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 HOLIDAY DREAMS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 LIGHT READING, 
 
 IN POETRY AND PROSE, 
 
 ISABEL HILL, 
 
 AUTHOR, OF "THE POET'S CHILD," A TRAGEDY; 
 CONSTANCE," A TALE ; " ZAPHNA, OR THE AMULET," 
 A POE3I ; ETC. ETC. 
 
 To wit— to woo— with merry note*" 
 
 THOMAS CADELL, STRAND, LONDON; 
 
 Q 
 
 AND 
 
 W, BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH, 
 MDCCCXXIX, 
 

CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 An Indefinite Article .-'..-. . . . 1 
 
 Sonnet •. 15 
 
 A Fragment 16 
 
 Morning Thought 17 
 
 Note 18 
 
 Spectral Etiquette 22 
 
 The Greenwood Tree 27 
 
 Note .... 30 
 
 Written in the Spring 31 
 
 With a Ring 32 
 
 Maria .33 
 
 Sincerity 35 
 
 My Nephew 37 
 
 To One who would have composed Airs for me . . 41 
 
 Sonnet to a Withered Wild Rose 42 
 
 Song 43 
 
 The Adventurer 44 
 
 Dorothea to the Ranger of Haddon « .46 
 
 Affectations 48 
 
 Minna to the Pirate * . . . . . 06 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 On one of my earliest Losses ...... 58 
 
 To Mon Ami 63 
 
 Lines to the Rush of the Waves 64 
 
 To a Raven 65 
 
 A Character 67 
 
 On hearing Him praised . . . . . . 70 
 
 To the Flatterers of a Plagiarist . . • • .72 
 
 Truisms 74 
 
 To . Why do I love ? 76 
 
 Note 78 
 
 Soothing Similes 79 
 
 On finding that I had been Born too late ... 89 
 
 Admiration 91 
 
 Imitated from Lord Byron 92 
 
 Confession 93 
 
 To Victor . . . . . . ' . . • 96 
 
 Sonnet to my Guiding Star 100 
 
 Hymn to St. Hilda 101 
 
 Dramatic Specimen 103 
 
 The Brothers 109 
 
 Two Questions • • H2 
 
 Eagle Eyes 114 
 
 Invitation to Perth .115 
 
 Nourmahal 118 
 
 Invisibility ......••• 121 
 
 The Royalist Maid's Lament after the Battle of Worcester 129 
 
 The Royalist Maid to Charles II. in Exile ... 134 
 
 A Cavalier Song 136 
 
 . To Pleasure I 38 
 
 Henri and Fleurette 140 
 
 Note .143 
 
 Moonshine 146 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 VI 1 
 
 From an Indian Anecdote . 
 
 The Illustrious Traveller .... 
 
 " Two Arms, Two Arms ! " 
 
 The Trochilos and the Crocodile 
 
 On an Expression in my Journal for 1821 
 
 Letter from Mr. Green's Highflyer to his Aunt 
 
 Written after one Defeat and just before another 
 
 Parody on Burns 's Epitaph on Matthew . 
 
 To my Confidante ..... 
 
 " Handsome is that Handsome Does " 
 
 To my " Holiday Dreams " 
 
 To a Noble Matron 
 
 L'Envoy, Postscript, or Epilogue 
 
 Page 
 149 
 151 
 157 
 159 
 161 
 164 
 167 
 171 
 173 
 174 
 178 
 180 
 181 
 
HOLIDAY DREAMS. 
 
 AX INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 An Introduction to a book is generally roughed over, 
 like an introduction to a stranger. The third persor 
 who does the honours, usually slurs the name of the 
 introduced, but the company addressed are as inatten- 
 tive as the master of the ceremonies, so that the fault 
 seems to rest with the living novices, who, when ven- 
 turing into public society, ought to have, like books, 
 their names printed on their foreheads, by way of title- 
 page. 
 
 In my preface to Zaphxa, I professed myself "ready, 
 if pronounced incorrigible, to be heard no more." That 
 Tale was certainly more praised than either of its forerun- 
 ners, yet six years have elapsed without offering me the 
 means of publishing again. I have not been heedless 
 of an interval which has afforded me opportunities of 
 self- correction and improvement. 
 
 When first I set my "nothing of a name" in print, 
 I had no idea of attempting to be lively or clever upon 
 
2 AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 paper. I gave forth what I felt,, and knew not why I 
 should have foreborne. I take up my early calling 
 again under more cheerful and prouder auspices; I 
 never wrote despondently, yet I look back on my former 
 subjects as too sad, and shall no longer be content with 
 striving to " make the best of a bad matter." 
 
 I commenced author uncorrected, though unflattered 
 by the " few friends " who had read my manuscripts, 
 with the exception of my brother, who was ever ready 
 to amend my orthography, to transcribe for me, in his 
 unliterary and legible way, any thing, especially which 
 came recommended by "Act I, Scene I," &c. &c. I 
 wish he had ever been paid for his pains and trouble ; 
 mine were self-requited beforehand. He also undertook 
 the mechanical offices of counting lines and calculating 
 pages, consulting printers, publishers, editors, and other 
 ers and ors, obligations which I trust I may be excused 
 for thus acknowledging. 
 
 At first I was both tempted and persuaded to pub- 
 lish by subscription; but I thought that till it had 
 been tried at a risk, whether I could give my pur- 
 chasers their money's worth, I should by such plan 
 degrade myself into a literary beggar, compromise the 
 independence of genius (forsooth !), and openly consti- 
 tute profit as my aim, instead of praise. 
 
 It might have consoled me in looking over my list, to 
 see who, besides my own acquaintance, had proved 
 themselves my friends, and to have collected together 
 the names of estimable individuals, who might them- 
 
AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 3 
 
 selves have been scattered over the world unknown to 
 me and to each other. 
 
 Once,, while I had such a scheme in contemplation, I 
 was offered a chance of permission to dedicate my love 
 tales to an illustrious personage, rather too young to 
 understand or even read them. I declined; for I cannot 
 fancy how a volume, which may be sold to as many as 
 will buy it, can be rendered sacred to any single pur- 
 chaser. What we dedicate we should devote in hopes of 
 no other reward than that of being accepted. If I owed 
 the production and success of an effort to any one friend 
 in particular, it were but just so to inform the Public, 
 by inscribing it to that friend ; but to embellish unpre- 
 tending pages with some great name, in which the 
 author can feel little real interest, appears to me a 
 custom at once unmeaning and presumptuous, slavish 
 and insincere, rarely answering its only true purpose, 
 that of helping off a lame work; if a sound volume 
 will not sell without such aid, it at least deserves to do 
 so. With these impolitic notions I have thrice experi- 
 mentalized at my own expense, if ever I had a right to 
 call any thing my own ; though he is a friend indeed 
 who shares our sorrows and disputes our losses with us. 
 
 The sale of my first two ventures would have 
 proved satisfactory, but for the failure of two book- 
 sellers (one in the country), and another cause, by 
 which I was less resigned to be robbed of my first earn- 
 ings, than by the blameless misfortunes of strangers. 
 Zaphna was not published at a literary house, but be- 
 
 b2 
 
4 AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 fore its appearance, I had been commended by judges 
 who knew me only through my poor books, and the 
 proud, yet respectful surprise of my grateful heart, 
 diverted my mind from my pecuniary defeats. 
 
 Soon, however, I was forced to feel them; and to 
 regret that no judicious friend had saved my name, at 
 least from this premature and fruitless exposure. 
 " Every step a woman takes towards publicity, robs 
 her of — " I forget what. The remark is Madame Ro- 
 land's, I believe, and implies that literary celebrity 
 should be left for the lords of the creation ; that we 
 are sure to be disgraced and spoiled by success, and 
 shunned even if we fail, — as if the mantle of inspiration 
 were the poisoned shirt of Nessus ; as if the poet's 
 bays wrinkled a female brow, even in its teens, as if, in 
 short, neither such comparisons nor "■ caparisons became 
 a young woman," but gave all the Dons a right to ex- 
 claim, c( How the d 1 came a woman in the press?" 
 
 Such is the lot of scribbling spinsters, which I disco- 
 vered too late. I would have directed my energies to 
 some less precarious resource, but the mischief was 
 done, and in vain I strove to expiate it. Besides, my 
 education, perhaps my pride, unfitted me to endure 
 being paid bv my superiors for any specific tasks. I 
 did not then consider, that dependent servitude, in 
 some shape or other, is fortunately £< the badge of all 
 our tribe," whether we are bought by our masters, or 
 vice versa. Luckily I had few duties and not one ac- 
 complishment, no love of " society " and " amusement " 
 
AX INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 to divorce me from my pen. The only thing I cared 
 (or knew how) to do, was i! unreachable, untaught." 
 I have persevered, therefore, without merit. Busy as a 
 bee, industriously feasting on sweets, careless as to 
 what became of the honey which I hived, but knowing 
 that if I were burnt out at last, nothing could deprive 
 me of the pleasures I had tasted among the flowers. 
 To " have been near the rose " should support such an 
 insect as I under the anticipation of martyrdom ! — but, 
 to descend from metaphor. 
 
 In reminding my early patrons of my existence, I 
 owe myself a word or two, which I never before had 
 an opportunity of saying, and which, even now, I know 
 not how with sufficient decorum to express. 
 
 Striving in Zaphna to contrast, by a difference of 
 style,, a vicious with a virtuous character, as I supposed 
 both truth and morality demanded, I incurred a charge, 
 compared with which accusations of dullness and insi- 
 pidity had been compliment. Young women are far 
 more ignorant of evil than the best of men may guess. 
 In judging us by themselves they can form no true 
 estimate of the incuriousness of maiden minds. Be- 
 shrew the phrase that ever belied me ! beshrew my 
 memory, which must have retained, without under- 
 standing it, from masculine books and conversation ! 
 I shall be more guarded in future, having thus been 
 forced into " words and meanings/' like a child who is 
 whipped for blundering, instead of being iC feelingly 
 persuaded " why he ought not to blunder. Explana- 
 
6 AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 tions might put it out of such a pupil's power to err 
 again ; experience might do wonders ; and I have done 
 my best to attain it, by seeking to lay fresh pages open 
 for correction. But I have found it impossible to make 
 my way through the crowd of established favourites,, 
 even as a contributor to periodical works. Private 
 interest I have none, and the little public interest I 
 perhaps once created, must be by this time forgotten. 
 The proofs I have received of this fact I shall add in 
 Notes to the articles which elicited them. Being no 
 longer an amateuse, it does not content me to find, that 
 though my little doings may be deemed worthy of in- 
 sertion, they are seldom considered to deserve remu- 
 neration. 
 
 Profit is the best test of fame, for 
 
 " What 's the worth of any thing, 
 But just as much as it will bring ? " 
 
 " Sell Apollo for a slave, and get mundungus in exchange." 
 
 The spirit of the Asinine Midas often breathes in 
 the advice given by his descendants to those of poor 
 Apollo ; but I would rather never take snuff again 
 than take such counsel, even at a pinch. 
 
 An actor has his line of business, but an author is 
 expected by some people to write in any style and on 
 all subjects, if he means to live by it. " 'Tis but to 
 try, and be rejected." Oh that drowning, though 
 not Malmsey but ! There is no being versatile against 
 the natural bent, or beyond the limits of one mind's 
 
AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 7 
 
 sphere, on speculation too ! Excessive versatility is a 
 great bar to excellence in any one style, and this con- 
 viction has prevented my forcing my humble talents on 
 uncongenial toils — Polar expeditions of discovery. I 
 am less at the mercy of flattery than I am liable to be 
 influenced by discouragement. Unsupported self-con- 
 ceit I cannot understand, though I have seen enough of 
 it. I could entertain no opinion of myself which others 
 had not suggested, or with which others did not agree. 
 
 Mortifications and re-assurance, kindness and neg- 
 lect, good faith and ill-conduct, have been dealt me so 
 impartially, that I owe as many thanks to unknown 
 sources as to my intimate friends ; as little advance- 
 ment to my oldest acquaintance, as to utter strangers. 
 My critics certainly have been my best supporters ; but 
 if a token of sympathy from those we know not, falls 
 with the added balm of disinterested justice, and is the 
 more welcome for being unexpected, so, proportionately, 
 do rudeness and falsity sting the deeper from those we 
 hoped, by years of kind onices, we had secured to our 
 interests. It is hard to find that persons to whom we 
 looked up with confidence, treat us as if we were un- 
 worthy even of the common courtesies which a man 
 might extort, but which a woman, situated as I am, 
 must sink or swim without, unless they are voluntarily 
 paid her, as they ought to be. It disgusts one to see 
 offenders, because forgiven unasked, throw away oppor- 
 tunities of atonement, and waste on those who neither 
 
8 AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 deserve nor need it, the aid which might have saved 
 one who put that very power into their hands. 
 
 Forced as I have been to tolerate such instances as 
 these, my greatest satisfaction is, that they leave no right 
 for me or mine to wonder or to blame, when unlucky 
 circumstances, and my own demerits, oblige such of my 
 judges as know me not, to disappoint my expectations, 
 
 I apologize for tediousness, but not for egotism. I 
 am the duly elected member of a body, and only repre- 
 sent my party. This is a letter directed to a public 
 office ; I have the privilege of giving it a frank address. 
 
 I have no intention of whining on the misfortunes of 
 genius, as if peculiar to myself. Similar little annoy- 
 ances must have befallen every author, before time had 
 taught him to look on business-like matters in a busi- 
 ness-like manner. Some unliterary reader may say, 
 that Ci the Public care nothing for our private feelings/' 
 Such a one had best throw down my book at once. I 
 forewarn him, that it is filled but by open avowals of 
 individual and " private opinions/' in which i( I am 
 unanimous" 
 
 My great purpose now, is to reduce my store of 
 papers more nearly to an equality in size with that 
 portion of my luggage which is devoted to my wardrobe. 
 I do not hope, by this publication, to make my port- 
 manteau and bandbox weigh as heavily as my portfolios 
 and desk, such as they are, — old trunks and music- 
 books answering the purpose of keeping together the 
 
AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. V) 
 
 unstitched papers on which I have been scrawling these 
 twelve years, — a most unostentatious and uninviting 
 hoard. A heap of ore, ere it is worked, could scarcely 
 look more dingy : it is time that its first instalment of 
 specimens should assume a portable and collected form. 
 My own improper hand is unfit for hot-pressed Albums, 
 and I could not expect my brother to copy all my 
 dreams. If they lose some interest with myself, and 
 one or two more, by ceasing to exist for us alone, it will 
 at least gratify us to see them multiplied, without any 
 further fatigue of ours. 
 
 The most furious exterminator of that (to me) fabu- 
 lous race, " the Blues." will detect no svmptoms of 
 learned writing in mv light reading. 
 
 It is but lately that I have known who or what 
 were meant by i: the Blues "; I alwavs thought of the 
 regiment so called, and could not bear to hear military 
 men accused of pedantically superfluous erudition. I 
 might have worn sky-coloured stockings, and never 
 guessed that such trifles, if perceptible, could disgust a 
 critical eye. I have not one lady friend who c< writes"; 
 but I was once shewn a live poetess in the streets., and, 
 after a curious survey, u I looked down at her feet, but 
 that 's a fable." The azure demons have not, I trust, 
 thrown any unpleasing gloom over my variegated leaves ; 
 it is difficult for me to be grave, while I have such a 
 laughing-stock as my own melancholy. 
 
 I offer a volume which may be taken up at any time, 
 bv any kind of light reader, with some chance of harm- 
 
10 AX INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 less amusement, open it where he will ; I have, from 
 obvious motives, arranged its contents with as much 
 reference as possible to dates, therefore trust they will 
 be found to improve from the beginning. 
 
 Had I not to claim and to own a few pieces which 
 have already been seen, there should not be one " dole- 
 ful ballad " amongst them. I chose my title and my 
 motto, resolving to suit the contents of my volume to 
 them, rather than (by selecting material before I hit 
 on a name) admit such verses as might deserve to be 
 <c baptized in tears/' 
 
 " A Lady of Quality " may afford to indulge in de- 
 scriptions of squalid misery; and, dating from some 
 fashionable watering-place, head her first Canto with — 
 
 " Take physic, Pomp ! expose thyself to feel 
 What wretches feel." — Shakespeare. 
 
 Female poets also, blessed by fame and competence, 
 surrounded by flatterers, may publicly in verse bewail 
 the tender sorrows which they as publicly in conver- 
 sation deny. Let those stoop to affectation who will ; 
 hint of each glowing picture, that ie it is but fancy's 
 sketch"; or assert that their songs address but unreal 
 objects. My " organ of ideality " was never so (( strong- 
 ly developed/' but I exult that I was gifted with a heart 
 of sufficient vigour to admire spontaneously, happily, 
 and innocently, whatever is, or seems, great, good, and 
 fair, in art and nature, never inanimate for me ; and 
 while the flowers, the stars, the sea, paintings sculp- 
 
AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 11 
 
 ture, and music,, suggest to my mind associations of 
 moral beauty,, I will not fear that genius and virtue, 
 reflected by u the human face divine," can ever wring 
 from my heart an idolatry offensive to Heaven ! 
 
 If the objects of my praise shrink from it, as if it 
 were " censure in disguise/' I can only retort in the 
 same spirit. Since it is not permitted them <c to do good 
 by stealth/' they have no right to " blush to find it 
 fame/' If they will deserve universal esteern, they must 
 put up with it; it serves them right ! 
 
 With such feelings I have been happy, toiling in soli- 
 tude., and in weak health, on the hopes of still delayed 
 reward, for twelve hours a-day^ with scarce five minutes' 
 pause, without sleep or appetite, in fact forgetting self 
 altogether ; shutting out the strifes and cares, (i the 
 pomps and vanities " of the world. The impulse which 
 fevered me when Imagination was my Ne?v found-land, 
 and life itself a novelty^ has supported, does support, 
 and (while my sight lasts, or my hand can wield a 
 quill) will support me, under all privations, even if I 
 must remain unknown, over paying me for all the past, 
 present, and future defeats of my humble career, and 
 lifting me above the prosaic disgusts of my wandering 
 yet secluded life. My absorbing interest in the charac- 
 ters I draw, the internal activity of hidden thoughts, is 
 essential to the existence of one so averse to every other 
 species of bustle and excitement : it expands my heart, 
 and bestows on it a pure and calm enjoyment, which I 
 should vainly attempt to communicate. 
 
12 AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 There is a solace in this fellowship with greater dis- 
 embodied spirits, which I could not taste in the literary 
 cc re-unions " of the living ; and the power of rendering 
 one's own ideas pleasing to unknown yet congenial 
 minds, I would not part with for love nor money — " a 
 forest of deer" nor a " wilderness of monkeys." Were 
 my poems worthy their themes, could reading them 
 confer as much pleasure on others, as writing them gave 
 me, I should not have a doubt of their success ; for the 
 most sentimental effusion here was a cc holiday dream " 
 to me. The hours spent in versifying my romantic en- 
 thusiasm, have been the brightest festivals of my life, 
 except those in which I imbibed the stimulants that in- 
 spired my agreeable delirium. 
 
 Those pieces which have appeared in various periodi- 
 cal works, I selected for the purpose, as seeming to my 
 unaided, partial, and prejudiced taste, better executed 
 than their numerous brethren. I chose without refer- 
 ence to their subjects ; yet, though they went to press 
 without my name, I took care, by substituting the words 
 hers and she, for his, he, and him, to travestie all parties 
 concerned, lest amatory verse, by a lady, might seem 
 too bold. I now restore them to their original truth ; 
 having, in this explanation, avoided the abrupt style 
 which one uses in haste or in jest ; for, as I before said, 
 I have suffered enough for calling things by their right 
 names, to remember henceforward, that such trifles are 
 never overlooked. 
 
 The humorous and prose essays I have scattered 
 
AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 13 
 
 through the volume, as they cost me most trouble to 
 compose, I feel less regard for them. Some of them 
 were even written under an assumed age and character. 
 I care not, therefore, what may be said of my mental 
 efforts, so that critics spare, and uncritical readers ap- 
 preciate, the language of my heart. Trusting that its 
 cc easie sighs " may not be misinterpreted, I most re- 
 spectfully commend them to the public, saying, unlike 
 the Ghost — 
 
 i; Pity me not ! Xor lend a serious ear 
 To what I shall unfold." 
 
 Should any young, female poet, still in manuscript, 
 peruse this Indefinite Article, she will feel, that, if I 
 have endeavoured to warn her from publishing, I have 
 not attempted to dissuade her from writing ; knowing 
 (bv my own devotion to it) that I should do so in vain. 
 
 To such a one, or rather, to one such, I would say — 
 what must not be said in prose — what should be breath- 
 ed in such lines as Byron addressed to Ianthe — if such 
 were in my power to give ; — as it is, / offer all I have. 
 Bvron could do no more. 
 
14 AN INDEFINITE ARTICLE. 
 
 SONNET TO A FAIR POET. 
 
 Young, lovely, gentle, and inspired maid ! 
 
 Whose high and spotless name I may not breathe ; 
 To whom, in nameless guise, perchance have strayed 
 
 Some of a stranger s tributes — if the wreath 
 Ne'er found the brow for which alone 'twas twin'd, 
 
 'Tis not too late to tender it again ! 
 The honest homage of a constant mind, 
 
 Weaned from all memories more bright and vain. 
 Esteem, and deep solicitude, should ne'er 
 
 Offend the good, nor grateful zeal disgust — ■ 
 Which blesses, emulates— the example fair 
 
 Of patience chaste, benevolent, and just. 
 To this / dedicate, and not to fame, 
 The lays which bear my poor, but not unworthy name. 
 
 Isabel Hill. 
 London, 1829 
 
SONNET. 
 
 15 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 It seem'd, fair foe, in humour like thine own, 
 Careless, fantastic, elegant, and bold — 
 The hands of Nature, Beauty, Grace had thrown 
 Together, all the charms our hearts that hold — 
 Nature her grand simplicity bestow' d, 
 Beauty thy features form'd, and lit thine eyes, 
 Tuned thy warm voice ; while still to Grace they owed 
 The charm of movement, and the choice of size. 
 Yet these alone had never won my heart, 
 A heart beyond mere beauty's power to warm, 
 They knew the bounds, where all such power must part, 
 And gave thee genius, as the master charm ! 
 Illumed thy pleasing form with peerless mind, 
 A spell, which, while I live, this wond ring soul must 
 bind. 
 
 Pocket Magazine, December 1818. 
 
]6 A FRAG3IENT. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 'Twas sweet to sif beneath thine eye, 
 And in its lustre softly sigh, 
 
 Ashamed, afraid, yet blest, — 
 To feel its wild beams seek my heart, 
 And read what words could ne'er impart, 
 
 Then sun it into rest : 
 
 It was a calm, so soft, so deep, 
 It felt like infants' summer sleep, 
 
 Within their mothers' arms ; 
 A slumber which a kiss might break, 
 Love's lightest breath might bid awake, 
 
 To^sweet, yet dread alarms ! 
 
 Pocket Magazine, December 1818. 
 
MORNING THOUGHT. 17 
 
 MORNING THOUGHT. 
 
 Oh the dreams of gay childhood are careless and sweet, 
 Where flowers and soft music and butterflies meet, 
 Where the woods are more green, and the meadows 
 
 more fair 
 Than the woods or the meadows of truth ever were ! 
 
 But the dreams of gay childhood are nothing in sooth, 
 When matched with the visions of passionate youth ; 
 Where all pleasures are raptures, which nought can 
 
 excel, 
 Their source the pure heaven of that eye loved so well. 
 
 Then the flowers are the lilies that bloom on that brow, 
 And the music that voice, which in dreams deigns to 
 
 vow ; 
 And the bright varying blushes, so quickly that fly, 
 All the tints of the fair summer fluttered outvie ! 
 
 Oh Love ! if each captive and votary of thine 
 
 Has visions, as soft and as lovely as mine, 
 
 Who shall dare to dispute, that thou know'st to repay. 
 
 By the sweets of thy night, all the cares of thy day ? 
 
 Pocket Magazine, December 1818. 
 
18 NOTE. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 " Brave men were living before Agamemnon." 
 
 These were the first scraps of mine which ever 
 appeared in print ; I was but eighteen ; considered 
 myself fortunate in a writing stock, and longed to see 
 my hymns to this rising star made public, that I too 
 might start for cc immortality' 9 
 
 I look back to laugh over the false prophecies of my 
 childhood, the amiable mistakes which have been rather 
 wwamiably corrected. 
 
 As a rambling, thread-and-needle, bread-and-butter 
 girl, I could neither afford nor value the scented, 
 tinted, mottoed, and trophied gilt, Russia-bound Scrap 
 Books, in which Misses were wont, even then, with 
 crow quill and japan, most prettily to trace their pret- 
 tinesses, for tea-table exposure. Nor could I stoop to 
 cc waste my sweetness " on those lady-like museums, 
 embellished with the female fashions, about which I 
 cared not a pin. 
 
 But " The Pocket Magazine " was neither too lite- 
 rary, nor too feminine. Its little cover, couleur de rose, 
 contained a design, usually from Byron, a great at- 
 traction to me. It professed also to receive " Original 
 Poetry " meaning any verse which had never been pub- 
 lished before. For this pink of all Pocket Volumes I 
 transcribed two pieces of my mother's, as soon as she 
 
NOTE. 19 
 
 had allowed me to subscribe for the work. I sent 
 them, unknown to her, and enjoyed her surprise at 
 beholding them, with her Christian name, Isabel, at 
 the end of each. I afterwards sent the three preceding 
 morceaux, under different signatures, post paid, deem- 
 ing carriage, pens, ink, paper, time, having the two 
 volumes bound, and all, overpaid by the honour and 
 glory of insertion. I never dreamt of profit, nor that 
 the absence of such dream was perhaps my sole recom- 
 mendation with the Editor, who might have scorned a 
 far higher Muse, had she proved more conscious of her 
 worth. I knew of no right, no need to be mercenary — 
 u Nous avons change tout cela." 
 
 From their scored and blotted rough draughts I co- 
 pied the three pieces which precede this, signing the 
 last Edward. I had an acquaintance of that name, 
 though, in truth, at the moment I forgot his existence. 
 A good-hearted, amusing youth, who modestly answered 
 to less than half of his just title, confessing himself a 
 Poet, while, in reality, he was, by two syllables, more 
 — a ~Poet-aste?\ My ec Morning Thought/' with its 
 companions, flourished in my next number of Arliss. 
 I was looking over it, and wishing, too late, that its 
 second stanza did not end so vilely, when my friend 
 Edward entered ; he also was a subscriber, though 
 he knew not that " I too could scraw r l." He had seen 
 his own name attached to the song, which he found me 
 reading. I shut the book calmly, and put it away, 
 
 c 2 
 
20 NOTE. 
 
 though really confused ; but he had rehearsed his 
 start ; he had been bashful before a looking-glass, and 
 was therefore awkward with a better grace than I. 
 Knowing my man, I felt cc the future in the instant." 
 The offspring, disowned by its unnatural parent, was 
 given over to his fathering ; he thought he might safely 
 meet its filial claims half way. My unconscious mother 
 praised the lines. I blushed unseen. Edward bowed. 
 " I thought I could not be mistaken in the style" I 
 said, mischievously ; to which he replied, with great 
 humility, " I will not outrage veracity for such a trifle, 
 the thing of a moment ; — you must remember the occa- 
 sion which elicited it ?" 
 
 " Pretty well, for that matter, I believe." 
 " Yes, in our last conversation, you suggested the 
 sentiment, I threw it into metre, and am proud, by 
 setting my name to it, that I have directed your eye to 
 a tribute which has no merit but its sincerity." 
 
 " Very prettily said I" exclaimed my mother. 
 s; What then, the thought is Edward's ? and addressed 
 to you, Bell ?" 
 
 " I'm sure, if it be, I'm very much obliged to him," 
 I replied, with an air, I suppose, of the most ludicrous 
 dismay- 
 
 That he should claim any disowned verse, was no- 
 thing ; but that he should transform the poet into the 
 theme, and present himself to me as my troubadour, on 
 the strength of my own poor attempt, was so ridiculous, 
 
NOTE. 21 
 
 that I could not laugh at it. I never unmasked him 
 to himself ; but,, as soon as he was gone, I rummaged 
 in my paper-box, singing — 
 
 " If I'm this little woman, as I suppose I be, 
 But, Lord have mercy on us all, I wish it may be me." 
 
 Finding the original copy, I laid it open beside the 
 printed one, adding, 
 
 u I think this slip is mine, 
 For see, I've got the fellow !' 5 
 
 How diverted, yet how provoked my mother was 
 with me, for allowing this pretender to presume on a 
 fancied impunity ; but he had seemed so to believe the 
 story, while he told it, so to enjoy his dream, that I 
 could not find it in my heart to awake him. I some- 
 times used to talk at him of u piracy ", of u the elves 
 that live on nightingale's brains, having none of their 
 own ': ; of " having one's property invaded by Lack- 
 lands, who defy us to make reprisals " ; of ce culprits 
 whose consciences could only be touched by detection/ ' 
 I even told him the case in point, concealing names, 
 and asserted that ci no punishment were bad enough 
 for such a man, save that of taxing him with produc- 
 tions, if such could be found, more despicable than his 
 own." " These were bitter words/' but Edward for- 
 gave them ! 
 
22 SPECTRAL ETIQUETTE. 
 
 SPECTRAL ETIQUETTE. 
 
 Perhaps there is no community, individually or col- 
 lectively, which is more tenacious of its honour than 
 that of Ghosts. Little is said of them now ; but the 
 race still exists, if ever it did, and without the degene- 
 racy common to most classes of beings, labouring under 
 the consciousness of increasing unpopularity and in- 
 evitable decay. 'Tis true that even fashion now con- 
 spires against them ; the spectre who, in cc My Master's 
 Secrets," sports " a suit of nankeens, and a straw hat 
 with green ribands," must have felt the gravity of his 
 calling sadly outraged. Indeed, till something can be 
 done for them in the way of costume, it is no wonder 
 that they keep so much at home. Why cannot they 
 have a " repository of arts," embellished for their in- 
 struction. A work so spirituel would overcome their 
 aversion to society, and render such traits as the fol- 
 lowing of mere every day occurrence. 
 
 To this hour is living a lady, who long boasted of 
 inviting and receiving them by day and night, with no 
 purpose to answer but that of mutual satisfaction. 
 The Highland seers, who fancied they inherited the 
 fate of such converse, and the astrologers who wilfully 
 sought the power, were weak enough to grow haggard 
 and emaciated in the service. Not so the lady in 
 question. I allow that her tete a tetes were the least 
 
SPECTRAL ETIQUETTE. 23 
 
 frequent of her interviews with her own set. Nei- 
 ther they nor herself liked performing to empty 
 benches; the more numerous the circle to which she 
 introduced them,, the better. Her friends might, in- 
 deed., have remained unconscious of the honour done 
 them (by visitors who came so far, and put themselves 
 so out of their way) but for the would-be significance 
 of eyes fixed on congenial vacancy, with which their 
 hostess announced the frequent and familiar droppers 
 in, some one or other of whom would be for ever 
 ce coming in and going out like a pet lamb." What 
 pity that she could not give her friends any farther 
 advantage from this unearthly acquaintance, as they 
 would, if visible, have proved a perpetual supply of 
 all eclipsing embellishments for her parties. 
 
 If " lions " from the extremity of this world be so 
 enviably attractive, she might defy competition, who 
 had interest enough to summon a display of eccentrici- 
 ties from the other, we won t decide which. 
 
 This Hecatising converse lasted some years, lending 
 its professor a mystic influence over the minds of fools 
 (pardon the paradox !), of servants, and of children. 
 
 At last she found one acquaintance, who so carica- 
 tured the peculiar etiquette of the first reception she 
 was called on to witness, and cast such reflections (not 
 personal I own) on the whole fraternity, that there 
 was, from that moment, an obvious coolness between 
 the lady and her ghostly guests ; their enlivening society 
 
24 SPECTRAL ETIQUETTE. 
 
 being far less frequently afforded her ; though she still 
 hinted at the continuance of their occasional visits in 
 private. 
 
 Bolder grown, her sceptical friend, knowing that 
 many persons will boast of high connexions which they 
 never possessed, now began to imply doubts that so 
 friendly an intercourse had ever existed at all ; and, 
 lamentable to add, for the credit of ghostly courage^ 
 though they,, as of course within hearing, might have 
 risen to confront their asperser, they not only omitted 
 the opportunity at the instant, but never came again. 
 It was not long, however, before their motive became 
 evident, as rather proudly forbearing than pusillani- 
 mous ; for one morning their former friend found on 
 her dressing-table a note which had not been seen there 
 when she retired at night ; it was written on fancy 
 paper, in an almost invisible hand, whose raven-quill 
 characters would have seemed vanishing from the sight 
 but for the inscrutable blackness of the ink. Its per- 
 fume was exotic, but not suspiciously so ; and on the 
 whole,, it may be regarded as the latest criterion of the 
 state of letters in the sphere from whence it came. Its 
 seal was a death's head. It ran thus : 
 
 c< Madam ! 
 
 " Knowing that you have permitted us to be abused 
 
 as nobodies, upstarts, and low company, we must inform 
 
 you of a rule amongst us, the enforcement of which, in 
 
 the present case, we owe to ancient usage and our own 
 
SPECTB A L E T I Q V E T T E . 
 
 25 
 
 dignity ; namely, never to enter a house where one in- 
 dividual has the temerity to treat us with irreverence or 
 mistrust. 
 
 (Signed) 
 
 " Certain Appearances and Sounds,, 
 of uncertain extraction." 
 
 This conduct at least was spirited. After this neither 
 friend nor foe saw nor heard any more of these inesti- 
 mable visitants, and if really existing intruders would 
 as quickly take a hint, or act with as much pride and 
 delicacy, it would do even more good than thus freeing 
 a weak head from the fatigue of inventing, or its 
 tongue from that of uttering such useless and inexcu- 
 sable falsehoods. 
 
 This Paper appeared in the New Monthly Maga- 
 zine in some spring month of 1822, presented by an 
 engaged contributor to that work, I believe, as his own. 
 Its insertion fully repaid me, though he perhaps fared 
 better— nimporte. 
 
 My incredulous defiance of " the powers that be" 
 my graceless pertness, provoked them to convince 
 me of my error. " He jests at scars who never 
 felt a wound." I had never then been in Scot- 
 land and Ireland, where firm, cheerful, and well-cul- 
 tivated minds confess what is called superstition. 
 " Seeing is believing," when what you see is unex- 
 
26 SPECTRAL ETIQUETTE. 
 
 pected, unaccountable, when it conies upon a mood 
 so opposite to that of fanciful fear,, that you would call 
 it life, identity, did not facts prove that impossible. 
 Of the wraith to which I allude, every female visionary 
 would desire a " second sight." It was ominous of 
 misfortunes which we have survived. Had it been a 
 mere fetch, I should now be above mentioning it, as 
 even cc dead (wo)me?i tell no tales." I will not intrude 
 on my Holy Day Dreams " such a questionable shape/' 
 but " I could a tale unfold." 
 
THE GREENWOOD TREE. 27 
 
 THE GREENWOOD TREE. 
 
 I dream no more of that castle high 
 Where mocked by envy might I roam, 
 
 While its chill pride would still deny 
 Its fame's poor troubadour — a home ; 
 
 I'll seek a lowlier bower of love, 
 If happier it may prove to be — 
 
 I'd rest at last, no more to rove, 
 'Neath Greenwood Tree. 
 
 I will not turn to the twilight dale, 
 Whose rosy gloom and glowing air, 
 
 How late — so long — could sweetly veil 
 And wed me to my dangers there ; 
 
 For now, refreshing air and earth, 
 
 Safety and Hope are found with thee, 
 
 Here all is innocence and mirth, 
 Thou Greenwood Tree ! 
 
 Many a joyless eve I prayed 
 
 For blessings on that turret pale ; 
 
 Many a noon, too idly, strayed 
 In that dim, delicious dale. 
 
 Though both were strong in mystic charm 
 I knew they offered nought for me — 
 
 What were mine own my breast should warm, 
 My Greenwood Tree ! 
 
28 THE GREENWOOD TREE. 
 
 By the prophetic, childish flood 
 
 Mine eyes, when first they saw thee, shed, 
 While both within our native wood 
 
 Grew, 'mid the flowers that now are dead — 
 My birth-place, nay my filial debt 
 
 To her, who ever smiled on thee, 
 Must memory lose, ere I forget 
 Our Greenwood Tree ! 
 
 Grace of the Groves ! inviting rest — 
 Eternal youth and bloom be thine ! 
 
 No other bower should shield my breast 
 If thou wert mine, and only mine ; 
 
 I dare not hope for Poet's bays, 
 
 Nor may Love's rose my chaplet be, 
 
 But wreaths from thee would crown my lays, 
 Sweet Greenwood Tree ! 
 
 The Sun's own golden hues on high, 
 The lily's dazzling white around, 
 
 While Heaven laughs down, with azure eye, 
 And ruddy blossoms strew the ground — 
 
 As, glittering with diamond dew, 
 Thy tender leaves dance merrily, 
 
 The sight can life and love renew, 
 Soft Greenwood Tree ! 
 
 On thy young buds the wild bees live, 
 Whence melody and perfume shower, 
 
THE GREENWOOD TREE. 29 
 
 Thy flexile form the zephyrs give 
 
 Thousand new witcheries, every hour ; 
 
 The white rose climbs thy graceful arms, 
 And hangs its garlands over thee, 
 
 The ring-doves hymn thy sheltering charms, 
 Fair Greenwood Tree ! 
 
 Though thy tall head is midst the stars, 
 Pure Peace lies 'neath thy pleasant shade, 
 
 Where Echo but with Music wars 
 On the lulled air, no storms invade — 
 
 If I must leave these sounds — this sight — 
 Earth were a wilderness to me ; 
 
 What palace could thy loss requite, 
 My Greenwood Tree ? 
 
 May no rude envious axe despoil 
 
 The sylvan glories of thy bough, 
 May Winter late, and lightly, soil 
 
 The vernal tints, so beauteous now ! — 
 And when, at last, Time wills thy rest, 
 
 Which may I never live to see ! 
 He will have felled our forest's best, 
 Dear Greenwood Tree ! 
 
30 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 My " Greenwood Tree" was written before I read 
 Mr. Peacock's exquisite song of u The slender beech 
 and the sapling oak." During the reign of " Maid 
 Marian " at Covent- Garden, an acquaintance copied 
 some of the verses, and (having by dashes and capitals 
 reduced their meaning to a mere quibble on a name) 
 sent them to the then ec Maiden queen." Years after 
 this, I was seated in the Bath theatre, behind some fair 
 branches of the lady's family, with whom my brother 
 was conversing ; these identical lines their topic. One 
 of them was <c sure that they were not composed by the 
 gentleman who sent them," and attributed them to 
 another, little guessing that the conscious scribe, and 
 the unconscious theme, were both listening to the dis- 
 cussion. My rustic friend had no idea that any of my 
 bits of flattery could have been aimed so low. In his 
 opinion there was but one person in the world to whom 
 women had any right to poetize. I was too proud of 
 this convenient notion to correct it. This was, as the 
 Giaour says, 
 
 " In earlier days, and calmer hours " — 
 
 " 'Twas strange, he prophesied my doom." — 
 
 I could quote many applicable lines, from the succeed- 
 ing forty, but, thank Taste, not one of those which 
 tell of shame or of despair would be included. 
 
WRITTEN IN THE SPRING. 31 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE SPRING, 
 
 Spring comes ! And as it came for me alone ; 
 
 I ever must remember when I first 
 Welcomed it worthily. IS^ew years., each one. 
 
 Till then had brought me but fresh smiles. It 
 burst — 
 The glory of the season — in one day. 
 
 Upon the first May of my youth. I ran 
 Forth to my woods and flowers, to hail its ray, 
 
 Like prisoner released ; but there began 
 The sense that sways me now. Amazed, I found 
 I could not sing as I was wont, nor bound 
 Over the jewelled moss, nor by the stream ; 
 But gazed, and blushed, and trembled 'neath the beam ! 
 A secret influence, a mysterious thrill, 
 
 I could not name, by tears bereft of power, 
 Passed like a bright spell o'er me then, and still 
 
 I never had been happy till that hour ! 
 And use, which palls the joys of art, must find 
 
 My passion for pure Nature still untamed ; 
 Foredoomed to haunt through age my grateful mind, 
 Nay, light my heart till death itself shall blind, 
 
 And claim that hoard of love by all beside unclaimed ! 
 
 Literary Museum, 1823. 
 
32 WITH A RING. 
 
 WITH A RING. 
 
 These gems, by Love disposed, to form 
 A word, with hopes and blessings warm, 
 
 From heart to heart a spell, 
 Are not so precious for their hue, 
 Nor the famed mine from whence they grew, 
 
 As the kind things they tell. 
 
 'Tis thus the varied harm on v 
 
 j 
 
 Which from thy features conquered me, 
 
 Or from thy voice doth move, 
 I did not, for its brilliance seek, 
 But, for the charm it seemed to speak, 
 Pure and eternal love ! 
 
 But if bestowed, not understood, 
 Possession's oft too fickle mood 
 
 Should but one gem displace, 
 Unmeaning then, its tale untold, 
 And valued but as jewelled gold, 
 
 This ring would both disgrace. 
 
 And so my heart, should thy caprice 
 Perplex its hopes, to love must cease ; 
 
 Or, wildered from delight, 
 With each material for thy bliss 
 Made useless — worse — by sport like this, 
 
 Were better broken quite ! 
 
 Literary Museum, 1823. 
 
MARIA, 
 
 MARIA. 
 
 33 
 
 Beautiful ? Yes ! if spells intense 
 
 In every step-, in every trait, 
 Can satisfy fastidious sense, 
 
 Can steal the heart, and force its stay ; 
 The undulating outline's might, 
 
 Its free repose — variety — 
 Rounded, yet slender; gliding, light, 
 
 Its languishment, its dignity, 
 Wild, modest, natural, caressing, 
 That made mere sight too vast a blessing ! 
 And, oh ! that new and tameless air 
 Breathed round her, unprofaned as fair, 
 All health and youth ; which, if it be 
 Not Beauty's self, our hearts agree — 
 In spite of features — size — to doubt 
 If beauty e'er was dear without ! 
 But she had both. Hands sparkling white, 
 
 Minutely fashioned, as a fay's, 
 With faultless face, and queenly height, 
 
 Dark quivering brows, above the rays 
 Of her full, liquid, wandering eyes, 
 Whose meanings mocked their sober dyes ! 
 And lovely ? Aye ! if Beauty's best 
 
 Be that which Painting cannot reach, 
 
 Nor even Love's descriptions teach, 
 The winged charms that never rest — 
 
34 MARIA. 
 
 If to look placid when she wept. 
 
 If to look joyous while she slept, 
 
 If blushes, not of rosy glow 
 
 As decked her shining lips below, 
 
 But a faint flash — a vermiel flame, 
 
 Which, o'er her breast, like torchlight came, 
 
 E'en through her careless curls that shed 
 
 Its moment's fire, scarce seen ere fled, 
 
 And o'er that front's broad moonbeams, rolled 
 
 But clustering clouds of dusky gold ! 
 
 Oh ! if a cheek unblemished, round, 
 
 Transparent, dimpled, e'er was found 
 
 To tempt the touch, again, again, 
 
 Till every moment lost was pain. 
 
 And absence left a void — a chill — 
 
 Till she returned, to haunt us still ; 
 
 If sighs, delicious to inhale 
 
 As burning balms, or spicy gale, 
 
 A deep, low voice, that must betray 
 
 The heart, or tender, grave, or gay, 
 
 Exultant, passionate, resigned, 
 
 Proud, maddened, lost, but always kind— 
 
 If this be Beauty, 'twas her own, 
 
 Her's indescribably — alone — 
 
 Her's, who is gone ; and her's no less 
 
 All this, if this be loveliness ! 
 
 Literary Museum, January 1824. 
 
SINCERITY. 35 
 
 SINCERITY. 
 
 [Written in 1816 — my Sixteenth Summer.] 
 
 False the idolatrous songs that say- 
 Nought mates thine eyes., so gaily bright ; 
 For, to thy wit's inspiring ray 
 
 Weak is their clear and dazzling light. 
 False are the loves which speak thy brow 
 
 The whitest wonder of this earth ; 
 For well thine open heart I know 
 
 Pure as the heaven which gave it birth. 
 False 'tis thy lip, so full and warm, 
 
 Life's richest, deepest, spell to call, 
 For from thy soul there breathes a charm 
 
 More freshly, sweetly cordial ! 
 False 'tis to swear thy features shine 
 
 In faultless graces most alone, 
 For every thought and act of thine 
 
 Eclipse their idler vaunts I've known. 
 False that thy thrilling voice should wrest 
 
 Our fondest praise ; its fame would die 
 Did iC that within " the palm contest, 
 
 Thy temper's perfect harmony. 
 They wrong thee who commend alone 
 
 The form I scarce exult is fair ; 
 Thy worth had made my heart thine own 
 
 Though ne'er so humbly lodged it were. 
 
 d2 
 
36 SINCERITY. 
 
 Then tell them,, (who thy beauty praise,) 
 The casket half deserves its prize ; 
 
 Nor let them make, by flattery's lays, 
 Thy virtues rivals — in thine eyes ! 
 
 Literary Museum. 
 
MY NEPHEW. 37 
 
 MY NEPHEW. 
 
 [Writing anonymously, and under an assumed character, I had 
 nothing to do with facts , relating to myself.] 
 
 It was in the January of 1820, that I was made an 
 uncle. We expected the death of " the good old king/' 
 George III., and the birth of my nephew, just at the 
 same time. 
 
 Such events, to young men like myself, are interest- 
 ing. I love to speculate, and to reflect : when I have 
 a new coat, I wonder what may happen before it is old, 
 not only to the article itself, but to Europe at large. 
 With these expanded views, I could not help regretting 
 that political prospects promised so little for my young 
 relative's future observation. cc Poor boy ! " I cried, 
 " innumerable short reigns, and long court-mournings 
 will be your portion ; no young kings ! Coronations 
 will be no sights to you ; no crowds, no accidents. The 
 actors in such shows will be wooing us, in vain, to come 
 and witness them. You ( have fallen upon evil days/ 
 Things must change entirely, before you can be made an 
 enthusiastic Englishman, like your uncle." 
 
 But how could I help it, born, as I was, on the morning 
 of the 1st of January 1800 ? Yes, I began the century, 
 and who knows but I may end it ? A Chelsea pensioner 
 died, the other day, at the age of one hundred and six. 
 Surely then, I, who have lived by rule, ever since such 
 
38 MY NEPHEW. 
 
 possibility entered my youthful brain, may die on the 31st 
 of December 1 899. How it would read ! I wish not to 
 survive an hour beyond ; — that would spoil all. If any- 
 thing could excuse suicide, it were the worthy aim of 
 insuring such an epitaph. I have avoided all sorts of 
 excess, excitement, or superfluous danger, for these last 
 ten years. It was a debt I owed to the fortune which 
 cast my lot in such a period ; giving a colouring and a 
 character to my lightest actions, and wedding them, as 
 it were, with the spirit of the time ; inspiring me with 
 public feeling from my birth, and bestowing on me the 
 enviable opportunity of reading a part of my country's 
 history so interesting, not through the distant, dry, and 
 partial medium of books, but in the original, fresh from 
 the mint of reality, with its minutest detail as sharp as 
 St. George's sword upon a new sovereign. 
 
 Every change was appropriate to my changing fate. 
 Thus I lived a babe in the General Peace ; got an Irish 
 nurse with the Union; my eyes were first lifted to 
 heaven by the discovery of three new planets ; while 
 I took gingerbread, our forces took Copenhagen. In- 
 vasion was a vision of my nursery. Buonaparte was my 
 bugbear ; volunteering and press-gang my first games. 
 The death of Nelson was impressed on my mind by 
 my mother's tears and transparencies, and my own 
 Trafalgar trowsers, in which, by the way, I saw Mr. 
 Pitt I remember, for the only time in my life. The 
 Spanish patriots were my heroes of romance. The 
 burning of Moscow was the first thing that made me 
 
MY NEPHEW. 39 
 
 swear; nor could I be thrown into a consternation at 
 less expense than a war with America. The King 
 reigned fifty years, that I might shine with a Jubilee 
 medal. The comet lit me home from my earliest eques- 
 trian jaunts, and my poney's name was Regent. The 
 Thames was frozen over just as I was learning to skait ; 
 and I thawed my fancies at Orange-boven bonfires. 
 
 An Ex-emperor instructed me in the history of Elba ; 
 and this man, who, in his illimitable power, I had been 
 taught to detest as little better than a demon, in his fall 
 I was soon after expected to admire as a demi-god. The 
 year of Waterloo made a man of me ; and, by the time 
 " the Duke " returned, I was able to lend a hand in 
 drawing his carriage through the loyal streets of Bristol. 
 I pass over the importance resulting to me from the 
 military adventures of my father and cousins. I insist 
 not on the sight-seeing twelvemonth, divided between 
 London and Paris, which followed. It would ill become me 
 to exult in my own good luck, or in the hoard of marvels, 
 glories, and disasters, stored up for the reflections of my 
 age, and the delight of my listening grandchildren. But 
 it were expecting next to impossibilities to hope, that 
 in any future three-and-twenty years, so many sanguine 
 victories, so many illustrious deaths, by suicide, assassi- 
 nation, or otherwise, so many royal marriages, can be 
 got up for the amusement of the spectators. Can any 
 other two experiments of equal eclat with our gas and 
 steam be brought to perfection, for the benefit of my 
 nephew's youth ? Can Drury-Lane Theatre be burnt 
 
40 MY NEPHEW. 
 
 down again, on purpose that a Byron should immortal- 
 ize the " one dread night " ? Will fresh Kembles and 
 Siddonses electrify his evenings ? or a new Great Un- 
 known perplex his days ? Can the fashions ever vary 
 again so rapidly ? Is there any hope of another Queen's 
 trial ? Who is to succeed Johanna Southcote ? Alas, 
 the Polar expedition is already becoming cold; the 
 velocipede and the kaleidoscope are no longer to be in- 
 vented. The new streets are built, and can now only 
 grow old. My nephew will have but, like a hero of 
 Ossian, to i( listen to the voice of the past." To him, 
 craniology, and Liston, and Sadler's balloon, and Bel- 
 zoni, and the Camilla Japonica, and Tom and Jerry, will 
 be but confused names. He will see nothing like them 
 with his own eyes, as I have done. Time has exhausted 
 his wonders. (i Posterity has nothing left to write." 
 
 Literary Museum, Novemrer 1823, 
 
TO ONE, ETC. 41 
 
 TO ONE WHO "WOULD HAVE COMPOSED AIRS 
 FOR ME. 
 
 Kind Minstrel ! if thy gifted reed 
 
 Will to my sorrows wake, 
 I'll think, should pity be their meed,, 
 
 It is but for thy sake, 
 Xor dare offend their lovely theme 
 By vainer hope's presumptuous dream. 
 
 And dost thou ask what should resemble 
 
 The tone that speaks my fears ? 
 Be it like bursting sighs, that tremble 
 
 Between a gush of tears, 
 That break the heart — suspend the breath- 
 Yet must be heard, though but in death. 
 
 Be it like pang that would not cease, 
 
 So soft, so deep, so wild, 
 Dearer than hope, or joy, or peace. 
 
 By its loved cause exiled. 
 A plaint 'neath too much rapture made, 
 Oh do not let one note upbraid ! 
 
 And ask'st thou, sounds like these to suit 
 
 What lay I mean to frame ? 
 My hand is weak, my lips are mute, 
 
 They can but form that name 
 For which my lyre and heart are broken, 
 And sweeter, sure, was never spoken ! 
 Written 1821. Nightingale Vale. Woolwich. 
 Lit ee art Museum, 
 
42 SONNET TO A WITHERED WILD ROBE, 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Withered wild rose ! since such thine envied fate, 
 
 Torn from thy twin buds, and preferred to rest 
 
 On my dear Beauty's breast, 
 I have prolonged, as he curtailed thy date. 
 Where are thy kindred ? earth received their fall, 
 
 Denied their charms, while thou alone hast been 
 
 Untouched, and still unseen. 
 Save by himself and his fond slave— of all ; 
 Those hands and eyes have made thee sweeter far 
 
 Than did the Spirit who embalmed thy birth ! 
 
 And when they lie in earth, 
 And mine as lifeless, and as loveless are, 
 Flower ! with these lines surviving, thou wilt prove 
 'Twas from his breast / stole the Rose of Love I 
 
 Nightingale Vale, 1820. 
 Literary Museum, 1824. 
 
SONG. 43 
 
 SONG. 
 
 t Written at Woolwich, 1822.] 
 
 Aye, bloom, and be gathered, ye field flowers, now I 
 Unrivalled pride on in your odorous glow, 
 The fond breast of beauty your throne will restore, 
 For the Rose, alas ! blesses her bower no more. 
 
 Yes, sing, and be heeded by lovers again, 
 Wild birds, uncompared your so passionless strain, 
 Unthought of, unfamed, its rude efforts before, 
 But the Nightingale sings in our valley no more. 
 
 And, undimmed by envy, ambitiously shine 
 Ye stars, never noticed till daylight's decline, 
 Now safe, uncontested, your beams may ye pour 
 Where the Sun rises bright o'er the woodlands no more. 
 
 Let others admire ye, my memory is true 
 To the bloom, song, and sunlight, so late that I knew — 
 Be others contented ! I fly to the shore 
 W 7 here charms, such as yours, were remembered no 
 more ! 
 
 Literary Museum. 
 
44 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 THE ADVENTURER. 
 
 [On the reported disappointment of a celebrated Navigator.] 
 
 Ye saw how suff ringly I bore 
 
 My long, imprisoned banishment ; 
 How the chill air of that black shore 
 
 Maddened my brain, my heart-strings rent- 
 My perils, all were shared with you, 
 
 My toils, privations, agony, 
 My ceaseless cares, as fruitless too, 
 My gay, brave patience, all ye knew 
 
 Save what supported me ! 
 
 It is the wretch's privilege 
 
 To indemnify his present pains 
 By boundless expectations. Age 
 
 Is ardent in an exile's veins ; 
 But / was young ! Prepared for all 
 
 Of promised, certain ecstacy, 
 With longings no excess could pall, 
 For they were stainless — -Precious thrall ! 
 
 If this is — to be free ! 
 
 For Thee alone, my destined prize, 
 
 I prided in my hard won fame, 
 I would not doubt ; thine angel eyes 
 
 Were sure to bless my rightful claim ; 
 
THE ADVENTURER. 45 
 
 I saw thee, craving my return, 
 
 With prayers — fears — thoughts — for none 
 but me, 
 Knew thine inquiring soul would burn 
 The thousand wondrous tales to learn 
 
 Which I had stored for thee ! 
 
 How madly I my freedom caught, 
 
 And, for the first time, though I fled 
 Perchance, I deemed, for ever, nought 
 
 Regretted ; memory seemed dead. 
 At last thy home — my heaven — I viewed, 
 
 And hurrying found — Ah ! could it be 
 Thy hand which dealt a shock so rude ? 
 Our bower a darksome solitude, 
 
 Whose echoes answered me ! 
 
 Give me my dangers bleak afar, 
 
 If this my sole reward and greeting ! 
 There I was rich in hope ; as are 
 
 Fond maniacs, in their visions fleeting, 
 One guiding flame there sunned my fate, 
 
 Now ever lost to truth and me — ■ 
 " Forget or scorn !" too late, too late ! 
 No, I may die — but cannot hate — 
 
 Revive— but ne'er be free ! 
 
 Literary Museum. 
 
46 DOROTHEA TO THE RANGER OF HADDON. 
 
 DOROTHEA 
 
 TO THE RANGER OF HADDON. 
 
 [Vide " The King of the Peak," and " The Seven Foresters of 
 Chatsworth."] 
 
 Now Hubert be my patron saint ! 
 
 And woodland green my hue — 
 A stream xriy mirror, a steed my throne, 
 
 And all for love of you 
 Bold Rider ! 
 
 Huntsman, for love of you ! 
 
 Yon deer-hound shall my playmate be, 
 
 Yon hawk my bower partake, 
 That horn my music, this glaive my toy, 
 
 And all for thy dear sake, 
 Proud Outlaw ! 
 
 Wanderer, for thy sake ! 
 
 What wit can shine more keen and bright 
 
 Than the holly, and its bead ? 
 What gorgeous language more than right 
 
 Yon forest's varied head ? 
 Free Nature ! 
 
 What a life thy votaries lead ! 
 
 The Autumn be my holiday ! 
 
 The fern my feathers be, 
 The heath my purple, the broom my gold, 
 
 If I may follow thee, 
 Young Rover ! 
 
 Yes, if I may follow thee. 
 
DOROTHEA TO THE RANGER OF HADDON. 47 
 
 The poppy's knots shall bed our rest, 
 
 The wild thyme's odours gay 
 Our incense prove., our curtain. Love ! 
 
 Foxglove, or harebell gray ! 
 Farewell then 
 
 To other home, for aye ! 
 
 Literary Museum. 
 
48 AFFECTATIONS. 
 
 AFFECTATIONS. 
 
 [Supposed to be written by a Gentleman.] 
 
 Was it not in the Literary Museum that I read an 
 article on masquerades ? — Those held at the Opera- 
 House I mean. — Something about the dullness of such 
 exhibitions,, in which the dress is the only portion of such 
 and such characters that is assumed ; or, worse still, 
 where the mere external and technical features are cari- 
 catured, where Herod is out-Heroded, and Arabs are 
 made u Plus Arabe qu'en Arabic" Did not the article 
 go on to say, that "carters are not always smacking 
 their whips in real life ? " This cautious truism was 
 worthy of the lady who, when she read the announce- 
 ment of " Jonathan Kentucky," observed, " That sounds 
 very like an American name." Might one not, in this 
 refined age, assert that live carters never smack their 
 whips at all ? Reality, nature, and accordance of man- 
 ner with situation, would be the most amusing novelties, 
 or revivals, that could now be produced. If it were the 
 fashion, or the law, that, on one day in the year, all 
 persons should appear as what they truly were, how 
 many grave, great men, might turn up buffoons ! how 
 many gay and admired women would prove, at best, but 
 dependent slaves, with no more beauty " than one might 
 put on a knife's point, and choke a daw withal." Of 
 the masquerade in real life, the dress is the least un- 
 natural attribute. " Et c'est beaucoup dire." 
 
AFFECTATIONS. 49 
 
 There is a Carnival which lasts all the year round, but 
 we mark it not, though we wear masks ourselves ; we 
 assume as many vices as virtues, deny our actual errors, 
 and value few of our real redeeming traits. Deceived 
 by our own first impressions, even where no art has been 
 used to mislead us, we know little of our nearest inti- 
 mates, and not enough even of ourselves. I love those 
 mixed characters which defy general rules ; are not to 
 be judged by common standards; but, upsetting the 
 dogmas of old prejudice, attest the infinite, inexhaustible 
 variety of creation ; which force extremes to meet, and, 
 by delicate blendures, or minute distinctions, leave no 
 two individuals either exactly similar, or without some 
 sentiments in common. I like people who, after long 
 intercourse, can still surprise me by evincing qualities 
 which I did not believe they possessed, provided these 
 qualities be good ones. I like them the better for their 
 inconsistency, their contrast to some opposite virtue, 
 which, in the same breast, keeps up with them a holy 
 war, and charms one with the cc pretty discrepancies " 
 of poor human nature. A perfect mortal would be non- 
 sense to me. 
 
 It is but of late years, however, that authors have 
 taken up this notion. I mean, of course, by copying 
 ee the original, old " masters ; between whose days and 
 our own we have had villains all black, frowning, and 
 demonic; lovers, every one of them cast in the same 
 mould, most elegant, most ethereal, " most musical, 
 most melancholy ;" libertines, handsome, witty, artful, 
 
50 AFFECTATIONS. 
 
 and heartless ; all subject to sudden death ; — heroes and 
 philosophers, all superhuman, passionless, " grand, 
 gloomy, and peculiar ; " spite all their mystery appre- 
 ciated at the first glance, admired and revered, wonder- 
 ed at, and remembered for ever, by those who neither 
 understood, nor were in any way obliged to them. Our 
 first-rate heroines were (for too long a time) dignified, 
 blonde, persecuted, and hysterical; our second ladies 
 lively brunettes, and married before their betters, with- 
 out having been in love. 
 
 The lights and shades were broad and abrupt, every 
 thing was superficial, every thing uniform ; " one tale 
 telleth another." Knowledge of the world, and reference 
 to history, has corrected these things. Now we have a 
 dandy Corsair, who says of a sabre, 
 
 " Last time it more fatigued my hand than /00s." 
 
 At what perfection may not this superiority to old 
 fashions soon arrive ! Future novels must not begin in 
 the middle, with dialogues or letters, alluding to persons 
 and events about which the uninitiated know nothing. 
 We shall never be able to discover what they are, by 
 what they say ; but, after listening to half-an-hour's 
 vulgar slip-slop, from one character, broken only by brief 
 sentimental animadversions from another, we may find 
 that we have been introduced to a boorish peer, under 
 the hands of an intellectual hair-dresser. Cooks will 
 be interesting ; sailors precise ; " strains of ravishing 
 melody " may emanate from the back-shop of some 
 
AFFECTATIONS. 51 
 
 scientific sempstress; and fresh Dinmonts and Man- 
 nerings may find,, that 
 
 " If they want advice in law, 
 It is no use their asking it, 
 The lawyer 's not at Westminster, 
 He 'sbusy Pas de BasquHng it ! " 
 
 So much for our chance of seeming probable, in drawing 
 from real life ; where the most penurious man may com- 
 mit himself, by one act of prodigality, at which a liberal- 
 minded being would have started ; and where the most 
 frozen, pitiless females have, even in their latter days, 
 cancelled a life of propriety by the caprice of an un- 
 guarded moment. 
 
 Did not Napoleon to all other books prefer Thom- 
 son's Seasons ? Did not his admirer, Madame de Stael, 
 hate the country, and feel in her element only when 
 jewelled and feathered for a Parisian soiree ? The eru- 
 dite Porson picqued himself more on his charades and 
 comic songs, than on all his " more abstruse extatics." 
 Dr. Kitchener deigns to pun, and " Srom fredavi" 
 can well afford to put up with the fame of an exquisite. 
 Of two other celebrated (and amusing) men, the one, I 
 am told, though accustomed to toil for the applause of 
 hundreds, can, in his hour of leisure, scarcely forgive 
 one glance of gratitude, one stare of wonder, one smile 
 of recognition, even from those who have found him at 
 home to them, only the night before ; and the other, 
 with feelings as quick, though less shrinking, is not to 
 be trusted with a love tale, or at a tragedy, lest his sym- 
 
 e 2 
 
52 AFFECTATIONS. 
 
 pathy with " beauty in tears " should affect his health 
 or reason, and rob him of the power to burlesque the 
 sensibility which, in fact, he holds so sacred. Thus " all 
 the world 's a stage." 
 
 In the circle of my own acquaintance too, my friend 
 
 T , with no need to borrow virtues of any man, makes 
 
 free with his neighbour's faults, rather than live with- 
 out some disguise ; affects, with no other affectation, to 
 tolerate what he would shrink from committing; is 
 sought by everybody, esteemed by nobody, while he de- 
 serves to be esteemed and sought only by the good. 
 With an effeminate person he is active, even to fool- 
 hardiness, and yet, in many respects, the most indolent 
 of men. The same easy disposition which puts him in 
 the power of every sharper, would render it a fatigue 
 for him to be wilfully extravagant ; so that he might be 
 ruined without eclat, or escape without merit. 
 
 Honest M , whom Nature meant for a plodding 
 
 agriculturist, has the words (C gentlemanly, elegant, 
 educated, polished, ladylike," for ever on his lips. He 
 lives in town, cultivates the fine arts, is vain of nothing 
 that he knows, and of every thing about which he knows 
 nothing ; while the contrast between his appearance and 
 his conversation, renders ridiculous, things which seve- 
 rally, and in proper place, would command admiration 
 and respect. 
 
 The brave and experienced Sir A D 
 
 succeeds so well in making a fool of himself, by babyish 
 tricks, that it is hard to decide which is the assumption 
 
AFFECTATIONS. 53 
 
 —the mistake ; whether he ought to have been a gri- 
 macier, and not a general, or vice versa. He plays Loth 
 parts so well, that one knows not with which one could 
 dispense. 
 
 My noble stoic P , with a directness of purpose, 
 
 an austere simplicity of phrase and fare, that almost 
 seems artificial, starts at the slamming of a door • de- 
 votes nearly as much time to the outside of his head, as 
 to the in ; is wretched without his rings and lavendered 
 cambric-handkerchief, though he refuses to go u into 
 society " to exhibit them; hates his conquests, and laughs 
 at sentiment. 
 
 The Fair afford many examples of the same kind, if 
 I may cite them without offence. 
 
 Miss E , designed by Heaven for an unidead, 
 
 composed and queenly beauty, passes for clever and 
 eccentric ; swears, faints, loves, and boxes, with equal 
 zest ; and makes a merit of condescending so far ; fancy- 
 ing that she was born to be waited on, not from feeling 
 herself helpless, but from making her less vigorous friends 
 know, that she can extort their services, by force. 
 
 Mrs. V , in whose early history there is, what the 
 
 charitable or sy mpathizing of her own sex call ce an un- 
 fortunate something," thinks a lady too much undrest 
 when full drest ; and, when she misquotes in counselling 
 her daughter to live " chaste as the icicle on Dian's 
 temple," adds, with a blush, " I quote from the Family 
 Shakspeare." All this, too, with so little hypocrisy, 
 that I know few, save her neighbour Miss L — , that 
 
54 AFFECTATIONS. 
 
 pattern of conduct,, and empress of all the flirts, who 
 ought to be excused from laughing at her. 
 
 Kitty , an old maid, is a contradiction to all 
 
 the common-place descriptions of the sisterhood. Poor, 
 and avowedly not single by choice, she refuses offers to 
 this day, because the name of bride would no longer be- 
 come her. She is fat, rosy, kind, content ; fond of 
 belles, children, young married people, and rich dowa- 
 gers. She is as useful as the best wife in the world, 
 would not speak ill of her bitterest enemy, if she had 
 one ; but she can make no one her foe, jesting only at her 
 own expense, at which, by the way, her friends permit 
 her to do as few other things as they can help. 
 
 I never yet was in company with my little eclectic 
 
 widow Y , that she did not ask Captain H to 
 
 sing her " the Groves of Blarney ;" nay, simper most at 
 
 iC Bould Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodamus, 
 All (in dishabile) in the open air." 
 
 Politics, painting, concerts, dancing, and " horse exer- 
 cise" divide her time with Sunday-schools, flannel- 
 petticoat distributing, family-prayer, and visiting the 
 sick. Carrying to these employments all those gay 
 colours, and fashions, which give, as she drawls out, 
 " the beauty — ah ! of holiness— um ! " She fills her 
 vinaigrette with " the odour of sanctity" and " thanks 
 
 her Maker that her cards are good." While Miss Z , 
 
 who never goes to church, adopts, in every sense, the 
 habits of a hermit or a nun. 
 
AFFECTATIONS, 55 
 
 Young Ida, whose name is already in more title- 
 pages than one, would rather be thought the most idle, 
 frivolous, and ignorant of girls, than looked up to as a 
 literary Lady ; is proud only of knowing how to prevent 
 every clown from being afraid of her, or remembering 
 any thing but her charms supposed, for — 
 
 M Ida, poet and beauty, has two little crimes, 
 
 She makes her own face, and can't make her own rhymes." 
 
 How, then, are we, poor matter-of-fact people, to know 
 what they all are ? One infallible rule is suggested, 
 in that which was applied by a northern shepherd to 
 the predicted weather of Moore's Almanack. " Read 
 what he says, and expect the reverse." Observe what 
 people appear most like, and find the antipodes of the 
 station and character assumed ; you cannot be very far 
 from the truth. If a passer by presents the exterior of 
 a grazier, be sure to set him down for a great historian ; 
 if of a man-milliner, he is a patriot ; if of a pauper, 
 more poverty-stricken than ordinary, it is but fair to 
 infer, that the National Debt has some chance of being 
 paid off. 
 
 Literary Museum. 
 
 Note. — The same person who presented " Spectral Etiquette " 
 to the New Monthly Magazine, received my pieces for the Mu- 
 seum, and the same failure attended my expectations of finding 
 their insertion profitable. 
 
56 MINNA TO THE PIRATE. 
 
 MINNA TO THE PIRATE. 
 
 [This Song, feebly imitating Shakspeare^s "Full fathom five," was 
 published, set to Music, by Mr. T. Millar, of Bath. The air is 
 pretty, but inapplicable to the words. The Composer has been 
 more felicitous in the service of Mr. Bayly's Muse.] 
 
 If thou could' st die 
 I would not sigh ; 
 
 The element where thou art king, 
 Would yield for me 
 Some trait of thee. 
 
 In every richest — strangest thing ! 
 Its own blue dye 
 Should seem thine eye, 
 
 Its foam, where moonbeams whitest fall, 
 Thy brow so fair ; 
 Thy radiant hair 
 
 Its deepest amber might recall ! 
 
 Red coral buds, 
 Far 'neath the floods, 
 
 Should give thy sweet mouth back to me ; 
 And wreathed shells, 
 Where Music dwells, 
 
 Thy lulling voice would seem to be, 
 
MINNA TO THE PIRATE. 5J 
 
 Its pearls thy teeth ; 
 Thy balmy breath 
 
 The warmest, freshest, ocean gale ; 
 But— storms thy ruth, 
 And shoals thy truth, 
 
 And siren songs thy false love tale* 
 
58 ON ONE OF MY EARLIEST LOSSES. 
 
 ON ONE OF MY EARLIEST LOSSES. 
 
 [A Friend who lived with me from my fourth to my fourteenth 
 year ; died 1814.] 
 
 " I can't console myself with sack, 
 In this, my first quandary, 
 Tho' for ten years, like Hal's fat Jack, 
 I've loved nought but Canary. 
 
 For I have lost my one Bijou, 
 
 A jewel of a bird ! 
 A wag, tho' tame, tho' fondled — true — 
 
 As worth being seen as heard ! " 
 
 Thus, ere a volume bore his name 
 
 Our Christmas hearth to cheer, 
 I annually sung his fame 
 
 Who ne'er must reappear. 
 
 Yet no, not thus — such deadly fun 
 
 Had not been then thought good, 
 But now, my Muse looks for a pun, 
 
 As through a mourning Hood. 
 
 He was a Gem ! for Lady's chamber 
 
 No toy more useful Hope has, 
 Insects he caught, in his own amber, 
 
 The only true Sir Topaz. 
 
ON ONE OF MY EARLIEST LOSSES. 59 
 
 TW he took flies wherever let, 
 
 His gold they did not lighten, 
 Yet all he drove he overset, 
 
 As dandies do, at Brighton. 
 
 He was my musical breastpin, 
 
 A choice antique of late, 
 Proudly averse to discord's din 
 
 He soared without a mate. 
 
 He looked — he breathed — when song would cease, 
 
 A lump of virgin honey ; 
 He oft times was my pocket piece, 
 
 My childhood's pretty money. 
 
 Fortune might coined stores withhold, 
 
 I shared the Miser's joy, 
 He was my pure and living gold, 
 
 My only Yellow boy ! 
 
 A minor Guinea fowl, no mule, 
 
 Yet, if the stubborn sinner 
 Broke my c< No Song no Supper " rule, 
 
 He whistled for his dinner. 
 
 Brave too he was, in vain I search 
 
 For champion, to surpass 
 The hero who has hopped the perch, 
 
 My chosen lad of brass. 
 
ON ONE OF MY EARLIEST LOSSES. 
 
 He fed on eggs he never laid, 
 
 'Till in his bower so dressy, 
 He charged the form his glass displayed, 
 
 For all his dreams were Cressy. 
 
 He 'd fight me for a sugared crumb, 
 
 With feigning rage grown big, 
 Yet, long as he was worth a plum, 
 
 He did not care a fig. 
 
 I gave him raisins for his fare, 
 
 Currant reports of which 
 His grosser senses longed to share, 
 
 As with a Grocer's itch. 
 
 While o'er my grapes, he'd watch me still, 
 
 And, through my parted lip, 
 He would send in his little bill, 
 
 And so he got the pip. 
 
 Oft as he'd moult, before me bobbing, 
 
 He'd shout, still cock-a-hoop, 
 And roll, as bare as any robin, 
 
 To show he had the croup. 
 
 For feasts which tuned— a throat — a tongue 
 Unstained by hemp or rape seed, 
 
 He fled his cage, for that was hung, 
 And went abroad for gape seed. 
 
ON ONE OF MY EARLIEST LOSSES, 61 
 
 Where'er I fixed him., pleased he stayed, 
 
 Yet, tho' he loved me mare 
 Than liberty,, in greenwood shade,, 
 
 He stooped not to a door. 
 
 Upon my foot he'd sit and sing., 
 
 Nay, felt so little dread,, 
 He'd oft protect me 'neath his wing, 
 
 While pitched upon my head. 
 
 Whene'er I read, his loudest sound 
 
 Such pedantry would cure, 
 For, tho' he littered all around, 
 
 He hated lit rature. 
 
 If mine had been the Actress' part, 
 (Let not the name make you sick — ) 
 
 He would have taught me all the art 
 Of " speaking through the Music." 
 
 He far preferr'd the traveller's path 
 
 To Milton, Pope, or Chaucer — 
 And walk'd o'er China into Bath, 
 
 By washing in a saucer. 
 
 I fill his fountain with my tears, 
 
 Yet, tho' he roosts in rest, 
 His seed shall flourish many years, 
 
 Like him u in saffron drest." 
 
62 ON ONE OF MY EARLIEST LOSSES. 
 
 As barley-sugar, candy-rock, 
 At morning shone his form, 
 
 By one sad blow, by one o'clock. 
 'Twas cold as Cairn Gorm. 
 
 They wanted me his skin to stuff, 
 What stuff! and keep it there — 
 
 But I had crammed it quite enough, 
 While he could prize my care. 
 
 His hoarded feathers still are dear, 
 For such love cannot vary, 
 
 And oft I wipe away a tear, 
 With remnants of Canary ! 
 
TO MON AMI. 63 
 
 TO MON AMI. 
 
 Since there beat two hearts in this world, between 
 
 M and the honoured title of thy love, 
 Oh ! that there had some new made language been, 
 
 Our union, ours alone, to express and prove ! 
 But be it warmest — coldest — first — or last — 
 
 Most light and far — or to thy soul most nigh — 
 Afford me whatsoever name thou may'st — 
 
 And I will bear it, very thankfully ! 
 
 Call me thy slave, yet no, thine humble mind 
 
 Will nought with such a term indefinite — 
 Or, but thy friend, yet friends can grow unkind, 
 
 And thine own sex may share that common right ; 
 Ah ! for some phrase, ardent yet free from guilt, 
 
 On purpose framed that our lips might apply ; 
 Yet, give me, sweet, whatever name thou wilt, 
 
 And I will answer, most contentedly ! 
 
 Call me thy sister, yet, I am not so — 
 
 Truth would reprove ; and those who really are 
 Have stained the tie, with anger and with woe, 
 
 Which I would die to rob of every care. 
 Words then are needless trifles, when all 's done ; 
 
 What can they more endear, 'twixt thou and I, 
 So grant me every — any name — or none — 
 
 I still shall bless thee to eternity ! 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
64 LINES TO THE RUSH OF THE WAVES. 
 
 LINES TO THE RUSH OF THE WAVES. 
 
 When the full summer moon is high, 
 
 Silver shield of the queen who rules o'er 
 All the stars of the purple sky, 
 
 I dote on the song of the shore ! — 
 As it stirs 'mid the heavy trees, 
 
 Or the hollow shells, scattered and wet, 
 Where the leaves dance alive to the breeze, 
 
 Where the echoes their watches have set ! 
 
 Eternal sound ! Voice of the main ! 
 
 Pulse of immortal ocean ! 
 Began with Time, and never again 
 
 To cease, for one hour, thy commotion. 
 Sometimes in tiny ripples to plash 
 
 Like lullabies, soft and stilling ; 
 But oftener with giant waves to dash, 
 
 And a dark roar stormy and killing. 
 
 Ere we were born, that noise was here, 
 
 When we are all dead, here still it shall be ; 
 As fresh for ages, as now we hear 
 
 The floods, that have talked eternally ! 
 Wonderful Sea ! thou art half the world ; 
 
 Still kiss thy twin Earth's welcoming bowers, 
 And when Time his wings o'er her ruins hath furl'd, 
 
 Weep for thy sister of hills and flowers I 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
TO A RAVEN, 65 
 
 TO A RAVEN. 
 
 The cheery call of chanticleer, 
 
 Wakes from his dreamless bed, 
 The hunter of the tall dun deer, 
 
 Ere yet the east is red ; 
 The cooing of the watchful dove, 
 
 Or startled wild bird's trills, 
 Breaks the light sleep of happy love 
 
 From visions day fulfils ! 
 
 But to the useless, joyless one, 
 
 There is a darker wing, 
 Which matins — like death's hoarsest groan - 
 
 Full heavily doth bring. 
 And this is meet — Oh ! it would be 
 
 A sin, if thou wert heard 
 By loveliness or infancy — 
 
 Ill-omen' d, savage bird ! 
 
 Comest thou not from some murder's scene, 
 
 Which none doth know but thee ? 
 The corpse of one who lost hath been 
 
 Long and mysteriously ? 
 Thy horrid croak, and sable plume, 
 
 Say, all is vain below — 
 And tell to melody and bloom 
 
 They fleet more fast than thou ! 
 
Mi TO A RAVEN. 
 
 Some say thou art immortal — lone, 
 
 Thy race so aged are ; 
 Men deem it an eternal One 
 
 That wanders every where. 
 Drear thing of death ! the warn'd one hears 
 
 Thy sullen angry cry; 
 Unseen I know thee, tho' 'tis years 
 
 Since thou wert last so nigh. 
 
 Abrupt, continuous, fateful, rare, 
 
 Thine unforgotten call, 
 I know me mark'd ; release the air 
 
 From thy blood-tainted pall. 
 Nay, flap not at my casement more — 
 
 Fly, voiceless, to thy tree, 
 Thy mission 's done ; — go feast in gore, 
 
 I shall remember thee ! 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
A CHARACTER* 67 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 He is a riddle to me to this day. Whether he has 
 the most or the least ec tact " of any man living, I am 
 yet in doubt. Certain it is, that he never uses the 
 word. He can't himself explain why he so generally 
 is right in every thing. — u Accident/' "■instinct/' 
 " impulse/' are the only causes to which he permits 
 one to attribute the instant justness of his perceptions. 
 In company once with a gentleman, whose near relation 
 had disgraced him, I forgetfully blundered on the sub- 
 ject of transportation; in an instant, but too late, re- 
 membering circumstances, I stopped covered with con- 
 fusion, and know not how I should have extricated 
 myself, had not my friend, with a most insensible 
 visage, broke into praises of Xew South Wales, and 
 Major Wallis's account of it ; the name led to that of 
 Wallace, the Scottish chief; his,, to Miss Jane Por- 
 ter's ; her's to Thames Ditton : that to Hampton 
 Court ; Charles's Beauties ; (( Peveril of the Peak ;" 
 La Mauvaise Societe ; — De Grammont; the French 
 language in general ; and in less than five minutes we 
 had touched on half-a-dozen pleasant subjects, all ap- 
 pearing to have sprung naturally from the one he had never 
 seemed attempting to leave behind. Obviously he svmpa- 
 thizes only where sympathy were delicate and accept- 
 
 p2 
 
68 A CHARACTER. 
 
 able — takes a hint with instant readiness — w antici- 
 pates the asking eye" — is blind, and deaf, and dumb, 
 whenever visible consciousness of what is going on 
 would give pain ; and yet/ in reality, it were fruitless 
 to attempt concealing any thing from him. He reads 
 your inmost thoughts at a glance — enters into every 
 body's feelings — is alive to the most delicate irony — 
 admires in others the learning and polish he never 
 toils to attain himself. His few merits are sterling — 
 there is no pretence about him, his needless candour 
 exposes all his faults. He swear's he is careless and 
 inconstant, yet nobody believes him — he forewarns you 
 that he can keep no secret nor promise, yet every body 
 trusts him. Whoever he is with, he will make happy, 
 if he can— he forgets you in absence, but, years after, 
 is as glad to meet you again, and as confident of a mu- 
 tual greeting, as if he had written to you every week 
 in the interim. He is at ease in every situation — has 
 no notion of conferring or receiving favours and obli- 
 gations. He is magnanimous as if he could not help 
 it. No one can condescend to him. He calls the king 
 e( a capital fellow," — talks of the Duchess of Kent, 
 as " a good creature, poor soul \" and yet there is a 
 respect and cordiality in the manner all the while, 
 which would reconcile it even to the illustrious per- 
 sons themselves. He makes sure of always being un- 
 derstood in the same spirit with which he speaks ; 
 and, without much sensibility of his own, happens 
 
A CHARACTER. 69 
 
 never to wound that of others. He never seems on 
 his guard, and yet cannot be taken by surprise. Those 
 he hates never guess it, either by his actions to, or 
 report of them. He defeats his foes by never showing 
 that he feels an injury, and lives ff the only hypocrite 
 deserving praise/' 
 
 Worthing Paper* 
 
70 ON HEARING HIM PRAISED. 
 
 ON HEARING HIM PRAISED. 
 
 'Tis soothing, in a May- noon's lassitude, 
 
 To hear some unseen, solitary flute, 
 With feeling skill breathed, when all sounds more 
 rude — 
 
 All other sounds are far away, or mute ; 
 'Tis soothing to inhale, beneath the moon, 
 
 The balmy silence of some rose-weaved bower, 
 'Tis soothing through the stir less leaves of June, 
 
 To mark some unheard fount its sparkles shower. 
 
 'Tis soothing, by broad Ocean's sandy shore 
 To stray, in morning's twilight, soft and grave, 
 
 Feeling the breeze that roves our features o'er, 
 Tell of the sun, which soon will gild the wave; 
 
 Soothing the melting hues of Western heaven, 
 Passion subdued, or heart of secret eased, 
 
 'Tis soothing to forgive, or be forgiven, 
 Or first feel certainty of having pleased ! 
 
 Soothing, some tale from lips we ne'er again 
 
 Hoped thus to listen, or to breathe so near, 
 And soothing is the first rest after pain, 
 
 And Virtue's smile, — Poverty's grateful tear ; 
 Soothing the sight of innocence asleep, 
 
 Rewarded Valour, Beauty's early bloom, 
 And soothing, as pure balm, the tears we weep 
 
 When Piety sinks timely to the tomb ! 
 
ON HEARING HIM PRAISED. 71 
 
 But far more sweet than this, than these, than all, 
 
 Is praise bestow' d upon the distant dear ! 
 Just praise, which to the heart absolves its thrall, 
 
 In the sole pride that 's guileless as sincere. 
 It thrills throughout me, like the fabled dew, 
 
 Restoring youth for an eternized joy ! 
 Then Stranger ! praise not me, but let anew 
 
 His worth, his genius all thy songs employ ! 
 
 But add no word of beauty ! See, Oh see ! 
 
 What trembling blushes e'en the name alarms ; 
 Alas ! I need not yet reminded be, 
 
 He reigns in peerless as unconscious charms. 
 Whene'er, from other cause my heart may prove 
 
 The " sweet content and rest " thou bad'st it feel, 
 'Twill wed thee with the image of my love, 
 
 And bless in transports thy remember'd zeal ! 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
72 TO THE FLATTERERS OF A PLAGIARIST. 
 
 TO THE FLATTERERS OF A PLAGIARIST. 
 
 Translated,, *tho' by noblest hands. 
 
 To Earth's most polish'd tongue, 
 The Ettrick Shepherd's ballad stands, 
 
 'Twill but its beauties wrong. 
 Copy they from yon painter poor 
 
 The triumph of his skill ? 
 Albeit of praise far more secure, 
 
 'Tis but a copy still ! 
 
 Thou Moon, bedeck'd in Phoebus' light, 
 
 We bless thy reflex dim, 
 Yet feel thou only canst be bright, 
 
 In borrowing all from him ! 
 Ye Princes, in whose wintry hall 
 
 Far Iran's attar glows, 
 Art's debt to Nature yet recall, 
 
 And bless the sylvan rose. 
 
 And, as your diamonds round ye shine, 
 
 Still think to whom ye owe — 
 The slave who labours in the mine, 
 
 Did first that brilliance know ! 
 Nor, moving in your silken sheen, 
 
 Ye Fair, forget ye, when 
 All this soft pomp a worm's had been. 
 
 And ne'er so rich as then. 
 
TO THE- FLATTERERS OF A PLAGIARIST. 7^ 
 
 Ye gay., who stain with wine that spring, 
 
 Or pall'd with heated air, 
 Unmix'd may waste it, on the sting 
 
 Of cloy'd and feverous care ; 
 Ye guess not from what rural source, 
 
 Your chosen draught ye drew — 
 Perchance, so strong is habit's force, 
 
 Ye 'd scorn it, if ye knew. 
 
 I thus alone, dare o'er it frown, 
 
 Who, from its fountain head 
 Have quaff 'd its first caught sunbeams down, 
 
 As from the depth it sped. 
 To drain it from a lordly cup 
 
 Ye lose that fresher taste, 
 With which it wildly sparkles up, 
 
 And blesses all the waste. 
 
 Oh ! had ye e'er — afar — alone — 
 
 Enjoy'd its charmed store, 
 Ye 'd ne'er its power nor sweetness own. 
 
 From courtly chalice more. 
 For here its first pure balm defiled, 
 
 And turn'd to tears / find ; 
 For having wander'd from the wild 
 
 And left its flowers behind. 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
74 TRUISMS. 
 
 TRUISMS. 
 
 King ! who now art flatter' d, great, 
 Powerful, rich, exhaustlessly, 
 
 Lo ! a bier is at thy gate, 
 
 The time will come when thou must die. 
 
 Beauty ! who art envy's mark, 
 
 Buoy'd on youthful vanity, 
 In the rose lie cankers dark, 
 
 The time is coming thou wilt die. 
 
 Sage ! Fate laughs at all thy lore, 
 Tho' e'en age thou dost defy, 
 
 Years unmiss'd return no more, 
 
 Wake, w r ise dreamer, thou 'rt to die. 
 
 Infant ! innocent and blest, 
 
 Mother ! gazing trancedly, 
 Cold may soon be either breast, 
 
 Dust — corruption — ye must die. 
 
 Bard ! who scarce art now on earth, 
 
 Lover ! raving fruitlessly, 
 What is fancy — passion worth ? 
 
 Nought can save ye ; ye shall die. 
 
TRUISMS, 75 
 
 Hero ! blood is on thy wreath, 
 'Neath thy shield mortality, 
 
 Poison in fame's very breath, 
 Conqueror ! thou too must die. 
 
 Peaceful swain ! — but Worth's career. 
 Hath seraphs set, eternally, 
 
 Whisp'ring gently in thine ear — 
 " Joy to live, nor dread to die I" 
 
 Who 'neath sorrow humbly brave, 
 
 Hoping nothing selfishly, 
 From their toils but well may crave, 
 
 To rest — to rise ! They cannot die. 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
76 TO 
 
 TO 
 
 " Why do I love? what can I find 
 
 To fix my heart's long dream on thee?" 
 Thou say'st <c birth, learning, manner, mind, 
 
 Alone should merit thought from me." 
 There 9 s nothing then that thou know'st, worth 
 
 (That humble question being part — ) 
 All the famed, soulless wit on earth, 
 
 In genial, pure, inspired heart ? 
 My being doth expand and warm 
 
 To all who blameless days have run; 
 Thou teachest me to find a charm, 
 
 In every thing heaven looks upon. 
 No flower can vegetate in vain, 
 
 To me the trees, though voiceless, speak, 
 I commune with the eternal main, 
 
 Nor wit, nor flattery there I seek. 
 These are permitted claims, on all, 
 
 Which reason's self did ne'er reprove ; 
 And thine the only lips to call 
 
 It wonder, that thee too I love. 
 For, by thy side, my breast is light 
 
 With undesiring flames intense ; 
 The sense of life within thy sight 
 
 Is rapture, lapp'd in innocence ! 
 
 / 
 
77 
 
 I love thee as a faultless part 
 
 Of Nature which we both adore, 
 For thy free contrast to all art, 
 
 Thy sweet relief from worldly lore ; 
 I love thee for no thoughts of thine, 
 
 But for the images of peace 
 Thine eye, unconscious, lends to mine, 
 
 In varied, gradual increase ; 
 I love thee as the air, the light, 
 
 The wild bird's song, the glow of June, 
 The rose's breath, the snow wreath's white, 
 
 The ripen' d fruits, the risen moon ; 
 The bright hued insect's rapid wing, 
 
 The towering rock, the streamlet's swell, 
 As fair creation's fairest thing — 
 
 For thou art not insensible ! 
 If I was born with sight beyond 
 
 Birth, rank, or fortune, still to rove ; 
 Deep as thy feelings, true and fond, 
 
 Still wilt thou ask me why I love ? 
 It is then, since the purest, best, 
 
 Cannot his own perfections see, 
 Because, to love thus makes me blest — 
 
 And keeps me not unworthy thee ! 
 
 Worthing Paper. 
 
78 NOTK. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 In August 1824,, a Newspaper was started at Wor- 
 thing, called the West Sussex Advertiser. The Editor, 
 wishing to give it a literary tone,, engaged me on pro- 
 mising terms. Besides the trifles I here collect, I con- 
 tributed other matters, and derived much amusement 
 from my brief authority and critical incognita. The 
 Paper flourished, under illustrious patronage ; but in a 
 few weeks, disastrous circumstances, unconnected with 
 this undertaking, obliged the Editor to leave Worthing, 
 and I derived no farther advantage from my labours, 
 than the diversion they had afforded me. 
 
SOOTHING SIMILES. 79 
 
 SOOTHING SIMILES. 
 
 " A strange passion - for a Lover." 
 " Che dice mal d' Amore ?" 
 
 It is a comical calamity for any " single gentleman, 
 who loves his ease/' to be put out of his way, by 
 being surprised into a Jit of the heart for once in his 
 life. Mr. Fad was such an orderly, business-like-man, 
 that I almost thought him an old bachelor ! He had 
 no sentiment, no romance about him ; the enthusiasm 
 of others never infected him, he did not rail against 
 it ; " wit and humour were more to his taste," he 
 would say, " he was too matter-of-fact to attempt the 
 sublime ; if he had natural affection enough to prove 
 himself a good friend and relation, it was all he 
 wanted" — and he had it. 
 
 Yet Mr. Fad was no saint ; he had passed his youth 
 in a vain dissipated way enough. A libertine, with no 
 taste for intrigue ; erring, but never misleading others. 
 In general society, " quite a lady's man/' though nei- 
 ther conquered nor conquering; he flattered, dressed, 
 ate and slept, in a manner exemplary unto all gentle- 
 men of his age. 
 
 Poor Mr. Fad loved London and company ; he 
 had never been tried by a spring in the country ; he 
 was unprepared for " Solitude." Would that his had 
 been solitude indeed ! I need not here say how Mr. 
 
80 SOOTHING SIMILES. 
 
 Fad lost his way into such a situation, nor who was 
 the one object who rendered it fatal to his repose. 
 The whole man changed, but not with a good grace. 
 He fell in love he knew not why, when, or how ; he 
 was caught against his will, and struggled very awk- 
 wardly to get free from the trammels of one who 
 strove not to take nor to retain him. But the more 
 she tried to help him back to liberty, the more her 
 meshes became tangled about the hitherto self -pos- 
 sessed heart of poor Mr. Fad. Had he lain still in the 
 net, he would have felt neither its tightness nor its 
 weight, but he could not for the life of him but fret 
 and fidget about, ashamed of his position, angry with 
 himself for being natural at last, and disgusted with 
 all the novel sensations, which are the only superiorities 
 of Jirst love over the parfaite amour of mature taste! 
 But I am anticipating— poor Mr. Fad knew nothing 
 of the passion, even Ci by books and swains ;" for he 
 never read poetry ; skipped the courtship scenes in all 
 novels ; and if obliged to listen — but what lover would 
 have chosen such a confidant ? I remember hearing 
 Mr. Fad say, " The Rivals is a pleasant Comedy for 
 warm weather, because as soon as Faulkland and Julia 
 come forward, I know that I may go out and get a 
 little refreshment. " Thus inexperienced poor Mr. 
 Fad might have sung, 
 
 " O dear what can the matter be ?" 
 
 till this hour, if a friend had not been at hand to in- 
 
SOOTHING SIMILES. 81 
 
 struct him to open his eyes to his own case, and ex- 
 plain his feelings to him. " I don't know what ails 
 me," cried Mr. Fad, " but I can neither dine nor rest. 
 I feel too idle even to dress and walk ; my face flushes, 
 yet I shiver. Is the ague prevalent here ? — then my 
 breath comes only in sighs. I grow quite nervous ; 'tis 
 either an incipient liver complaint, or an inflammation 
 of the heart. I hope it may not end in a brain fever, 
 for I am by turns so excited, and so despondent — the 
 society of the only tolerable man here, beside myself, 
 makes me feel quite bilious — it may be jaundice : — then 
 I have as many fancies as a hypochondriac. I dream, 
 and yet I scarcely sleep. I cannot read. I cannot 
 cast accounts, for the absurd fancy that I see Miss 
 
 A looking in at the window, and hear her voice, 
 
 her laugh, deriding me." " To be sure you do," said 
 his friend : Cm I have seen for some time, by your gazing 
 so on her, whenever she does not look your way, and 
 casting down your eyes so hastily, if they meet hers" — 
 " You have seen this, Sir ? and what of it ? what do 
 you mean ?" " That you are — in love ! " 
 
 Poor Mr. Fad ! Had any body told him that he 
 was poisoned, he could not have been more dismayed. 
 " I ? Impossible ! What can I do ? where shall I 
 go ?" " Go to the lady, and tell her the fact." iC I 
 make love ! I don't know how to do it. Besides, I 
 don't love her ; how should I ? knowing nothing of 
 her mind, her disposition, character, history, incli- 
 nations ! I fear her ; but / do not love her." " I did 
 
 G 
 
82 SOOTHING SIMILES. 
 
 not say you did ; but you are in love with her for all 
 that." ' ( Is it not the same thing ? You talk nonsense." 
 " Yes, to the uninitiated it may sound so. You are 
 sensible of her beauty, that's enough." " Beauty !" 
 cried poor Mr. Fad, " I tell you that's not enough; 
 it is no merit of hers. What's beauty to me ? I never 
 was one of those fools who could not scold a pretty 
 servant. Face goes for nothing with me." " But then 
 her figure." <e How can you torment me thus ? If 
 she were an angel, with no more money than she has, 
 'twould be madness my giving up my old habits ; be- 
 sides, she would not have me. I don't want to en- 
 cumber myself with a wife and family. I am unfit for 
 a husband. Matrimony ! 'Psha ! I shall never marry." 
 " You mean no harm I trust." " Harm ! to her ? I 
 would die first ! Will absence cure me ?" " The 
 worst thing you can try." " Shall I see her every day ? 
 perhaps I may get accustomed to her, and not mind 
 it." " No, that will never do." " Hang it, Sir, then 
 what will do? I come to you for advice and conso- 
 lation, and you only add to my perplexity and unea- 
 siness." 
 
 " Seriously, then, I counsel you to turn your love to 
 good account. It has opened a new world for you — 
 read the great authors who can teach you how to love ; 
 it will soothe you to find your own sensations expressed, 
 and her beauty described." " Beauty again ! I repeat 
 that I scorn it. Handsome people can't help being 
 disagreeable in some way or other. They are so con- 
 
SOOTHING SIMILES. 83 
 
 scious and so flattered, that they attain a language of 
 their own ; they look down from their accidental 
 pedestal — I never saw even a lovely statue that had not 
 an air of self-conceit. Depend on itj every grace is 
 the parent of some graceless impertinence. The fair 
 creatures can't treat you fairly — regular features and 
 irregular habits go together. They fancy they have 
 such rights, such immunities, and impunities, that 'tis 
 our duty to thank their faults, and bless the miseries 
 they inflict upon us. What is the admiration of one 
 man to her who commands the idolatry of hundreds ? 
 They cannot value rational attachment ; they will not 
 obey, nor be advised. How must one scorn oneself for 
 caring about a girl, whose actions imply, as the reason 
 why one's honest suit failed with her, — Go, Sir, you 
 loved too well, but you did not praise half enough/' 
 
 <( Bravo, Fad !" cried his friend, (i You never spoke 
 half so well; but d'ye think ugliness a virtue — that 
 you thus decry poor beauty r" " I do. I have known 
 ugly women who were very pretty behaved ! ordinary 
 girls of extraordinary worth ; plain ones who practised 
 plain- dealing ; good, without being good-looking ; 
 amiable because they were not aim able ; homely fe- 
 males, who cared not for gadding abroad ; — yes, into 
 wrinkles Hope might fly for refuge. On a mole I 
 might build some confidence ; a one-eyed mistress 
 might see but half my faults ; a damsel with butter 
 teeth would not laugh in my face to show them ; a 
 humpy-dumpy would not be tempted to turn her back 
 
 g 2 
 
84 SOOTHING SIMILES. 
 
 upon a friend ; a stutterer, perhaps, might forbear 
 talking. Even a wooden leg would be some sort of appui 
 for me to lean on ; a beard would form a downy pillow 
 to my anxieties; a broken nose were my tower of 
 strength ; bunions, claret-marks, and corpulency, my 
 c corn, wine, and oil ! ' The very looking-glass of such a 
 girl would plead my cause with her ; but this wretch's 
 c exterior' is so horribly perfect, so incorrigibly spotless, 
 so faultless to a fault — that I will study how to rail 
 away my malady. Call again." 
 
 In less than a month the friend paid another visit to 
 poor Mr. Fad. He found him much thinned and very pale. 
 On his table lay the works of Byron, Rousseau, and other 
 amatory writers. A Cupid, from Titian, sent for from 
 London, hung over the fire-place, yet poor Mr. Fad still 
 grumbled. " Ma'amselle," he said, (( pursued her course 
 like a destroying angel, flirting with every body, caring 
 for nobody, and least of all for himself." " But," said 
 his friend, " have not the poets and painters yet recon- 
 ciled you to the little god?" " Little devil! Poets? 
 Painters? cheats and fools! — a pretty child with bow 
 and arrows ? A giant, with a poisoned scythe ! — A 
 blind boy, hiding his curls under a rose ? Argus, with 
 snakes for hair ! He must have wings too — so has the 
 Vampyre bat. And rosy fetters — chains of iron, 
 nightshade, and nettles — Hang their roses ! Doves ? — 
 Cormorants. A torch? — A volcano. A lyre? — a 
 brazen trumpet of defiance. Whirlwinds for sighs. 
 The Deluge for tears. Love's gentle blush? — put a 
 
SOOTHING SIMILES. 85 
 
 gridiron over it, and broil an ox whole ! Love is yonr 
 neighbour's dog, which from silly kindness you have 
 allowed to live on your orts, till — but no ! a dog is too 
 sagacious, too faithful. Love is a stray monkey, a 
 mischievous ape broke loose and unmanageable ; not to 
 be expelled. Pestering at all times, but most abomin- 
 able at the least fitting seasons. Are you inclined to 
 tolerate the bore ? he turns sulky, and won't show off a 
 single trick ; but attempt to fly him, he grows vicious, 
 pursues, and fixes his teeth in you. Are you particu- 
 larly occupied, or about to be so ? you will be sure to 
 find your torment at your elbow, ready to upset your 
 ink and to overturn your books ; but if you happen to 
 be really ill or in distress, then he is in high luck — he 
 scares you with a thousand malicious pranks, and 
 walks off with whatever valuables he can lay his paws 
 on ! Love ! a cruel creditor, who must be paid, and 
 cannot be shut out ; who exposes your necessities to 
 your servants, and threatens you with prison, till your 
 own house becomes less tolerable than were a jail, 
 where this demon could no longer haunt you. There 
 is too much right, too great a show of justice even in 
 this. Love ! a sturdy beggar, who waylays you when 
 you are almost penny less, extorts your last farthing by 
 force, will neither earn it nor thank you for it, but tells 
 you, c He must live. 3 Love ! a cowardly assassin, who 
 trips up your heels in the dark, and stabs you when you 
 are down. Love ! a dreaded adviser, to whose in- 
 fluence and opinion you refer your every wish, and ^vno 
 
86 SOOTHING SIMILES. 
 
 proves Mephistophiles, in the disguise of Mrs. Grundy. 
 Love ! sure to come uninvited and unwelcome, when- 
 ever you are particularly unprepared for his intrusion, 
 a regular Paul Pry ; no, no, Zamiel — The Bottle-Imp 
 — ' Death, and the Lady V A costly, tempting dish, 
 which is certain to disagree with one. Or wine, bad 
 wine, which nevertheless nobody drinks with modera- 
 tion. Unfashionable trash, yet indulged in by all ranks 
 and ages. Poison, that fills the world with madness 
 and idiotcy. We pick our own pockets to purchase 
 rage, sullenness, helplessness, head-aches, heart-sick- 
 ness, which nobody pities but in themselves. Love ! 
 the most lamentable of laughing-stocks; more fatal 
 than the plague ; it slays soul and body ! Now — it 
 is not going to bed to sleep, but being nightly tossed 
 in a blanket. Love ! a blue fly in my dish, a mad 
 bull in my walks, a spoiler of dinners, a hindrance to 
 exercise; the most expensive hobby of diseased ima- 
 gination. A lottery — gambling in which there is no 
 way to win, and a million ways to lose. Love ! the 
 melancholy diversion of chasing a Will-o'-the-Whisp, 
 which leads you on, till you tumble into an open grave, 
 and there leaves you in darkness. Love is an interruption 
 to all business — 'tis vice and idleness of the most joy- 
 less kind — a worse horse than even Genius ; 'tis the 
 juggling of a dull charlatan, whose illusions we never 
 detect till they have made fools of us, and then we 
 wonder how we could have been cheated by such 
 shallow art. Love ! a dead take-in — a perpetual dis- 
 
SOOTHING SIMILES. 87 
 
 appointment,, a bottle of smoke, a long passage leading 
 to nothing, a romance with the catastrophe torn out, 
 an April-day hoax. Love ! a garb, not only unbecom- 
 ing, but uncomfortable, easily put on, but not to be put 
 off at pleasure ; it pinches, galls, and sticks to you ; is 
 here too tight, there too loose ; too hot over your heart- 
 too cold everywhere else ; always wanting repair, losing 
 its gloss with the first day's wear." 
 
 " And yet," interrupted Fad's friend, " when it 
 wears out, you will be sure, having worn one such, 
 to get yourself another ; hating the first, you may en- 
 deavour to vary the pattern, but you will only change 
 the quality of your sufferings to increase their quan- 
 tity." 
 
 " No, no," replied poor Fad, " If I can once get out 
 of this scrape, catch me falling in love again, that's all ! 
 No other woman can ever endanger my repose, now that 
 I am once on my guard. It is disgraceful that a man 
 of sense, with a will of his own, should be the victim of 
 a foe so insignificant. But having told the son of Venus 
 my mind, I now defy him, he cannot trap me again." 
 
 " Most eloquent Fad, be not too sure of that," said 
 his friend. " You have not forgotten to enumerate 
 among the little gentleman's accomplishments, that he 
 can change shapes, like Proteus. Then hope not that 
 you will know his voice and features again, when he 
 acts as master of the ceremonies to another lady. 
 Your heart will feel a perfectly distinct set of emo- 
 tions from those you yet have known. You will cry, 
 
OO SOOTHING SIMILES. 
 
 ' Thank Heaven I am out of love. This is friendship, 
 this is peace ! how proud I ought to be of my present 
 security, the result of experience ; this is philosophy V 
 And then I shall call you in love indeed, when I 
 see you superstitiously devoted to your faith in the 
 merits of your beloved. When you can no longer in- 
 geniously rave or sellishly rebel ; when you desire her 
 favour more, and think that you deserve it less. When 
 you are ready to sacrifice either hope or liberty to your 
 affection, then I shall say — not e poor Fad !' For, to be 
 so in love, is to be rich indeed. Then, emulating the 
 virtues with which we invest the dear one, we are 
 inspired with courage and patience, with pleasant 
 thoughts and charitable feelings. The sentiment 
 which seems essential to existence, embellishes every 
 thing we see and hear ; such a love, whether mutual or 
 
 fruitless is" 
 
 Well, but never mind what Mr. Fad's friend said ; 
 what became of poor Fad and the lady? Why, 
 reader, she was punished for her faults and her beauty, 
 and he was cured of Jiis love and his comparisons. 
 The correction and reformation of both began on the 
 first of last month — that was their Wedding Day. 
 
ON FINDING, ETC. 89 
 
 ON FINDING THAT I HAD BEEN BORN 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 I woke not till eve, of the loveliest day, 
 
 Nor saw its bright sun, till he set in the sea ; 
 Yet those who from dawning had bask'd in his ray, 
 
 Confest it was never more rich than for me. 
 I came, when the pageant was just at its close, 
 
 Which so long had been shedding delight o'er a host ; 
 My brief, hurried glance, yet one solace bestows, 
 
 I enjoy'd all Fate granted, I valued it most. 
 First, purest, and noblest! what words dare I use 
 
 To speak human regrets, for what's sacred to me ? 
 What images, e'en if inspired, could I choose 
 
 To tell my devotion to thine and to thee ? 
 On how many, less zealous than I to admire, 
 
 Was wasted the genius, the grace of your prime ! 
 Why was I not born, 'ere ye died, to expire ? 
 
 Why teach me, in vain, that I lived not in time ? 
 Giant Spirits ! who deign* d here to lavish your might, 
 
 If the pride of your parting alone I behold, 
 Last Angels of life, if I mark but your flight, 
 
 'Tis then your best plumes ye most broadly unfold. 
 And the heaven ye are seeking, to meet and adorn, 
 
 While earth still discerns ye, descends o'er your hues, 
 Till I feel like some wondering worshipper, born 
 
 In the last year of miracles, hail'd bv adieus. 
 
90 ON FINDING, ETC 
 
 I see not a trace of what ages are past, 
 
 Were the future unheeded, the present were bliss — 
 Could a Northern Spring flow'ret deserve to be cast 
 
 E'en in Winter's career, o'er a climate like this ! 
 No, wake not my spirit to hope or to love, 
 
 No spell to console can exist in thy breath — 
 Sad Truth all my visions awaits to reprove, 
 
 I gaze upon Beauty, to think but on death ! 
 If Time must, at last, such a temple destroy, 
 
 Why still let it dazzle the lingerer's eye, 
 Till to Earth's freshest bowers of safety and joy 
 
 Our hearts thus prefer, 'mid those ruins to die ? 
 But Faith, not cold Fancy, bids Nature's tears cease, 
 
 To die — like the virtuous, calm and forgiven, 
 For life — for Eternity — Vision of Peace ! 
 
 I gaze on Immortals, and think but of Heaven ! 
 
 London, Spring 1823. 
 
ADMIRATION. 91 
 
 ADMIRATION. 
 
 'Tis sweet to love as I love thee,, 
 
 Just thus., and thus alone ; 
 Without a wish — a shame — to be 
 
 In mind — in soul thine own ! 
 How gratefully do I revere,, 
 
 How tenderly admire ! 
 Yet while to every sense thou'rt dear 
 
 How gayly calm this fire ! 
 I rave., unchecked by Envy's care, 
 
 E'en watchful Love must see 
 That what were partial praise elsewhere 
 
 Scarce speaks the truth of thee. 
 I would not have thy lightest thought 
 
 Regret my fancy's thrall ; 
 For how cans' t thou to me be nought 
 
 Whom Taste has made my all ? 
 Like some transcendent dream thou art, 
 
 When but in memory seen, 
 Yet ever present, to a heart 
 
 Too blest that such hath been ! 
 What can it be I feel for thee ? 
 
 Ah ! surely Cupid's dart 
 Shot through my brain its witchery — • 
 
 And tranquil left my heart ! 
 
 Birmingham, August 1823. 
 
92 IMITATED FROM LORD BYRON. 
 
 IMITATED FROM LORD BYRON. 
 
 I saw thee frown, that brow so stern 
 
 Writhed o'er thy glance's glow, 
 And yet, methought, I could discern 
 
 Smiles on the lip below ; 
 I saw thee smile, the dimpling flash 
 
 That stirr'd thy lip of love 
 It only lit the tearful lash 
 
 Which veiFd the orbs above ! 
 
 Thou canst not anger, canst not grieve, 
 
 As common mortals do, 
 Thy frowns within our bosoms leave 
 
 Deep awe, but rapture too ; 
 Such smiles thy classic features wear, 
 
 Such dews thy star-eyes light, 
 In vain thou bidd'st our hearts despair, 
 
 Thus pamper'd through our sight ! 
 
 Bath, May 1824. 
 
CONFESSION. 93 
 
 CONFESSION, 
 
 It was not when I saw thee first 
 
 That most I was amazed, 
 Tho' on my sight a wonder burst, 
 All woman as I was, I curst 
 
 Thy beauty as I gazed, 
 And long a jealous envy nurst 
 
 Of image ne'er to be erased ! 
 
 And next I thought thee so above 
 
 All human sympathy, 
 A God— a Hero— Mars nor Jove 
 More fiercely grand; Apollo— Love — 
 
 Less boyish, soft and free ; 
 In vain my glance was forced to rove, 
 
 Darkness, too soon, held nought but thee. 
 
 Oh the romance of that bright face, 
 
 The living poesie ! 
 The classic air, the picturesque grace, 
 Which flits too fast for words to trace 
 
 Yet clings to memory, 
 Making earth's noblest ones look base 
 
 And worthless, save to wait on thee. 
 
94 CONFESSION. 
 
 There 's nothing like thee upon earth, 
 Thou shin'st a part — alone — 
 
 'Till thou art seen what is sight worth ? 
 
 And, having seen thee, there *s a dearth 
 Of heart, till then unknown, 
 
 That moment is a second birth, 
 
 Our eyes, our hearts, no more our own ! 
 
 Then must we meet thee every day, 
 Or languish, dream, and sigh, — 
 
 Sense cannot weary of the ray 
 
 That now abstracted shrinks away 
 In that blue freezing eye — 
 
 Now beaming all the mental sway 
 Of cordial, modest majesty ! 
 
 Oh what a lover ! if pure youth 
 
 And tearful tenderness, 
 If deep humility can soothe, 
 If a too meaning smile, all truth 
 
 And arch voluptuousness, 
 If tones so pettish, yet so smooth, 
 
 Explain the word resistlessness ! 
 
 Oh what a friend ! if power to aid 
 By wisdom, strength, and heart, 
 
 If wit to cheer, and will to wade 
 
 Through danger, e'en for meed delay'd, 
 And ne'er from faith depart, — 
 
 All chivalry hath sacred made 
 To our permitted zeal thou art ! 
 
CONFESSION. 95 
 
 What art thou not? contrasted spells 
 
 To make thee peerless blend, 
 The pride through each rich vein that swells,, 
 Or calmly, on that white brow dwells. 
 
 How graciously 'twill bend, 
 With what delicious ease it tells 
 
 Its thanks, e'en to thy lowliest friend ! 
 
 Bath, 1824. 
 
96 
 
 TO VICTOR. 
 
 TO VICTOR. 
 
 I asked of thee ; it was from one 
 Thy smile hath raised to fame; 
 
 Thou for such lips too much had'st done 
 In teaching them thy name. 
 
 Yet could he pityingly confide, 
 Thy reign must soon be o'er ; 
 
 Fresh from that presence dared deride — 
 I'll question him no more. 
 
 Too oft he meets thee in the hour 
 
 Of languor, and of gloom ; 
 Forgetful how that form can tower 
 
 In bravery of bloom. 
 
 And shall the dwarfs of dust betray 
 
 With envying maxims dull, 
 Thy power's decline, and live to say, 
 
 « This was the beautiful ?" 
 
 Fading ? No, not that gorgeous form, 
 
 Of pure and deathless joy ; 
 Must years o'ercloud a glance so warm ? 
 
 A smile so fair destroy ? 
 
TO VICTOR. 97 
 
 Quench'd but with life shall be its fire, 
 
 Thou loveliest, and last ; 
 Whose blended graces yet conspire 
 
 To tell us of the past. 
 
 Thou too shalt mock Time's petty rage, 
 
 Or, by attractions new, 
 Peculiar to each coming age. 
 
 Endear it to our view. 
 
 We've watched thee long, yet none perceive 
 
 Thy first fresh ardours fly, 
 Still round the oak the rose wreaths weave, 
 
 Beneath a noontide sky. 
 
 Who will remain, when thou must part 
 
 Nature's full power to beam ? 
 And shew reality to Art 
 
 Beyond e'en fancy's dream ? 
 
 Flattery to those who ne'er behold 
 
 Will seem all traced or said, 
 Which we shall feel unjust and cold 
 
 As silence or as shade. 
 
 Who can confess mere mortal charms, 
 
 That godlike air beside ? 
 When love thy pensive brow disarms, 
 
 Or wit dethrones thy pride ? 
 
98 TO VICTOR. 
 
 Though classic climes, heroic years, 
 
 Thy noble features claim, 
 In every heavenly tint appears 
 
 Our native England's fame ! 
 
 Such mental beauty would enchant 
 
 From weak or homely shrine, 
 Such " eloquent blood " would veil the want 
 
 Of impulse more divine. 
 
 And dared thy favourite's answer be 
 
 " Your idol 's cold and dim ? " 
 Pupil or slave unworthy thee, 
 
 But all are not like him. 
 
 There is an exiled one, whose speech 
 
 Would paint thee, as thou art, 
 Whom no injustice could unteach 
 
 The friend's, the admirer's part. 
 
 Who cherishes, of days long gone, 
 
 The proud, the grateful dream, 
 For their renewal hoping on, 
 
 As for Day's deathless beam. 
 
 If startled, through awaking tears 
 
 A colder truth to bear, 
 He 'd say, " Heaven grant him length of years, 
 
 And may we live to share ! 
 
TO VICTOR. 99 
 
 a No rising star can mate him now, 
 Ye do not know him yet, 
 New hearts beneath his wane shall bow, 
 Nor guess one ray is set. 
 
 cs Sigh not, fond maids ! your Grecian youth 
 May change, but must be great, 
 His fire of soul, his bosom's truth 
 Shall purer power create. 
 
 <c Taste, learning, hospitable care, 
 His closing day shall deck, 
 And make a Jove, with silv ry hair, 
 Of our Apollo's wreck. 
 
 ci His stainless banner peaceful furl'd, 
 His bays with myrtle blend, 
 That tho' the Lover s lost the world, 
 The good may know their friend ! " 
 
 Cheltenham, 1825. 
 
 h2 
 
100 SONNET TO MY GUIDING STAR. 
 
 SONNET TO MY GUIDING STAR. 
 
 Beautiful Star ! that shrined in brightest blue 
 
 Sheenest upon my gaze, till I could dream 
 That sparkling smiles and trembling tears I view, 
 
 And draw love omens from thy varying beam. 
 I speak to thee, as if thou could'st reply, 
 
 As if on me alone thou did'st look down, 
 I bless and thank the softness of an eye 
 
 Which hath no power on any prayer to frown. 
 Ah ! heavenly light ! thou dost but seem to change 
 
 When I am dazzled by thy constant flame, 
 So far on high if such weak glances range 
 
 The mists deceive them, thou art still the same, 
 Unconscious of my hopes, in deathless calm, 
 Moving in melody, through ether's balm ! 
 
 [Composed my first night at sea, Oct. 1825. It has earned me 
 a copy of the Gem. For my Annuals I may indeed thank my 
 stars /] 
 
HYMN TO ST. HILDA. 101 
 
 HYMN TO ST. HILDA, 
 
 Young Witch ! that by the rude beach sits, 
 Or, o'er the cliff by moonlight flits, 
 
 Woman, Saint, or Fate ! 
 Fair enchantress ! spell-bound here, 
 By thy wild rhymes, and name of fear, 
 
 Behold thy votaries' state, 
 Hilda ! 
 
 Queen of many a destiny ! 
 Woven for eternity, 
 
 Weird thing, of magic voice ! 
 Fascinated by thine eye, 
 The only lamp that gems our sky, 
 
 Oh, bless our venturous choice, 
 Hilda ! 
 
 Toss'd on a chill and stranger sea, 
 Without one hope, save Heaven and thee, 
 
 Dread Virgin of the Isle ! 
 By wand'rings lost, by storms delay'd, 
 We own thy power, invoke thine aid, 
 And die without thy smile, 
 Hilda ! 
 
102 HYMN TO ST. HILDA. 
 
 Lady ! benighted though we roam 
 Far from our peaceful Western home. 
 
 In exiled toil to mourn,, 
 'Twere sweeter, sure, young life to save, 
 Than but to shriek above the grave 
 
 Of hopes, thy hand had torn, 
 Hilda ! 
 
 Sing, Sprite ! and calm the angry main, 
 Wave thy bright locks, and light again 
 
 Our path, where'er it lead ; 
 Then, Charmer, whom we must obey, 
 Well worship, on our rescued way, 
 
 And bless thee, for its speed, 
 Hilda ! 
 
 [These lines were written for an unpublished Novel, many 
 years before I sailed by Hilda's Isle, in a night of storms.] 
 
DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 103 
 
 DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 
 
 [From the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle, Dec. 14, 1825.] 
 
 I was fortunate enough to be present at a young, ta- 
 lented author's reading of a new tragedy. The story is 
 Roman. Ironicus, from whom, of course, it is named, 
 does, says, and is every thing. Other characters are 
 talked of, that do not appear, and few among the rest 
 are of any importance. There are many scenes of tu- 
 mult and violence, but too long to extract. I transcribe 
 " a bit of quiet business," as boldly original, as exciting 
 and sublime. The whole scene is quite refreshing. It 
 is where Ironicus has rescued Delirius from prison, in 
 order to avenge on the tyrant the murder of Agonistus, 
 his father. By this specimen it will be seen what dra- 
 matist our poet has chosen as his model ; and to what 
 actor he looks for a natural portraiture of his hero. To 
 the reader who bears in mind the voice, countenance, 
 gestures, and manner of the genius for whom it is writ- 
 ten, a perfect feast will be afforded, in the following 
 morceau! — 
 
 Scene III. — Country near Rome. Ironicus, pale and 
 meagrely attired, descends the hill slowly, wrapped in 
 his toga, and in gloomy meditation. Delirius enters, 
 following him. 
 
 Del. Where am I ? 
 Iron. Look. 
 
104 
 
 DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 
 
 Del. Don't fly me, my Ironicus*. 
 
 Iron. Well, well ! I was not going to — {Reassuringly.) 
 
 Del. Am I free ? 
 
 Iron. So — it — seems. (Sneers.) 
 
 Del. Somebody — who ? aye, aye ! some one 
 Has worked hard for me. Was't Ironicus ? 
 
 Iron. Who else ? 
 
 Del. Rome ! father ! thou art now my parentt, 
 My manhood's sire, in giving me a life 
 Far dearer than mere breath. Oh, liberty ! 
 Rome and Ironicus are one. Who else 
 Can be sage, hero, patriot, every thing ? 
 Alone, unlike, above all other men ? 
 Looking the demi-god, and smiling comfort 
 Into all hearts. How much I am obliged to you ! 
 
 Iron. {Frowning, but shaking hands with Delirius^ 
 and still speaking in a low deliberate mamier.) 
 Tut, tut ! go to — let 's have — no more of this j 
 But, fall to business. Will you ? 
 
 Del. Will I not? 
 
 * Romans, as we have been shewn them of late, fly very slowly; 
 never losing the dignity of their carriage, to keep pace with the 
 author's stage directions. To them a rush and a stalk is the 
 same thing. 
 
 •f I was in doubt whether I ought not to omit this speech, as 
 giving too much weight to Delirius ; but I was told that " he 
 might be trusted with the eight lines, as they were all in praise of 
 the hero, who would have looked the description, so perfectly ! " 
 I picque myself on the easy familiarity of the style. 
 
DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 105 
 
 Iron. Welly don't I know you will ? But mind, De- 
 lirius, 
 I'd rather — I had rather a great deal 
 Save — a good many men, than hear one — Thank ye ! 
 Del. Of course you would; but you dont know 
 at all, 
 How very sweet is liberty to me. 
 Just now, particularly, you can't think — ■ 
 I love ! 
 
 Iron. (Rapidly.) What 's that to me ? as if /cared — 
 I mind no more than does — a — little child, 
 Whether you love or no ; save that I 'd rather 
 You did not. 
 
 Del. Horror ! Are you not my friend ? 
 Iron. Are you not — talking nonsense ? you're a fool ! 
 Be quiet ; do as I bid you, Sir, or else 
 Do nothing. Love, indeed ! 
 
 (Stamps, and walks hastily from him, during a long 
 silence, broken only by the agitated breathings of 
 Ironicus.) 
 Del. Ironicus ! 
 
 Iron. (Coming suddenly up close to him, and seizing 
 his arm.) 
 I want a Hater — Was your father murdered*, 
 Or was he not? 
 
 Del. Why, to be sure he was. 
 
 * " / want a Hater," was worth nine rounds of applause. 
 
106 DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 
 
 Iron. Well, very well then ; you can tell me so 
 In the same breath that says — " I am in love!' 
 
 {Imitating him.) 
 Pshaw ! for shame, man ! He was my friend, Delirius— 
 You know that, don't you ? sure you should remember — 
 At any rate / cant forget, if you do. ( Tenderly.) 
 
 My worthy friend ; only my friend, not father — 
 Were / his son — had you my heart — you 'd do 
 Something more to the purpose. But — you — weep ! 
 I'm glad I've made you weep — I like those tears*, 
 Delirius. Come, I am not — angry, boy ; 
 I was just thinking — Oh ! I cannot speak it. 
 
 {Throws himself upon Delirius' s neck, and bursts 
 into tears. A pause.) 
 Come, come ; enough, child. {Resuming familiarity. 
 Come along with me. 
 
 Del. Tho' twere to death, I'd follow thee. 
 
 Iron. Well said ! 
 That's right ; yet no ; let me alone — I'll send thee — 
 I did not think of that — 
 
 Del.Iftyl 
 
 Iron. I wonder 
 If you guess where ; a most wise flight, without 
 That question— yet — yet — you may as well 
 Bide where you are. And say, will Stickius 
 Stick to us, think ye ? 
 
 * These points, simple as they were, must have told well. 
 
DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 107 
 
 Del. Certainly he must ; 
 He can't flinch, when he sees you. 
 
 Iron. Hold your tongue ! 
 What is he at ? no matter. He was after 
 No good here lately ; never mind ! I won't 
 Have any thing to do with him, d'ye hear ? 
 
 Del. Do ! you had better 
 
 Iron. Have I not said No ? * 
 
 Del. Do as you like about it. 
 
 Iron. These are times — 
 Oh, never were such times ! {With solemnity.') 
 
 Del. You may say that. 
 Gods help us ! nor will ever be again. 
 
 Iron. 'Tis no such thing; worse are a-coming. — Stay — 
 To-night — the tyrant falls. — If I can only — 
 If — if — I can but get — thy right and mine — 
 I know a thing or two may serve our turn ! 
 If I can get — the dagger which he used. — 
 
 Del. For what? 
 
 Iron. {Calmly.) To kill thy father with. 
 
 Del. Oh, monstrous ! 
 
 Iron. Look, look ! I see him bleeding, there, before me — 
 Hark ! hush ! I hear his death-cry. Ah, I come y 
 I come, my Agonistus. See ! he dies — 
 I've paid him for thee. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 {Laughs convulsively, and falls into the arms of De- 
 lirius. A long pause. Ironicus, recovering very 
 slowly.) 
 What were we talking of? — Oh ! — now I know. 
 
 * "A hit, a very palpable hit ! " 
 
108 DRAMATIC SPECIMEN. 
 
 Fie to forget it — I would be — the dagger ! 
 Alone, boy. Leave me ! go ! * 
 Del. I wish you well. 
 
 Iron. Wish I may get it ; and all shall be well ! 
 (He rushes out. Delirius, after a gaze of admi- 
 ration, goes off the other way.) 
 
 I left the cast of the play to its Atlas. No doubt he 
 would have found some Delirius, accustomed to be 
 taught, sneered at, patronized,, and wept upon. Some 
 one, perhaps, who (by reminding us of what Romans 
 used to be) would have forced us to bless the improve- 
 ment of public taste ! Several gentlemen would have 
 doubtless volunteered for the part of the Tyrant, on 
 whom Ironicus was nightly to avenge the death of 
 Agonistus. As for Stickius, I believe he would find many 
 an efficient representative, among the walking gentle- 
 men. The Editor, in allowing me a proof-sheet of this 
 scene, fortunately enabled me to correct more than I 
 had anticipated. He having introduced ec a plaid over 
 the toga of Ironicus ;" which I tore off, in my respect 
 for the classic correctness of his intended representa- 
 tive; to whose talents, as well as to the genius of the 
 author I presumed to imitate, I trust I do justice. I 
 can truly say, that I copied what I admired, and jested 
 from the mere overflowing of good will. 
 
 * The mad speech, with its sudden transitions, alike defying 
 punctuation and pianos, would have been ghastly enough to have 
 immortalized any author. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 109 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Those wonders — careless lips have said 
 Their forms no kindred tie betray'd, 
 
 Have dared to pause for choice between 
 The pair,, who both they thus dispraise ; 
 Why wish the Rose the Diamond's rays ? 
 
 Or that such balm the gem's had been ? 
 
 Each had some charm the other shared., 
 Neither could need, nor should have spared 
 
 One of the beauties all his own ; 
 Both peerless in peculiar power 
 Alike majestic did they tower, 
 
 As bright together as alone. 
 
 The twin banks of my native stream* 
 Might strongly thus contrasted seem 
 
 When first they catch the pilgrim's eyes : 
 And yet, in all their varied grace, 
 As in each noble kinsman's face, 
 
 Latent, but true resemblance lies. 
 
 * The Avon, between Clifton Rocks and Leigh Woods. 
 
110 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Those rocks severe are wild and grey, 
 And yet their crystal's rainbow ray 
 
 Melts into gentler awe our dread ; 
 While, here and there, some lovely flower 
 Finds on their steep a smiling bower, 
 
 With gleams of golden moss o'erspread. 
 
 And yon luxuriant wood-crowned hill, 
 With tempting berries, dancing rill, 
 
 Gay deer, and echoed nightingale*, 
 Through all its tangles one tall peak 
 Hath boldly burst, as if to speak 
 
 Alliance with those cliffs so pale. 
 
 As if the lofty rock, its share 
 
 Of vainer wealth, had lavish'd there 
 
 When severed by the antique flood ; 
 Content to shine, without such aid, 
 Or wear what wreaths the breeze conveyed 
 
 In thanks, from that love haunted wood. 
 
 Or — as the graceful forest thought 
 The young and fair its shadows sought 
 
 But thence to view that grander scene ; 
 Which soar'd, all failing change above, 
 While summer storms despoiFd the grove, 
 
 Or winter reft its pomp of green. 
 
 * A park well stocked with deer is sufficiently near to allow me 
 this licence. But rabbits and squirrels " and such small deer " 
 infest the woods abundantly. 
 
THE BROTHERS. Ill 
 
 Thus harmonized in soul and frame, 
 United by one glorious name, 
 
 Those godlike brothers did we see — 
 The pure, the perfect, still endear' d, 
 The soft, the changeful, yet revered — 
 
 As but themselves can ever be ! 
 
112 TWO QUESTIONS. 
 
 TWO QUESTIONS. 
 
 Say, but what spot of earth 
 
 Angel ! so proudly blest, 
 May claim thy beauty's birth ? 
 
 There would thy votary rest ; 
 There like a pilgrim rove, 
 
 Carving thy blessed name, 
 Where through the hallow' d grove 
 
 Thy first steps came. 
 Be it et the farthest shore," 
 
 Frozen or scorch'd, I come ! 
 And, dying there, would love it more 
 
 Than mine own home. 
 Yet as thy birthplace dear must ever be, 
 Light of my life ! each scene once graced by thee. 
 
 Tell me but on what day 
 
 Began thy cherished life ? 
 As one that yet I may 
 
 Shrine from all care and strife ; 
 The very moment name, 
 
 And, if no streamlet cheers 
 My path, thou still may'st claim 
 
 A health in tears ! 
 
TWO QUESTIONS. 113 
 
 Were it through midnight's shower, 
 
 Or lightning's flame, I'd be 
 Abroad — alone — and in that hour 
 Thank Heaven for thee ! 
 Yet every day thy birthday seems, to one 
 Who will "lose count/' when thy dear days are done. 
 
114 EAGLE EYES. 
 
 EAGLE EYES. 
 
 Yes, restless rovers, never tiring, 
 
 Whose charms and power alike surprise, 
 Above your highest prey aspiring, 
 
 Well may we call ye Eagle Eyes ! 
 The imperial bird, his plumes displaying, 
 
 Is conscious when they glow most bright 
 To wondering crowds beneath surveying 
 
 His daring and his dazzling flight ; 
 It is not to be warm'd he towers, 
 
 It is not even for his prey, 
 It is but his own graceful powers 
 
 To sun in the full blaze of day. 
 
 Unlike the tiny skylark, winging 
 
 At earliest dawn the vault of blue, 
 On charmless pinion, soaring — singing— 
 
 As pleased to 'scape from mortal view ; 
 All careless who may gaze or listen, 
 
 She pours her hymn, nor dreams its worth, 
 While purest dews around her glisten, 
 
 She chants to Heaven, and not for earth; 
 Nor more my glances, thine pursuing, 
 
 Heed what the herd may say they mean ; 
 So are my lays, thy glory wooing, 
 
 Most fond while thus I sing unseen ! 
 
 [This piece and the preceding were lost by the Editor of an 
 Annual.] 
 
AN INVITATION TO PERTH. 115 
 
 AX IXVITATIOX TO PERTH. 
 
 Come hither ! hither follow me ! 
 These varied scenes are worthy thee, 
 
 Their charm is like thine own; 
 Grand,, wild, yet placid, pure and gay. 
 Oh come ! and let us rove all day 
 
 Through fair Glen Phaerg alone. 
 
 "Such haunts as these,, for us, possess 
 An echo of strange tenderness,, 
 
 And deep, dim dreams inspire ; 
 Wood crested mountains gem the way, 
 Contrasted by the rocky brae, 
 
 And — " the heather is on fire/* 
 
 Blue dancing waters chase the gloom, 
 The bees hum 'mid the honied broom, 
 
 The birds sing, all things smile, 
 Save that famed, narrow, dark abode, 
 By royal Beautv's penance trod, 
 
 Loch L even's prisoned Isle. 
 
 * As the person invited must have taken the road from Edin- 
 burgh, I pointed out spots of interest by the way, not confining 
 myself to those in Perthshire. 
 
 i 2 
 
116 AN INVITATION TO PERTH. 
 
 Save that St. Johnstoun's very name 
 For purer grief a sigh may claim, 
 
 As we view the Carse of Gowrie ; 
 Yet come ! such tears befit thine eyes 
 As fall for beauty's poisoning price, 
 
 And love, youth's fatal dowry. 
 
 m 
 The softest moss, the stateliest tree, 
 
 For rest or shade 111 find for thee, 
 
 And cull thee berries sweet ; 
 Well watch the ripening corn-fields wave, 
 Or the stream's host their armour lave 
 
 In crystal, at our feet. 
 
 The pastured flocks, like flakes of snow, 
 Shall wanton o'er the downs below, 
 
 Amid the generous kine ; 
 The distant chimes shall soothe thine ear, 
 The swell of infant voices near, 
 
 Seem seraph sounds divine. 
 
 The peasant girls, like queens of yore, 
 Who to the spring their beakers bore, 
 
 Or bathed, or bleach'd the veil — 
 Which seldom shaded fairer limbs 
 Than these young mountaineers', whose hymns 
 
 Float on the fitful gale. 
 
AN INVITATION TO PERTH, 117 
 
 On either Inch as health we. breathe, 
 Kinnoul above, Kinfauns beneath, 
 
 Tempt eyes and steps along; 
 The Grampians, and Dunsinnan' near, 
 Afford me themes thou mak'st more dear 
 
 Than e'en the poet's song. 
 
 Come to the mountains ! come to me I 
 Thy kindred wait to welcome thee, 
 
 , Where happier couldst thou stray ? 
 Come, while the summer's pride is still 
 Enthroned, on forest, lake, and hill, 
 Come to the banks of Tay ! 
 
 The palace turrets, o'er the tide 
 A royal bower for thee provide, 
 
 There be thy smile my boon ! 
 Come, where thy name were welcome ever, 
 And mirror'd by this fairy river 
 
 Come, and be " crown'd at Scone !" 
 
118 NOURMAHAL. 
 
 NOURMAHAL. 
 
 The Favourite of Selim, the wife of Shere Afgun, according to 
 Moore and Planche, possessed neither the claims of virtuous 
 distress, nor those of such birth as I have attached to the 
 name. I must excuse myself for having differed from truth, 
 by confessing that these lines, though supposed to be sung by 
 a lover of hers, were written during the temporary misfor- 
 tunes of an admirable person ; who (in spite of a vast supe- 
 riority in moral beauty) has been justly called " The Light 
 of the Harem." 
 
 Go, Maid of the dark eyes ! I heed thee not now, 
 Tho' sweet be thy young lip, and placid thy brow, 
 Tho' artless the black curls that over it fall — 
 My heart is afar, with the lost Nourmahal ! 
 Fond girl ! for her sake by my coldness forgiven, 
 Thy hues are of bondage, but hers were of heaven. 
 By that blush, if thou lov'st me, Oh league not with 
 
 those 
 Who devotion so aimlessly pure would oppose, 
 But mourn with me, Dove ! o'er the fall of our queen, 
 And think, with sweet awe, what her glories have been. 
 Namouna, the blameless Enchantress, on her 
 Did her own deathless youth, and wild beauty confer; 
 Namouna, who now in grey solitude sighs 
 That she arm'd not 'gainst tears, those so magical eyes ; 
 
NOURMAHAL. ] 19 
 
 But,, if Genius — if Virtue — can wean her from care,, 
 
 In spite of her fate — she shall never despair ! 
 
 The light of the world for my bosom is o'er,, 
 
 The Harem she flies I'll revisit no more, 
 
 Its roses may wither, in exile I roam, 
 
 It pains me no longer, for she was my home. 
 
 She has fled — if for ever ? in secret and woe — 
 
 While I live — the slave of her insolent foe ! 
 
 She moves, like a star, o'er the mountains, alone— 
 
 But my visions still crown her, my soul is her throne ! 
 
 I ask'd those she saved how she suffer'd her lot, 
 
 The cold-hearted ingrates, who pity us not ; 
 
 The lingering zeal of one breast, now appears 
 
 Too great for her merits, her beauty, her tears ; 
 
 But — Fortune may leave her, and Love may forget, 
 
 Here— here she is regal, and reverenced yet ! 
 
 Oh ! she should have shone ever gracious and gay, 
 
 Yet dearer she grows, as her pleasures decay ; 
 
 Why am I not near her, these griefs to beguile ? 
 
 To serve her, to shield her, to die for her smile ? 
 
 Inspire her, Namouna, the slave to recall 
 
 Who bends to no empress but bright Nourmahal ! 
 
 See ! the storm- — hark, I hear, o'er its wailing and rage 
 The voice of her kinsman, the warrior — the sage — 
 I see in the sky, his deep glance glimmer red, 
 Like steel, that reflects back the blood it hath shed ; 
 He comes, in his grandeur, a dark doom to trace 
 For those who have wrong'd the last flower of his race. 
 
120 NOURMAHAL. 
 
 Yea,, those who defy the clear might of that name 
 Which led them to triumphs, all spotless in fame ; 
 Ennobled, enriched, while it purified, all 
 So long held in barbarous slavery's thrall ; 
 The envious, whose treachery dared not to burst 
 On his life, shall, in death, by his spirit be curst ! 
 " Destruction to those who her throne shall profane ! 
 For the light shall flame high in our Harem again ; 
 No longer in peace, never more in her woe, 
 But with vengeance resistless, to banish the foe- 
 Begirt by the hearts who now cherish their truth, 
 Immortal in bliss, as in beauty and youth !" 
 
 Namouna ! that prophet-like vision was sent 
 From thy spirit to mine, and I will be content ; 
 I need no light loves, song or smile to recall, 
 More cheering the memory of fair Nourmahal, 
 E'en exiled for ever if doom'd to adore — 
 Go, Maid of the dark eyes ! I heed thee no more* 
 
 Dublin, -Lent 1827, 
 
INVISIBILITY. 121 
 
 INVISIBILITY. 
 
 [Written under an assumed character.] 
 " Full many a flower is born to blush unseen." 
 
 Honour and glory to the being it invests is mystery. 
 Something better than reality is in our power, while no 
 one, by attempting to realize, destroys the illusion, 
 " The mind's {one) eye" sees at will, and often against 
 its will too, such creatures as the body's pair of eyes 
 will never find. 
 
 It is dangerous for persons who have been long 
 praised or expected, ever to appear. i( I made a lady 
 of mine own/' out of a distant relation ; that is, a first 
 cousin in India — from merely hearing her once described, 
 as <c generous, accomplished, dark-eyed and tall, with 
 the finest teeth in the world." I filled up this outline, 
 with elegance, gentleness, vivacity, and youthful grace, 
 Roses, lilies, ringlets, and perfect features. I fancied 
 the very music of her voice, the style of her attire ; was 
 intimate with her every taste, and had a thousand times, 
 in imagination, pressed her soft, little, shapely white 
 hand. Of every beauty in this class who met my view, 
 I thought — (C She must faintly resemble my transcend- 
 ent cousin." I forgot how few and undefined had been 
 the touches of the original sketch. 
 
122 INVISIBILITY. 
 
 But — She was coming to England ! I should see 
 her at last ! I should know her instantly ! She was 
 my " Yarrow unvisited," and I exclaimed, with the 
 poet, 
 
 And Thou, who didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 Shalt rival, in the light of day, 
 
 Her delicate creation ! 
 
 She arrived, and — I merited the disappointment I 
 met. Though she deserved what had been said of her. 
 She was all that I had heard — but — no more ; or ra- 
 ther, — but what she really is, I forbear to depict. The 
 ideal I had created still haunts me, I admire a cousin 
 who exists not, and, for an arrival which is past, I pine, 
 to this hour. 
 
 My cousin, at first, wondered a little, I believe, why 
 I alone, of all her kindred, did not greet her warmly. 
 / love her now, but — as to forgiving the person who 
 first described her to me, that, as yet, is not quite in 
 my power. All sorts of Unknowns are to me inter- 
 esting. 
 
 Altamont Mortimer de Montmorenci, the hero of 
 " the Heroine/' tells his Cherubima, that once on his 
 reproving " an impertinent apparition, who popped its 
 head over his shoulder, and made faces at him, the 
 ghost looked confused, and adopted Invisibility." But 
 Mr. B , in his " Fetches " has rendered so im- 
 portant (i the spirits who surround us, though we do 
 
INVISIBILITY. 123 
 
 not see them/' that no future phantom need think him- 
 self reducing his own respectability, by allowing his 
 (( winged eye-ball to nutter about " ours, unseen. 
 
 An Irish friend once said to me, (i the only charac- 
 ters in the drama that I ever wished to play, are those 
 who never come upon the stage/' This bull is not a 
 mad bull ; for such there are, from which parts for re- 
 presentation might, as novelties, be written. 
 
 The hero of the iC Grecian Daughter," for instance, 
 Timoleon, is talked of as all that is princely j, vet wise, 
 brave, just, faithful and compassionate. When per- 
 haps had he been brought into the scene, we should re- 
 member him only as some Mr. , of Covent- Garden, 
 
 or Drury-Lane, whom we met in modern English dress, 
 at the Fund Dinner. — Perhaps, on the boards, a home- 
 ly, yet affected pedant, or a lisping gentleman ; a queer 
 little genius, a sturdy (( bow-wow " Stoic, or a whining 
 giant, too handsome to seem tragical in earnest*. 
 
 How much does Bassanio's page gain by never being 
 exposed to the glare of a crowded theatre ! Xerissa, 
 the then heart-whole Xerissa, runs to her mistress, fresh 
 from his presence, and, wild with admiration, protests 
 that— 
 
 A day in April never shone more sweet, 
 To show how costly summer was at hand, 
 Than this fore -spurrer comes before his Lord. 
 
 We see him in the impression he has made ; so much 
 * This was written before the death of Mr. C— — v in America.- 
 
124 INVISIBILITY. 
 
 of gay and sensitive is in that little speech. We be- 
 hold him in his picturesque, yet unpretending attire. 
 He urges on his pampered steed, his cheek is flushed, 
 his eye all flame ; he springs to earth, and, with many 
 a honied, flowery phrase, confides his errand to the 
 first, or comeliest damsel he meets. Almost a child 
 must Nerissa think him, by the freedom of her eulogy, 
 which Portia attributes to kindred affection. Should 
 any one tell you that this picture was meant for Gra- 
 tiano, for Poesie's sweet sake look at the man ! Is he 
 one atom like it ? 
 
 I question whether Shakspeare did not, at first, in- 
 tend this page to turn out one of his magnanimous 
 loving girls ; but, recollecting that all his other fair 
 Venetians were to assume the Pantaloon, (Jessica no 
 longer does so in the acting editions,) he dropped the 
 design, and left but these three lines, to excite the spe- 
 culations of some visionary reader. 
 
 Another person we long, too late and in vain, to have 
 known, is Henry Morland's father, in the " Heir-at- 
 Law," the late Lord Duberly ; " the unseen good old 
 man/' " Stately, but sensitive, the scholar and the 
 man of honour, with ' gentleman ' written legibly on his 
 forehead." No doubt there was room enough for the 
 word in its largest text. Could he have displaced Dan'el 
 Dowlas, instead of his son, who has little merit beyond 
 his filial admiration and regrets, what a fine contrast 
 would have been the two Lords Duberlv ! But the 
 
INVISIBILITY. 125 
 
 contact must have killed the chandler ; and, what had 
 been of far greater importance, it might have discom- 
 posed the peer. " Too soon he died ;" but we have 
 learned enough of him to be enraged with Steadfast, 
 for his not seeing the sad truth at a glance. He must 
 have thought that Henry had treated his parent's cha- 
 racter with ironical levity. Of such a father as the 
 old slopman, such a son could but have spoken, as 
 honest, indulgent, and entertaining; whereas young 
 Morland's portrait of his father could only have been 
 inspired by an original who surpassed it. 
 
 The " Suspicious Husband " boasts no less than 
 three most attractive invisibles, dead and alive, in the 
 one pet, and the two aunts of Mr. John Meggot. The 
 latter " so well-temper' d," that Ranger swears cc they 
 ought not to be old maids." (" To this effect " he 
 swears, but <c after what nourish his nature will.") 
 They are the pensioners of their nephew ; for the house 
 they keep is mentioned as his. They must be lady- 
 like, for our Templar to visit them ; no doubt they talk- 
 ed of him as " a pretty fellow, w T ho ought to marry and 
 reform. " They are no prudes, for they tolerate a run- 
 away bride, in boy's clothes ; and c< entertain her w r ith 
 honour." I can see, by Jacintha's face, how delicately 
 they have re-assured her. " She has married a fine 
 gentleman, and must be happy." " Well — she hopes 
 so — but — better never be a wife at all, than meet such 
 a husband as Mr. Strickland." (c Perhaps, my dear. 
 Heigho ! " 
 
120 INVISIBILITY. 
 
 Why do they not appear at the end ? Once or twice 
 I have fancied that I caught a glimpse of their well- 
 preserved brocades ; but, though ever ready and active 
 in scenes of trial, they shun those of happy love ; per- 
 chance to repeat to each other, " What pity 'twas that 
 the one was so cruel, thirty years ago, to Mr. Frankly's 
 father/' or that " the other had, more recently, persisted 
 in refusing Mr. Ranger's uncle." How they would have 
 cherished the dear departed ! The lost treasure of their 
 eccentric young relative. iC Poor Otho ! " he should not 
 have died, for he was worth a virtuoso's love. Otho was 
 a Roman by adoption. He loved to see his friend Jack's 
 china emulate the ruins of his classic home. Yet it was 
 as " a patron of our own manufactures, 3 ' that he ec gnaw- 
 ed the Spanish leather-shoes, so filthily." In other re- 
 spects he must have been a miniature Chesterfield ; for, 
 when Bellamy, by mistake, demands, cc Who was the 
 gentleman?" Meggot, gratefully adopting the appella- 
 tion as just, replies, with solemnity, " The gentleman, 
 Sir, was my monkey" 
 
 " There is more fooling yet, an' I could remember it.'' 
 A few " modern instances " shall suffice. 
 
 If Miss Mitford's " Julian " be already half forgot- 
 ten, as an acted tragedy, let the reader refer to it as a 
 most purely touching dramatic poem. There is an in- 
 visible ! Constance, the favourite lady of the nobly 
 affectioned Amabelle ; whose husband believes himself 
 a parricide. The Princess listens to his confession ; a 
 gleam of hope breaks on her horrors. She thinks that 
 
INVISIBILITY, 12/ 
 
 Constance said Melfi, the father, has returned. Con- 
 stance, incapable of mistake in such a case, and of mis- 
 representation in any other ; to her Amabelle flies, 
 she sees — speaks with her— though absent from our 
 sight but a minute. 'Tis on Constance that the virtu- 
 ous, distracted Prince calls, in his suspense. She has 
 the power to banish, of to confirm his despair. Ama- 
 belle, detained but for two words, rushes in. " He 
 lives ! " and Julian is given back to self-respect, to rea- 
 son, and to life. 
 
 Descending to the comic trifles of the day, much 
 might be said for Perceval; whose name would be 
 vainly sought in the play-bills of Ci Is He Jealous ? ' ' 
 Belmour, though honourable and empassioned, is a stu- 
 dious mail; too negligent of his pretty bride ; but his 
 " friend Perce val, who knows so well how to unite phi- 
 losophy with amusement/' would have been resistless ! 
 And this is the beau of a gay young wife,, whose hus- 
 band trusts them together abroad, while he shuts him- 
 self in his study, to solve problems. 
 
 Perceval disinterestedly wishes to rouse him to a sense 
 of his danger, yet will permit him no more formidable 
 rival, than a lady in male disguise. A rather intelligent 
 person the Harriet. Of course Perceval married her, at 
 the year's end, did he not, Mr. Beazley ? 
 
 There need but few words, about any of these actors 
 behind the curtain, to awaken a host of pleasant ideas. 
 But — oh, Empress of " Pigeons and Crows ! " Great 
 Unknown of invisible girls ! who dares forget thee, 
 
128 
 
 INVISIBILITY. 
 
 Jingary Rumbum Toddy ? The contested one, — the 
 purchased and promised blessing of Sir Peter Pigwiggin ! 
 An abode is provided worthy of her sable charms, and 
 vast proportions. She arrives ; who but hath panted 
 (while Liston kept up the farce) with expectation to 
 see her enter? Once you hear her struggling foot- 
 steps, and you feel that she is a personage of weight ; 
 but — ah! she comes not, speaks not. I longed to go 
 round, and pay another shilling, but for one minute's 
 interview ; so sure was I, that I raved, with Joanna 
 Baillie's Basil — 
 
 Within the compass of these blessed walls 
 Somewhere she is, altho' for me she is not ! 
 Some other eye doth gaze upon her beauties, 
 Some other ear doth listen to her voice, 
 Some other heart doth revel in the raptures 
 My spiteful stars deny ! 
 
 (I quote from memory.) But soon the curtain fell. 
 Reason and reality resumed their reign, and I could 
 only conclude my rhapsody with the tribute paid by 
 Cowper to the respected consort of u our good old 
 King/' which, at the moment, seemed to me as appli- 
 cable to the Venus of CafFraria — 
 
 " But she is something more than Queen, 
 Who is beloved where never seen ! " 
 
THE ROYALIST MAID's LAMENT, ETC. 129 
 
 THE ROYALIST MAID'S LAMENT, AFTER THE 
 BATTLE OF WORCESTER. 
 
 The final field is fought, and the traitor's cause is won ; 
 Our day is lost for ever, and quench'd in tears our sun ; 
 The Puritans exult, even over the wide sea, 
 Our monarch is a fugitive, the base alone are free. 
 
 My loyalty is treason here, our victors o'er me stand, 
 And dole the dungeon morsel, from the blood-tainted 
 
 hand, 
 Ci Thy king fares even worse than thee," exultingly they 
 
 cry, 
 " The beggar'd, conquer' d, exiled slave, full soon in 
 
 chains to die." 
 
 Aye, Calumny comes fearless forth, and Hate the false- 
 hood heaps, 
 
 And Valour's best failed for the right, yet Heaven's 
 vengeance sleeps, 
 
 Tho' holy beadsmen prayed in vain, and learned pleaders 
 spoke, 
 
 Yet power is the usurper's now, and galling is the yoke. 
 
 There's many a high-born beauty would go kneel be- 
 fore his feet, 
 
 If she could serve her own true prince, pride's sacrifice 
 were sweet ; 
 
 K 
 
130 THE ROYALIST MAID'S LAMENT, 
 
 Forbear, kind maids ! the conqueror regards nor charm 
 
 nor tear, 
 He would but spurn ye, as ye knelt, yet he is ruler 
 
 here. 
 
 Oh ! my own merry England, a dismal change is this ! 
 Whence now will come thy gallantry, thy bounty, and 
 
 thy bliss ? 
 Thou wilt lose thy jewel, and thy hope, of every joy 
 
 the spring; 
 Thy bravest— kindest Gentleman, thy darling and thy 
 
 King! 
 
 The very claims which should defeat all rancour in his 
 
 foes, 
 Provoke the jealous envy that aggravates his woes ; 
 And grief and hate may break the heart, so light, so 
 
 warm and free ; 
 Woe for the dear young scions of that time-honoured 
 
 tree ! 
 
 Woe for the noble, studious James ! for sweet Prince 
 
 Henry's grace, 
 My Master's name and blood shines forth in beauty 
 
 from his face ! 
 Woe for the fair Princesses ! and for all the kindred, 
 
 tied 
 To suffer for their birth, or love, yet in that suffering 
 
 r>rid ! 
 
AFTER THE BATTLE OF WORCESTER. 131 
 
 / dare not even rail, and curse the tyrants, as I groan 
 Beneath their loathsome presence, who hurl'd him from 
 
 the throne, 
 They've torn the sceptre from his hand, they've snapped 
 
 his knightly blade, 
 And they try to tell their craven hearts, they are not 
 
 still afraid. 
 
 But his thought shall haunt the conscience-stung, tho' 
 
 all be lost for him, 
 Tho* worldly want and deadly fear that royal eye may 
 
 dim ; 
 And does no chance — no hope remain ? is all devotion 
 
 fled 
 Save from one powerless heart, which soon will moulder 
 
 with the dead ? 
 
 Where is the rich and trusty race, who once before 
 
 stood forth 
 To prop the almost tottering state of intellect and 
 
 worth ? 
 Come, Mountaineers ! from North to South ! Come Or- 
 
 mond, for thy fame ! 
 Come, Ashley, for thy father's love of that illustrious 
 
 name I 
 
 Come, nobles, 'tis the moment now to rally round our 
 
 king, 
 And form about that centre bright a talismanic ring ! 
 
 k2 
 
132 THE ROYALIST MAID'S LAMENT, 
 
 Plead Faulkland ! add your gold, Fitzharding, Vernon, 
 
 and Buccleucli ! 
 And try what, in a rightful cause, e'en six good hearts 
 
 can do ! 
 
 A woman bids ye forth ; brother — lover — friends — 
 
 farewell ! 
 If ye fall, 'twill be my solace that in his defence ye fell; 
 If ye prove your truth, and find the power his sinking 
 
 soul to cheer, 
 Hands, hearts, and heads, to virtuous fame for ever ye 
 
 are dear. 
 
 Think how he has been nurtured, think what he suffers 
 
 now, 
 Support him in this dreadful hour, with fond chivalrous 
 
 vow *, 
 Oh ! think upon his gentleness, his valour, and his smiles, 
 And fight unto the death, for — the glory of the Isles ! 
 
 Think all upon our late good king, that persecuted 
 
 saint, 
 Who as hero, sage, or husband, praise cannot justly 
 
 paint — 
 Remember how he loved the youth so foully nowop- 
 
 prest, 
 And see his Charles restored in peace, or — with that 
 
 Martvr rest ! 
 
AFTER THE BATTLE OF WORCESTER. 133 
 
 I hope in spite of reason,, no such timely aid is near — 
 For all is lying cruelty, and treacherous malice here — 
 But this shall be a black page in our history for aye, 
 That such demons triumphed over him, if it were but 
 for a day. 
 
 Go, crownless, since it must be so, may foreign lands 
 
 show more 
 Of gratitude, than thou hast met on thine own subject 
 
 shore ! 
 Yea, bear him safely o'er the sea, while the baffled 
 
 bloodhound snarls — 
 Oh Britain ! for thine own sake, no prison for King 
 
 Charles ! 
 
 Now guess my faith, ye hireling pack, and punish while 
 
 ye can; 
 Ye should not have but words and tears to pay, were I 
 
 a man — 
 Were my sword within yon butcher's heart, in mine 
 
 ear his strangled cry — 
 And my name shrined in my Stuart's prayers — how 
 
 happily I'd die ! 
 
 [Whoever chooses to look through a file of the Age Newspaper, 
 will find, under the title of " Protestant Lyrics," a piece which 
 looks so like an imitation of my Lament, that I beg to say I was 
 not its author. The similarity may be a mere coincidence. My 
 MS. had been read but by persons who need not borrow from an 
 inferior. It has since been politely praised by an Editor, who 
 returned it, as " not according with the politics of his work."] 
 
 Dublin, April 1827* 
 
134 THE ROYALIST MAID, TO 
 
 THE ROYALIST MAID, TO CHARLES II. IN EXILE. 
 
 The storm is forth, the midnight hill 
 
 Echoes the thunder crash ; the gloom 
 Is startled at the lightning's will, 
 
 It sears the forest's summer bloom ; 
 What floods descend ! that gust how chill ! 
 
 And he — the lord of Britain's throne, 
 Beset by every varied ill, 
 
 Is braving this dread hour— alone ! 
 
 And must his sole society 
 
 Be Pain, and Toil, Despair and Danger ? 
 Tho' born to homage — luxury — 
 
 No welcome cheers the wand'ring stranger<> 
 Alas ! that one so kind and free 
 
 Should rove benighted — exiled — lone ! 
 While mercenary vassals flee. 
 
 And I — am powerless, far, unknown ! 
 
 I cannot breathe in sheltered bower, 
 
 Cannot return my friend's caress ; 
 Partake who may his happier hour, 
 
 At least I'll share my king's distress ; 
 I give my bare brow to the shower, 
 
 Till shines the crown again on his, 
 And pray, in solitude, that Power 
 
 Who can restore his rightful bliss ! 
 
CHARLES II. IN EXILE. 135 
 
 Yet, dare I count one future year 
 
 While lasts the present's weight of pain ? 
 While for his life I madly fear, 
 
 Can I ask Heaven to bless his reign ? 
 The suffering mortal is more dear 
 
 Than the gay monarch e'er could prove ; 
 Poor Prince ! forgive a woman's tear, 
 
 Whose loyalty hath grown to love. 
 
 Should pomp again thy path bestrew, 
 
 Should might and majesty invest 
 The presence, which I never knew 
 
 But to be more than subject blest — 
 E'en then, Charles Stuart, there will be few 
 
 To worship thee, as I do now, 
 Crush'd by thy fall, and the more true 
 
 Thus privileged to breathe my vow. 
 
 If I should live to see return 
 
 My sovereign, in triumphant peace, 
 My bosom may forget to burn, 
 
 And every wish in duty cease ; 
 Meanwhile, its patient zeal may earn 
 
 The right, to give thee every sigh — 
 Till then, to live of thee I'll learn, 
 
 And then, content thy slave would die ! 
 
13G A CAVALIER SONG. 
 
 A CAVALIER SONG. 
 
 [On the model of one in Sir Walter Scott's " Woodstock."] 
 
 Brother Royalists, come, 
 
 Whose first word was that name, 
 Which 'till Echo be dumb 
 
 Shall be sounded by Fame ! 
 At the oak's highest bough 
 
 Not a traitor now snarls, 
 We may boldly sing now 
 
 " Here's a health to King Charles V* 
 
 The Usurper is gone 
 
 To the Puritan's sphere ; 
 His fierce piety won 
 
 But adherence of fear ; 
 Alone, and victorious, 
 
 In peace comes again 
 Our dear, and our glorious, 
 
 And long may he reign ! 
 
 The glance of his eye 
 
 Not a foe can withstand, 
 Rebellion must fly 
 
 At the wave of his hand ; 
 
A CAVALIER SONG. 137 
 
 Colder duty evince 
 
 All ye Stoics, who can, 
 / honour the Prince, 
 
 But — would die for the Man ! 
 
 Ye wise, and ye grave, 
 
 To his learning submit ; 
 Ye Cavaliers brave,, 
 
 To his valour, and wit ; 
 
 Fair dames ! 'tis your lover, 
 
 Your idol I sing- 
 Drink — " Reform to the Rover — 
 
 But — health to the King !" 
 
 Through his realm, at this hour, 
 
 His subjects among, 
 From cottage to tower, 
 
 In silence or song, 
 That toast is now drinking, 
 
 The homeliest draught 
 Grows nectar, with thinking 
 
 For whom it is quaffed ! 
 
 If 'your fathers to his 
 
 Were as loyal as mine, 
 A deep pledge be this, 
 
 u To the Flower of their line V 
 And may thirst wither up 
 
 The undutiful carls, 
 Who would dare lift a cup 
 
 Without — " Blessings on Charles V 1 
 
138 
 
 TO PLEASUKE. 
 
 TO PLEASURE. 
 
 Pleasure ! young Nature's rightful deity, 
 
 While all pursue thee, 
 Let colder votaries to thy palace flee, 
 
 Where hosts may view thee ; 
 There may thy worshippers their glances waste, 
 
 At distance listen — 
 But there the nectarous draughts their lips would taste 
 
 Mock as they glisten. 
 
 There, richly decked as served, thou smil'st in light, 
 
 Perfume and harmony, 
 Diffusing wit and passion through the night, 
 
 Dazzling, not charming me ! 
 Thy calmer gifts would the pure heart possess 
 
 Lastingly near it ; 
 Where, if I whispered ee this is happiness " — 
 
 But One should hear it. 
 
 Far from the city's strife, at sunset hour, 
 
 Silently seated, 
 My cares might rave without that lonely bower, 
 
 Unheard, defeated ! 
 Nor fame, nor pomp, nor worldly lore should come, 
 
 Nor feigning kisses, 
 Nor courtly vows, within that sylvan home, 
 
 That nest of blisses. 
 
TO PLEASURE. 139 
 
 But one long, changeless gaze., as ne'er to cease^ 
 
 Of love unspoken., 
 'Mid birds, and springs, and flowers, and all that peace 
 
 And truth betoken. 
 All that thou must not — that thou canst not be 
 
 With crowds before thee — 
 There, then, and thus, Pleasure ! thou wert to me, 
 
 Who best adore thee ! 
 
 Wrznbury, Cheshire, July 1827. 
 
140 HENRI AND FLEUItETTE. 
 
 HENRI AND FLEURETTE, 
 
 They shout " Navarre and Victory ! 
 
 Saints bless our conquering King ! 
 Long live the good and great Henri !" 
 
 The honest bigots sing. 
 But, 'neath these trees, or by this stream, 
 
 Well may he turn aside, 
 And yield him to the saddest dream 
 
 That ever moek'd at pride. 
 " Victory ?" 'tis a cheerless word, 
 
 It tells of death and strife — 
 With penances, not " blessings/' stored 
 
 This " long " long wasted " life." 
 " The King, their good and great Henri," 
 
 A mortal sad and frail, 
 Who trembles 'neath this weeping tree, 
 
 Echoing the breeze's wail. 
 My vain regrets become remorse, 
 
 Too late I feel its claim, 
 While memory, with distorting force, 
 
 Turns all the past to shame. 
 The warrior may defy in fight, 
 
 The king, in pomp forget, 
 Yet Henri here must feel thy right, 
 
 Too fond, too fair Fleurette ! 
 
HENRI AND FLEURETTE. 141 
 
 Lout not so low,, ye grey-hair'd sires, 
 
 Ye must remember one 
 Who in his childless age expires — 
 
 By whom — by whom undone ? 
 Lead your loved partners hence, ye youth, 
 
 And bid them ne'er aspire 
 Beyond your free, tho' lowly truth, 
 
 Your passion's sanctioned fire. 
 Tell them the weakness of the great, 
 
 The courtier's wanton wile, 
 Who dares survive the victim's fate 
 
 Slain by that careless smile ! 
 Yet, cost them not so deep a sigh, 
 
 They must remember Her — 
 Who look'd and listen'd but to die— 
 
 And who the murderer ? 
 There is a dim fear on my heart 
 
 Of justice for her doom, 
 The vision of avenging dart, 
 
 Of sudden — bloody tomb ; 
 Tho' frowns be on a queenly brow 
 
 To check this just regret, 
 Thou art mine empress — here — and now — 
 
 Lovely and lost Fleurette ! 
 
 I told her all thy fatal truth, 
 
 And plain' d mine unsought power, 
 E'en she hath wept thy blighted youth, 
 
 And shuns thv willow bower. 
 
142 HENRI AND FLETJRETTE. 
 
 Aye,, shun it all ! I cannot gaze 
 
 On maidhood's joyous charms ; 
 A tint, a tone, a ringlet's maze 
 
 Mine inmost soul alarms. 
 That waning star, that wither'd rose, 
 
 Still haunts, nor here alone, 
 It robs my pillow of repose, 
 
 And hovers o'er my throne. 
 While music shakes the perfumed air, 
 
 And revels cheat the night, 
 With jewelled hosts of flatterers fair, 
 
 Mid dance, and banquet bright, — ■ 
 That gentle phantom, gliding near, 
 
 Bids all Art's splendours fly, 
 What smile so thrilling as her tear ? 
 
 What diamond like her eye ? 
 I quail 'neath that beseeching glance, 
 
 Poor Nature claims her debt, 
 I am — the Lord of lovely France — 
 
 I was — thy Fate, Fleurette ! 
 
 London Weekly Review, January 26, 1828. 
 
NOTE, 143 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The death of a fair young creature, for the love she 
 bore to her gallant, all-triumphant monarch, is a fact 
 recorded by my betters. (Vide (< I/Hermite " — I forget 
 which part, by Messrs. Jay and Joue — and u Knight's 
 Quarterly Magazine.") 
 
 A female friend of mine once discussed " something 
 like to this/' for my edification. The view she gave 
 me of the subject was to me original. I set down the 
 words from her lips, with no decrease of respect, while 
 fancying them the echoes of an Oracle, from whom it 
 were my pride to learn what, how, and how much, 
 young women ought to love ! 
 
 ee All who have hitherto thought Jit to parade this 
 story," said she, " seem to think only of the man's 
 fault, and the woman's misfortune ; now, for my part, 
 I've no pity for her; she was soon out of the mischief 
 she had made ; and ought to have considered herself 
 lucky, in the honour of his notice, while it lasted. 
 There was no harm in it, if she had not made harm of 
 it. Doubtless she began, because it was the fashion to 
 admire the gay and courteous sovereign ; all that was 
 well enough ; but, instead of remaining proud and con- 
 tent, obeying, like a loyal subject, all the laws her king 
 chose to make, change as they mighty the disgusting 
 
144 NOTE. 
 
 idiot must needs get in earnest, make a display of her 
 sensibility, and bring him into trouble ! 'Tis upon re- 
 cord that, lured from his palace by her rvhinings, he 
 was punctual to her assignation ; doubtless doing more 
 harm unintentionally, by scrutinizing every female 
 form which appeared in the distance, expecting it to 
 prove his Inamorata ; and, after giving lessons in the 
 Graces to the swans, while cooling himself under the 
 trees by the water's side, for a couple of hours, he was 
 forced to return home without his errand ; and, with 
 (among other comfortable anticipations) the fear that, 
 though her body had not appeared to him in life, her 
 spirit intended to visit him in death. I hope it never 
 tried — but, if it could not help haunting him a little, 
 he must have been too sensible a fellow to let it much 
 interfere with his foell deserved enjoyments. Yet I 
 can't forgive her for having the impertinence to die. 
 Perhaps knocking up all his little arrangements— -for a 
 week. I dare say the then Gabrielle wished her far- 
 ther ! As if a gentleman, in his situation, had not 
 enough to torment him, without being obliged, for de- 
 cency's sake, to regret a paltry {one) woman, so far 
 beneath him. He, a legitimate king ; with k right di- 
 vine ' over the lives of all his people ; a warrior de- 
 scendant of a martial line, who had slain their thou- 
 sands, in fair fight ! But no, she dies, and all the other 
 fools in the world take her part ; none of them choosing 
 to fancy the annoyance it might have been to the brave 
 and handsome survivor. Girls ought to have more re- 
 
NOTE. 145 
 
 spect for the men, and for each other — more esprit de 
 corps, than thus to put the shy birds on their guard. 
 They are for ever on the look out, after one of these 
 stupid catastrophes, and give themselves airs, where 
 they need not take that trouble ; so that sensible people, 
 like you and I, suffer from the suspicions which c one 
 shabby sheep ' has put into their heads." 
 
 I believe /have done more justice to the gracious king, 
 by the language I gave him in my ballad. If such 
 illustrious souls ever look down on their poor p6ets, may 
 His forgive me for daring thus to remind him of a bu- 
 ried grief, which I will do my best to avoid reviving, in 
 any other way ! 
 
 This ballad (for which I did not even get a num- 
 ber of the Review) was printed contrary to my wishes ; 
 and broken up, to fill a certain space, which greatly im- 
 paired its sense ; but my notes on the subject never could 
 have reached the Gentleman to whom they were ad- 
 dressed. 
 
14G 
 
 MOONSHINE. 
 
 MOONSHINE. 
 
 Why, every bardling bays the moon, 
 
 I ne'er yet fed that whim, 
 But now, my muse shall seek her soon, 
 
 And dream she's going to hymn. 
 Yes, flattered queen, I too must own a 
 
 Fond Luna~cy, for one 
 Who may be daughter of Latona, 
 But looks — more like my sun. 
 My sun, my moon, as I survey 
 
 I get so puzzled thereby, 
 I feel like Kath'rine, in the play, 
 
 And scarce know which I swear by. 
 She shines my lowly sphere the nearest, 
 
 And well may be most dear ; 
 Perhaps I only call him dearest, 
 
 Because he's not so near. 
 Oh! "Lady" (Dian) "of mine own," 
 
 Phoebe, without the buss, 
 Methinks I hear my nE~cat's tone, 
 
 While wand'ring 'neath thee thus. 
 I've seen storms thy ee rich pallor ■' dull, 
 
 Or crescent in thy hair, 
 Or looked up to thee at thy full. 
 In all thy phases fair ! 
 
MOONSHINE. 147 
 
 I've seen,, but at mine eyesight's risk, 
 
 E'en in the misty North, 
 His rising ray, and setting disk, 
 
 A sight ail sights o'erworth ! 
 And, tho' when Sol sports blue and gold, 
 
 Feathered with snow-white grace, 
 Or rosy clouds about him rolled, 
 
 I can't look in his face, 
 I know enough of it to feel, 
 
 Tho' thine's a darker heaven, 
 It ne'er the likeness can conceal 
 To which my vows are given. 
 When upon speaking terms ye lived, 
 
 Ere he on thee turned back, 
 He lent that light, which hath survived, 
 
 Thou follow'st still his track. 
 Great Jove had twin'd your forms above, 
 
 And, while Apollo taught thee, 
 Among the Muses, Graces, Love 
 
 The zone of Venus brought thee. 
 The god himself had learnt of Mars, 
 
 Of Pallas, and of Juno— 
 And every art with which he wars 
 
 On us below, you too know. 
 Look in thy fellow-mirror there, 
 Yon stream, 'twill not resemble 
 Thee more, in its reflection fair, 
 
 Than thou— him — save 'twill tremble. 
 
 l2 
 
148 MOONSHINE. 
 
 Thou soar'st unshaken, clustering 
 
 The black clouds o'er that wonder 
 Thy brow, all stars out-lustering — 
 
 Now — " shall it rain, or thunder ? " 
 There s my high noon ! thou'st caught it quite ! 
 
 No difference 'twixt ye lays, 
 Save, that thou chastely charm'st my night, 
 
 While he consumes my days. 
 His fire turns night to day, yet sears 
 
 My leaves, from Daphne's tree, 
 He may make rainbows of my tears, 
 
 But my love halos thee. 
 I cannot meet his eye severe, 
 
 Nor must this song confront it, 
 My meaning keep, e'en from thy deer — 
 
 Thou wilt not need to hunt it. 
 Then, Lady bright ! my lay receive, 
 
 And shade its secret sweet, 
 Thoughts breathed to the mild ear of Eve 
 
 No echo should repeat. 
 Mine brave not — brook not— fiercer test 
 
 From u Phcebus — wand'ring wight" — 
 What hearts say in the dark, 'twere best 
 
 Never to bring to light ! 
 Long may my lights shine forth serene, 
 
 And rule each hostile tide, 
 Still bright, as they have ever been, 
 
 As none e'er were beside! 
 
FROM AN INDIAN ANECDOTE. 149 
 
 FROM AX INDIAN ANECDOTE. 
 
 [A Native Slave, in one of our eastern colonies, named Suffer, 
 spoke somewhat to this effect, when dying, and offered wine 
 by his European master,] 
 
 Nay, tempt not with forbidden wine 
 
 Thy dying slave ! who hath, till now, 
 Withstood, from all, that draught divine, 
 
 Nor, e'en for thee, would break the vow ; 
 Away ! 'tis writ, that ye, below 
 
 Who steal anticipated heaven, 
 Our Paradise can never know — 
 
 And must thou perish unforgiven ? 
 
 Shall we two part eternally, 
 
 When death removes me from thine eye ? 
 Where'er thou art, I ought to be — 
 
 Can wine dissolve so firm a tie ? 
 No ! sure that sea of joy inspires 
 
 The liberty I ne'er possess'd; 
 My gracious master but desires 
 
 To make me also free and blest \ 
 
 'Tis not the thirst 'neath which I waste, 
 'Tis not the perfume, nor the hue, 
 
 Nor all my dreams of that rich taste, 
 Can bid me prove if they be true ! 
 
150 FROM AN INDIAN ANECDOTE. 
 
 I've been besought by love and wit, 
 Forbearance never cost a tear, 
 
 But now — 'tis thy hand offers it, 
 
 And poison from that hand were dear ! 
 
 Give me the wine ! each failing sense 
 
 Shall pledge thee with a convert's zeal; 
 Thus let me share thy sweet offence, 
 
 And blend me with thy woe or weal. 
 Give me the wine ! and welcome be 
 
 The doom, whose justice still I doubt— 
 Content in any world with thee, 
 
 Whom Paradise were dark without I 
 
 Athen^um, January 1828, 
 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. 151 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. 
 
 This is the season at which,, it is said., that no per- 
 sonage of fashion would voluntarily visit London. I 
 dispute this sweeping assertion ; I deprecate this de- 
 preciating style. A potentate, who will soon make 
 himself fashionable with all parties, and impose his own 
 modes upon all ranks, is now taking his annual tour 
 through the island, to pay us " the compliments of the 
 season" ; yet, though long, well, and universally known, 
 how few prepare/or or against him. Still is he treated 
 w T ith levity and contempt ; first braved and then neg- 
 lected; nor shunned in time, nor entertained in a style 
 which might appease his exactions and expedite his de- 
 parture. Still must his apparently unostentatious, 
 " but-not-the-less-on-that- account" formidable name, be 
 prefixed by an inconsequent (< Only !" Beware, for 
 swift and ample are his powers of vengeance ! But, 
 though arbitrary enough himself, he is the least consi- 
 derable member of an extensive family, one or other of 
 whom ever reigns supreme over some region of the tor- 
 rid zone, extending his dominions by occasional incur- 
 sions even on more temperate climes. 
 
 They all prefer the populous city to the quiet village, 
 and mix most freely in the irregular excesses of the 
 great ; though they sometimes intrude on the sober re- 
 
152 THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. 
 
 creations of the industrious, levying their taxes without 
 respect for sex or age ; nor did the protracted vigils of 
 the student ever defeat their grasping aims. Science 
 and philanthropy have been alike their victims ; yet 
 they patronize theology, physic, monumental sculpture, 
 and sacred architecture ; while conflagration and blood- 
 shed follow in their train. Polygamy is the privilege 
 of this increasing race, who lawlessly marry with their 
 own nearest relations. Sometimes one of them enjoys 
 the greatest share of fatal popularity ; anon, others 
 make head against his might and fame, eclipsing his 
 achievements, by mowing down whole armies, and de- 
 vastating worlds; and yet you will see them, lolling and 
 languishing at the gayest Spas and Bathing Places, as 
 if nothing had happened. The same individual of this 
 family is re- christened, about once in seven years, by 
 some one of his most celebrated discoverers, adversaries, 
 or dependants, and gives himself fresh airs, on succeed- 
 ing to a new title. 
 
 Many persons of rank affectedly pretend to the inti- 
 macy of these expensive and dangerous connections; 
 but those who have really suffered the infliction of their 
 presence are always eager to rid themselves of it, though 
 they never forget to describe the visit minutely. 
 
 Frequently, if the younger brother (my present 
 theme) has quartered himself on any house where he 
 was sure to be well taken care of, his kindred, who cer- 
 tainly are never half so gently dealt withal, will drop 
 in, with envying curiosity, perhaps to dethrone him. 
 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. 153 
 
 and reign in his place. Each of his brethren have, in 
 turn, made him their gentleman-usher ; one might, by 
 comparison with them, otherwise overrate him. As a 
 passport into certain society, the most redoubtable of 
 them will assume his title ; so that he is censured for 
 all their trespasses, till the actual tyrant's name and 
 nature can be no longer mistaken. Nor is he the scape- 
 goat of his own family solely. To him do jealous hus- 
 bands attribute their headaches. The tender maid 
 lays on him the blame of her red and swollen lids ; i.i- 
 viting him, indeed, by wasted nights and moonlight 
 rambles, to render her accusation just. I consider him 
 as an enemy, yet I will neither conceal his wrongs, nor 
 his redeeming qualities ; but disarm his threatening 
 mood, if possible, by impartiality. If I underrate my 
 foe, where were my glory in his conquest or extermi- 
 nation ? 
 
 In fear of him, will the coquette sometimes veil her 
 charms in the theatre or ball-room, two darling haunts 
 of his. In the former, he obligingly shelters from the 
 charge of u can sing, and won't sing," the jealous vo- 
 calist, who would rather be hacked in any way than the 
 obnoxious one of duty. 
 
 He has been caught in church ; but, I fear, is re- 
 ported to attend divine service more regularly than 
 truth can warrant, by those who want a pretext for 
 staying away. Like Raleigh, his wandering experience 
 renders him an able guide to the New World; Kke 
 Raleigh too, he kneels on the damp earth, to kiss the 
 
154 THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. 
 
 fragile slipper of beauty, and sighs through key-holes 
 on her more confiding hours, 
 
 He bestows a cherubimic charm on sunken cheeks, 
 and " the jmrple light " on at least one feature of the 
 most pallid face. How often hath he deafened the ear 
 of the eaves-dropper, racked the bones of the miser, 
 taken the edge from the tooth of the epicure, and 
 stolen away sound from the tongue of the termagant. 
 Forth fares he with the ill clad beggar, lending his 
 sighs and tears to all ! So fast and far he travels, that 
 he has been met by Parry in the Polar Seas, but a few 
 days after we had heard of his safe arrival in St. Pe~ 
 tersburgh. Surely he must ride on the clouds, he is 
 often reported, indeed, to be " in the air." 
 
 Although the spring-tide cannot always relax the 
 activity of this ec hero of the North" yet, like a true 
 painter, as I have proved him, autumn and winter are 
 his favourite periods of peregrination. Like the red- 
 breast he C( comes mid frost and flood," through fogs and 
 storms, "through guards and dunnest nighty Were 
 he not here already (as he is, though, in some parts of 
 the world he for awhile preserves his incognito) the wind 
 is fair, Ci and fair hfoul" for bringing him amongst us. 
 
 Then do not meet him frigidly ! look sharp, or he 
 will make you look blue. Catching him is not the 
 likeliest way of bringing him to an end ; for, when he 
 is taken, you will be his prisoner, and have quartered 
 on you the most idle and troublesome inmate that ever 
 pestered a sober family. 
 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. loo 
 
 He steals to your very couch ; roars in your ears ; 
 shakes you, as by an earthquake's shock ; or wounds 
 your lip by his unwelcome kiss. In his presence the 
 costliest viands are tasteless, and the Persian attar can 
 remind your clouded sense of the sweet rose no more. 
 
 Yet are his longings most luxurious. Let the wine- 
 wheys inspire his melting moments ; and caudle, such 
 as youthful matrons fancy when they wake, sustain his 
 languid hours. Bid the bees yield their aromatic stores ; 
 the starving birds, though hoarse themselves, shall spare 
 for him the scarlet hip, and the hart bark his horn for 
 jellies, while careful hens lay eggs more full and fresh 
 than usual, for his flip. Nay, for him must the globe 
 be compassed for spices^ gums, oils, limes, and con- 
 serves ; the genial ginger, and the tickling tamarind ! 
 Let Theban poppies rain composing influences, and the 
 Athenian squill as classically soothe his irritated nerves ! 
 Let the cane lend its sugar and its rum; for dear is 
 the sanctioned inebriety, the enjoined indolence to him; 
 the regal bath his only exercise. <( Is this a time to 
 talk of work ? " No ! reading were Herculean labour, 
 and the task of guiding the supererogatory pinch to his 
 distended nostrils, an effort (i not to be sneezed at." Pile 
 on the snowy lamb's wool, the consoling cotton, and let 
 the saccharine cinders, in shining pan, glide hot but 
 hurtless o'er the downy bed ! There, screened and 
 curtained, may he lie all day; for who would show 
 themselves abroad with such a companion? For him, 
 indeed, " the blazing hearth shall burn," nor must 
 
156 THE ILLUSTRIOUS TRAVELLER. 
 
 et the winds of Heaven visit his face/' though ne'er so 
 gently. 
 
 The only boundless lawn he wishes, were of that 
 kind which returns from the laundress ; which scarce 
 could prove too vast for his desires, while he bids 
 you sound the trumpet to his praise. When you have 
 laid your offerings on his shrine, expect no higher re- 
 ward than his departure, and gratefully anticipate your 
 return to freedom, activity, and substantial fare. De- 
 mand his thanks, and he will cough you down. Weep 
 your involuntary tears, rail till your throat is sore, his 
 phlegmatic obstinacy will remain unmoved, for he is of 
 a stiff-necked generation. — " Tom' s-a- Cold !" 
 
 The Athenaeum, February 22, 1828. 
 
 Note. — I have great pleasure in mentioning the gentlemanly 
 attention of Mr. Buckingham. His Paper was devoted to 
 higher matter than I could cope withal ; in dismissing my slight 
 services, however, he not only remunerated them liberally, but 
 cheered me by his praise and recommendation, though I was per- 
 sonally unknown to him, till my correspondence with his Work 
 was at an end, when he honoured me by a visit, for which I 
 shall ever feel grateful. 
 
TWO ARMS, TWO ARMS \" 157 
 
 " TWO ARMS, TWO ARMS ! " 
 
 That is a lovely arm, which twines 
 
 In graceful fondness round thy neck ; 
 How dimpled, round, and white it shines, 
 
 While gold and gems its beauties deck ! 
 Its rich hued veins appear most fit 
 
 To glow in pleasure's languid air — 
 And yet — I do not envy it, 
 
 Nor arm of any living fair ! 
 
 I'm jealous of what now is dust,* 
 
 The young arm perilled loyally 
 To save its king, that sacred trust ! 
 
 This is too full, too soft for me ! 
 " The Lady of the Bleeding Heart " 
 
 To her royal Mistress pledged her hand, 
 A blameless service was her part — 
 
 Moves this but at thy Queen's command ? 
 
 This could not bar the invaded door, 
 To keep the murderers at bay ; 
 
 Methinks mine own, tho' pale and poor, 
 Hath more of Catherine Douglas' clay. 
 
 * Vide " Spaewife." 
 
158 " TWO ARMS, TWO ARMS ! " 
 
 It ne'er can thy caress deserve, 
 
 Its fragile form thou ne'er wilt see ; 
 
 But they should rend it, bone and nerve, 
 Ere they should " hurt a hair of thee ! ; 
 
THE TROCHILOS AND THE CROCODILE. 159 
 
 THE TROCHILOS AND THE CROCODILE. 
 
 Blame not my zeal;, altho' ye call 
 
 Its object " cruel, false, and vain " ; 
 Some sympathy awaits us all, 
 
 E'en Nero's death gave one heart pain, * 
 Nay, I am not so mere a ninny 
 
 But I can prop mine own cause — thus, 
 Can cite the Stagyrite, and Pliny, 
 
 Or bid you hear Herodotus !t 
 They prove that Heaven plants instincts pure 
 
 And merciful, for some wise end ; 
 Owe bird Nile's monster can endure, 
 
 The Crocodile hath still a friend. 
 The little Plover yet doth dare 
 
 E'en in his throat to assert her right, 
 Spite of his teeth, which kindly spare 
 
 The servant, they'd scarce find one bite. 
 
 * For this information I am indebted to Lord Byron. 
 
 •f These hard names I found in the Bath and Cheltenham 
 Gazette. I have not the honour of any further acquaintance 
 with the gentlemen I quote ; but knowing nothing of Natural 
 History I take their words. They assert that the Trochilos, a 
 kind of Plover, acts as tooth-pick to the Crocodile, devouring the 
 troublesome insects, who, when his mouth looks a jar. fancy that 
 they shall find sweets within it. 
 
160 THE TROCHILOS AND THE CROCODILE. 
 
 She enters, to destroy his foes, 
 
 To pearly peril joyous flies, 
 How strange, that creatures great as those 
 
 Should e'er be saved by atomies ! 
 " Seeking the bubble reputation 
 
 E'en in the " Crocodile's (C mouth," so ! 
 How can he keep from mastication ? 
 
 Perhaps he don't like Poultry tho\ 
 Did some one of his favourite prey 
 
 Venture, tho' ne'er so kindly bold, it 
 Might find it hard to get away — • 
 
 Once in his jaw — d'ye think he'd hold it ? 
 His watering mouth would pour persuasions 
 
 To treat it with a little bite, 
 Then, having tears for all occasions, 
 
 He could weep back his appetite ; 
 Sigh o'er the life he had destroyed, 
 
 Then lick his lips, and wipe his eyes, 
 Rememb'ring what he had enjoy'd, 
 
 And ready for another prize ! 
 The bird unsparing feasts away, 
 
 'Midst all the dangers I have sung, 
 She earns her safety and her pay 
 
 Taking the sting from such a tongue. 
 Could I, ye hostile gnats make skip, 
 
 (Would pecking at ye ne'er cost me loss) 
 By merely — tasting that sweet lip, 
 
 It were brave sport to act Trochilos ! 
 
ON AN EXPRESSION. ETC. 161 
 
 ON AN EXPRESSION IN MY JOURNAL FOR 1821. 
 
 'Tis sweet, by memory's light divine, 
 
 To trace how love began, 
 But Truth hath scarce a date for mine, 
 
 For through my life it ran. 
 Woven, by slow degrees, appears 
 
 With all — through all — its hue, 
 Thy name had reigned for happy years 
 
 Ere I thy features knew. 
 They told me I should dote on thee, 
 
 Thy kindred read my doom, 
 I laughed aside the prophecy, 
 
 To i( tempt the dangerous " bloom ; 
 But tho' I dream of thee alone, 
 
 I less admire thee now, 
 Than when, my thoughts but half thine own, 
 
 I pledged my first, stolen vow. 
 'Twas in my noon of life ; and He 
 
 Who shed hope's sunlight there, 
 Was young, free, fond, and like to thee— 
 
 I need not say how fair ! 
 Thine earnest brow, thy lip of balm, 
 
 But not thy purer dyes, 
 No, not thy grandeur, nor thy calm, 
 
 Nor those heaven tinted eyes. 
 
 M 
 
162 ON AN EXPRESSION IN 
 
 Thine angel beauty was to me 
 
 A sweet and holy shrine,, 
 And every tone I caught from thee 
 
 Seemed sacredly divine. 
 It mattered not of wit or ~ woe, 
 
 Worth, courage, love, the token — 
 Each word, each accent, thrilled me so 
 
 That judgment's sword was broken. 
 One eve, I left my lilied vale, 
 
 What years have past since those ! 
 To hear thee left my nightingale, 
 
 To see thee left my rose. 
 'Twas then extorted (owed thee now) 
 
 My blessing hailed each wile, 
 'Twas then I swore thee my first vow, 
 
 <c By the mystery of thy smile ! * 
 For recent tears had softened down 
 
 Thy gay, light glance of love, 
 And duty, like a heavy crown, 
 
 Shone awefully above ; 
 Thou didst surmount the faults of youth, 
 
 And bend, with deep regard, 
 Before the voice of aged Truth, 
 
 Its candour to reward. 
 It promised virtuous joys. Oh how 
 
 Were its calm w r ords received ! 
 A volume blazoned on thy brow, 
 
 I read it, and believed I 
 
MY JOURNAL FOR 1821. 163 
 
 Thine aimless love, thy conscious charms, 
 
 Thine arch, yet modest air, 
 The tender wish, that half disarms 
 
 Past grief, and coming care — 
 The deprecating frown, the tear 
 
 So shrinkingly that met 
 Nature's sweet hope, than pride more dear, 
 
 More deep than thy regret. 
 If ever Prophet, Prince, and Friend, 
 
 Preserver, Parent, Son, 
 Could, in one glance, their spirits blend 
 
 In that sweet mood 'twas done ! 
 If e'er, forgiving and forgiven, 
 
 Saints, still on earth, still men, 
 Divide their dreams 'twixt love and heaven, 
 
 They look as thou didst then ! 
 'Twas but an instant, but it lives 
 
 Alone ; no words can tell 
 The cherished pain it gave, and gives — 
 
 As memory wakes the spell. 
 He asked some pledge — that gentle youth— 
 
 Which never could beguile, 
 And I vow'd to him eternal truth 
 
 " By the Mystery of Thy smile ! " 
 
 m2 
 
164 LETTER FROM MR. GREEN'S HIGHFLYER, 
 
 LETTER FROM MR. GREEN'S HIGHFLYER, TO HIS 
 AUNT. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Mare., you wish you knew 
 
 How I enjoyed my situation, 
 And if I, like my betters, grew 
 
 Resigned, to unsought exaltation ? 
 Therefore, as Pegasus might bend 
 
 To pour instruction from on high, 
 111 teach my ruder Shetland friend, 
 
 The wonders I have learnt in Sky. 
 I thought it a strange way to roam, 
 
 Said " nay" to avert the threaten'd danger, 
 In leaving my affairs at home 
 
 So literally e< at rack and manger." 
 The day was hot. I " burst," Alas ! 
 
 " Into moist anguish," 'neath its beam — 
 My master owed his soar to Gas— 
 
 I, sorer, went aloft by steam ! 
 A thousand gazers envied me ; 
 
 One lame old hack, I chanced to spy her — 
 And sighed, ec Far rather would I be 
 
 Yon slave, than the renown'd Highflyer ! " 
 I never looked down with contempt 
 
 On those whose fates their natures suiting, 
 From my aspiring cares exempt, 
 
 Kept their pride on a stable footing. 
 
TO HIS AUNT. 165 
 
 Green read "the Ayrshire Leg-at-ees" — 
 
 I wished my legs, in air, more easy — 
 So little through the mist one sees 
 
 I've not much to describe, and please ye. 
 For Sol was driving teams of dun 
 
 And grey clouds, not more fleet than we — 
 I could not run away with one 
 
 Thus forced to fly away with me. 
 Drawn in a car I did not draw 
 
 It still consoled mine anxious pain, 
 Bit in my mouth, beans in my maw, 
 
 To feel, for once, above the rain. 
 I filled myself, as Green had filled 
 
 Our horse balloon, to make it lighter — 
 And, fast as he his ballast spilled, 
 
 I crammed and packed in mine the tighter. 
 I ne'er had gone so many miles 
 
 Without once laying leg to ground, 
 Nor e'er got o'er hills, fences, stiles, 
 
 And bound'ries, without leap or bound. 
 We sunk. Green on my back, on his 
 
 The globe celestial — but for me 
 I snuffed the grass, with homefelt bliss, 
 
 And when I got down, so did he. 
 And now I am as much caressed, 
 
 Admired with as much foolish wonder, 
 As if I had one wish expressed 
 
 To keep, as 'twere, the whole world under. 
 
166 LETTER, ETC. 
 
 As Green his kindred hath embraced, 
 
 I need not, my poor friends, disown ye, 
 He was not the first man so placed, 
 
 Tho' I, it seems, am the first pony ! 
 Give me the low pursuits of earth, 
 
 Its whips and spurs be all forgiven— 
 So let me die where I had birth, 
 
 For— why should horses go to heaven ? 
 
WRITTEN AFTER ONE DEFEAT, ETC. 167 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER ONE DEFEAT, AND JUST 
 BEFORE ANOTHER. 
 
 A gloom had embittered each sense,, 
 I drooped in my ling' ring suspense,, 
 I braved not the light of thy grace, 
 For my sentence was read in that face. 
 
 Yes, the hope so long nourish.' d was lost, 
 And its path with fresh shadows o'ercrost, 
 The pride of my duties was o'er, 
 And I feared I could love them no more. 
 
 E'en innocence dreaded to rove 
 Unsupported, unsoothed by that love, 
 My aims were all scatter'd and wide, 
 As Thou, not thy kindness, had died. 
 
 The strength of my virtue seem'd gone, 
 My visions were joyless and lone ; 
 I admired, but the memory was cold, 
 My heart felt for ever grown old ! 
 
 But Friendship descends, like a balm, 
 My stung soul to chasten and calm, 
 And all that deserved to survive, 
 Is thrillingly, freshly alive ! 
 
168 WRITTEN AFTER ONE DEFEAT, 
 
 Again o'er my life's dancing tide 
 
 The bark of thy triumph shall glide, 
 
 Thy Planet shall rule every wave, 
 
 And thy Halcyon voice sing o'er my grave ! 
 
 Ah fool ! to have wander' d so long 
 From the bower of enchantment and song ! 
 Since the days of my danger are past 
 Why should I not love to the last ? 
 
 The fair ones who waken'd thy sighs 
 May behold with indifferent eyes, 
 Attribute their fault to thy change — 
 But I — why and where should I range r 
 
 Dispose of my cause as it will 
 That mind is my happiness still, 
 While we live I can never forget, 
 Thou art all thou shouldst be to me yet. 
 
 If a blush, if a tremor, a tear, 
 Remain, to assert thee too dear — 
 For thy perils, thy wrongs, and thy woes — 
 And not from mine own it arose. 
 
 If the glory, the grace of thy smile 
 Cannot always my sorrows beguile, 
 'Tis because thou by foes art beset, 
 Who force thee thy friends to forget, 
 
AND JUST BEFORE ANOTHER. 169 
 
 I ask thee for succour — not now; 
 
 'Tis mine my devotion to vow, 
 
 To serve and to solace thy line, 
 
 To be thank' d by the hearts that are thine ! 
 
 And those of thy blood and thy name 
 May bless me, for pleasure and fame, 
 For the debt which seems sweetest to me, 
 The rapture of gazing on thee. 
 
 Can poverty banish the power 
 My words have to gladden their bower ? 
 If thine image lends force to my zeal, 
 Can they wish me less warmly to feel? 
 
 I have looked for some mutual friend, 
 Our interests, our duties, to blend, 
 To tell thee thy bidding was done — 
 But none were found worthy, not one. 
 
 She must be refined, as sincere, 
 To him — to me — worthily dear, 
 Chaste, noble, no cause must he see 
 In my friend to deem lightly of me. 
 
 She comes, with thy voice and thy brow ! 
 She loves us, she prays for us now ! 
 For my cares 'twere a guerdon too sweet 
 To behold your pure kiss, as ye meet. 
 
170 WRITTEN AFTER ONE DEFEAT, ET€. 
 
 Yes, under this roof re-unite, 
 And let my soul bask in the sight, 
 Bring them all to record my firm vow, 
 I've still loved them, I fear them not nowi 
 
 Let the sanction of innocence bless 
 
 The changeless reform I profess ; 
 
 Far dearer its praises to me, 
 
 Than the love of young Freedom could be 1 
 
 Away with all selfish regret ! 
 Thy triumph may crown me e'en yet, 
 In the chance of thus dying thy friend, 
 Pride, virtue, and happiness blend. 
 
 While I owe thee the fire which relumed 
 My faith, so long darkly entombed, 
 Raised my spirit o'er vice and despair, 
 Can I cease to name Thee in my prayer? ■ 
 
 Let us all, as one family kneel, 
 To the God who now deigns to reveal 
 This truth, that such earthly ties riven, 
 We yet shall claim kindred in heaven ! 
 
 London, July 1828. 
 
PARODY ON BURNs's EPITAPH ON MATTHEW. 171 
 
 PARODY ON BURNS'S EPITAPH ON MATTHEW, 
 
 Stop,, Passenger ! if out of place 
 
 Thou deem'st the lily rare,, man, 
 Except on female beauty's face, 
 
 For — is &fair man. 
 
 If thou insist that prettiness 
 
 On such soft charms must fall, man, 
 He's pretty, as a giantess, 
 
 For — is a tall man. 
 
 Yet dread not his o'ershadowing size 
 
 Atoned by kind conceit, man, 
 By kissing lips and cordial eyes, 
 
 For is a sweet man. 
 
 Yet brave and stern his thoughtful way, 
 
 When honour's task's in hand, man, 
 With lordly air, and rich array, 
 
 For is a grand man. 
 
 If natural humour warm thy breast, 
 
 Or wit's arch wanton play, man, 
 His every dimple beds a jest, 
 
 For ■ is a gay man. 
 
 If learning's depth and subtlety, 
 
 Or taste refined thou prize, man, 
 Here lives a soul vast, polish'd, high— 
 
 F or ^ . is a wise man. 
 
]72 PARODY ON BURNS'S EPITAPH ON MATTHEW. 
 
 But should sad winning meekness please 
 
 All wordly lore beyond, man, 
 His manner all thy heart shall seize, 
 
 For ■ is a fond man. 
 
 If Fair, Sweet, Grand, Gay, Wise, Fond, Tall, 
 
 Thy judgment hath withstood, man — 
 I'll add one claim o'erworth them all, 
 
 For is a good man ! 
 
 Note. — I leave a blank, which any Lady may fill with the 
 name she thinks most deserving of my praise. Let her take the 
 consequences ! 
 
TO MY CONFIDANTE. 173 
 
 > TO MY CONFIDANTE. 
 
 Blame my love,, you blame my nature— 
 
 'Tis myself, my bloody my breath, 
 Or a scorned, but vital feature, 
 
 Which to lose would be my death. 
 Were it a long nail, or loose tooth, 
 
 Could you with more coolness scoff? 
 ( You but prize, because your'e used to't, 
 
 Pull it out, or cut it off ! 
 Throw it by ! " The advice as odd is 
 
 As you bade me hang or drown ; 
 'Tis my heart, and not my boddice ; 
 
 Dare I break what's not my o?v?i? 
 'Tis my mind ; I cannot change it, 
 
 Mind and gown I have but one ; 
 'Tis my shadow; how estrange it 
 
 While I'm sitting in the Sun ? 
 'Tis my hope, my consolation, 
 
 Not my sorrow, nor my crime, 
 Built, perhaps, on frail foundation, 
 
 But lfeel 'twill last my time. 
 Love and all you must endure me, 
 
 'Tis my head, and not a wig — 
 You must hill before you cure me, 
 
 As you'd serve a Bacon Pig. 
 
174 " HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES.' 1 
 
 "HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES." 
 
 Beautiful eyes ! that scorn'd to be 
 The brightest gems of earth for me, 
 Shine out, in smiling ease once more — 
 *Tis not your light I now adore ! 
 
 Exquisite lips ! who learn't to sneer 
 In deeming ye were grown too dear, 
 In rosy balm I pray ye rest — 
 For I no longer love ye best ! 
 
 Delicate form, which shrunk away 
 
 Lest thou my flutt'ring pulse shouldst sway, 
 
 Stand forth in all thy pride again, 
 
 For I defy thy charms to pain ! 
 
 Wonderful mind ! nor grieve nor fear 
 To trust thy thoughts to my dull ear, 
 Thou art not dangerous — awake ! 
 Thou'rt rivalled, unlearn that mistake ! 
 
 'Tis true I wasted some slight praise, 
 But that was in my grovelling days, 
 Ere yet more glorious themes I knew — 
 More faultless ones, bright toys ! than you. 
 
a HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES." 175 
 
 My soul, by her new wealth surprised, 
 Is so divinely fertilized, 
 Such gay weeds — washed out by the roots 
 Must yield the soil, to grateful fruits. 
 
 The tears, by pitying virtue shed 
 Over the envied, lowly dead, 
 These living pearls I dearer prize 
 Than ye, fair, famed, triumphant eyes ! 
 
 The pious words, pour'd to relieve 
 Widows and orphans as they grieve, — - 
 Ye shapely, tuneful lips, excel 
 Your eloquent impassioned spell ! 
 
 The charitable haste— the deeds 
 Of one whose form no graces needs, 
 Appear to me more grandly fair 
 Bright figure, than thj lordly air ! 
 
 The silent phrenzy, that in vain 
 Such angel cares would wake again 
 The life of humble worth, to me 
 Sweet wit, is far more dear than thee f 
 
 Whose eyes thus wept ? whose lips thus sighed? 
 Whose acts — whose heart is now my pride ? 
 His whose all-perfect charms, now move 
 But for the worth they shrine, my love! 
 
176 " HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES." 
 
 Most lovely kind, most heav'nly brave, 
 Most wisely bounteous ! thou canst save 
 Thou sav'st from folly and from woe, 
 A life — renew'd with purer glow ! 
 
 Thy soul half weans me from thy face, 
 Thy goodness far transcends thy grace, 
 My fancy's chains it seems to sever, 
 But binds my reason thine, for ever ! 
 
 It is a thought of pride and grief, 
 That I can never add one leaf 
 To the well won and stainless wreath 
 Which shall survive thy beauty's death ! 
 
 But yet I wish the world to guess 
 Thy glory's earthly nothingness ; 
 Thy heart alone should give thy name 
 A truer, holier, happier, fame ! 
 
 And if so much in that heart's praise 
 My lyre thus timidly essays, 
 In stolen rapture as I kneel — 
 Think what were its permitted zeal. 
 
 With nought to fancy, nor to guess, 
 Nothing to flatter, nor suppress, 
 Think how I'd silence every foe, 
 Standing to speak what I should know ! 
 
''HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES." 177 
 
 If gratitude from me alone 
 Offend, by its respectful tone, 
 If thou reject'st my convert duty 
 I'll turn again, and love thy beauty ! 
 
 If sympathy, and pure esteem 
 Disgust thee, with their chastened beam, 
 111 break my bonds, 111 change my mind, 
 And swear thou'rt neither fair nor kind. 
 
 But no ! thou weep'st o'er sudden death — 
 One sigh then, to poor Love's last breath ! 
 Thou, who support'st the heaven-spared lives, 
 Adopt my friendship — which survives ! 
 
 London, November 19, 1828. 
 
 X 
 
3 78 TO MY "HOLIDAY DREAMS." 
 
 TO MY « HOLIDAY DREAMS." 
 
 Ye lays, that have cheer'd my retreat, 
 
 I know not how far ye may fly, 
 What frowns, from what brows ye may meet, 
 
 What tears, nor from whose smiling eye ! 
 There are who may guess, that, tho' gay, 
 
 I claim not unvaried delight, 
 Not a Holiday every day, 
 
 Nor happy dreams every night* 
 I dare an appeal to the past, 
 
 Tho' echoed by no gen'rous tone, 
 Tho' Constancy, wearied at last, 
 
 Asks no praise for the zeal that is flown. 
 From my childhood I turn to my youth, 
 
 And tax those who kindled its fire, 
 To prove if my passionate truth 
 
 Was stained by one selfish desire ! 
 As a woman — did jealousy e'er 
 
 E'en in sorrow betray — or resent ? 
 Did I see without seeming to share 
 
 The joys which another had lent ? 
 No ! those once belov'd, may be just 
 
 To the heart they first forc'd to be brave, 
 May teach worthier bosoms to trust 
 A friend, not a flattering slave ! 
 
TO MY " HOLIDAY DREAMS.'* 179 
 
 Thus prepared, but the better I knew 
 
 What homage Perfection to pay, 
 And the tasks which to morning were due 
 
 To redouble, when lighted by day. 
 No?v — had I one song of regret, 
 
 Vindictive, vain, boastful, or wrong, 
 Tho' to grace it the Muses had met — 
 
 I would die ere owe fame to that song ! 
 My Themes ! not a sigh of my breast 
 
 Need ruffle one rose-leaf in their nest, 
 Like my betters I weep but in jest, 
 
 Unlike them, I've laugh' d in good earnest. 
 In crowds to my memory come 
 
 Past pleasures that beg to be told, 
 Nor should gratitude's accents be dumb 
 
 Would they sound less exultingly bold. 
 Yet tho' poets may fancy the taste 
 
 Of banquets but lent to their eyes, 
 They must not profane, in their haste 
 
 To praise what too dearly they prize. 
 In Elysium their visions to steep 
 
 Is their privilege, vainly forbidden, 
 But ill would they thank such a peep 
 
 By vaunting they'd enter'd that Eden. 
 Poor Perii ! far rather we'd live 
 
 In some calm, incontestable home, 
 E'en our shrines all our truth might forgive, 
 
 If they knew how we struggled to roam. 
 
 n2 
 
180 TO MY " HOLIDAY DREAMS." 
 
 But life is too brief to strive more 
 
 With triflers one moment to share, 
 I can scarce be so prompt to adore 
 
 As is virtue to merit my prayer ! 
 Health, Peace, Fortune for ever attend 
 
 Hearts, who e'en 'mid their wrongs and their 
 woes, 
 May pardon so daring a friend, 
 
 For all — but her hate of their foes ! 
 
 TO A NOBLE MATRON. 
 
 Lady ! I often meet thee in my dreams — 
 
 And feel no cause to shun thy proud dark eye., 
 Thy spirit then, with all its justice, seems 
 
 Bending to mine its wit, and feelings high ; 
 That far-famed mind, original and free, 
 
 Trusts its impassioned virtues to my heart, 
 I seem inspired and blest, reflecting thee, 
 
 As if my being were of thine a part ; 
 Its shade, less bright — less perfect — yet how true 
 
 To thy reality ! Pure, constant friend 
 Of sorrow ! who no charms could e'er subdue 
 
 To flatter the soft frailties, which dare blend 
 With earth's best natures ; therefore I revere thee, 
 And, as a stranger love, nor dare deserve to fear thee* 
 
I/ENVOY, POSTSCRIPT, OR EPILOGUE. 
 
 " Je crains que je n'ai pas assez dire, 
 Et peut-etre j'en ai trop dit/' 
 
 Readeh ! whether " Courteous and Gentle/' or the 
 reverse — But no, as yet I still write unread. I must 
 conclude ere any one else can begin, yet how can I say 
 farewell to those who have not yet welcomed me ? I 
 mean as the avowed authoress of the foregoing pages. 
 My name, indeed, was kindly greeted in other years ; 
 and some of the contents of this volume have been 
 well received without it. Of my reprints I need only 
 say, that I have corrected and improved them as much 
 as possible, in this their Second Edition. My chief 
 care now is for the original pieces, which form " the 
 better half" of my book. Thus far I have retraced my 
 " Holiday Dreams," toiling through nights of sleepless 
 anxiety, which sprung not from my task, for till now 
 I have viewed the future fate of my volume, tho' not of 
 its author, through the (perhaps false) medium of hope. 
 Thus many, however, of my MSS. have already gone to 
 
 the (Printer's) d 1. The proofs of my confiding 
 
 rashness rise before me. My written thoughts have for 
 me, indeed, taken another character, of which type is 
 but typical. They were not merely my playthings, 
 
182 l'envoy, postscript, or epilogue. 
 
 the paper-dolls of a grown baby. They were my 
 children, for want of better. Innocent images of their 
 parents ! they have till now shared my solitude. 
 Nobody had a right to reprove them but myself, and I, 
 like Ailee Dinmont — "gae'd 'em their ain way, puir 
 things ! because I had naething else to gie 'em." Their 
 very existence was unknown to the world ; but now 
 they are dressed for their debut. They must go into 
 public unpatronized, unmatronized. They can no 
 longer partake my home, if ever I can be said to have 
 possessed one. They can no longer be mine alone. 
 They may be thought to have no. right to their very 
 breath ; but, if I am accused of having stolen their 
 vital fire, I hope no one will deny that it is from 
 Heaven. 
 
 With these considerations to tame and sober me, a 
 host of contrasted fears beset — not the poet, but the 
 woman ; ee who thinks of something else besides her 
 pen," who " trembles for what she has sung," rather 
 from the nature of her ' vs, than their style. I have 
 spoken plainly, because I meaa honestly. Though I am 
 no longer a girl, I can't help having been young once ; 
 and though always unlovely myself, I know not how, 
 even yet, to shut my eyes against beauty in others. 
 Women should weep behind a veil, but surely they 
 may " laugh out openly," ' ' without any controul," but 
 that of modesty. As long as they enjoy liberty them- 
 selves, it is their privilege, nay their duty, to aim at 
 amusing those who sometimes need such relief from 
 
EENVOY, postscript, or epilogue. 183 
 
 graver ties and duties. If the freedoms my Muse and 
 I have taken appear unpardonable, we can scarcely be 
 worse punished than we were before we offended. If 
 they create no sensation, we are inured to indifference. 
 If my sad songs awake any sympathy, I shall rather 
 feel regret than pride ; though had / remained mute, I 
 could not have prevented, perhaps less deserving suf- 
 ferers, from disturbing the fountain of pity. It is, be- 
 sides, sometimes soothing to find one's own griefs re- 
 corded by another. But I am getting on board the ten- 
 der again, and must step back to my jolly-boat. If my 
 gay tributes afford any entertainment, I ask but permis- 
 sion still to pay them ; but if, in striving for independ- 
 ence, by this sacrifice to Lucre, of the only valuables I 
 possess — yet not my own, since I cannot freely bestow 
 them, and only where they are due— if, while "my po- 
 verty and not my will consents/' to " hold cheap what 
 is most dear," I defeat my own best aims, and seem to 
 forfeit my just claim to the toleration of the good, I 
 shall receive the possible $r c ts of Mammon as if they 
 purchased my birthrigl .. This right, which I never 
 will deserve to lose, I shall still forbear to exert ; re- 
 signed to remain unknown, unless I am sought as gladlv 
 as I should be found. I have now onlv to beg that my 
 Readers will look on me as an nnbribea Laureate, and 
 that they will believe my " Holiday Dreams," or rather 
 the heart on which they have lived — 
 
 Not gay from memory, for the past is drear, 
 Nor brave from hope, for hope to me were fear, 
 
184 i/envoy, postscript, of epilogue. 
 
 Nor warm from present bliss, all now is cold, 
 But a mere glass for the gay, warm and bold ; 
 As it can't flatter, Pride the toy may break, 
 But Truth may gaze there, for her own fair sake, 
 And even Friendship late accord her light 
 To slave that would be useful, if it might ! 
 
 London, February 1829. 
 
 THE END* 
 
 < ;. Woodfall, Printer, Angel Court, Skinner Street. London- 
 
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