TO MRS. F[IELD]
On Her Return from Gibraltar
Jane, you are welcome from the barren Rock,
And Calpe's sounding shores. Oh do not mock,
Now you have rais'd, our greetings; nor again
Ever revisit that dry nook of Spain.
Friends have you here, and friendships to command,
In merry England. Love this hearty land.
Ease, comfort, competence—of these possess'd,
Let prodigal adventurers seek the rest:
Dear England is as you,—a Field the Lord hath blest.
TO M[ARY] L[AETITIA] F[IELD]
(Expecting to See Her Again after a Long Interval)
How many wasting, many wasted years,
Have run their round, since I beheld your face!
In Memory's dim eye it yet appears
Crowned, as it then seemed, with a chearful grace.
Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side,
Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles,
Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride,
To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles.
I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow,
But take of Time a rigorous account,
When next I see you; and Maria now
Must be the Thing she was. To what amount
These verses else?—all hollow and untrue—
This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU.
TO ESTHER FIELD
Esther, holy name and sweet,
Smoothly runs on even feet,
To the mild Acrostic bending;
Hebrew recollections blending.
Ever keep that Queen in view—
Royal namesake—bold, and true!
Firm she stood in evil times,
In the face of Haman's crimes.—
Ev'n as She, do Thou possess
Loftiest virtue in the dress,
Dear F——, of native loveliness.
[TO MRS. WILLIAMS]
(1830)
Go little Poem, and present
Respectful terms of compliment;
A gentle lady bids thee speak!
Courteous is she, tho' thou be weak—
Evoke from Heaven as thick as manna
Joy after joy on Grace Joanna:
On Fornham's Glebe and Pasture land
A blessing pray. Long, long may stand,
Not touched by Time, the Rectory blithe;
No grudging churl dispute his Tithe;
At Easter be the offerings due
With cheerful spirit paid; each pew
In decent order filled; no noise
Loud intervene to drown the voice,
Learning, or wisdom of the Teacher;
Impressive be the Sacred Preacher,
And strict his notes on holy page;
May young and old from age to age
Salute, and still point out, 'The good man's Parsonage!'
TO THE BOOK
Little Casket! Storehouse rare
Of rich conceits, to please the Fair!
Happiest he of mortal men,—
(I crown him monarch of the pen,)—
To whom Sophia deigns to give
The flattering prerogative
To inscribe his name in chief,
On thy first and maiden Leaf.
When thy pages shall be full
Of what brighter wits can cull
Of the Tender or Romantic,
Creeping Prose or Verse Gigantic,—
Which thy spaces so shall cram
That the Bee-like Epigram
(Which a two-fold tribute brings,
Honey gives at once, and stings,)
Hath not room left wherewithal
To infix its tiny scrawl;
Haply some more youthful swain,
Striving to describe his pain,
And the Damsel's ear to seize
With more expressive lays than these,
When he finds his own excluded
And these counterfeits intruded;
While, loitering in the Muse's bower,
He overstayed the eleventh hour,
Till the tables filled—shall fret,
Die, or sicken with regret
Or into a shadow pine:
While this triumphant verse of mine,
Like to some favoured stranger-guest,
Bidden to a good man's Feast
Shall sit—by merit less than fate—
In the upper Seat in State.
TO S[OPHIA] F[REND]
Acrostic
Solemn Legends we are told
Of bright female Names of old,
Phyllus fair, Laodameia,
Helen, but methinks Sophia
Is a name of better meaning
And a sort of Christian leaning.
For it Wisdom means, which passes
Rubies, pearls, or golden masses.
Ever try that Name to merit;
Never quit what you inherit,
Duly from your Father's spirit.
TO R[OTHA] Q[UILLINAN]
Acrostic
ROTHA, how in numbers light,
Ought I to express thee?
Take my meaning in its flight—
Haste imports not always slight—
And believe, I bless thee.
TO S[ARAH] L[OCKE]
Acrostic
Shall I praise a face unseen,
And extol a fancied mien,
Rave on visionary charm,
And from shadows take alarm?
Hatred hates without a cause;
Love may love, with more applause,
Or, without a reason given,
Charmed be with unknown Heaven.
Keep the secrets, though, unmocked,
Ever in your bosom Locke'd.
TO M[ARY] L[OCKE]
Acrostic
Must I write with pen unwilling
And describe those graces killing
Rightly, which I never saw?
Yes—it is the Album's law.
Let me then Invention strain
On your excelling charms to feign—
Cold is Fiction? I believe it
Kindly, as I did receive it,
Even as J.F.'s tongue did weave it.
AN ACROSTIC AGAINST ACROSTICS
[To Edward Hogg]
Envy not the wretched Poet
Doomed to pen these teasing strains,
Wit so cramped, ah, who can show it,
Are the trifles worth the pains.
Rhyme compared with this were easy,
Double Rhymes may not displease ye.
Homer, Horace sly and caustic,
Owed no fame to vile acrostic.
G's, I am sure, the Readers choked with,
Good men's names must not be joked with.
ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM
My feeble Muse, that fain her best wou'd
Write, at command of Frances Westwood,
But feels her wits not in their best mood,
Fell lately on some idle fancies,
As she's much given to romances,
About this self-same style as Frances;
Which seems to be a name in common
Attributed to man or woman.
She thence contrived this flattering moral,
With which she hopes no soul will quarrel,
That she, whom this twin title decks,
Combines what's good in either sex;
Unites—how very rare the case is!—
Masculine sense to female graces;
And, quitting not her proper rank,
Is both in one—Fanny, and frank.
12_th October_, 1827.
[IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM]
By Mary Lamb
Small beauty to your Book my lines can lend,
Yet you shall have the best I can, sweet friend,
To serve for poor memorials 'gainst the day
That calls you from your Parent-roof away,
From the mild offices of Filial life
To the more serious duties of a Wife.
The World is opening to you—may you rest
With all your prospects realised, and blest!—
I, with the Elder Couple left behind,
On evenings chatting, oft shall call to mind
Those spirits of Youth, which Age so ill can miss,
And, wanting you, half grudge your S—n's bliss;
Till mirthful malice tempts us to exclaim
'Gainst the dear Thief, who robb'd you of your Name.
ENFIELD CHASE, 17_th May_, 1828.
UN SOLITAIRE
A Drawing by E.I. [Emma Isola]
[To Sarah Lachlan]
Solitary man, around thee
Are the mountains: Peace hath found thee
Resting by that rippling tide;
All vain toys of life expelling,
Hermit-like, thou find'st a dwelling,
Lost 'mid foliage stretching wide.
Angels here alone may find thee,
Contemplation fast may bind thee.
Holier spot, or more fantastic,
Livelier scene of deep seclusion,
Armed by Nature 'gainst intrusion,
Never graced a seat Monastic.
TO S[ARAH] T[HOMAS]
An Acrostic
Sarah, blest wife of "Terah's faithful Son,"
After a race of years with goodness run,
Regardless heard the promised miracle,
And mocked the blessing as impossible.
How weak is Faith!—even He, the most sincere,
Thomas, to his meek Master not least dear,
Holy, and blameless, yet refused assent
Of full belief, until he could content
Mere human senses. In your piety,
As you are one in name, industriously
So copy them: but shun their weak part—Incredulity.
TO MRS. SARAH ROBINSON
Soul-breathing verse, thy gentlest guise put on
And greet the honor'd name of Robinson.
Rome in her throng'd and stranger-crowded streets,
And palaces, where pilgrim pilgrim meets,
Holds not, respected Sarah, one that can
Revered make the name of Englishman,
Or loved, more than thy Kinsman, dear to me
By many a friendly act. His heart I see
In thee with answering courtesy renew'd.
Nor shall to thee my debt of gratitude
Soon fade, that didst receive with open hand
One that was come a stranger to thy land—
Now call[s] thee Friend. Her thanks, and mine, command.
Enfield, 14_th March_, 1831.
TO SARAH [APSEY]
Acrostic
Sarah,—your other name I know not,
And fine encomiums I bestow not,
Regard me as an utter stranger,
A hair-brain'd, hasty, album-ranger,
Heaven shield you, Girl, from every danger!
TO JOSEPH VALE ASBURY
Acrostic
Judgements are about us thoroughly;
O'er all Enfield hangs the Cholera,
Savage monster, none like him
Ever rack'd a human limb.
Pest, nor plague, nor fever yellow,
Has made patients more to bellow.
Vain his threatnings! Asbury comes,
And defiance beats by drums;
Label, bottle, box, pill, potion,
Each enlists in the commotion.
And with Vials, like to those
Seen in Patmos[18], charged with woes,
Breathing Wrath, he falls pell-mell
Upon the Foe, and pays him well.
Revenge!—he has made the monster sick
Yea, Cholera vanish, choleric.
[Footnote 18: Vide Revelations.]
TO D[OROTHY] A[SBURY]
Acrostic
Divided praise, Lady, to you we owe,
Of all the health your husband doth bestow,
Respected wife of skilful Asbury!
Oracular foresight named thee Dorothy;
Tis a Greek word, and signifies God's Gift;
(How Learning helps poor Poets at a shift!)—
You are that gift. When, tired with human ails,
And tedious listening to the sick man's tales,
Sore spent, and fretted, he comes home at eve,
By mild medicaments you his toils deceive.
Under your soothing treatment he revives;
(Restorative is the smile of gentle wives):
You lengthen his, who lengthens all our lives.
TO LOUISA MORGAN
How blest is he who in his age, exempt
From fortune's frowns, and from the troublous strife
Of storms that harass still the private life,
"Below ambition, and above contempt,"
Hath gain'd a quiet harbour, where he may
Look back on shipwrecks past, without a sigh
For busier scenes, and hope's gay dreams gone by!
And such a nook of blessedness, they say,
Your Sire at length has found; while you, best Child,
Content in his contentment, acquiesce
In patient toils; and in a station less,
Than you might image, when your prospects smiled.
In your meek virtues there is found a calm,
That on his life's soft evening sheds a balm.
TO SARAH JAMES OF BEGUILDY
Acrostic
Sleep hath treasures worth retracing:
Are you not in slumbers pacing
Round your native spot at times,
And seem to hear Beguildy's chimes?
Hold the airy vision fast;
Joy is but a dream at last:
And what was so fugitive,
Memory only makes to live.
Even from troubles past we borrow
Some thoughts that may lighten sorrow,
Onwards as we pace through life,
Fainting under care or strife,
By the magic of a thought
Every object back is brought
Gayer than it was when real,
Under influence ideal.
In remembrance as a glass,
Let your happy childhood pass;
Dreaming so in fancy's spells,
You still shall hear those old church bells.
TO EMMA BUTTON
Acrostic
EMMA, eldest of your name,
Meekly trusting in her God
Midst the red-hot plough-shares trod,
And unscorch'd preserved her fame.
By that test if you were tried,
Ugly flames might be defied;
Though devouring fire's a glutton,
Through the trial you might go
"On the light fantastic toe,"
Nor for plough-shares care a BUTTON.
WRITTEN UPON THE COVER OF A BLOTTING BOOK
Blank tho' I be, within you'll find
Relics of th' enraptured mind:
Where truth and fable, mirth and wit,
Are safely here deposited.
The placid, furious, envious, wise,
Impart to me their secresies;
Here hidden thoughts in blotted line
Nor sybil can the sense divine;
Lethe and I twin sisters be—
Then, stranger, open me and see.
* * * * *
POLITICAL AND OTHER EPIGRAMS
TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH
(1801)
Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black,
In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack:
When he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf,
He went away, and wisely hanged himself.
This thou may'st do at last; yet much I doubt,
If thou hast any bowels to gush out!
* * * * *
TWELFTH NIGHT
Characters That Might Have Been Drawn on the Above Evening
(1802)
MR. A[DDINGTON]
I put my night-cap on my head,
And went, as usual, to my bed;
And, most surprising to relate,
I woke—a Minister of State!
MESSRS. C[ANNIN]G AND F[RER]E
At Eton School brought up with dull boys,
We shone like men among the school-boys;
But since we in the world have been,
We are but school-boys among men.
COUNT RUMFORD
I deal in aliments fictitious
And teaze the poor with soups nutritious.
Of bones and flesh I make dilution
And belong to the National Institution.
ON A LATE EMPIRIC OF "BALMY" MEMORY
(1802. Not printed till 1820)
His namesake, born of Jewish breeder,
Knew "from the Hyssop to the Cedar;"
But he, unlike the Jewish leader,
Scarce knew the Hyssop from the Cedar.
* * * * *
EPIGRAMS
(1812)
I
Princeps his rent from tinneries draws,
His best friends are refiners;—
What wonder then his other friends
He leaves for under-miners.
II
Ye Politicians, tell me, pray,
Why thus with woe and care rent?
This is the worst that you can say,
Some wind has blown the wig away,
And left the hair apparent.
* * * * *
THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE
(1812)
Io! Paean! Io! sing
To the funny people's King.
Not a mightier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic is;
Not a fatter fish than he
Flounders round the polar sea.
See his blubbers—at his gills
What a world of drink he swills,
From his trunk, as from a spout,
Which next moment he pours out.
Such his person—next declare,
Muse, who his companions are.—
Every fish of generous kind
Scuds aside, or slinks behind;
But about his presence keep
All the Monsters of the Deep;
Mermaids, with their tails and singing
His delighted fancy stinging;
Crooked Dolphins, they surround him,
Dog-like Seals, they fawn around him.
Following hard, the progress mark
Of the intolerant salt sea shark.
For his solace and relief,
Flat fish are his courtiers chief.
Last and lowest in his train,
Ink-fish (libellers of the main)
Their black liquor shed in spite:
(Such on earth the things that write.)
In his stomach, some do say,
No good thing can ever stay.
Had it been the fortune of it
To have swallowed that old Prophet,
Three days there he'd not have dwell'd,
But in one have been expell'd.
Hapless mariners are they,
Who beguil'd (as seamen say),
Deeming him some rock or island,
Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land,
Anchor in his scaly rind;
Soon the difference they find;
Sudden plumb, he sinks beneath them;
Does to ruthless seas bequeath them.
Name or title what has he?
Is he Regent of the Sea?
From this difficulty free us,
Buffon, Banks or sage Linnaeus.
With his wondrous attributes
Say what appellation suits.
By his bulk, and by his size,
By his oily qualities,
This (or else my eyesight fails),
This should be the PRINCE OF WHALES.
SONNET
St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford (1819)
All unadvised, and in an evil hour,
Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft
The lowly labours of the Gentle Craft
For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour.
All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;
The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground;
And sweet content of mind is oftener found
In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower.
The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;
And better to this hour you had been plying
The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying,
Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein;
Still teazing Muses, which are still denying;
Making a stretching-leather of your brain.
THE GODLIKE
(1820)
In one great man we view with odds
A parallel to all the gods.
Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow,
Could never match his princely bow.
In him a Bacchus we behold:
Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old.
Like Phoebus next, a flaming lover;
And then he's Mercury—all over.
A Vulcan, for domestic strife,
He lamely lives without his wife.
And sure—unless our wits be dull—
Minerva-like, when moon was full,
He issued from paternal skull.
THE THREE GRAVES
(1820)
Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds
Where Bedloe, Oates and Judas, hide their heads,
I saw great Satan like a Sexton stand
With his intolerable spade in hand,
Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were,
For those who, coffinless, must enter there
With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth
Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath:
The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye, that dwelt
Upon it long, like darkness to be felt.
The pillows to these baleful beds were toads,
Large, living, livid, melancholy loads,
Whose softness shock'd. Worms of all monstrous size
Crawl'd round; and one, upcoil'd, which never dies.
A doleful bell, inculcating despair,
Was always ringing in the heavy air.
And all about the detestable pit
Strange headless ghosts, and quarter'd forms, did flit;
Rivers of blood, from living traitors spilt,
By treachery stung from poverty to guilt.
I ask'd the fiend, for whom these rites were meant?
"These graves," quoth he, "when life's brief oil is spent,
When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bedwards,
—I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards."
SONNET TO MATHEW WOOD, ESQ.
Alderman and M.P.
(1820)
Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic WOOD!
Regardless what the player's son may prate,
Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of Debate—
Who nothing generous ever understood.
London's twice Praetor! scorn the fool-born jest—
The stage's scum, and refuse of the players—
Stale topics against Magistrates and Mayors—
City and Country both thy worth attest.
Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit,
More fit to sooth the superficial ear
Of drunken PITT, and that pickpocket Peer,
When at their sottish orgies they did sit,
Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein,
Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain.
ON A PROJECTED JOURNEY
(1820)
To gratify his people's wish
See G[eorg]e at length prepare—
He's setting out for Hanover—
We've often wished him there.
SONG FOR THE C[ORONATIO]N
Tune, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch"
(1820)
Roi's wife of Brunswick Oëls! Roi's wife of Brunswick Oëls! Wot you how she came to him, While he supinely dreamt of no ills? Vow! but she is a canty Queen, And well can she scare each royal orgie.— To us she ever must be dear, Though she's for ever cut by Georgie.— Roi's wife, etc. Da capo.
THE UNBELOVED
(1820)
Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C[astlerea]gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van's beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for't,
I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object,—
Dear to neither prince, nor subject;—
Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf
Fastning on the skin of Guelph,
Thou, thou must, surely, loathe thyself.
ON THE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND OF LORD BYRON'S REMAINS
(1824)
Manners, they say, by climate alter not:
Who goes a drunkard will return a sot.
So lordly Juan, damn'd to lasting fame,
Went out a pickle, and came back the same.
LINES
Suggested by a Sight of Waltham Cross
(1827)
Time-mouldering CROSSES, gemm'd with imagery
Of costliest work, and Gothic tracery,
Point still the spots, to hallow'd wedlock dear,
Where rested on its solemn way the bier,
That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor
To mix with Royal dust at Westminster.—
Far different rites did thee to dust consign,
Duke Brunswick's daughter, Princely Caroline.
A hurrying funeral, and a banish'd grave,
High-minded Wife! were all that thou could'st have.
Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death thy losses;
Thou in thy life-time had'st thy share of crosses.
FOR THE "TABLE BOOK"
(1827)
Laura, too partial to her friends' enditing,
Requires from each a pattern of their writing.
A weightier trifle Laura might command;
For who to Laura would refuse his—hand?
THE ROYAL WONDERS
(1830)
Two miracles at once! Compell'd by fate,
His tarnish'd throne the Bourbon doth vacate;
While English William,—a diviner thing,—
Of his free pleasure hath put off the king.
The forms of distant old respect lets pass,
And melts his crown into the common mass.
Health to fair France, and fine regeneration!
But England's is the nobler abdication.
"BREVIS ESSE LABORO"
"ONE DIP"
(1830)
Much speech obscures the sense; the soul of wit
Is brevity: our tale one proof of it.
Poor Balbulus, a stammering invalid,
Consults the doctors, and by them is bid
To try sea-bathing, with this special heed,
"One Dip was all his malady did need;
More than that one his certain death would be."
Now who so nervous or so shook as he,
For Balbulus had never dipped before?
Two well-known dippers at the Broadstairs' shore,
Stout, sturdy churls, have stript him to the skin,
And naked, cold, and shivering plunge him in.
Soon he emerges, with scarce breath to say,
"I'm to be dip—dip—dipt—." "We know it," they
Reply; expostulation seemed in vain,
And over ears they souse him in again,
And up again he rises, his words trip,
And falter as before. Still "dip—dip—dip"—
And in again he goes with furious plunge,
Once more to rise; when, with a desperate lunge,
At length he bolts these words out, "Only once!"
The villains crave his pardon. Had the dunce
But aimed at these bare words the rogues had found him,
But striving to be prolix, they half drowned him.
SUUM CUIQUE
(1830)
Adsciscit sibi divitias et opes alienas
Fur, rapiens, spolians quod mihi, quodque tibi
Proprium erat, temnens haec verba, Meumque Tuumque;
Omne Suum est. Tandem cuique suum tribuit.
Dat laqueo collum: vestes, vah! carnifici dat:
Sese Diabolo; sic bene, Cuique Suum.
[ON THE LITERARY GAZETTE]
(1830)
In merry England I computed once
The number of the dunces—dunce for dunce;
There were four hundred, if I don't forget,
All readers of the L———y G——-e;
But if the author to himself keep true,
In some short months they'll be reduced to two.
ON THE FAST-DAY
To name a Day for general prayer and fast
Is surely worse than of no sort of use;
For you may see with grief, from first to last
On fast-days people of all ranks are loose.
NONSENSE VERSES
Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep!
The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.
There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;
Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?
Twenty fine Angels must come into town,
All for to help you to make your new gown:
Dainty AERIAL Spinsters, and Singers;
Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?
Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels,
To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels?
Why they came down is to me all a riddle,
And left HALLELUJAH broke off in the middle:
Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut—
To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged, and silly,
Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,
Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,
Leave her to water her lily herself,
Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it:
Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it.
ON WAWD
(Of the East India House)
What Wawd knows, God knows;
But God knows what Wawd knows.
* * * * *
SIX EPITAPHS ON ENSIGN PEACOCK
(1799)
MARMOR LOQUITUR
He lies a Volunteer so fine,
Who died of a decline,
As you or I, may do one day;
Reader, think of this, I pray;
And I humbly hope you'll drop a tear
For my poor Royal Volunteer.
He was as brave as brave could be,
Nobody was so brave as he;
He would have died in Honor's bed,
Only he died at home instead.
Well may the Royal Regiment swear,
They never had such a Volunteer.
But whatsoever they may say,
Death is a man that will have his way:
Tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain;
In the next we hope he'll be a captain.
And without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals,
He begg'd to be buried in regimentals.
ON TIMOTHY WAGSTAFF
Here lies the body of Timothy Wagstaff,
Who was once as tall and as straight as a flagstaff;
But now that he's gone to another world,
His staff is broken and his flag is furled.
ON CAPTAIN STURMS
Here lieth the body of Captain Sturms,
Once "food for powder," now for worms,
At the battle of Meida he lost his legs,
And stumped about on wooden pegs.
Naught cares he now for such worthless things,
He was borne to Heaven on angels' wings.
ON MARGARET DIX
(Born on February 29)
Ci git the remains of Margaret Dix,
Who was young in old age I ween,
Though Envy with Malice cried "seventy-six,"
The Graces declared her "nineteen."
ON ONESIMUS DRAKE
To the memory of Dr. Onesimus Drake,
Who forced good people his drugs to take—
No wonder his patients were oft on the rack
For this "duck of a man" was a terrible quack.
ON MATTHEW DAY
Beneath this slab lies Matthew Day,
If his body had not been snatched away
To be by Science dissected;
Should it have gone, one thing is clear:
His soul the last trump is sure to hear,
And thus be resurrected.
* * * * *
TIME AND ETERNITY
Where the soul drinks of misery's power,
Each moment seems a lengthened hour;
But when bright joy illumes the mind,
Time passes as the fleetest wind.—
How to a wicked soul must be
Whole ages of eternity?
FROM THE LATIN
As swallows shrink before the wintry blast,
And gladly seek a more congenial soil,
So flatterers halt when fortune's lure is past,
And basely court some richer lordling's smile.
SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE
_With the Whole Process of his Courtship and Marriage, and who Danced at the Wedding
By an Eye Witness_
(1831)
DEDICATION
To delicate bosoms, that have sighed over the Loves of the Angels, this Poem is with tenderest regard consecrated. It can be no offence to you, dear Ladies, that the author has endeavoured to extend the dominion of your darling passion; to shew Love triumphant in places, to which his advent has been never yet suspected. If one Cecilia drew an Angel down, another may have leave to attract a Spirit upwards; which, I am sure, was the most desperate adventure of the two. Wonder not at the inferior condition of the agent; for, if King Cophetua wooed a Beggar Maid, a greater king need not scorn to confess the attractions of a fair Tailor's daughter. The more disproportionate the rank, the more signal is the glory of your sex. Like that of Hecate, a triple empire is now confessed your own. Nor Heaven, nor Earth, nor deepest tracts of Erebus, as Milton hath it, have power to resist your sway. I congratulate your last victory. You have fairly made an Honest Man of the Old One; and, if your conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedict has employment enough on his hands to desist from dabbling with the affairs of poor mortals; he may fairly leave human nature to herself; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the attacks of this hitherto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in his condition.
PART THE FIRST
I
The Devil was sick and queasy of late,
And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him;
His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd
Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd—
None knew what the devil ail'd him.
II
He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights,
That was fit for a fiend's disportal;
For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn,
Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn
Of the best down beds that are mortal.
III
His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved,
With groanings corresponding;
And mincing and few were the words he spoke,
While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke
From a heart that seem'd desponding.
IV
Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam,
I think none e'er was older:
Her years—old Parr's were nothing to them;
And a chicken to her was Methusalem,
You'd say, could you behold her.
V
She remember'd Chaos a little child,
Strumming upon hand organs;
At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat,
The ancientest there, and was godmother at
The christening of the Gorgons.
VI
Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros' skin,
Like a mummy's through its cerement;
But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd
What pinch'd her son; whom she thus address'd
In terms that bespoke endearment.
VII
"What ails my Nicky, my darling Imp,
My Lucifer bright, my Beelze?
My Pig, my Pug-with-a-curly-tail,
You are not well. Can a mother fail
To see that which all Hell see?"
VIII
"O Mother dear, I am dying, I fear;
Prepare the yew, and the willow,
And the cypress black: for I get no ease
By day or by night for the cursed fleas,
That skip about my pillow."
IX
"Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer,
For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son,
And your blankets both, and dried them upon
The brimstony banks of Acheron—
It is not the fleas that bite, son."
X
"O I perish of cold these bitter sharp nights,
The damp like an ague ferrets;
The ice and the frost hath shot into the bone;
And I care not greatly to sleep alone
O! nights—for the fear of Spirits."
XI
"The weather is warm, my own sweet boy,
And the nights are close and stifling;
And for fearing of Spirits, you cowardly Elf—
Have you quite forgot you're a Spirit yourself?
Come, come, I see you are trifling.
XII
"I wish my Nicky is not in love"—
"O mother, you have nick't it"—
And he turn'd his head aside with a blush—
Not red hot pokers, or crimson plush,
Could half so deep have prick'd it.
XIII
"These twenty thousand good years or more,"
Quoth he, "on this burning shingle
I have led a lonesome Bachelor's life,
Nor known the comfort of babe or wife—
'Tis a long—time to live single."
XIV
Quoth she, "If a wife is all you want,
I shall quickly dance at your wedding.
I am dry nurse, you know, to the Female Ghosts "—
And she call'd up her charge, and they came in hosts
To do the old Beldam's bidding:
XV
All who in their lives had been servants of sin—
Adulteress, Wench, Virago—
And Murd'resses old that had pointed the knife
Against a husband's or father's life,
Each one a She Iago.
XVI
First Jezebel came—no need of paint,
Or dressing, to make her charming;
For the blood of the old prophetical race
Had heighten'd the natural flush of her face
To a pitch 'bove rouge or carmine.
XVII
Semiramis there low tendered herself,
With all Babel for a dowry:
With Helen, the flower and the bane of Greece—
And bloody Medea next offer'd her fleece,
That was of Hell the Houri.
XVIII
Clytemnestra, with Joan of Naples, put in;
Cleopatra, by Anthony quicken'd;
Jocasta, that married where she should not,
Came hand in hand with the Daughters of Lot;
Till the Devil was fairly sicken'd.
XIX
For the Devil himself, a dev'l as he is,
Disapproves unequal matches.
"O Mother," he cried, "dispatch them hence!
No Spirit—I speak it without offence—
Shall have me in her hatches."
XX
With a wave of her wand they all were gone!
And now came out the slaughter:
"'Tis none of these that can serve my turn;
For a wife of flesh and blood I burn—
I'm in love with a Taylor's Daughter.
XXI
"'Tis she must heal the wounds that she made,
'Tis she must be my physician.
O parent mild, stand not my foe"—
For his mother had whisper'd something low
About "matching beneath his condition."—
XXII
"And then we must get paternal consent,
Or an unblest match may vex ye"—
"Her father is dead; I fetched him away.
In the midst of his goose, last Michaelmas day—
He died of an apoplexy.
XXIII
"His daughter is fair, and an only heir—
With her I long to tether—
He has left her his hell, and all that he had;
The estates are contiguous, and I shall be mad,
'Till we lay our two Hells together."
XXIV
"But how do you know the fair maid's mind?"—
Quoth he, "Her loss was but recent;
And I could not speak my mind you know,
Just when I was fetching her father below—
It would have been hardly decent.
XXV
"But a leer from her eye, where Cupids lie,
Of love gave proof apparent;
And, from something she dropp'd, I shrewdly ween'd,
In her heart she judged, that a living Fiend
Was better than a dead Parent.
XXVI
"But the time is short; and suitors may come,
While I stand here reporting;
Then make your son a bit of a Beau,
And give me your blessing, before I go
To the other world a courting."
XXVII
"But what will you do with your horns, my son?
And that tail—fair maids will mock it—"
"My tail I will dock—and as for the horn,
Like husbands above I think no scorn
To carry it in my pocket."
XXVIII
"But what will you do with your feet, my son?"
"Here are stockings fairly woven:
My hoofs I will hide in silken hose;
And cinnamon-sweet are my pettitoes—
Because, you know, they are cloven."
XXIX
"Then take a blessing, my darling Son,"
Quoth she, and kiss'd him civil—
Then his neckcloth she tied; and when he was drest
From top to toe in his Sunday's best,
He appear'd a comely devil.
XXX
So his leave he took:—but how he fared
In his courtship—barring failures—
In a Second Part you shall read it soon,
In a bran new song, to be sung to the tune
Of the "Devil among the Tailors."
* * * * *
THE SECOND PART
Containing the Courtship, and the Wedding
I
Who is She that by night from her balcony looks
On a garden, where cabbage is springing?
'Tis the Tailor's fair Lass, that we told of above;
She muses by moonlight on her True Love;
So sharp is Cupid's stinging.
II
She has caught a glimpse of the Prince of the Air
In his Luciferian splendour,
And away with her coyness and maiden reserve!—
For none but the Devil her turn will serve,
Her sorrows else will end her.
III
She saw when he fetch'd her father away,
And the sight no whit did shake her;
For the Devil may sure with his own make free—
And "it saves besides," quoth merrily she,
"The expence of an Undertaker.—
IV
"Then come, my Satan, my darling Sin,
Return to my arms, my Hell Beau;
My Prince of Darkness, my crow-black Dove"—
And she scarce had spoke, when her own True Love
Was kneeling at her elbow!
V
But she wist not at first that this was He,
That had raised such a boiling passion;
For his old costume he had laid aside,
And was come to court a mortal bride
In a coat-and-waistcoat fashion.
VI
She miss'd his large horns, and she miss'd his fair tail,
That had hung so retrospective;
And his raven plumes, and some other marks
Regarding his feet, that had left their sparks
In a mind but too susceptive:
VII
And she held in scorn that a mortal born
Should the Prince of Spirits rival,
To clamber at midnight her garden fence—
For she knew not else by what pretence
To account for his arrival.
VIII
"What thief art thou," quoth she, "in the dark
That stumblest here presumptuous?
Some Irish Adventurer I take you to be—
A Foreigner, from your garb I see,
Which besides is not over sumptuous."
IX
Then Satan, awhile dissembling his rank,
A piece of amorous fun tries:
Quoth he, "I'm a Netherlander born;
Fair Virgin, receive not my suit with scorn;
I'm a Prince in the Low Countries—
X
"Though I travel incog. From the Land of Fog
And Mist I am come to proffer
My crown and my sceptre to lay at your feet;
It is not every day in the week you may meet,
Fair Maid, with a Prince's offer."
XI
"Your crown and your sceptre I like full well,
They tempt a poor maiden's pride, Sir;
But your lands and possessions—excuse if I'm rude—
Are too far in a Northerly latitude
For me to become your Bride, Sir.
XII
"In that aguish clime I should catch my death,
Being but a raw new comer"—
Quoth he, "We have plenty of fuel stout;
And the fires, which I kindle, never go out
By winter, nor yet by summer.
XIII
"I am Prince of Hell, and Lord Paramount
Over Monarchs there abiding.
My Groom of the Stables is Nimrod old;
And Nebuchadnazor my stirrups must hold,
When I go out a riding.
XIV
"To spare your blushes, and maiden fears,
I resorted to these inventions—
But, Imposture, begone; and avaunt, Disguise!"
And the Devil began to swell and rise
To his own diabolic dimensions.
XV
Twin horns from his forehead shot up to the moon,
Like a branching stag in Arden;
Dusk wings through his shoulders with eagle's strength
Push'd out; and his train lay floundering in length
An acre beyond the garden.—
XVI
To tender hearts I have framed my lay—
Judge ye, all love-sick Maidens,
When the virgin saw in the soft moonlight,
In his proper proportions, her own true knight,
If she needed long persuadings.
XVII
Yet a maidenly modesty kept her back,
As her sex's art had taught her:
For "the biggest Fortunes," quoth she, "in the land—
Are not worthy"—then blush'd—"of your Highness's hand—
Much less a poor Taylor's daughter.
XVIII
"There's the two Miss Crockfords are single still,
For whom great suitors hunger;
And their Father's hell is much larger than mine"—
Quoth the Devil, "I've no such ambitious design,
For their Dad is an old Fishmonger;
XIX
"And I cannot endure the smell of fish—
I have taken an anti-bias
To their livers, especially since the day
That the Angel smoked my cousin away
From the chaste spouse of Tobias.