Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate :
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!
Drain we the cup.-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
ALTHOUGH I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city rout,
And noise and humming; They've hushed the minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell;
She's coming, she's coming!
My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast :
She comes-she's here, she's past-
May Heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and d-ly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through Heaven's gate
Angels within it.
Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shea:
All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,-
Wait till you come to Forty Year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes,—
Wait till you come to Forty Year!
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear-
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.
Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere
Ever a month was past away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shot, May pray and whisper, and we not list, Or look away and never be missed, Ere yet ever a month is gone.. Gillian's dead, God rest her bier; How I loved her twenty years syne! Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
Not all are so that were so in past years;
Voices, familiar once, no more he hears;
O Album! could I tell you all his ways
And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days, Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.
Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!
DEAR Lucy, you know what my wish is,-
I hate all your Frenchified fuss :
Your silly entrées and made dishes
Were never intended for us.
No footman in lace and in ruffles
Need dangle behind my arm-chair;
And never mind seeking for truffles,
Although they be ever so rare.
But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,
I prithee get ready at three;
Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy,
And what better meat can there be?
And when it has feasted the master,
"Twill amply suffice for the maid; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, And tipple my ale in the shade.
THE play is done; the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell:
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task;
And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.
One word, ere yet the evening ends,
Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends,* As fits the merry Christmas time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; Good night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!
Good night!-I'd say, the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age.
I'd say, your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain than those of men ;
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say, we suffer and we strive,
Not less nor more as men than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away.
These verses were printed at the end of a Christmis Book (1848-49), "Dr. Birch and his young Friends."
And in the world, as in the school,
I'd say, how Fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool,
The race not al ways to the swift.
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vt lgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?
Blessed be He who took and gave!
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,
Be weeping at her darling's grave?*
We bow to Heaven that willed it so,
That darkly rules the fate of all,
That sends the respite or the blow,
That's free to give, or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit:
Who brought him to that mirth and state!
His betters, see, below him sit,
Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel
To spurn the rags of Lazarus?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,
Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance,
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance,
And longing passion unfulfilled.
Amen! whatever fate be sent,
Pray God the heart may kindly glow,
Although the head with cares be bent,
And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,
Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the Awful Will,
And bear it with an honest heart.
Who misses, or who wins the prize
Go, lose or conquer as you can:
But if you fail, or if you rise,
Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!
(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;)
The sacred chorus first was sung
Upon the first of Christmas days:
The shepherds hear 1 it overhead-
The joyful angels raised it then.
Glory to Heaven on high, it said,
And peace on earth to gentle men.
My song, save this, is little worth;
I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health, and love, and mirth. As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,
Be this, good friends, our carol still-.
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,
To men of gentle will.
C. B. ob. 29th November, 1848, t. 42.
THAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
"Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
"Half-flush that dies along her throat;" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart.. how shall I say? . . too soon made
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace-all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,-good;
Somehow.. I know not how . . as if she ranked
My gift of a nine hundred years old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech-(which I have not)-to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say "Just this
'Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
"Or there exceed the mark "-and if she let
Herself be lessened so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
-E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave com-
mands,
The Count your Master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, tho',
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoléon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused "My plans
"That soar, to earth may fall,
"Let once my army-leader Lannes
"Waver at yonder wall,"-
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect-
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Scarce any blood came thro')
Was all but shot in two.
The Chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes :
Then all smiles stopped together. There she "You're wounded!" 'Nay," his soldier's prids
Touched to the quick, he said:
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet "I'm killed, Sire!" And, his chief beside,
The company below, then. I repeat
Smiling the boy fell dead.
I AM a Goddess of the ambrosial courts,
And, save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed
By none whose temples whiten this the world.
Thro' Heaven I roll my lucid moon along;
I shed in Hell o'er my pale people peace;
On Earth, I, caring for the creatures, guard
Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek,
And every feathered mother's callow brood,
And all that love green haunts and loneliness.
Of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns
Of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem,
Upon my image at Athenai here;
And this dead Youth, Asclepios bends above,
Was dearest to me. He my buskined step
To follow thro' the wild-wood leafy ways,
And chase the panting stag, or swift with darts
Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leopard low,
Neglected homage to another God:
Whence Aphrodite, by no midnight smoke
Of tapers lulled, in jealousy dispatched
A noisome lust that, as the gad-bee stings,
Possessed his step-dame Phaidra for himself
The son of Theseus, her great absent spouse.
Hippolutos exclaiming in his rage
Against the miserable Queen, she judged
Life insupportable, and, pricked at heart
An Amazonian stranger's race should dare
To scorn her, perished by the murderous cord:
Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll
The fame of him her swerving made not swerve,
Which Theseus read, returning, and believed,
So, exiled in the blindness of his wrath,
The man without a crime, who, last as first,
Loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth.
Now, Theseus from Poseidon had obtained
That of his wishes should be granted Three,
And this he imprecated straight-alive
May ne'er Hippolutos reach other lands!
Poseidon heard, ai, ai! And scarce the prince
Had stepped into the fixed boots of the car,
That give the feet a stay against the strength
Of the Henetian horses, and around
His body flung the reins, and urged their speed
Along the rocks and shingles of the shore,
When from the gaping wave a monster flung
His obscene body in the coursers' path!
These, mad with terror as the sea-bull sprawled
Wallowing about their feet, lost care of him
That reared them; and the master-chariot pole
Snapping beneath their plunges like a reed,
Hippolutos, whose feet were trammelled fast,
Was yet dragged forward by the circling rein
Which either hand directed; nor was quenched
The frenzy of that flight before each trace,
Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woeful car.
Each boulder-stone, sharp stub, and spiny shell,
Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the
sands
On that detested beach, was bright with blood
And morsels of his flesh: then fell the steeds
Head foremost, crashing in their mooned fronts,
Shivering with sweat, each white eye horror-fixed
His people, who had witnessed all afar,
Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos.
But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced (Indomitable as a man foredoomed),
That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer,
I, in a flood of glory visible,
Stood o'er my dying votary, and deed
By deed revealed, as all took place, the truth.
Then The cus lay the woefullest of men,
And worthily; but ere the death-veils hid
His face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed
To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai wails.
So I, who ne'er forsake my votaries,
Lest in the cross-way none the honey-cake
Should tender, nor pour out the dog's hot life,
Lest at my fane the priests disconsolate
Should dress my image with some faded poor
Few crowns, made favors of, nor dare object
Such slackness to my worshippers who turn
The trusting heart and loaded hand elsewhere,
As they had climbed Oulumpos to report
Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne-
I interposed: and, this eventful night,
While round the funeral pyre the populace
Stood with fierce light on their black robes that
blind
Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they
O'er the dead body of their with ered prince,
And, in his palace, Theseus, prostrated
On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab
"Twas bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief--
As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed
Sending a crowd of sparkles thro' the night,
And the gay fire, elate with mastery,
Towered like a serpent o'er the clotted jars
Of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense,
And splendid gums, like gold,-my potency
Conveyed the perished man to my retreat
In the thrice venerable forest here.
And this white-bearded Sage who squeezes now
The berried plant, is Phoibos' son of fame,
Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught
The doctrine of each herb and flower and root,
To know their secret'st virtue and express
The saving soul of all-who so has soothed
With lavers the torn brow and murdered cheeks.
Composed the hair and brought its gloss again,
And called the red bloom to the pale skin back.
And laid the strips and jagged ends of flesh
Even once more, and slacked the sinew's knot
Of every tortured limb-that now he lies
As if mere sleep possessed him underneath
These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh, cheer,
Divine presenter of the healing rod,
Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye,
Twines his lithe spires around! I say, much cheer '
Proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies!
And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs,
Ply, as the Sage directs, these buds and leaves
That strew the turf around the Twain
Await, in fitting silence, the event.
|