, passed the pageant by,
   And I saw but those lone hills, uprearing
      Dull dark shapes against a hueless sky.

   Then I turned, and on those bright hopes pondered
      Whereof yon gay fancies were the type;
   And my hand mechanically wandered
      Towards my left-hand pocket for a pipe.

   Ah! why starts each eyeball from its socket,
      As, in Hamlet, start the guilty Queen’s?
   There, deep-hid in its accustomed pocket,
      Lay my sole pipe, smashed to smithereens!

                                    * * *

   On, on the vessel steals;
   Round go the paddle-wheels,
   And now the tourist feels
      As he should;
   For king-like rolls the Rhine,
   And the scenery’s divine,
   And the victuals and the wine
      Rather good.

   From every crag we pass’ll
   Rise up some hoar old castle;
   The hanging fir-groves tassel
      Every slope;
   And the vine her lithe arms stretches
   O’er peasants singing catches—
   And you’ll make no end of sketches,
      I should hope.

   We’ve a nun here (called Therèse),
   Two couriers out of place,
   One Yankee, with a face
      Like a ferret’s:
   And three youths in scarlet caps
   Drinking chocolate and schnapps—
   A diet which perhaps
      Has its merits.

   And day again declines:
   In shadow sleep the vines,
   And the last ray through the pines
      Feebly glows,
   Then sinks behind yon ridge;
   And the usual evening midge
   Is settling on the bridge
      Of my nose.

   And keen’s the air and cold,
   And the sheep are in the fold,
   And Night walks sable-stoled
      Through the trees;
   And on the silent river
   The floating starbeams quiver;—
   And now, the saints deliver
      Us from fleas.

                                    * * *

   Avenues of broad white houses,
      Basking in the noontide glare;—
   Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from,
      As on hot plates shrinks the bear;—

   Elsewhere lawns, and vista’d gardens,
      Statues white, and cool arcades,
   Where at eve the German warrior
      Winks upon the German maids;—

   Such is Munich:—broad and stately,
      Rich of hue, and fair of form;
   But, towards the end of August,
      Unequivocally _warm_.

   There, the long dim galleries threading,
      May the artist’s eye behold,
   Breathing from the “deathless canvass”
      Records of the years of old:

   Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno,
      “Take” once more “their walks abroad,”
   Under Titian’s fiery woodlands
      And the saffron skies of Claude:

   There the Amazons of Rubens
      Lift the failing arm to strike,
   And the pale light falls in masses
      On the horsemen of Vandyke;

   And in Berghem’s pools reflected
      Hang the cattle’s graceful shapes,
   And Murillo’s soft boy-faces
      Laugh amid the Seville grapes;

   And all purest, loveliest fancies
      That in poets’ souls may dwell
   Started into shape and substance
      At the touch of Raphael.—

   Lo! her wan arms folded meekly,
      And the glory of her hair
   Falling as a robe around her,
      Kneels the Magdalene in prayer;

   And the white-robed Virgin-mother
      Smiles, as centuries back she smiled,
   Half in gladness, half in wonder,
      On the calm face of her Child:—

   And that mighty Judgment-vision
      Tells how man essayed to climb
   Up the ladder of the ages,
      Past the frontier-walls of Time;

   Heard the trumpet-echoes rolling
      Through the phantom-peopled sky,
   And the still voice bid this mortal
      Put on immortality.

                                    * * *

   Thence we turned, what time the blackbird
      Pipes to vespers from his perch,
   And from out the clattering city
      Pass’d into the silent church;

   Marked the shower of sunlight breaking
      Thro’ the crimson panes o’erhead,
   And on pictured wall and window
      Read the histories of the dead:

   Till the kneelers round us, rising,
      Cross’d their foreheads and were gone;
   And o’er aisle and arch and cornice,
      Layer on layer, the night came on.



   SHE stood at Greenwich, motionless amid
      The ever-shifting crowd of passengers.
   I marked a big tear quivering on the lid
      Of her deep-lustrous eye, and knew that hers
      Were days of bitterness.  But, “Oh! what stirs”
   I said “such storm within so fair a breast?”
      Even as I spoke, two apoplectic curs
   Came feebly up: with one wild cry she prest
   Each singly to her heart, and faltered, “Heaven be blest!”

   Yet once again I saw her, from the deck
      Of a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall.
   She walked upon _my first_.  Her stately neck
      Bent o’er an object shrouded in her shawl:
      I could not see the tears—the glad tears—fall,
   Yet knew they fell.  And “Ah,” I said, “not puppies,
      Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pall
   From hearts who _know_ what tasting misery’s cup is,
   As Niobe’s, or mine, or Mr. William Guppy’s.”

                                    * * *

   Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza Spinks the cook:
   “Mrs. Spinks,” says he, “I’ve foundered: ‘Liza dear, I’m overtook.
   Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn;
   Speak the word, my blessed ‘Liza; speak, and John the coachman’s

   Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the coachman John:
   “John, I’m born and bred a spinster: I’ve begun and I’ll go on.
   Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a wife:
   Cooking for a genteel family, John, it’s a goluptious life!

   “I gets £20 per annum—tea and things o’ course not reckoned,—
   There’s a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and breaks _my
   There’s soci’ty—James the footman;—(not that I look after him;
   But he’s aff’ble in his manners, with amazing length of limb;)—

   “Never durst the missis enter here until I’ve said ‘Come in’:
   If I saw the master peeping, I’d catch up the rolling-pin.
   Christmas-boxes, that’s a something; perkisites, that’s something too;
   And I think, take all together, John, I won’t be on with you.”

   John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he’d had enough;
   Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff;
   Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild,
   “She’s a fine young ’oman, cook is; but that’s where it is, she’s

                                    * * *

   I have read in some not marvellous tale,
      (Or if I have not, I’ve dreamed)
   Of one who filled up the convivial cup
      Till the company round him seemed

   To be vanished and gone, tho’ the lamps upon
      Their face as aforetime gleamed:
   And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept
   O’er his powerful brain, and the young man slept.

   Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed:
      But first—having thoughtfully fetched some tar—
   Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather’s
      Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh.

   They staid in his room till the sun was high:
      But still did the feathered one give no sign
   Of opening a peeper—he might be a sleeper
      Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line.

   At last he woke, and with profound
   Bewilderment he gazed around;
   Dropped one, then both feet to the ground,
      But never spake a word:

   Then to my _whole_ he made his way;
   Took one long lingering survey;
   And softly, as he stole away,
      Remarked, “By Jove, a bird!”


   IF you’ve seen a short man swagger tow’rds the footlights at
   Sing out “Heave aho! my hearties,” and perpetually hitch
   Up, by an ingenious movement, trousers innocent of brace,
   Briskly flourishing a cudgel in his pleased companion’s face;

   If he preluded with hornpipes each successive thing he did,
   From a sun-browned cheek extracting still an ostentatious quid;
   And expectorated freely, and occasionally cursed:—
   Then have you beheld, depicted by a master’s hand, _my first_.

   O my countryman! if ever from thy arm the bolster sped,
   In thy school-days, with precision at a young companion’s head;
   If ’twas thine to lodge the marble in the centre of the ring,
   Or with well-directed pebble make the sitting hen take wing:

   Then do thou—each fair May morning, when the blue lake is as glass,
   And the gossamers are twinkling star-like in the beaded grass;
   When the mountain-bee is sipping fragrance from the bluebell’s lip,
   And the bathing-woman tells you, Now’s your time to take a dip:

   When along the misty valleys fieldward winds the lowing herd,
   And the early worm is being dropped on by the early bird;
   And Aurora hangs her jewels from the bending rose’s cup,
   And the myriad voice of Nature calls thee to _my second_ up:—

   Hie thee to the breezy common, where the melancholy goose
   Stalks, and the astonished donkey finds that he is really loose;
   There amid green fern and furze-bush shalt thou soon _my whole_
   Rising ‘bull-eyed and majestic’—as Olympus queen of old:

   Kneel,—at a respectful distance,—as they kneeled to her, and try
   With judicious hand to put a ball into that ball-less eye:
   Till a stiffness seize thy elbows, and the general public wake—
   Then return, and, clear of conscience, walk into thy well-earned


   ERE yet “knowledge for the million”
      Came out “neatly bound in boards;”
   When like Care upon a pillion
      Matrons rode behind their lords:
   Rarely, save to hear the Rector,
      Forth did younger ladies roam;
   Making pies, and brewing nectar
      From the gooseberry-trees at home.

   They’d not dreamed of Pan or Vevay;
      Ne’er should into blossom burst
   At the ball or at the levée;
      Never come, in fact, _my first_:
   Nor illumine cards by dozens
      With some labyrinthine text,
   Nor work smoking-caps for cousins
      Who were pounding at _my next_.

   Now have skirts, and minds, grown ampler;
      Now not all they seek to do
   Is create upon a sampler
      Beasts which Buffon never knew:
   But their venturous muslins rustle
      O’er the cragstone and the snow,
   Or at home their biceps muscle
      Grows by practising the bow.

   Worthier they those dames who, fable
      Says, rode “palfreys” to the war
   With gigantic Thanes, whose “sable
      Destriers caracoled” before;
   Smiled, as—springing from the war-horse
      As men spring in modern ‘cirques’—
   They plunged, ponderous as a four-horse
      Coach, among the vanished Turks:—

   In the good times when the jester
      Asked the monarch how he was,
   And the landlady addrest her
      Guests as ‘gossip’ or as ‘coz’;
   When the Templar said, “Gramercy,”
      Or, “’Twas shrewdly thrust, i’ fegs,”
   To Sir Halbert or Sir Percy
      As they knocked him off his legs:

   And, by way of mild reminders
      That he needed coin, the Knight
   Day by day extracted grinders
      From the howling Israelite:
   And _my whole_ in merry Sherwood
      Sent, with preterhuman luck,
   Missiles—not of steel but firwood—
      Thro’ the two-mile-distant buck.


         EVENING threw soberer hue
         Over the blue sky, and the few
         Poplars that grew just in the view
      Of the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle:
         “Answer me true,” pleaded Sir Hugh,
         (Striving to woo no matter who,)
         “What shall I do, Lady, for you?
      ’Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle.
   Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter,
   And bid a decanter contain the Levant, or
   The brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter?
   Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar—
   (That _r_, for the sake of the line, we must grant her,)—
   And race with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter,
   Like that first of equestrians Tam o’ Shanter?
   I talk not mere banter—say not that I can’t, or
   By this _my first_—(a Virginia planter
   Sold it me to kill rats)—I will die instanter.”
      The Lady bended her ivory neck, and
      Whispered mournfully, “Go for—_my second_.”
      She said, and the red from Sir Hugh’s cheek fled,
      And “Nay,” did he say, as he stalked away
         The fiercest of injured men:
      “Twice have I humbled my haughty soul,
      And on bended knee I have pressed _my whole_—
         But I never will press it again!”


   ON pinnacled St. Mary’s
      Lingers the setting sun;
   Into the street the blackguards
      Are skulking one by one:
   Butcher and Boots and Bargeman
      Lay pipe and pewter down;
   And with wild shout come tumbling out
      To join the Town and Gown.

   And now the undergraduates
      Come forth by twos and threes,
   From the broad tower of Trinity,
      From the green gate of Caius:
   The wily bargeman marks them,
      And swears to do his worst;
   To turn to impotence their strength,
      And their beauty to _my first_.

   But before Corpus gateway
      _My second_ first arose,
   When Barnacles the freshman
      Was pinned upon the nose:
   Pinned on the nose by Boxer,
      Who brought a hobnailed herd
   From Barnwell, where he kept a van,
   Being indeed a dogsmeat man,
   Vendor of terriers, blue or tan,
      And dealer in _my third_.

   ’Twere long to tell how Boxer
      Was ‘countered’ on the cheek,
   And knocked into the middle
      Of the ensuing week:
   How Barnacles the Freshman
      Was asked his name and college;
   And how he did the fatal facts
      Reluctantly acknowledge.

   He called upon the Proctor
      Next day at half-past ten;
   Men whispered that the Freshman cut
      A different figure then:—
   That the brass forsook his forehead,
      The iron fled his soul,
   As with blanched lip and visage wan
   Before the stony-hearted Don
      He kneeled upon _my whole_.


   SIKES, housebreaker, of Houndsditch,
      Habitually swore;
   But so surpassingly profane
      He never was before,
   As on a night in winter,
      When—softly as he stole
   In the dim light from stair to stair,
   Noiseless as boys who in her lair
   Seek to surprise a fat old hare—
   He barked his shinbone, unaware
      Encountering _my whole_.

   As pours the Anio plainward,
      When rains have swollen the dykes,
   So, with such noise, poured down _my first_,
      Stirred by the shins of Sikes.
   The Butler Bibulus heard it;
      And straightway ceased to snore,
   And sat up, like an egg on end,
      While men might count a score:
   Then spake he to Tigerius,
      A Buttons bold was he:
   “Buttons, I think there’s thieves about;
   Just strike a light and tumble out;
   If you can’t find one, go without,
      And see what you may see.”

   But now was all the household,
      Almost, upon its legs,
   Each treading carefully about
      As if they trod on eggs.
   With robe far-streaming issued
      Paterfamilias forth;
   And close behind him,—stout and true
      And tender as the North,—
   Came Mrs. P., supporting
      On her broad arm her fourth.

   Betsy the nurse, who never
      From largest beetle ran,
   And—conscious p’raps of pleasing caps—
      The housemaids, formed the van:
   And Bibulus the Butler,
      His calm brows slightly arched;
   (No mortal wight had ere that night
      Seen him with shirt unstarched;)
   And Bob, the shockhaired knifeboy,
      Wielding two Sheffield blades,
   And James Plush of the sinewy legs,
      The love of lady’s maids:
   And charwoman and chaplain
      Stood mingled in a mass,
   And “Things,” thought he of Houndsditch,
      “Is come to a pretty pass.”

   Beyond all things a Baby
      Is to the schoolgirl dear;
   Next to herself the nursemaid loves
      Her dashing grenadier;
   Only with life the sailor
      Parts from the British flag;
   While one hope lingers, the cracksman’s fingers
      Drop not his hard-earned ‘swag.’

   But, as hares do _my second_
      Thro’ green Calabria’s copses,
   As females vanish at the sight
      Of short-horns and of wopses;
   So, dropping forks and teaspoons,
      The pride of Houndsditch fled,
   Dumbfoundered by the hue and cry
      He’d raised up overhead.

                                   * * * *

   They gave him—did the Judges—
      As much as was his due.
   And, Saxon, should’st thou e’er be led
      To deem this tale untrue;
   Then—any night in winter,
      When the cold north wind blows,
   And bairns are told to keep out cold
      By tallowing the nose:
   When round the fire the elders
      Are gathered in a bunch,
   And the girls are doing crochet,
      And the boys are reading Punch:—
   Go thou and look in Leech’s book;
      There haply shalt thou spy
   A stout man on a staircase stand,
   With aspect anything but bland,
   And rub his right shin with his hand,
      To witness if I lie.



   ART thou beautiful, O my daughter, as the budding rose of April?
   Are all thy motions music, and is poetry throned in thine eye?
   Then hearken unto me; and I will make the bud a fair flower,
   I will plant it upon the bank of Elegance, and water it with the water
   of Cologne;
   And in the season it shall “come out,” yea bloom, the pride of the
   Ladies shall marvel at its beauty, and a Lord shall pluck it at the

Of Propriety.

   Study first Propriety: for she is indeed the Polestar
   Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair;
   Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society;
   The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros.
   Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked;
   Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice:
   And when she is drest, behold! she knoweth not herself again.—
   I walked in the Forest; and above me stood the Yew,
   Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;
   Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into
   (The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Dalilahshears of Decorum;)
   And I said, “Surely nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!”
   I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky,
   And my foolish heart went after him, and lo! I blessed him as he rose;
   Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bulfinch,
   Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up
   And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with
   Must yield to him that danceth and ‘moveth in the circles’ at
   For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,
   And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another:
   A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling
   And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of
   He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,
   Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of
   the cork.

Of Friendship.

   Choose judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable,
   Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy
   Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light?
   Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the Morning
   If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and mind;
   Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding:
   So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be “formed,”
   And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall
   fly open:
   Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation,
   His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth
   Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning’s papers,
   Side by side with rumours of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and
   Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and
   For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.

Of Reading.

   Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of
   common life;
   Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet intelligible:
   Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth not:
   Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream,
   but do.
   Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,
   Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful:
   Likewise study the “creations” of “the Prince of modern Romance;”
   Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy:
   Learn how “love is the dram-drinking of existence;”
   And how we “invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,
   The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen.”
   Listen how Maltravers and the orphan “forgot all but love,”
   And how Devereux’s family chaplain “made and unmade kings:”
   How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,
   Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind.
   So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master-spirits;
   And if thou canst not realise the Ideal, thou shalt at least idealise
   the Real.



   YET once more, O ye laurels! and once more
   Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
   I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
   And with forced fingers rude
   Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
   Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
   Compels me to disturb your season due;
   For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
   Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
   Who would not sing for Lycidas?  He knew
   Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
   He must not float upon his watery bier
   Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
   Without the meed of some melodious tear.
      Begin then, sisters, of the sacred well,
   That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
   Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
   Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
   So may some gentle muse
   With lucky words favour my destined urn,
   And, as he passes, turn
   And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud:
   For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
   Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
      Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
   Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
   We drove afield, and both together heard
   What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn,
   Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
   Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright,
   Toward Heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.
   Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
   Tempered to the oaten flute;
   Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel
   From the glad sound would not be absent long,
   And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
      But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone,
   Now thou art gone, and never must return!
   Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves
   With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,
   And all their echoes mourn.
   The willows, and the hazel copses green,
   Shall now no more be seen,
   Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
   As killing as the canker to the rose,
   Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
   Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
   When first the white-thorn blows;
   Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear
      Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep
   Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?
   For neither were ye playing on the steep,
   Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie;
   Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
   Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
   Ay me!  I fondly dream!
   Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
   What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,
   The muse herself for her enchanting son,
   Whom universal nature did lament,
   When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
   His gory visage down the stream was sent,
   Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
      Alas! what boots it with incessant care
   To tend the homely slighted shepherd’s trade,
   And strictly meditate the thankless muse?
   Were it not better done as others use,
   To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
   Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?
   Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
   (That last infirmity of noble mind)
   To scorn delights, and live laborious days,
   But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
   And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
   Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,
   And slits the thin-spun life.  “But not the praise,”
   Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;
   “Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
   Nor in the glistering foil
   Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
   But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
   And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
   As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
   Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.”
      O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
   Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
   That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
   But now my oat proceeds,
   And listens to the herald of the sea
   That came in Neptune’s plea;
   He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
   What hard mishap had doomed this gentle swain?
   And questioned every gust of rugged wings,
   That blows from off each beaked promontory:
   They knew not of his story,
   And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
   That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed,
   The air was calm, and on the level brine
   Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
   It was that fatal and perfidious bark
   Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
   That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
      Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
   His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
   Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,
   Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
   “Ah! who hath reft,” quoth he, “my dearest pledge?”
   Last came, and last did go,
   The pilot of the Galilean lake,
   Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain
   (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
   He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
   “How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
   Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake
   Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
   Of other care they little reckoning make,
   Than how to scramble at the shearer’s feast,
   And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
   Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
   A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
   That to the faithful herdsman’s art belongs!
   What reeks it them?  What need they?  They are sped;
   And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
   Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
   The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
   But swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
   Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
   Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
   Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
   But that two-handed engine at the door
   Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.”
      Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
   That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,
   And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
   Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
   Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
   Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
   On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
   Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
   That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
   And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
   Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
   The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
   The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
   The glowing violet,
   The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
   With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
   And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
   Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
   And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
   To strow the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
   For so to interpose a little ease,
   Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
   Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
   Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurled,
   Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
   Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide
   Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
   Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
   Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
   Where the great vision of the guarded mount
   Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;
   Look homeward, angel now, and melt with ruth:
   And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
      Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
   For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
   Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
   So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
   And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
   And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
   Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
   So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
   Through the dear might of him that walked the waves,
   Where other groves and other streams along,
   With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
   And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
   In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
   There entertain him all the saints above,
   In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
   That sing, and singing in their glory move,
   And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
   Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
   Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
   In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
   To all that wander in that perilous flood.
      Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
   While the still morn went out with sandals gray,
   He touched the tender stops of various quills,
   With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
   And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
   And now was dropped into the western bay;
   At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue,
   Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.


   EN! iterum laurus, iterum salvete myricæ
   Pallentes, nullique hederæ quæ ceditis ævo.
   Has venio baccas, quanquam sapor asper acerbis,
   Decerptum, quassumque manu folia ipsa proterva,
   Maturescentem prævortens improbus annum.
   Causa gravis, pia cansa, subest, et amara deûm lex;
   Nec jam sponte mea vobis rata tempora turbo.
   Nam periit Lycidas, periit superante juventa
   Imberbis Lycidas, quo non præstantior alter.
   Quis cantare super Lycida neget?  Ipse quoque artem
   Nôrat Apollineam, versumque imponere versu
   Non nullo vitreum fas innatet ille feretrum
   Flente, voluteturque arentes corpus ad auras,
   Indotatum adeo et lacrymæ vocalis egenum.
      Quare agite, o sacri fontis queis cura, sorores,
   Cui sub inaccessi sella Jovis exit origo:
   Incipite, et sonitu graviore impellite chordas.
   Lingua procul male prompta loqui, suasorque morarum
   Sit pudor: alloquiis ut mollior una secundis
   Pieridum faveat, cui mox ego destiner, urnæ:
   Et gressus prætergrediens convertat, et “Esto”
   Dicat “amoena quies atra tibi veste latenti:”
   Uno namque jugo duo nutribamur: eosdem
   Pavit uterque greges ad fontem et rivulum et umbram.
      Tempore nos illo, nemorum convexa priusquam,
   Aurora reserante oculos, cæpere videri,
   Urgebamus equos ad pascua: novimus horam
   Aridus audiri solitus qua clangor asili;
   Rore recentes greges passi pinguescere noctis
   Sæpius, albuerat donec quod vespere sidus
   Hesperios axes prono inclinasset Olympo.
   At pastorales non cessavere camœnæ,
   Fistula disparibus quas temperat apta cicutis:
   Saltabant Satyri informes, nec murmure læto
   Capripedes potuere diu se avertere Fauni;
   Damætasque modos nostros longævus amabat.
      Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata videntur
   Rura—relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressûs!
   Te sylvæ, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum,
   Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci,
   Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo.
   Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videbo
   Molles ad numeros lætum motare cacumen:—
   Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermis
   Depulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos;
   Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinæ
   Floribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris:
   Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis.
      Qua, Nymphæ, latuistis, ubi crudele profundum
   Delicias Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit?
   Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illis
   Quos veteres, Druidæ, Vates, illustria servant
   Nomina; nec celsæ setoso in culmine Monæ,
   Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis.
   Væ mihi! delusos exercent somnia sensus:
   Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret?
   Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei,
   Pieris ipsa suæ sobolis, qui carmine rexit
   Corda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat,
   Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva,
   Ora secundo amni missa, ac foedata cruore,
   Lesbia præcipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus?
      Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesque
   Pastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo,
   Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camoenam?
   Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra,
   (Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive Neæram
   Sectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis?
   Scilcet ingenuum cor Fama, novissimus error
   Illa animi majoris, uti calcaribus urget
   Spernere delicias ac dedi rebus agendis.
   Quanquam—exoptatam jam spes attingere dotem;
   Jam nec opinata remur splendescere flamma:—
   Cæca sed invisa cum forfice venit Erinnys,
   Quæ resecet tenui hærentem subtemine vitam.
   “At Famam non illa,” refert, tangitque trementes
   Phœbus Apollo aures.  “Fama haud, vulgaris ad instar
   Floris, amat terrestre solum, fictosque nitores
   Queis inhiat populus, nec cum Rumore patescit.
   Vivere dant illi, dant increbrescere late
   Puri oculi ac vox summa Jovis, cui sola Potestas.
   Fecerit ille semel de facto quoque virorum
   Arbitrium: tantum famæ manet æthera nactis.”
      Fons Arethusa! sacro placidus qui laberis alveo,
   Frontem vocali prætextus arundine, Minci!
   Sensi equidem gravius carmen.  Nunc cetera pastor
   Exsequor.  Adstat enim missus pro rege marino,
   Seque rogâsse refert fluctus, ventosque rapaces,
   Quæ sors dura nimis tenerum rapuisset agrestem.
   Compellasse refert alarum quicquid ab omni
   Spirat, acerba sonans, scopulo, qui cuspidis instar
   Prominet in pelagus; fama haud pervenerat illuc.
   Hæc ultro pater Hippotades responsa ferebat:
   “Nulli sunt nostro palati carcere venti.
   Straverat æquor aquas, et sub Jove compta sereno
   Lusum exercebat Panope nymphæque sorores.
   Quam Furiæ struxere per interlunia, leto
   Fetam ac fraude ratem,—malos velarat Erinnys,—
   Credas in mala tanta caput mersisse sacratum.”
      Proximus huic tardum senior se Camus agebat;
   Cui setosa chlamys, cui pileus ulva: figuris
   Idem intertextus dubiis erat, utque cruentos
   Quos perhibent flores, inscriptus margine luctum.
   “Nam quis,” ait, “prædulce meum me pignus ademit?”
      Post hos, qui Galilæa regit per stagna carinas,
   Post hos venit iturus: habet manus utraque clavim,
   (Queis aperit clauditque) auro ferrove gravatam.
   Mitra tegit crines; quassis quibus, acriter infit:
   “Scilicet optassem pro te dare corpora leto
   Sat multa, o juvenis: quot serpunt ventribus acti,
   Vi quot iter faciunt spretis in ovilia muris.
   Hic labor, hoc opus est, pecus ut tondente magistro
   Præripiant epulas, trudatur dignior hospes.
   Capti oculis, non ore! pedum tractare nec ipsi
   Norunt; quotve bonis sunt upilionibus artes.
   Sed quid enim refert, quove eat opus, omnia nactis?
   Fert ubi mens, tenue ac deductum carmen avenam
   Radit stridentem stipulis.  Pastore negato
   Suspicit ægra pecus: vento gravis ac lue tracta
   Tabescit; mox foeda capit contagia vulgus.
   Quid dicam, stabulis ut clandestinus oberrans
   Expleat ingluviem tristis lupus, indice nullo?
   Illa tamen bimanus custodit machina portam,
   Stricta, paratque malis plagam non amplius unam.”
      En, Alphee, redi!  Quibus ima cohorruit unda
   Voces præteriere: redux quoque Sicelis omnes
   Musa voca valles; huc pendentes hyacinthos
   Fac jaciant, teneros huc flores mille colorum.
   O nemorum depressa, sonant ubi crebra susurri
   Umbrarum, et salientis aquæ, Zephyrique protervi;
   Queisque virens gremium penetrare Canicula parcit:
   Picturata modis jacite huc mihi lumina miris,
   Mellitos imbres queis per viridantia rura
   Mos haurire, novo quo tellus vere rubescat.
   Huc ranunculus, ipse arbos, pallorque ligustri,
   Quæque relicta perit, vixdum matura feratur
   Pnimula: quique ebeno distinctus, cætera flavet
   Flos, et qui specie nomen detrectat eburna.
   Ardenti violæ rosa proxima fundat odores;
   Serpyllumque placens, et acerbo flexile vultu
   Verbascum, ac tristem si quid sibi legit amictum.
   Quicquid habes pulcri fundas, amarante: coronent
   Narcissi lacrymis calices, sternantque feretrum
   Tectus ubi lauro Lycidas jacet: adsit ut oti
   Saltem aliquid, ficta ludantur imagine mentes.
   Me miserum!  Tua nam litus, pelagusque sonorum
   Ossa ferunt, queiscunque procul jacteris in oris;
   Sive procellosas ultra Symplegadas ingens
   Jam subter mare visis, alit quæ monstra profundum;
   Sive (negavit enim precibus te Jupiter udis)
   Cum sene Bellero, veterum qui fabula, dormis,
   Qua custoditi montis prægrandis imago
   Namancum atque arces longe prospectat Iberas.
   Verte retro te, verte deum, mollire precando:
   Et vos infaustum juvenem delphines agatis.
      Ponite jam lacrymas, sat enim flevistis, agrestes.
   Non periit Lycidas, vestri moeroris origo,
   Marmorei quanquam fluctus hausere cadentem.
   Sic et in æquoreum se condere sæpe cubile
   Luciferum videas; nec longum tempus, et effert
   Demissum caput, igne novo vestitus; et, aurum
   Ceu rutilans, in fronte poli splendescit Eoi.
   Sic obiit Lycidas, sic assurrexit in altum;
   Illo, quem peditem mare sustulit, usus amico.
   Nunc campos alios, alia errans stagna secundum,
   Rorantesque lavans integro nectare crines,
   Audit inauditos nobis cantari Hymenæos,
   Fortunatorum sedes ubi mitis amorem
   Lætitiamque affert.  Hic illum, quotquot Olympum
   Prædulces habitant turbæ, venerabilis ordo,
   Circumstant: aliæque canunt, interque canendum
   Majestate sua veniunt abeuntque catervæ,
   Omnes ex oculis lacrymas arcere paratæ.
   Ergo non Lycidam jam lamentantur agrestes.
   Divus eris ripæ, puer, hoc ex tempore nobis,
   Grande, nec immerito, veniens in munus; opemque
   Poscent usque tuam, dubiis quot in æstubus errant.
      Hæc incultus aquis puer ilicibusque canebat;
   Processit dum mane silens talaribus albis.
   Multa manu teneris discrimina tentat avenis,
   Dorica non studio modulatus carmina segni:
   Et jam sol abiens colles extenderat omnes,
   Jamque sub Hesperium se præcipitaverat alveum.
   Surrexit tandem, glaucumque retraxit amictum;
   Cras lucos, reor, ille novos, nova pascua quæret.



   THE time admits not flowers or leaves
      To deck the banquet.  Fiercely flies
      The blast of North and East, and ice
   Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves,

   And bristles all the brakes and thorns
      To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
      Above the wood which grides and clangs
   Its leafless ribs and iron horns

   Together, in the drifts that pass,
      To darken on the rolling brine
      That breaks the coast.  But fetch the wine,
   Arrange the board and brim the glass;

   Bring in great logs and let them lie,
      To make a solid core of heat;
      Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat
   Of all things ev’n as he were by:

   We keep the day with festal cheer,
      With books and music.  Surely we
      Will drink to him whate’er he be,
   And sing the songs he loved to hear.


   NON hora myrto, non violis sinit
   Nitere mensas.  Trux Aquilo foras
      Bacchatur, ac passim pruina
         Tigna sagittifera coruscant;

   Horretque saltus spinifer, algidæ
   Sub falce lunæ, dum nemori imminet,
      Quod stridet illiditque costis
         Cornua, jam vacuis honorum,

   Ferrata; nimbis prætereuntibus,
   Ut incubent tandem implacido sali
      Qui curvat oras.  Tu Falernum
         Prome, dapes strue, dic coronent

   Crateras: ignis cor solidum, graves
   Repone truncos.  Jamque doloribus
      Loquare securus fugatis
         Quæ socio loquereris illo;

   Hunc dedicamus lætitiæ diem
   Lyræque musisque.  Illius, illius
      Da, quicquid audit: nec silebunt
         Qui numeri placuere vivo.


                        FROM ‘REJECTED ADDRESSES.’

   BALMY Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
      Shade me with your azure wing;
   On Parnassus’ summit sitting,
      Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

   Softly slept the dome of Drury
      O’er the empyreal crest,
   When Alecto’s sister-fury
      Softly slumb’ring sunk to rest.

   Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
      Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
   Cytherea yielding tamely
      To the Cyclops dark and dire.

   Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
      Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
   Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
      Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

   See Erostratas the second
      Fires again Diana’s fane;
   By the Fates from Orcus beckon’d,
      Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

   Where is Cupid’s crimson motion?
      Billowy ecstasy of woe,
   Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
      Where the stagnant torrents flow.

   Blood in every vein is gushing,
      Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
   See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
      Never, never let us part.


   O QUOT odoriferi voitatis in aëre venti,
      Cæruleum tegmen vestra sit ala mihi:
   Tuque sedens Parnassus ubi caput erigit ingens,
      Dextra veni, Clio: teque docente canam.

   Jam suaves somnos Tholus affectare Theatri
      Cœperat, igniflui trans laqueare poli:
   Alectûs consanguineam quo tempore Erinnyn,
      Suave soporatam, coepit adire quies.

   Lustra sed ecce labans claudo pede Lemnia linquit
      Luridus (at lente lugubriterque) Deus:
   Amisit veteres, amisit inultus, amores;
      Teter habet Venerem terribilisque Cyclops.

   Electri nebulas, potioraque somnia vero;
      Quotque placent pueris gaudia, quotque joci;
   Omnia tristiæ fas concessisse superbæ:
      Admissum Pietas scitque premitque nefas.

   Respice!  Nonne vides ut Erostratus alter ad ædem
      Rursus agat flammas, spreta Diana, tuam?
   Mox, Acheronteis quas Parca eduxit ab antris,
      Druriacam nubes corripuere domum.

   O ubi purpurei motus pueri alitis? o qui
      Me mihi turbineis surripis, angor, aquis!
   Duc, labyrintheum, duc me, mare, tramite recto
      Quo rapidi fontes, pigra caterva, ruunt!

   Jamque—soporat enim pectus Vindicta Virago;
      Omnibus a venis sanguinis unda salit;
   Gorgoneique greges præceps (adverte!) feruntur—
      Sim, precor, o! semper sim tibi junctus ego.


                             FELICIA HEMANS.

   LEAVES have their time to fall,
      And flowers to wither at the North-wind’s breath,
   And stars to set: but all,
      Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

   Day is for mortal care,
      Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth,
   Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,
      But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

   The banquet has its hour,
      The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine:
   There comes a day for grief’s overwhelming shower,
      A time for softer tears: but all are thine.

   Youth and the opening rose
      May look like things too glorious for decay,
   And smile at thee!—but thou art not of those
      That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey!


      FRONDES est ubi decidant,
   Marcescantque rosæ flatu Aquilonio:
      Horis astra cadunt suis;
   Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.

      Curis nata virûm dies;
   Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum;
      Somnis nox magis, et preci:
   Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.

      Festis hora epulis datur,
   (Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;)
      Fusis altera lacrymis
   Aut fletu tacito: quæque tamen tua.

      Virgo, seu rosa pullulans,
   Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori?
      Rident te?  Neque enim soles
   Prædæ parcere, dum flos adoleverit.


                              R. C. TRENCH.

   “LET us turn hitherward our bark,” they cried,
      “And, ’mid the blisses of this happy isle,
   Past toil forgetting and to come, abide
      In joyfulness awhile.

   And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,
      If other tasks we yet are bound unto,
   Combing the hoary tresses of the main
      With sharp swift keel anew.”

   O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,
      O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,
   What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,
      And of your race divine?

   But they, by these prevailing voices now
      Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land,
   Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,
      That strewed that fatal strand;

   Or seeing, feared not—warning taking none
      From the plain doom of all who went before,
   Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,
      And whitened all the shore.


   “QUIN huc,” fremebant, “dirigimus ratem:
   Hic, dote læti divitis insulæ,
      Paullisper hæremus, futuri
         Nec memores operis, nec acti:

   “Curas refecti cras iterabimus,
   Si qua supersunt emeritis novæ
      Pexisse pernices acuta
         Canitiem pelagi carina.”

   O rebus olim nobilioribus
   Pares: origo Dî quibus ac Deæ
      Heroës! oblitine famiæ
         Hæc struitis, generisque summi?

   Atqui propinquant jam magis ac magis,
   Ducti magistra voce, solum: neque
      Videre prorarum nefandas
         Fragmina nobilium per oras;

   Vidisse seu non poenitet—ominis
   Incuriosos tot præëuntium,
      Quorum ossa sol siccantque venti,
         Candet adhuc quibus omnis ora.



            “Quicquid agunt homines, nostri est farrago libelli.”

      ACRIS hyems jam venit: hyems genus omne perosa
   Foemineum, et senibus glacies non æqua rotundis:
   Apparent rari stantes in tramite glauco;
   Radit iter, cogitque nives, sua tela, juventus.
   Trux matrona ruit, multos dominata per annos,
   Digna indigna minans, glomeratque volumina crurum;
   Illa parte senex, amisso forte galero,
   Per plateas bacchatur; eum chorus omnis agrestum
   Ridet anhelantem frustra, et jam jamque tenentem
   Quod petit; illud agunt venti prensumque resorbent.
   Post, ubi compositus tandem votique potitus
   Sedit humi; flet crura tuens nive candida lenta,
   Et vestem laceram, et venturas conjugis iras:
   Itque domum tendens duplices ad sidera palmas,
   Corda miser, desiderio perfixa galeri.
      At juvenis (sed cruda viro viridisque juventus)
   Quærit bacciferas, tunica pendente, {145a} tabernas:
   Pervigil ecce Baco furva depromit ab arca
   Splendidius quiddam solito, plenumque saporem
   Laudat, et antiqua jurat de stripe Jamaicæ.
   O fumose puer, nimium ne crede Baconi:
   Manillas vocat; hoc prætexit nomine caules.
      Te vero, cui forte dedit maturior ætas
   Scire potestates herbarum, te quoque quanti
   Circumstent casus, paucis (adverte) docebo.
   Præcipue, seu raptat amor te simplicis herbæ, {145b}
   Seu potius tenui Musam meditaris avena,
   Procuratorem fugito, nam ferreus idem est.
   Vita semiboves catulos, redimicula vita
   Candida: de coelo descendit σῶζε σεαυτόν.
   Nube vaporis item conspergere præter euntes
   Jura vetant, notumque furens quid femina possit:
   Odit enim dulces succos anus, odit odorem;
   Odit Lethæi diffusa volumina fumi.
      Mille modis reliqui fugiuntque feruntque laborem.
   Hic vir ad Eleos, pedibus talaria gestans,
   Fervidus it latices, nec quidquam acquirit eundo: {146a}
   Ille petit virides (sed non e gramine) mensas,
   Pollicitus meliora patri, tormentaque {146b} flexus
   Per labyrintheos plus quam mortalia tentat,
   Acre tuens, loculisque pilas immittit et aufert.
      Sunt alii, quos frigus aquæ, tenuisque phaselus
   Captat, et æquali surgentes ordine remi.
   His edura cutis, nec ligno rasile tergum;
   Par saxi sinus: esca boves cum robore Bassi.
   Tollunt in numerum fera brachia, vique feruntur
   Per fluctus: sonuere viæ clamore secundo:
   Et piceâ de puppe fremens immane bubulcus
   Invocat exitium cunctis, et verbera rapto
   Stipite defessis onerat graviora caballis.
      Nil humoris egent alii.  Labor arva vagari,
   Flectere ludus equos, et amantem devia {147a} currum.
   Nosco purpureas vestes, clangentia nosco
   Signa tubæ, et caudas inter virgulta caninas.
   Stat venator equus, tactoque ferocior armo
   Surgit in arrectum, vix auditurus habenam;
   Et jam prata fuga superat, jam flumina saltu.
   Aspicias alios ab iniqua sepe rotari
   In caput, ut scrobibus quæ sint fastigia quærant;
   Eque rubis aut amne pigro trahere humida crura,
   Et fœdam faciem, defloccatumque galerum.
      Sanctius his animal, cui quadravisse rotundum {148a}
   Musæ suadet amor, Camique ardentis imago,
   Inspicat calamos contracta fronte malignos,
   Perque Mathematicum pelagus, loca turbida, anhelat.
   Circum dirus “Hymers,” nec pondus inutile, “Lignum,”
   “Salmoque,” et pueris tu detestate, “Colenso,”
   Horribiles visu formæ; livente notatæ
   Ungue omnes, omnes insignes aure canina. {148b}
   Fervet opus; tacitum pertentant gaudia pectus
   Tutorum; “pulchrumque mori,” dixere, “legendo.”
      Nec vero juvenes facere omnes omnia possunt.
   Atque unum memini ipse, deus qui dictus amicis,
   Et multum referens de rixatore {148c} secundo,
   Nocte terens ulnas ac scrinia, solus in alto
   Degebat tripode; arcta viro vilisque supellex;
   Et sic torva tuens, pedibus per mutua nexis,
   Sedit, lacte mero mentem mulcente tenellam.
   Et fors ad summos tandem venisset honores;
   Sed rapidi juvenes, queis gratior usus equorum,
   Subveniunt, siccoque vetant inolescere libro.
   Improbus hos Lector pueros, mentumque virili
   Lævius, et duræ gravat inclementia Mortis: {149a}
   Agmen iners; queis mos alienâ vivere quadrâ, {149b}
   Et lituo vexare viros, calcare caballos.
   Tales mane novo sæpe admiramur euntes
   Torquibus in rigidis et pelle Libystidis ursæ;
   Admiramur opus {149c} tunicæ, vestemque {149d} sororem
   Iridis, et crurum non enarrabile tegmen.
   Hos inter comites implebat pocula sorbis
   Infelix puer, et sese reereabat ad ignem,
   “Evœ, {150a} BASSE,” fremens: dum velox præterit ætas;
   Venit summa dies; et Junior Optimus exit.
      Saucius at juvenis nota intra tecta refugit,
   Horrendum ridens, lucemque miserrimus odit:
   Informem famulus laqueum pendentiaque ossa
   Mane videt, refugitque feri meminisse magistri.
      Di nobis meliora!  Modum re servat in omni
   Qui sapit: haud ilium semper recubare sub umbra,
   Haud semper madidis juvat impallescere chartis.
   Nos numerus sumus, et libros consumere nati;
   Sed requies sit rebus; amant alterna Camenæ.
   Nocte dieque legas, cum tertius advenit annus:
   Tum libros cape; claude fores, et prandia defer.
   Quartus venit: ini, {150b} rebus jam rite paratis,
   Exultans, et coge gradum conferre magistros.
      His animadversis, fugies immane Barathrum.
   His, operose puer, si qua fata aspera rumpas,
   Tu rixator eris.  Saltem non crebra revises
   Ad stabulum, {151a} et tota moerens carpere juventa;
   Classe nec amisso nil profectura dolentem
   Tradet ludibriis te plena leporis HIRUDO. {151b}


OD. i. 14.

   YET on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,
   O ship?  What dost thou?  Seek a hav’n, and there
      Rest thee: for lo! thy side
         Is oarless all and bare,

   And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
   And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
      Yield must thy keel at last
         On pitiless sea-waves tossed

   Too rudely.  Goodly canvas is not thine,
   Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:—
      Though thou—a Pontic pine,
         Child of a stately forest,—

   Boastest high name and empty pedigree,
   Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:
      Stay, unless doomed to be
         The plaything of the gale.

   Flee—what of late sore burden was to me,
   Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,—
      Those shining Cyclads flee
         That stud the far-off main.

OD. i. 24.

   UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dear
      We sorrow.  Lead the mournful choir,
      Melpomene, to whom thy sire
   Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!

   Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn?
      Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right,
      Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,
   When shall again his like be born?

   Many a kind heart for Him makes moan;
      Thine, Virgil, first.  But ah! in vain
      Thy love bids heaven restore again
   That which it took not as a loan:

   Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given
      To thee, did trees thy voice obey;
      The blood revisits not the clay
   Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven

   Into his dark assemblage, who
      Unlocks not fate to mortal’s prayer.
      Hard lot!  Yet light their griefs who BEAR
   The ills which they may not undo.

OD. iii. 13.

   BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky!
   Thine is the flower-crown’d bowl, for thee shall die,
      When dawns again yon sun, the kid;
      Whose budding horns, half-seen, half-hid,

   Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain!
   Soon must the hope of the wild herd be slain,
      And those cold springs of thine
      With blood incarnadine.

   Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam
   Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream
      To labour-wearied ox,
      Or wanderer from the flocks:

   And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:
   My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,
      Topt by the brown oak-tree,
      Thou breakest babblingly.

OD. ii. 15.

      SPOUSE of penniless Ibycus,
   Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies,
      All thy studious infamy:—
   Nearing swiftly the grave—(that not an early one)—
      Cease girls’ sport to participate,
   Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant.
      What suits her who is beautiful
   Suits not equally thee: rightly devastates
      Thy fair daughter the homes of men,
   Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums.
      Nothus’ beauty constraining her,
   Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry:
      Thy years stately Luceria’s
   Wools more fitly become—not din of harpsichords,
      Not pink-petallèd roseblossoms,
   Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment.

OD. i. 9.

   ONE dazzling mass of solid snow
      Soracte stands; the bent woods fret
      Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set
   With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.

   Pile on great faggots and break up
      The ice: let influence more benign
      Enter with four-years-treasured wine,
   Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:

   Leave to the Gods all else.  When they
      Have once bid rest the winds that war
      Over the passionate seas, no more
   Grey ash and cypress rock and sway.

   Ask not what future suns shall bring,
      Count to-day gain, whate’er it chance
      To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,
   Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,

   Ere Time thy April youth hath changed
      To sourness.  Park and public walk
      Attract thee now, and whispered talk
   At twilight meetings pre-arranged;

   Hear now the pretty laugh that tells
      In what dim corner lurks thy love;
      And snatch a bracelet or a glove
   From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.

OD. i. 11.

   SEEK not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall
   Ask not of Chaldæa’s science what God wills, Leuconöe:
   Better far, what comes, to bear it.  Haply many a wintry blast
   Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,
   Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate
   Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is
   Hopes that reach into the future.  While I speak, hath stol’n away
   Jealous Time.  Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day.

OD. iii. 3.

   THE just man’s single-purposed mind
      Not furious mobs that prompt to ill
      May move, nor kings’ frowns shake his will
   Which is as rock; not warrior-winds

   That keep the seas in wild unrest;
      Nor bolt by Jove’s own finger hurled:
      The fragments of a shivered world
   Would crash round him still self-possest.

   Jove’s wandering son reached, thus endowed,
      The fiery bastions of the skies;
      Thus Pollux; with them Cæsar lies
   Beside his nectar, radiant-browed.

   For this rewarded, tiger-drawn
      Rode Bacchus, reining necks before
      Untamed; for this War’s horses bore
   Quirinus up from Acheron,

   When in heav’n’s conclave Juno said,
      Thrice welcomed: “Troy is in the dust;
      Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust,
   And that strange woman prostrated.

   “The day Laomedon ignored
      His god-pledged word, resigned to me
      And Pallas ever-pure, was she,
   Her people, and their traitor lord.

   “No more the Greek girl’s guilty guest
      Sits splendour-girt: Priam’s perjured sons
      Find not against the mighty ones
   Of Greece a shield in Hector’s breast:

   “And, long drawn out by private jars,
      The war sleeps.  Lo! my wrath is o’er:
      And him the Trojan vestal bore
   (Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,

   “To Mars restore I.  His be rest
      In halls of light: by him be drained
      The nectar-bowl, his place obtained
   In the calm companies of the blest.

   “While betwixt Rome and Ilion raves
      A length of ocean, where they will
      Rise empires for the exiles still:
   While Paris’s and Priam’s graves

   “Are hoof-trod, and the she-wolf breeds
      Securely there, unharmed shall stand
      Rome’s lustrous Capitol, her hand
   Impose proud laws on trampled Medes.

   “Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borne
      Her story; where the central main
      Europe and Libya parts in twain,
   Where full Nile laves a land of corn:

   “The buried secret of the mine,
      (Best left there) resolute to spurn,
      And not to man’s base uses turn
   With hand that spares not things divine.

   “Earth’s utmost end, where’er it be,
      May her hosts reach; careering proud
      O’er lands where watery rain and cloud,
   Or where wild suns hold revelry.

   “But, to the soldier-sons of Rome,
      Tied by this law, such fates are willed;
      That they seek never to rebuild,
   Too fond, too bold, their grandsires’ home.

   “With darkest omens, deadliest strife,
      Shall Troy, raised up again, repeat
      Her history; I the victor-fleet
   Shall lead, Jove’s sister and his wife.

   “Thrice let Apollo rear the wall
      Of brass; and thrice my Greeks shall hew
      The fabric down; thrice matrons rue
   In chains their sons’, their husbands’ fall.”

   Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.
      Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearse
      God-utterances in puny verse
   That may but mar a mighty theme.

OD. iii. 18.

   WOOER of young Nymphs who fly thee,
      Lightly o’er my sunlit lawn
   Trip, and go, nor injured by thee
      Be my weanling herds, O Faun:

   If the kid his doomed head bows, and
      Brims with wine the loving cup,
   When the year is full; and thousand
      Scents from altars hoar go up.

   Each flock in the rich grass gambols
      When the month comes which is thine;
   And the happy village rambles
      Fieldward with the idle kine:

   Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour:
      Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;
   And with glee the sons of labour
      Stamp thrice on their foe, the soil.

OD. iv. 13.

   LYCE, the gods have listened to my prayer;
   The gods have listened, Lyce.  Thou art grey,
      And still would’st thou seem fair;
         Still unshamed drink, and play,

   And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weak
   Shrill pipings.  With young Chia He doth dwell,
      Queen of the harp; her cheek
         Is his sweet citadel:—

   He marked the withered oak, and on he flew
   Intolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled,
      Whose teeth are ghastly-blue,
         Whose temples snow-besprinkled:—

   Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows,
   Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast,
      Time hath once shut in those
         Dark annals of the Past.

   Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hue
   And motions soft?  Oh, what of Her doth rest,
      Her, who breathed love, who drew
         My heart out of my breast?

   Fair, and far-famed, and subtly sweet, thy face
   Ranked next to Cinara’s.  But to Cinara fate
      Gave but a few years’ grace;
         And lets live, all too late,

   Lyce, the rival of the beldam crow:
   That fiery youth may see with scornful brow
      The torch that long ago
         Beamed bright, a cinder now.

OD. i. 38.

   PERSIAN grandeur I abhor;
   Linden-wreathèd crowns, avaunt:
   Boy, I bid thee not explore
   Woods which latest roses haunt:

   Try on nought thy busy craft
   Save plain myrtle; so arrayed
   Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught
   Fitliest ’neath the scant vine-shade.


   LO! smoking in the stubborn plough, the ox
   Falls, from his lip foam gushing crimson-stained,
   And sobs his life out.  Sad of face the ploughman
   Moves, disentangling from his comrade’s corpse
   The lone survivor: and its work half-done,
   Abandoned in the furrow stands the plough.
   Not shadiest forest-depths, not softest lawns,
   May move him now: not river amber-pure,
   That volumes o’er the cragstones to the plain.
   Powerless the broad sides, glazed the rayless eye,
   And low and lower sinks the ponderous neck.
   What thank hath he for all the toil he toiled,
   The heavy-clodded land in man’s behoof
   Upturning?  Yet the grape of Italy,
   The stored-up feast hath wrought no harm to him:
   Green leaf and taintless grass are all their fare;
   The clear rill or the travel-freshen’d stream
   Their cup: nor one care mars their honest sleep.


   SCARCE midway were we yet, nor yet descried
   The stone that hides what once was Brasidas:
   When there drew near a wayfarer from Crete,
   Young Lycidas, the Muses’ votary.
   The horned herd was his care: a glance might tell
   So much: for every inch a herdsman he.
   Slung o’er his shoulder was a ruddy hide
   Torn from a he-goat, shaggy, tangle-haired,
   That reeked of rennet yet: a broad belt clasped
   A patched cloak round his breast, and for a staff
   A gnarled wild-olive bough his right hand bore.
   Soon with a quiet smile he spoke—his eye
   Twinkled, and laughter sat upon his lip:
   “And whither ploddest thou thy weary way
   Beneath the noontide sun, Simichides?
   For now the lizard sleeps upon the wall,
   The crested lark hath closed his wandering wing.
   Speed’st thou, a bidd’n guest, to some reveller’s board?
   Or townwards, to the treading of the grape?
   For lo! recoiling from thy hurrying feet
   The pavement-stones ring out right merrily.”

SOPH. AJ. 645.

   ALL strangest things the multitudinous years
   Bring forth, and shadow from us all we know.
   Falter alike great oath and steeled resolve;
   And none shall say of aught, ‘This may not be.’
   Lo! I myself, but yesterday so strong,
   As new-dipt steel am weak and all unsexed
   By yonder woman: yea I mourn for them,
   Widow and orphan, left amid their foes.
   But I will journey seaward—where the shore
   Lies meadow-fringed—so haply wash away
   My sin, and flee that wrath that weighs me down.
   And, lighting somewhere on an untrodden way,
   I will bury this my lance, this hateful thing,
   Deep in some earth-hole where no eye shall see—
   Night and Hell keep it in the underworld!
   For never to this day, since first I grasped
   The gift that Hector gave, my bitterest foe,
   Have I reaped aught of honour from the Greeks.
   So true that byword in the mouths of men,
   “A foeman’s gifts are no gifts, but a curse.”
      Wherefore henceforward shall I know that God
   Is great; and strive to honour Atreus’ sons.
   Princes they are, and should be obeyed.  How else?
   Do not all terrible and most puissant things
   Yet bow to loftier majesties?  The Winter,
   Who walks forth scattering snows, gives place anon
   To fruitage-laden Summer; and the orb
   Of weary Night doth in her turn stand by,
   And let shine out, with her white steeds, the Day:
   Stern tempest-blasts at last sing lullaby
   To groaning seas: even the arch-tyrant, Sleep,
   Doth loose his slaves, not hold them chained for ever.
   And shall not mankind too learn discipline?
   _I_ know, of late experience taught, that him
   Who is my foe I must but hate as one
   Whom I may yet call Friend: and him who loves me
   Will I but serve and cherish as a man
   Whose love is not abiding.  Few be they
   Who, reaching Friendship’s port, have there found rest.
      But, for these things they shall be well.  Go thou,
   Lady, within, and there pray that the Gods
   May fill unto the full my heart’s desire.
   And ye, my mates, do unto me with her
   Like honour: bid young Teucer, if he come,
   To care for me, but to be _your_ friend still.
   For where my way leads, thither I shall go:
   Do ye my bidding; haply ye may hear,
   Though now is my dark hour, that I have peace.


   SWEET, when the great sea’s water is stirred to his depths by the
   Standing ashore to descry one afar-off mightily struggling:
   Not that a neighbour’s sorrow to you yields blissful enjoyment;
   But that the sight hath a sweetness, of ills ourselves are exempt
   Sweet ’tis too to behold, on a broad plain mustering, war-hosts
   Arm them for some great battle, one’s self unscathed by the danger:—
   Yet still happier this:—To possess, impregnably guarded,
   Those calm heights of the sages, which have for an origin Wisdom;
   Thence to survey our fellows, observe them this way and that way
   Wander amidst Life’s paths, poor stragglers seeking a highway:
   Watch mind battle with mind, and escutcheon rival escutcheon;
   Gaze on that untold strife, which is waged ’neath the sun and the
   Up as they toil to the surface whereon rest Riches and Empire.
   O race born unto trouble!  O minds all lacking of eyesight!
   ’Neath what a vital darkness, amidst how terrible dangers,
   Move ye thro’ this thing, Life, this fragment!  Fools, that ye hear
   Nature clamour aloud for the one thing only; that, all pain
   Parted and past from the Body, the Mind too bask in a blissful
   Dream, all fear of the future and all anxiety over!
      So, as regards Man’s Body, a few things only are needful,
   (Few, tho’ we sum up all,) to remove all misery from him;
   Aye, and to strew in his path such a lib’ral carpet of pleasures,
   That scarce Nature herself would at times ask happiness ampler.
   Statues of youth and of beauty may not gleam golden around him,
   (Each in his right hand bearing a great lamp lustrously burning,
   Whence to the midnight revel a light may be furnished always);
   Silver may not shine softly, nor gold blaze bright, in his mansion,
   Nor to the noise of the tabret his halls gold-cornicèd echo:—
   Yet still he, with his fellow, reposed on the velvety greensward,
   Near to a rippling stream, by a tall tree canopied over,
   Shall, though they lack great riches, enjoy all bodily pleasure.
   Chiefliest then, when above them a fair sky smiles, and the young year
   Flings with a bounteous hand over each green meadow the wild-flowers:—
   Not more quickly depart from his bosom fiery fevers,
   Who beneath crimson hangings and pictures cunningly broidered
   Tosses about, than from him who must lie in beggarly raiment.
      Therefore, since to the Body avail not Riches, avails not
   Heraldry’s utmost boast, nor the pomp and the pride of an Empire;
   Next shall you own, that the Mind needs likewise nothing of these
   Unless—when, peradventure, your armies over the champaign
   Spread with a stir and a ferment, and bid War’s image awaken,
   Or when with stir and with ferment a fleet sails forth upon Ocean—
   Cowed before these brave sights, pale Superstition abandon
   Straightway your mind as you gaze, Death seem no longer alarming,
   Trouble vacate your bosom, and Peace hold holiday in you.
      But, if (again) all this be a vain impossible fiction;
   If of a truth men’s fears, and the cares which hourly beset them,
   Heed not the jav’lin’s fury, regard not clashing of broadswords;
   But all-boldly amongst crowned heads and the rulers of empires
   Stalk, not shrinking abashed from the dazzling glare of the red gold,
   Not from the pomp of the monarch, who walks forth purple-apparelled:
   These things shew that at times we are bankrupt, surely, of Reason;
   When too all Man’s life through a great Dark laboureth onward.
   For, as a young boy trembles, and in that mystery, Darkness,
   Sees all terrible things: so do we too, ev’n in the daylight,
   Ofttimes shudder at that, which is not more really alarming
   Than boys’ fears, when they waken, and say some danger is o’er them.
      So this panic of mind, these clouds which gather around us,
   Fly not the bright sunbeam, nor the ivory shafts of the Day-star:
   Nature, rightly revealed, and the Reason only, dispel them.
      Now, how moving about do the prime material atoms
   Shape forth this thing and that thing; and, once shaped, how they
   resolve them;
   What power says unto each, This must be; how an inherent
   Elasticity drives them about Space vagrantly onward;—
   I shall unfold: thou simply give all thyself to my teaching.
      Matter mingled and massed into indissoluble union
   Does not exist.  For we see how wastes each separate substance;
   So flow piecemeal away, with the length’ning centuries, all things,
   Till from our eye by degrees that old self passes, and is not.
   Still Universal Nature abides unchanged as aforetime.
   Whereof this is the cause.  When the atoms part from a substance,
   That suffers loss; but another is elsewhere gaining an increase:
   So that, as one thing wanes, still a second bursts into blossom,
   Soon, in its turn, to be left.  Thus draws this Universe always
   Gain out of loss; thus live we mortals one on another.
   Bourgeons one generation, and one fades.  Let but a few years
   Pass, and a race has arisen which was not: as in a racecourse,
   One hands on to another the burning torch of Existence.

_Il_. I.

   SING, O daughter of heaven, of Peleus’ son, of Achilles,
   Him whose terrible wrath brought thousand woes on Achaia.
   Many a stalwart soul did it hurl untimely to Hades,
   Souls of the heroes of old: and their bones lay strown on the
   Prey to the vulture and dog.  Yet was Zeus fulfilling a purpose;
   Since that far-off day, when in hot strife parted asunder
   Atreus’ sceptred son, and the chos’n of heaven, Achilles.
      Say then, which of the Gods bid arise up battle between them?
   Zeus’s and Leto’s son.  With the king was kindled his anger:
   Then went sickness abroad, and the people died of the sickness:
   For that of Atreus’ son had his priest been lightly entreated,
   Chryses, Apollo’s priest.  For he came to the ships of Achaia,
   Bearing a daughter’s ransom, a sum not easy to number:
   And in his hand was the emblem of Him, far-darting Apollo,
   High on a sceptre of gold: and he made his prayer to the Grecians;
   Chiefly to Atreus’ sons, twin chieftains, ordering armies
      “Chiefs sprung of Atreus’ loins; and ye, brazen-greavèd Achaians!
   So may the Gods this day, the Olympus-palacèd, grant you
   Priam’s city to raze, and return unscathed to your homesteads:
   Only my own dear daughter I ask; take ransom and yield her,
   Rev’rencing His great name, son of Zeus, far-darting Apollo.”
      Then from the host of Achaians arose tumultuous answer:
   “Due to the priest is his honour; accept rich ransom and yield her.”
   But there was war in the spirit of Atreus’ son, Agamemnon;
   Disdainful he dismissed him, a right stern fiat appending:—
      “Woe be to thee, old man, if I find thee lingering longer,
   Yea or returning again, by the hollow ships of Achaians!
   Scarce much then will avail thee the great god’s sceptre and emblem.
   Her will I never release.  Old age must first come upon her,
   In my own home, yea in Argos, afar from the land of her fathers,
   Following the loom and attending upon my bed.  But avaunt thee!
   Go, and provoke not me, that thy way may be haply securer.”
      These were the words of the king, and the old man feared and obeyed
   Voiceless he went by the shore of the great dull-echoing ocean,
   Thither he got him apart, that ancient man; and a long prayer
   Prayed to Apollo his Lord, son of golden-ringleted Leto.
      “Lord of the silver bow, whose arm girds Chryse and Cilla,—
   Cilla, loved of the Gods,—and in might sways Tenedos, hearken!
   Oh! if, in days gone by, I have built from floor unto cornice,
   Smintheus, a fair shrine for thee; or burned in the flames of the
   Fat flesh of bulls and of goats; then do this thing that I ask thee:
   Hurl on the Greeks thy shafts, that thy servant’s tears be avengèd!”
      So did he pray, and his prayer reached the ears of Phoebus Apollo.
   Dark was the soul of the god as he moved from the heights of Olympus,
   Shouldering a bow, and a quiver on this side fast and on that side.
   Onward in anger he moved.  And the arrows, stirred by the motion,
   Rattled and rang on his shoulder: he came, as cometh the midnight.
   Hard by the ships he stayed him, and loosed one shaft from the
   Harshly the stretched string twanged of the bow all silvery-shining;
   First fell his wrath on the mules, and the swift-footed hound of the
   Afterward smote he the host.  With a rankling arrow he smote them
   Aye; and the morn and the even were red with the glare of the
      Nine days over the host sped the shafts of the god: and the tenth
   Dawned; and Achilles said, “Be a council called of the people.”
   (Such thought came to his mind from the goddess, Hera the white-armed,
   Hera who loved those Greeks, and who saw them dying around her.)
   So when all were collected and ranged in a solemn assembly,
   Straightway rose up amidst them and spake swift-footed Achilles:—
      “Atreus’ son! it were better, I think this day, that we wandered
   Back, re-seeking our homes, (if a warfare _may_ be avoided);
   Now when the sword and the plague, these two things, fight with
   Come, let us seek out now some priest, some seer amongst us,
   Yea or a dreamer of dreams—for a dream too cometh of God’s hand—
   Whence we may learn what hath angered in this wise Phoebus Apollo.
   Whether mayhap he reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;
   Whether, accepting the incense of lambs and of blemishless he-goats,
   Yet it be his high will to remove this misery from us.”
      Down sat the prince: he had spoken.  And uprose to them in answer
   Kalchas Thestor’s son, high chief of the host of the augurs.
   Well he knew what is present, what will be, and what was aforetime;
   He into Ilion’s harbour had led those ships of Achaia,
   All by the Power of the Art, which he gained from Phoebus Apollo.
   Thus then, kindliest-hearted, arising spake he before them:
      “Peleus’ son!  Thou demandest, a man heavenfavor’d, an answer
   Touching the Great King’s wrath, the afar-off-aiming Apollo:
   Therefore I lift up my voice.  Swear thou to me, duly digesting
   All,—that with right good will, by word and by deed, thou wilt aid me.
   Surely the ire will awaken of one who mightily ruleth
   Over the Argives all: and upon him wait the Achaians.
   Aye is the battle the king’s, when a poor man kindleth his anger:
   For, if but this one day he devour his indignation,
   Still on the morrow abideth a rage, that its end be accomplished,
   Deep in the soul of the king.  So bethink thee, wilt thou deliver.”
      Then unto him making answer arose swift-footed Achilles:
   “Fearing nought, up and open the god’s will, all that is told thee:
   For by Apollo’s self, heaven’s favourite, whom thou, Kalchas,
   Serving aright, to the armies aloud God-oracles op’nest:
   None—while as yet I breathe upon earth, yet walk in the daylight—
   Shall, at the hollow ships, lift hand of oppression against thee,
   None out of all yon host—not and if thou said’st Agamemnon,
   Who now sits in his glory, the topmost flower of the armies.”
      Then did the blameless prophet at last wax valiant and answer:
   “Lo!  He doth not reprove us of prayer or of oxen unoffered;
   But for his servant’s sake, the disdained of king Agamemnon,
   (In that he loosed not his daughter, inclined not his ear to a
   Therefore the Far-darter sendeth, and yet shall send on us, evil.
   Nor shall he stay from the slaughter the hand that is heavy upon you,
   Till to her own dear father the bright-eyed maiden is yielded,
   No price asked, no ransom; and ships bear hallowèd oxen
   Chryse-wards:—then, it may be, will he shew mercy and hear us.”
      These words said, sat he down.  Then rose in his place and
   addressed them
   Atreus’ warrior son, Agamemnon king of the nations,
   Sore grieved.  Fury was working in each dark cell of his bosom,
   And in his eye was a glare as a burning fiery furnace:
   First to the priest he addressed him, his whole mien boding a
      “Priest of ill luck!  Never heard I of aught good from thee, but
   Still doth the evil thing unto thee seem sweeter of utt’rance;
   Leaving the thing which is good all unspoke, all unaccomplished.
   Lo! this day to the people thou say’st, God-oracles opening,
   What, but that _I_ am the cause why the god’s hand worketh against
   For that in sooth I rejected a ransom, aye and a rich one,
   Brought for the girl Briseis.  I did.  For I chose to possess her,
   Rather, at home: less favour hath Clytemnestra before me,
   Clytemnestra my wife: unto her Briseis is equal,
   Equal in form and in stature, in mind and in womanly wisdom.
   Still, even thus, am I ready to yield her, so it be better:
   Better is saving alive, I hold, than slaying a nation.
   Meanwhile deck me a guerdon in her stead, lest of Achaians
   I should alone lack honour; an unmeet thing and a shameful.
   See all men, that my guerdon, I wot not whither it goeth.”
      Then unto him made answer the swift-foot chieftain Achilles:
   “O most vaunting of men, most gain-loving, off-spring of Atreus!
   How shall the lords of Achaia bestow fresh guerdon upon thee?
   Surely we know not yet of a treasure piled in abundance:
   That which the sacking of cities hath brought to us, all hath an
   Yea it were all unfit that the host make redistribution.
   Yield thou the maid to the god.  So threefold surely and fourfold
   All we Greeks will requite thee, should that day dawn, when the great
   Grant that of yon proud walls not one stone rest on another.”

                               * * * * * *

                                 THE END.

                                * * * * *


{15a}  “The kites know well the long stern swell
That bids the Romans close.”


{51a}  “Poor moralist, and what art thou?
A solitary fly.”


{105}  In the printed book the translation appears on one page and the
Latin on the facing page.  In this transcription the Latin has been moved
to end of the English, hence the strange page numbering on both.

{145a}  _tunicâ pendente_: h. e. ‘suspensâ e brachio.’  Quod
procuratoribus illis valde, ut ferunt, displicebat.  Dicunt vero morem a
barbaris tractum, urbem Bosporiam in fl. Iside habitantibus.  _Bacciferas
tabernas_: id q.  nostri vocant “tobacco-shops.”

{145b}  _herbæ—avenâ_.  Duo quasi genera artis poeta videtur distinguere.
‘Weed,’ ‘pipe,’ recte Scaliger.

{146a}  _nil acquirit eundo_.  Aqua enim aspera, et radentibus parum
habilis.  Immersum hic aliquem et vix aut ne vix quidem extractum refert

{146b}  _tormenta p. q. mortalia_.  Eleganter, ut solet, Peile,
‘unearthly cannons.’  (Cf. Ainaw. D. s. v.)   Perrecondita autem est
quæstio de lusibus illorum temporum, neque in Smithii Dict. Class. satis
elucidata.  Consule omnino Kentf. de Bill.  _Loculis_, bene vertas,

{147a}  _amantem devio_.  Quorsum hoc, quærunt Interpretes.  Suspicor
equidem respiciendos, vv. 19–23, de precuratoribus.

{148a}  _quadr. rotm_.—_Cami ard. imo_.  Quadrando enim rotundum (Ang.
‘squaring the circle’) Camum accendere, juvenes ingenui semper
nitebantur.  Fecisse vero quemquam non liquet.

{148b}  _aure caninâ_.  Iterum audi Peile, ‘dog’s-eared.’

{148c}  _rixatore_.  non male Heins. cum Aldinâ, ‘wrangler.’

{149a}  _Mortis_.  Verbum generali fere sensu dictum inveni.  Suspicor
autem poetam virum quendam innuisse, qui currus, caballos, id genus omne,
mercede non minimâ locaret.

{149b}  _aliessâ quadrâ_.  Sunt qui de pileis Academicis accipiunt.
Rapidiores enim suas fere amittebant.  Sed judicet sibi lector.

{149c}  _opus tunicæ_, ‘shirt-work.’ Alii _opes_.  Perperam.

{149d}  _vestem_.  Nota proprietatem verbi.  ‘Vest,’ enim apud politos
id. q. vulgo ‘waistcoat’ appellatur.  Quod et feminæ usurpahant, ut
hodiernæ, fibula revinctum, teste Virgillo:

       ‘crines nodantur in aurum,
    Aurea purpuream subnectit fibula vestem.’

{150a}  _Basse_. cft.  Interpretes illud Horatianum, “Bassum Threicâ
vincat amystide.”  Non perspexere viri docti alterum hic alludi,
Anglicanæ originis, neque illum, ut perhibent, a potu aversum.

{150b}  _Ini_.  Sic nostri, ‘Go in and win.’  _rebus_, ‘subjects.’

{151a}  _crebra r. a. stabulum_.  “Turn up year after year at the old
diggings, (i. e. the Senate House,) and be plucked,” &c.  Peile.  Quo
quid jejunius?

{151b}  Classe—Hirudo.  Obscurior allusio ad picturam quandam (in
collectione viri, vel plusquam viri, Punchii repositam,) in qua juvenis
custodem stationis moerens alloquitur.

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