/l^ THE BOOK OF BALLADS EDITED BY BON GAULTIEE (PEOFESSOK AYTOUN AND THEODOKE MARTIN) AND FIRMILIAN A SPASMODIC TRAGEDY BY T. PERCY JONES (WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN) [itfe 2lIIustrationj5. NEW YORK: W. J. WIDDLETON. PUBLISHER, c\S'V^ N. 4, '35 CONTENTS. SpnisI lallalis. FACE THE BROKEN PITCHER . . . . . . .11 DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ: fkom the Spanish— of Astley's, 14 THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID ii5 THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE, OR THE AMERI- CAN ST. GEORGE :— Fytte First ........ 80 Fytte Second .....•• 83 THE LAY OF MR. COLT: Streak the First ...... 87 Streak the Second ...... 89 THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR 43 THE ALABAMA DUEL 47 PHE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ , , . 51 VI CONTENTS. l$Utt\iuntGU$ §allabs. PAGB THE STUDENT OF JENA 66 THE LAY OF THE LEVITE 60 BUESCH GROGGENBUEG 62 NIGHT AND MOENING 66 THE BITER BIT . . .^ . . . . 68 THE CONVICT AND TilE AUSTEALIAN LADY . 71 THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONOEABLE L O. UWINS . . . 7t THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUE'S DAUGHTER . 79 THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 83 THE LAY OF THE LOVELOEN 87 MY WIFE'S COUSIN .95 THE QUEEN IN FEANCE: an ancient Scottish Ballad:— Part L 99 Paet II 104 THE MASSACEE OF THE MAOPHEESON : feom the Gablio . I(t5 THE STOCKBEOKEE'S BEIDE 112 THE LAUREATES' TOUENEY :— Fttte the First ....... 115 Fyttb the Second ....••. 119 THE EOYAL BANQUET 123 THE BAED OF EEIN'S LAMENT 127 THE LAUEEATE 129 A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION 132 MONTGOMEEY : a Poem 185 THE DEATH OF SPACE 188 LITTLE JOHN AND THE EED FEIAE: a Lat of Sher- wood : — Fyttb the First ,..*... 141 Fytte the Second ...... 144 THE RHYME OF SIE LAUNCELOT BOGLE. • . .150 THE LAY OF THE LOVEES FEIEND .... 162 FEANOESCA DA EIMINI 165 THE CADIS DAUGHTEE : a Legend of the Bosphoeus . . 168 CONTENTS. VI 1 Miscellaneous ballads (oontinubd) : eastern serenade . the death of duval . , the dirge of the drinker . dame fredegonde the death of ishmael . parr's life pills tarquin and the augur la mort d'arthur jupiter and the indian ale . the lay of tife doudney brothers paris and helen song of the ennuye . caroline . . • . . to a forget isie not the mishap .... comfort in affliction the invocation the husband's petition PAGE 171 173 178 181 185 187 189 191 192 194 197 205 207 211 214 Come, buy my lays, and read tliem if yoa "'\3t; My pensive public, if you list not, buy. Come, for you know me. I am he who sung Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed Of Widdicomb the mild and wond'rous song. Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear How Wordsworth, battling for the laureatt- wreath, Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball ; How N. P. Willis, for his country's good, In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point, Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle's mouth. Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear The mingled music of all modern bards Floating aloft in such peculiar strains, As strike themselves with envy and amaze ; For you "bright-harped" Tennyson shall sing, Macaulay chant a more than Koman lay ; And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst, Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog. Bawl melancholy homage to the man : For you once more Montgomery sha .1 rave In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme ; Nankeen'd Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, And our You/ig England's penny t. umpetbbw 1* SPAIISH BALL/VDS. €^t %u\{m f itt|jtr. It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well. And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannc t tell, When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo — Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. " Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden 1 why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing ? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide. And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy - side?" " I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way ; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. \'2 THK BOOK OF BALLADS. •' My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is, — A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss ^ I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke. But scored him on the costard, and so the jug >vas broke. "My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. J cannot bring him water — tne pitcher is in pieces — And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all Ins "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me ! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three ; And I '11 give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady. To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde." He lighted down from off his steed — he tied him to a tree — He low id him to the maiden, and took his kioses three : "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a .,in !" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. Up rose the Mooi'ish maiden — behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphoazo Guzman up tightly i y the heels ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 13 She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub- bling water, — " Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter !" A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo ; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he Diet the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. 1 4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Ban .ftrniinin #nmBrMln. PROM THE SPANISH OF ASTLEY's. Don Fernando Gomersalez ! basely have they borne thee down ; Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown ; Fetters have they bound upon thee — iron fetters fast and sure ; Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor ' Long within a sable dungeon pined that brave and noble knight, For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might; Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping lied of stone, Till the cankered iron fetters ate their wav into his bone. On the twentieth day of August — 't. was the feast of false Mahound — Came the Moorish population from the neighboring cities round ; THE BOOK OF- BALLADS. 15 There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing, And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the King! • First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost speed, Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed ; Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies. Did they spurn the yellow saw-dust in the rapt specta tors' eyes. Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior greet, As he sat enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet ; " Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi ! are there any in the land. That agairrst my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand f Then the bearded Cadi answered — " Be not wrotn, my lord, the King, If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing ; Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and hairy, And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary : 16 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forgot that fearful day. When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array ; When they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed, With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at their head ! " Don Fernando Gomersalez ! matchless chieftain he in war, Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid Bavar ! Not a cheek within Grenada, O my King, but wan and pale is. When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando Gomersalez !" " Thou shalt see thy champion. Cadi ! hither quick the captive bring !" Thus in wiath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, the King; " Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue I ween, Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath been !" Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the warrior in, Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1 But the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his eyQ, And his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high. Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain. For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the plain ; But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel, So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. " Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and drear, Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinenjent for a year '? Dost thou lead me forth to torture? — Rack and pincers I defy— Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?" " Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff! and attend to what I say : Thou art called the sti4,rkest rider of the Spanish curs' array — If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore. Thou may'st yet achieve thy freedom, — yet regain thy native shore. 18 THE BOOK OF Baj'LADS. "Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt thou run, Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun ; Victor — thou shalt have thy freedom ; but if stretched upon the plain, To thy dai-k and dreary dungeon they shall bear thee back again." " Give me but the armor, monarch, I have worn in many a field. Give me but a trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield ; . And m.y old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring, And I rather should imagine that I '11 do the business, King !" Then they carried down the armor from the garret where it lay, O ! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away ; And they led out Bavieca, from a foul and filthy van. For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dogs-meal man. When the steed beheld his master, then he whinned loud and free, And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 19 And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids rose, As he fondly picked a beangtraw from his coughing courser's nose. " Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray ! Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day; Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass, Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass !" Then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle, sate upright, Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailed knight ; And a cry of admiration burst from everv Moorish lady— " Five to four on Don Fernando !" cried the sable- bearded Cadi. Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space, Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alham bra race : Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down. Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering Clown. 20 IHE BOOK OF BALLADS. In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the King, And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of the Ring ; Through three blazoned hoops he bounded ere the des perate fight began^ — Don Fernando 1 bear thee bravely ! — 'tis the Moor Ab dorrhoman ! Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sul- phurous sky. Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the saw- dust fly ; And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fei nan- do's mail. That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail. But he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it hard and fast, And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bound- ed past ; And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain. As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain. Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish war riors all. Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2'' And the Clown in haste arising from the footstool where he set, Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat ! Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwarc Moor, Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the trembling floor ; Five Arabians, black as midnight — on their necks the rein he throws, And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. Never wore that chieftain armor ; in a knot himself he ties. With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs. Till the petrified spectator asks in paralyzed alarm — Where may be the warrior's body, — which is leg, and which is arm 1 "Sound the charge!" the coursers started; with a yell and furious vault, High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault ; O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung, Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crup per hung. 22 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath, And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled hini beneath, That the good Damascus weapon sunk within the folds of fat, And, as dead as Julius Caesar, dropped the Gordian Acrobat. Meanwhile, fast the sun was sinking, — it had sunk be- neath the sea. Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three ; And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed with a bitter smile, To the deeply-darkening canvass — blacker grew it all the while. " Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard ! but thou hast not kept thy time ; Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew chime ; Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may'st be wondrous glad. That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy worK to-day, my lad ! "Therefore, all thy boasted valor. Christian dog, of no avail is !" Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Ffirnando Gomersalez ; — THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 23 Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring, Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the King. " 0, thou foul and faithless traitor ! would st thou play me false again *? Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive's chain ! But I give thee warning, caitiff ! Look thou sharply to thine eye — Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not die !" Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew, Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through ; Brightly gleamed the light of vengeance — fiercely sped the fatal thrust — From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust. Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca ! speed thee faster than the wind ! Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind ! Speed thee up the sloping spring-board ; o'er the bridge that spans the seas ; Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees. 24 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Close before thee, Pampeluna spreads her painted paste- board gate ! Speed thee onward, gallant courser, sDeed thee with thy knightly freight — Victory ! the town receives them ! — Gentle ladies, this the tale is, Which 1 learned in Astley's Circus, of Eernando Gomer salez ! THF, BOOK OF BALLADS. €lir Cnurtsljip nf nnr (Cii. What a pang of sweet emotion ThWlled the Master of the Ring, When he first beheld the lady, Tnrough the stabled portal spring ! Midway in his wild grimacing Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown '. And the thunders of the audience Nearly brought the gallery down Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! Saw ye ever such a maid, With the feathers s waling o'er her, And her spangled rich brocade ? In her fairy hand a horsewhip. On her foot a buskin small, So she stepped, the stately damsel, Through the scarlet grooms and all. And she beckoned for her courser, And they brought a milk-white mare Proud. I ween, was that Arabian Such a gentle freight to bear : 2t5 THE ROOK OF BALLADS- And the Masier moved towards ner, With a proud and stately walk ; And, in reverential homage, Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk Round she flew, as Flora flying Spans the circle of the year ; And the youth of London sighing, Half forgot the ginger beer — Quite forgot the maids beside them ; As they surely well might do. When she raised two Roman candles, Shooting fireballs red and blue ! Swifter than the Tartar's arrow, Lignter than the lark in flight, On the left foot now she bounded, Now she stood upon the right. Like a beautiful Bacchante, Here she soars, and there she kneels. While amid her floating tresses. Flash two whirling Catherine wheels Hark ! the blare of yonder trumpet ! See the gates are open wide ! Room, there, room for Gomersalez, — Gomersaiez in his pride ! Rose the shouts of exultation, Rose the cat's triumphant call. As he bounded, man and courser, Over Master, Clown, and all ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2^ Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! Why those blushes on thy cheek ? Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, He hath come thy love to seek ? Fleet thy Arab — but behind thee He is rushing like a gale ; One foot on his coal black's shoulders, And the other on his tail ! Onward, onward, panting maiden! He is faint and falls — for now. By the feet he hangs suspended Fi'om his glistening saddle-bow. Down are gone both cap and feather, Lance and gonfalon are down ! Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, He has flung them to the Clown. Faint and failing ! Up he vaulteth, Fresh as when he first began ; All in coat of bright vermilion, 'Quipped as Shaw, the Life-guardsjjnan. Right and left his whizzing broadsword. Like a sturdy flail, he throws ; Cutting out a path unto th'ee Through imaginary foes. Woolfordinez! speed thee onward! He is hai-d upon thy track, — Paralyzed is Widdicombez, Nor his whip can longer crack ; iy* THE BO'DK OF BALLADS. He has flung away his broadsword, 'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. Onward ! — see he bares his bosom, Tears away his scarlet vest ; Leaps from out his nether garments, And his leathern stock unties — As the flower of London's dustmen, Now in swift pursuit he flies. Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, O'er the buckle, heel and toe 1 And with hands deep in his pockets Winks to all the throng below ! Onward, onward rush the coursers ; Woolfordinez, peerless girl. O'er the garters lightly bounding From her steed wnth airy whirl ! Gomersalez, wild with passion. Danger — all but her — forgets ; Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her. Casting clouds of somersets ! Onward, onward rush the coursers ; Bright is Gohiersalez' eye ; Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, For his triumph, sure, is nigh ! Now his courser's flanks he lashes, O'er his shoulder flings the rein. And his feet aloft he tosses. Holding stoutly by the mane! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 29 Then his feet once more regaining, Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls ; And in graceful folds around him A bespangled tunic falls. Pinions from his heels are bursting, His bright locks have pinions o'er them; And the public sees with rapture Maia's nimble son before them. Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez ! For a panting god pursues ; And the chalk is very nearly Rubbed from thy white satin shoes ; Every bosom throbs with terror, You might hear a pin to drop ; All was hushed, save where a starting Cork gave out a ca^al pop. One smart lash across his courser, One tremendous bound and stride. And our noble Cid was standing By his Woolfordinez' side ! With a god's embrace he clasped her, Raised her in his manly arms ; And the stables' closing barriers Hid his valor, and her charms ! 30 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. AMERICA! BALLADS dvljB /igljt initlj \\)t Innpping C'nrtlt OR, THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE. FYTTE FIRST. Have yon heard of Philip Slingsby, Slingsby of the manly chest ; How he slew the Snapping Turtle In the regions of the West 1 Every day the huge Cawana Lifted up its monstrous jaws ; And it swallowed Langton Bennett, And digested Rufus Dawes. Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby, Their untimely deaths to hear ; For one author owed him money, And the other loved him dear. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 31 " Listen, now, sagacious Tyler, Whom the loafers all obey ; What reward will Congress give me, If 1 take this pest away ?" Then sagacious Tyler answered, " You're the ring-tailed squealer ! Less Than a hundred heavy dollars Won't be offered you, I guess ! " And a lot of wooden nutmegs In the bargain, too, we'll throw — Only you just fix the criter — Won't you liquor ere you go?" Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby Into armor of Seville, With a strong Ai-kansas toothpick Screwed in every joint of steel. " Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant, Come with me as squire, I pray ; Be the Homer of the battle That I go to wage to-day." So they went along careering With a loud and martial tramp, Till they neared the Snapping Turtle In the dreary Swindle Swamp. But when Slingsby saw the water, Somewhat pale, I ween, was he. " If I come not back, dear Bryant, Tell the tale to Melanie ! 32 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Tell her that I died devoted, Victim to a noble task ! Ha'n't you got a drop of brandy In the bottom of your flasK f As he spoke, an alligator Swam across the sullen creek ; And the two Columbians started When they heard the monster shriek : For a snout of huge dimensions Rose above the waters high. And took down the alligator, As a trout takes down a fly. " 'Tarnal death ! the Snapping Turtle !" Thus the squire in terror cried ; But the noble Slingsby straightway Drew the toothpick from his side. " Fare thee well !" he cried, and dashing Through the waters, strongly swam : Meanwhile Cullen Bryant, watching. Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. Sudden from the slimy bottom Was the snout again upreared. With a snap as loud as thunder, — And the Slingsby disappeared. ' Like a mighty steam-ship foundering, Down the monstrous vision sank ; And the ripple, slowly rolling. Plashed and played upon the bank. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 35* Still and stiller grew the water, Hushed the canes within the brake ; There was but a kind of coughing At the bottom of the lake. Bryant wept as loud and deeply As a father for a son — " He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby, And the brandy's nearly done!" FTTTE SECOND. In a trance of sickenmg anguish, Cold, and stiff, and sore and damp. For two days did Bryant linger By the dreary Swindle Swamp: Always peering at the water, Always waiting for the hour^ When those monstrous jaws should open As he saw them ope before. Still in vain ; — the alligators Scrambled through the marshy brake. And the vampire leeches gaily Sucked the garfish in the lake. But the Snapping Turtle never Rose for food or rose for rest, Since he lodged the steel deposit In the bottom of his chest. ^4 THE liOOK OF BALLADS. Only always from the bottom Violent sounds of coughing rolled, Just as if the huge Cawana Had a most confounded cold. On the bank lay Cull en Bryant, As the second moon arose ; Gouging on the sloping green sward Some imaginary foes. When the swamp began to tremble And the canes to rustle fast, As if some stupendous body Through their roots was crushing past. And the water boiled and bubbled, And in groups of twos and threes, Several alligators bounded, Smart as squirrels up the trees. Then a hideous head was lifted, * With such huge distended jaws, That they might have held Goliath Quite as well as Rufus Dawes. Paws of elephantine thickness Dragged its body from the bay, And it glared at Cullen Bryant In a most unpleasant way. Then it writhed as if in torture, And it staggered to and fro ; And its very shell was shaken. In the anguish of its throe: THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 And its cough grew loud and louder, And its sob more husky thick ; For, indeed, it was apparent That the beast was very sick. Till at last a violent vomit Shook its carcass through and through, And, as if from out a cannon, All in armor Slingsby flew. Bent and bloody was the bowie, Which he held within his grasp ; And he seemed so much exhausted That he scarce had strength to gasp — " Gouge him, Bryant ! darn ye, gouge him ! Gouge him while he's on the shore!" And his thumbs were straightway burled Where no thumbs had pierced before. Right from out their bony sockets, Did he scoop the monstrous balls ; And, with one convulsive shudder, Dead the Snapping Turtle falls ! " Post the tin, sagacious Tyler !" But the old experienced file, Leering first at Clay and Webster, Answered, with a quiet smile — 3fi THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur From the bottom of the ponds, Here's the hundred dollars due you. All in Pennsylvonian Bonds /" ' The only Good American Securities. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €jlE Ini[ nf 3i!r. Cnlt. [The story of Mr. Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel, is this : A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effron- tery to call upon him one day for the paym'ent of an account, which the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to frag- ments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it with salt, and despatched it to a packet, bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having been excited, he -was seized, and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined in disgusting detail, as to her connexion with Colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, hand- ed lip to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel ; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a Mr. Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admis- sion that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was ^'■entitled to tJie sympatJiy of a jury of his country," as " a young man just entering into life, ivJiose pros- pects^ prolahly have been permanently hlastedy Colt was found guilty , but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which occupied more than a year from the date of the conviction^ the sentence of death was ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.] STREAK THE FIRST. * -St * * And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage knot was tied, And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside ; 38 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Let 's go," he said, " into my cell, let 's go alone, my dear ; I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's odious leer. The gaoler and the hangman, they are waiting both for me, — [ cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee ! Oh, how I loved thee, dearest ! They say that I am wild, That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child, They say my bowie knife is keen to sliver into halves The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted beef, I packed my quartered foreman up, and marked him ' prime tariff ;' Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John Bull, And clear a small per centage on the sale at Liverpool ; It may be so, I do not know — these things, perhaps, may be ; But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee ! Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours, — Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch — I guess there's good two hours. We '11 shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay. For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day 1" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ,T) STREAK THE SECOND. The clock is ticking onward, It nears the hour of doom, And no one yet hath entered Into that ghastly room. The gaoler and the sheriff They are walking to and fro ; And the hangman sits upon the steps, And smokes his pipe below. In grisly expectation The prison all is bound, And save expectoration. You cannot hear a sound. The turnkey stands and ponders, His hand upon the bolt, — " In twenty minutes more, I guess, 'T will all be up with Colt !" . dut see, the door is opened ! Forth comes the weeping bride ; The courteous sheriff lifls his hat, And saunters to her side, — "1 beg your pardon, Mrs. C, But is your husband ready ?" ' I guess you'd better ask himself," Replied the woful lady. The clock is ticking onward, The minutes almost run, The hangman's pipe is nearly out, 'T is on the stroke of one. 40 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. At every grated window Unshaven faces glare ; There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee, And Lynch, of Delaware ; And Batter, with the long black beard, Whom Hartford's maids know well ; And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, The pride of New Rochelle ; Elkanah Nutts, from. Tarry Town, The gallant gouging boy ; And coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills That frown o'er modern Troy ; Young Wheezer, whom our Willis loves. Because, 't is said, that he, One morning from a bookstall filched The tale of " Melanie ;" And Skunk, who fought his country's fight Beneath the stripes and stars, — All thronging at the w^indows stood, And gazed between the bars. The little boys that stood behind (Young thievish imps were they !) Displayed considerable nous On that eventful day ; For bits of broken looking-glass They held aslant on high, And there a mirrored gallows-tree Met their delighted eye.^' *A Fact. THE BOOR OF BALLADS. 41 The clock is ticking onward ; Hark ! Hark ! it striketh one ! Each felon draws a whistling breath, " Time 's up with Colt ; he 's done !" The sheriff looks his watch again, Then puts it in his fob, And turns him to the hangman, — " Get ready for the job." The gaoler knocketh loudly, , The turnkey draws the bolt. And pleasantly the sheriff says, " We 're waiting, Mister Colt !" No answer ? No ! no answer ! All 's still as death within; The sheriff eyes the gaoler, The gaoler strokes his chin. " I should n't wonder, Nahum, if It were as you suppose." The hangman looked unhappy, and The turnkey blew his nose. They entered. On his pallet The noble convict lay, — The bridegroom on his marriage bed, But not in trim array. His red right hand a razor held. Fresh sharpened from the hone. And his ivory neck was severed, And gashed into the bone. 42 THE book: of ballads. And when the lamp is lighted In the long November days, And lads and lasses mingle At the shucking of the maize ; When pies of smoking pumpkin Upon the table stand, And bowls of black molasses Go round from hand to hand ; When slap-jacks, maple-sugared, Are hissing in the pan, And cider, with a dash of gin, Foams in the social can ; When the good man wets his whistle. And the good wife scolds the child ; And the girls exclaim convulsively, " Have done, or I'll be riled 1" When the loafer sitting next them Attempts a sly caress, And whispers, " Oh ! you 'possum, You 've fixed my heart, I guess !'* With laughter and with weeping, Then shall they tell the tale, How Colt his foreman quartered. And died within the gaol. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 4o €^ Brntlj (Df Mr| Bnllnr. [Before the following poem, which originally appeared in " Fraser'a Magazine," could have reached America, intelligence was received in "-his country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of -hat which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, to any one who observed the state of public manners in America, that such occurrences must happen sooner or later. The Americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely re- printed throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an American work on American manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer's own production ; and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amu- sing satire by an American, of his countrymen's foibles I] The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair, On either side, the statesman pride of fair Kentuck was there. With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak. Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat, And like a free American upon the floor he spat ; Then turning round to Clay, he said, and %viped his manly chin, •" What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's «kin ? " 44 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, " Young man," quoth Clay, " avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee, Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he. He chews and spits as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs, And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears. " Avoid that knife ! In frequent strife its blade, so long and thin, Has found itself a resting-place his rival's ribs within." But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's heart, " Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart !" Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair. He saw the stately stripes and stars — our country's flag was there! His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he sprang, Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue. " Who sold the nutmegs made of wood — the clocks that wouldn't figure 1 Who grinned the bark ofl* gum-trees dark, — the ever- lasting nigger ? THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 45 For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll kick That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced Colonel Slick ! " The colonel smiled— with frenzy wild,— his very beard waxed blue, — His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew; He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below — He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,— " Oh ! waken, snakes, and walk your chalks ! " he cried, with ire elate ; " Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my weight ! Oh ! 'tarnal death I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and your chaffing, — Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them with- out laughing ! " His knife he raised— with fury crazed, he sprang across the hall ; He cut a caper in the air— he stood before them all : He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do, But spinning sent the President, and on yoimg Dollai flew. 4G THE BOOK OF BALLADS. They met — they closed — they sunk — they rose, — in vain young Dollar strove — For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled, And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in other's hold. With fury dumb — with nail and thumb — they struggled and they thrust, — The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the dust; He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk and died, Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side. Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave youth ; The bowie-knife had quenched his life of valor and of truth ; And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they tell How nobly Dollar gouged his man — how gallantly he fell ! TUB BOOK OF BALLADS. €liB fllaliama Barl. " Young chaps, give ear, — the case is clear. You, Silas Fixings, you Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge, them dollars as you 're due, You are a bloody cheat, — you are. But spite of all your tricks, it Is not in you, Judge Lynch to do. No ! no how you can fix it !" Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's . forum. Around he gazed with legs upraised upon the bench high o'er him ; And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath. Still, with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth. ft was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was the air, A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his chair ; All naked were his manly arms, and, shaded by his hat, r^ike an old Senator of Rome, that simple Archon sat, 48 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " A bloody cheat? — Oh, legs and feet !" in wrath young Silas cried ; And, springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside. — " No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle, As long as Silas Fixings wear* a bowie-knife and rifle." " If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, " you '11 very soon have ease, I '11 give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please ; Where are your weapons 1 — knife or gun ? — at both I 'm pretty spry !" 'Oh! 'tarnal death, you 're spry, you are?" quoth Silas ; " so am I !" Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time, And they have sought that forest dark at morning's early prime; I^ynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a friend. And half the town in glee came down, to see that con test's end. They led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground ; A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees around ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 49 Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither knew Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view. With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they passed, They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast: Hour passed on hour, the noon-day sun smote fiercely down, but yet No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met. And now the sun was going down, when, hark ! a rifle's crack ! Hush — hush ! another strikes the air, and all their breath drew back, — Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side Rushed in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss had dyed. Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch con- ceived a plan. An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man; He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by. Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let fly. 50 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. It fell ; up sprung young Silas, — he hurled his gun away ; Lynch fixed him with his rifle from the ambush where he lay. The bullet pierced his manly breast — yet, valiant to the last, He drew his fatal bowie-knife, and up his foxtail* cast. With tottering steps and glazing eye he cleared the space between. And stabbed the air as, in Macbeth, still stabs the younger Kean ; Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground, Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round. They hailed him with triumphant cheers — in him each loafer saw The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law ; And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease, — That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his owq decrees. They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell, And gum-trees wave above his grave — that tree he loved so well ; And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are long and damp, But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary 'Possum Swamp. • The Yankee sub()y what has come o'er ye, You surely are not well ! Try some of that ham before ye, And then, Tom, ring the bell !" " I cannot eat, my mother, My tongue is parched and bound, And my head somehow or other, Is swim.ming round and round. In my eyes there is a fulness, And my pulse is beating quick ; On my brain is a weight of dulness; Oh, mother, I am sick !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 07 " These long, long nights of watching Are killing you outright ; The evening dews are catching, And you 're out every night. Why does that horrid grumbler, Old Inkpen, work you so f Tom {lene siisiirrans) ''• Mv head ! Oh, that tenth tumbler ! 'T was that wihch wrought my wo !" tvS THK BOOK OF BALLADS CjtE foM 36it. The sun is in the sky, mother, the flower^ aie springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh motlier, but with me ! They are going to the church, mother, — I hear the marriage bell ; It booms along the upland, — oh! it haunts me like a knell ; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step. And closely to his side she clings, — she does, the demirep ! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood. The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 69 And the boughs, that M^out to murmu)- back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. lie will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip. his passion he confessed ; And down the hedgerows where we 've strayed again and yet again ; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! " ' He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him,— he said my words were cold ; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,— And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same ? I did not know my heart, mother, — I know it now too late ; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate ; But no nobler suitor sought me,— and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. 70 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. You may lay me in my bed, mother, — n.y head ia throbbing sore ; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before ; A.nd, if yon 'd please, my mother dear, your poor des- ponding child. Draw me a pot of beer, mother, ana, mother, draw it mild! Love gone to poL' TJfE BOOK OF nALLAP/r,. Tl Thi skin is dark as jet, ladye, Thy cheek is sharp and high, And there's a cruel leer, love, Within thy rolling eye ! These tangled ebon tresses No comb hath e'er gone through ; And thy forehead it is furrowed hy The elegant tattoo ! 1 love thee, — oh, I love thee, Thou strangely feeding maid ! Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang. I meant not to upbraid ! Come, let me'taste those yellow lips That ne'er were tasted yet. Save when the shipwrecked mariner Pass'd through them for a whet. Nay, squeeze me not so tightly ! For I am gaunt and thin, There's little flesh to tempt thee Beneath a convict's skin. THE BOOK OF BALLADS-- I came not to be eaten, I sought thee, love, to woo ; Besides, bethmk thee, clearest, Thou 'st dined on cockatoo ! Thy father is a chieftain ; Why that's the very thing ! Within my native country I, too, have lieen a king. Behold this branded letter. Which nothing can efface ! It is the royal emblem. The token of my race ! But rebels rose against me. And dared my power disown — You've heard, love, of the judges ^ They drove me from my throne. And I have wandered hither, Across the stormy sea, In search of glorious freedom. In search, my sweet, of thee ! The bush is now my empire. The knife my sceptre keen ; Come with me to the desert wild, And be my dusky queen. I cannot give thee jewels, I have nor sheep nor cow. Yet there are kangaroos, love, And colonists enow. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 73 We'll meet the unwary settler, As whistling home he goes, And I'll take tribute from him, His money and his clothes. Then on his bleeding carcass Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, And lunch upon him roasted, Or, if you like it, raw ! Then come with me, my princess. My own Australian dear, Within this grove of gum trees. We'll hold our bridal cheer ! Thy heart with love is beating, I feeJ it through my side : — Hiirran then, for the noble pair, The OoDvict and his bride! 74 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. CljB BnWtil Intj nf i^t Immtit % 0). Mhi Come and listen, lords and ladies, To a woful lay of 3 nine; He whose tailor's bill unpaid is. Let him now his c*,r inchne ! Leh liini hearken to my story, How the noblest of the land Fined long time in dreary duresse 'Neath a sponging bailift*'s h.ino. I. O. Uwins! L O. Uwins! Baron's son although thou be, Thou must pay for thy misdoings In the country of the free ! None of all thy sire's retainers To thy rescue now may come; And there lie some score detainers, - With Abednego, the bum. Little reck'd he of his prison Whilst the sun was in the sky : Only when the moon was risen, . Did you hear the captive's cry, THE BOOK OF BALLADS. For, till then, cigars and claret Lull'd him in oblivion sweet ; And he much preferr'd a garret, For his drinking, to the street. But the. moonlight, pale and broken, Pain'd at soul the Baron's son ; For he knew, by that soft token. That the larking had begun ; — That the stout and valiant Marquis Then was leading forth his swells, Mangling some policeman's carcass, Or purloining private bells. So he sat, in grief and sorrow, Rather drunk than otherwise. Till the golden gush of morrow Dawned once more upon his eyes . Till the sponging bailiffs daughter, Lightly tapping at the door, Brought his draught of soda water, Brandy-bottom'd as before. " Sweet Rebecca ! has your father. Think you, made a deal of brass f And she answered — " Sir, I rather Should imagine that he has." Uwins then, his whiskers scratchir^g, Leer'd upon the maiden's face, And, her hand with ardor catching. Folded her in close embrace. 76 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " La, Sir ! let alone — you fright me !" Said the daughter of the Jew : *' Dearest, how those eyes delight me ! Let me love thee, darling, do ! " " Vat is dish ? " the Bailiff mutter'd, Rushing in with fury wild ; " Ish your muffins so veil butter'd Dat you darsh insult ma shild ? " " Honorable my intentions, Good Abednego, I swear ! And I have some small pretensions, For I am a Baron's heir. If you'll only clear my credit, And advance a thou* or so, She's a peeress — I have said it : Don't you twig, Abednego % " " Datsh a very different matter," Said the Bailiff, with a leer ; " But you musht not cut it fatter Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear ! if you seeksh ma approbation, You musht quite give up your rigsh ; A.lsho you musht join our nashun, And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh." Fast as one of Fagin's pupils, \. O. #11 wins did agree ! Little plagued with holy scruples From the starting post was he. • The fashionible abbrevi;ilinn for a thdusand pnunris THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 77 But at times a baleful vision Rose before his trembling view, For he knew that circumcision Was expected from a Jew. At a meeting of the Rabbis Held about the Whitsuntide, Was this thorough-paced Barabbas Wedded to his Hebrew bride. All his former debts compounded, From the spunging house he came. And his father's feelings wounded With reflectiong on the same. But the sire his son accosted — " Split my wig ! if any more Such a double-dyed apostate Shall presume to cross my door ! Not a penny-piece to save ye From the kennel or the spout; — Dinner, John ! the pig and gravy ! — Kick this dirty scoundrel out ! " Forth rush'd I. O. Uwins faster Than all winking — much afraid, That the orders of the master Would be punctually obeyed : Sought his club, and then the sentence Of expulsion first he saw ; No one dared to own acquaintance With a bailiff's son-in-law. 78 THE BOOK OF BALLAiio. Uselessly down Bond-street strutting Did he greet his friends of yore : Such a universal cutting Never man received before : Till at last his pride revolted — Pale, and lean, and stern he grew ; And his wife Rebecca bolted With a missionary Jew. Ye who read this doleful ditty, Ask ye where is Uwins now ? Wend your way through London city, Climb to Holborn's lofty brow. Near the sign-post of the " Nigger,"" Near the baked-potato shed, You may see a ghastly figure With three hats upon his head, , When the evening shades are dusky, Then the phantom form di'aws near, And, with accents low and husky, Pours effluvium in your ear : Cl'aving an immediate barter Of your trousers or surtout. And you know the Hebrew martyr. Once the peerless I. O. U. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 79 Did you ever hear the story — Old the legend is and true — How 1 knyghte of fame and gloiy A\\ aside his armor threw ; Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board Sate and stitched the livelong day 1 "Taylzeour! not one single shilling Does my breeches' pocket hold : I to pay am really willing, If I only had the gold. Farmers none can I encounter, Graziers there are none to kill ; Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, ^ Bother not about thy bill." " Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often Have you tried that slippery trick ; Hearts like mine you cannot soften, Vaii\y do you ask for tick. 80 THE BOOK OF BALLADb Christmas and its bills are coming. Soon will they be showering in ; Therefore, once for all, my rum 'un, 1 expect you '11 post the tin. " Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy baylitfe, In the palmer's amice brown ; He shall lead you unto jail, if Instantly you stump not down." Deeply swore the young crusader, But the taylzeour would not hear; And the gloomy bearded bayliffe Evermore kept sneaking near. " Neither groat nor maravedi Have I got my soul to bless ; And I feel extremely seedy, Languishing in vile duresse. Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, Take my steed and armor free. Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, And I'll work the rest for thee." Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, Lightly crooked his manly limb. Lightly drove the glancing needle Through the growing doublet's rim. Gaberdines in countless number Did the taylzeour-knyghte repair! And the cabbage and cucumber Were his sole and simple fare. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Once his weary task beguiling With a low and. plaintive song, That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth Drove the hissing goose along ; From her lofty lattice window, Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, And she instantly discovered That her heart was not her own. " Canst thou love me, gentle stranger ?" Blushing like a rose she stood — And the knyghte at once admitted, That he rather thought he could. " He who weds me shall have riches. Gold, and lands, and houses free." " For a single pair oi— small clothes^ I would roam the world with thee !" Tlien she flung him down the tickets — Well the knyghte their import knew — "Take this gold, and win thy armor. From the unbelieving Jew. Though in garments mean and lowly. Thou wouldst roam the world with me, Only as a belted warrior. Stranger, will I wed with thee !" At the feast of good Saint Alban, Li the middle of the Spring, There was some superior jousting By the order of the king. 4* S2 THE BOOK OF BALiADS. " Valiant knyghtes !" exclaimed the monarch, " You will please to understand, He who bears himself most bravely, Shall obtain my daughter's hand." Well and bravely did they bear them, Bravely battled, one and all ; But the bravest in the tourney Was a warrior stout and tall. None could tell his name or lineage. None could meet him in the field. And a goose regardant proper Hissed along his azure shield. " Warrior, thou hast won my daughter I" But the champion bowed his knee, " Princely blood may not be wasted On a simple knyghte like me. She I love is meek and lowly ; But her heart is high and frank ; And there must be tin forthcoming, That will do as well as rank." Slowly rose that nameless warrior, Slowly turned his steps aside, Passed the lattice where the princess Sate in beauty, sate in pride. Passed the row of noble ladies, Hied him to an humbler seat. And in silence laid the chaplet At the taylzeou]-'s daughter's feet. THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 83 It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom ; They said that St. Helena's Isle had rendered up its charge, That France was bristling high in arms, — the Emperor at large. 'Twas midnight ! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street. It might be that the watchman slept that night upon hir beat, When, lo ! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, The door revolved upon its hinge, — Great Heaven! — What enters there ? A. little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride ; His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide: S4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star, — Saint George ! protect us ! 't is The Man — the thunder- bolt of war ! Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's ridge 1 Are these the spurs of Austerlitz — the boots of Lodi's bridge 1 Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet hive'? What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive ? Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, As in his l)rain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye ; What wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the glance Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of France 1 From the side-pocket of his vest, a pinch the despot took, Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look, — " Thou thought' st the lion was afar, but he hath bui^t the chain — The watchword'' for to-night is France — the answer, St. Helene. " And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind The master of the universe — the monarch of mankind'? THE BOOK OF BALlADS. 85 I tell thee, fool ! the world itself is all too small for me, I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars — I burst them, and am free. " Thou think'st that England hates me ! Mark ! — This very night my name Was thundered in its capital with tumult and ac<;Iaim ! They saw me, knew me, owned my power — Proud lord ! I say, beware ! There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do and dare ! "To-morrow, in thy very teeth, my standard will I rear — Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear ! To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames ; And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames ! "Thou 'It seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst? These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place 1 Behold 't is written there ! fVnd let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare !" Another pinch, another stride — he passes through the door — *' Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? HO THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes? Ah, yes ! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!" With trembling hands. Lord Castlercagh undid the mys- tic scroll, With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul — What's here ? — ' At Astley's, every night, the play of Moscow's Fall ! Napoleon for the thousandth tline, by Mr. Gdmsrsal !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ft7 '^t t^ nf tjjB jCnnrlnrti. Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of gin- ger beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad ! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had. Whew ! This is a great relief now ! Let me but undo my stock, Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes — Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why, surely there's a brace of moons ! h.S THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Seel the stars! how bright they twinkle, w.nking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. 0, my cousin, spider-hearted ! Oh. my Amy ! No, confound it ! I must wear the mournful willow, — all around my hat I've bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy^^ — frailer than a shillini^ glove, Puppet to a father's anger, — minion to a nabob's love ! Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver ? Happy ! Damme ! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day. Changing from the best of China to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is, — he is stomach-plagued and old ; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, — something less than his cayenne. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. SP What is tins'? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret "? Oh, no, no, — Bless your soul, it was the salmon, — salmon always makes him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber — soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won't he? — pay thee with a lover's glances 1 Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. Sweet response, delightful music ! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laftlirge. Better thou wert dead before me, — better, better that 1 stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good ! Better, thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! Cursed be the bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin ! Cursed be the want of acres, — doubly cursed the want of fin ! 90 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Cursed be the n.arriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed ! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed ! Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn ! Cursed be the clerk and parson, — cursed be the ^hole concern ! Oh, 't is well that 1 should bluster, — much I'm like to make of that ; Better comfort have I found in singing " All Around my Hat." But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'T will not do to pine for ever, — I am getting up in years. Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press. And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretch- edness ? Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn J knew. When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I'l When 1 smoked my independent pipe along the Quad- rant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side. W hen I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come, Coflee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb. Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens ! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans' ! Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears. Saw the glorious melo-drama conjure up the shades of years ! Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again. Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the w^orld in awe Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law. In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis- gusted ! \)2 THF, BCOK OF BALLADS. Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not car^j a cur&e Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. Hark ! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum ; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade. I '11 to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital fields. Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride ; Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. '93 There, methinks, would be enjc^yment, where no envirous rule prevents; Sink the steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, O rot the Three per Cents ! There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin ! 1 will take some savage woman — nay, I '11 take at least a dozen. There I '11 rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared : They shall dive for aligators, catch the wild goats by the beard — Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-fliced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon. I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers, iron-bound rhino- ceroses. Fool ! again the dream, the fancy ! But I know my words are mad. For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad. 94 THE BOOK OF B k.LLADS. I the swell — the city dandy ! 1 to seek such hoi-rid places, — I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and nrion- key faces. 1 to wed with Coromantees! ,1, who managed — very near — To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shilli- beer ! Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single chance away, Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. " Morning Post," (" The Times" won't trust me) help me, as I know you can ; I will pen an advertisement, — that 's a never-failing plan. "Wanted — By a bard in wedlock, some young inter esting woman : Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forth- coming ! " Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters. Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. — You must pay the letters." That 's the sort of thing to do it. Now I '11 go and taste the balmy, — Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy ! Tins BOOK OF BALLADS. 95 3Bij Wih'^ €mm Decked with shoes of blackest poh'sh, And with shirt as white as snow, After matutinal breakfast To my daily desk I go ; First a fond salute bestowing On my Mary's ruby lips, Which, perchance, may be rewarded With a pair of playful nips. All day long across the ledger Still my patient pen I drive. Thinking what a feast awaits me In my happy home at five ; In my small, one-storied Eden, Where my wife awaits my coming. And our solitary handmaid Mutton chops with care is crumbing. When the clock proclaims my freedom. Then my hat 1 seize and vanish ; Every trouble from my bosom, Every anxious care I banish. l*n THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, At a furious pace 1 go, Till I reach my darling dwelling In the wilds of Pimlico. *' Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest V* Thus I cry, while yet afar; Ah ! what scent invades my nostrils 1 — 'T is the smoke of a cigar ! Instantly into the parlor Like a maniac I haste. And I find a young Life-Guardsman, With his arm round Mary's waist. And his other hand is playing Most familiarly with hers ; And I think my Brussels carpet Somewhat damaged by his spurs. " Fire and furies ! what the blazes ?" Thus in frenzied wrath I call ; When my spouse her arms upraises,. With a most astounding squall. ''Was there ever such a monster : Ever such a wretched wifel Ah ! how long must I endure it : How protract this hateful life ? All day long quite unprotected, Does he leave his wife at home ; And she cannot see her cousins, Even when they kindly come !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 9? Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, Scarce vouchsafes, a single word, But with look of deadly menace, Claps his hand upon his sword; And in fear I fliintly falter — "This your cousin, then he 's mine! Very glad, indeed, to see you, — Won't you stop with us, and dinel" Won't a, ferret suck a rabbit ? — As a thing of course he stops ; And, with most voracious swallov/ Walks into my mutton chops. In the twinkling of a bed-post, Is each savoury platter clear, And he shows uncommon sciecee In his estimate of beer. Half-and-half goes down before him, Gurgling from the pewter-pot > And he moves a counter motion For a glass of something hot. Neither chops nor beer I grudge him, Nor a moderate share of goes ; But 1 know not why he's always Treading upon Mary's toes. Evermore, when home returning. From the counting house I come, Do I find the young Life-Guardsman Smoking pipes and drinking rum. {N THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Evermore he stays to dinner, Evermore devours my m^al ; For I have a wholesome horror Both of powder and of steel. Yet I Know he 's Mary's cousin, For my only son and heir Much resembles that young Guardsman, With the self-same curly hair • But I wish he would not always Spoil my carpet with his spurs ; And 1 'd rather see his fingers In the iire, than touching hen;. TIi£ BOOK OF BALLADS. Ui* (EIj2 (^nnn in fimu. AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. PART I. It fell upon the August month, When landsmen bide at hame, That our gude Queen went out to sail Upon the saut-sea faeni. And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, The like was never seen ; And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, And the bauld Lord Aberdeen. " Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington : Ye daurna gang wi' me : For ye hae l^een ance in the land o' France, And that 's eneuch for ye." " Ye'se bide at hame. Sir Robert Peel, To gather the red and the white monie ; And see that my men dinna eat me up At Windsor wi' their gluttonie." k)0 THK BOOK OF BALLAD";. They hadna sailed a league, a league,— - A league, but barely twa, When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, And the wind began to blaw. " O weel, weel may the waters rise, In welcome o' their Queen ; What gars ye look sae white, Albert 1 What makes your e'e sae green ?" "My heart is sick, my held is sair: Gie me a glass o' gude brandie : To set my foot on the braid green sward. I 'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. " It 's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, But O, it 's ill to bear the thud And pitching o' the saut, saut sea !" And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed. Till England sank behind, And over to the coast of France They drave before the wind. Then up and spak the King o' France, Was birling at the wine ; " O wha may be the gay ladye Ttidt owns that ship sae fine *? •' And wha may be that bonny lad, That looks sae pale and wan 1 I '11 wad my lands o' Pi cardie That he ^& nae Fndisnman." THE BOOK OF BALLADS. IQl Then up and spak an aiild French lord, Was sitting beneath his knee, " It is the Queen o' braid England That's come across the sea." "And O an it be England's Queen, She's welcome here the day; 1 'd rather hae her for a friend Than for a deadly fae. " Gae, kill the eerock in the yard, The aifld sow in the stye, And bake for her the brockit calf, But and the puddock-pie !" And he has gane until the ship. As sune as it drew near, And he has ta'en her by the hand "Ye 're kindly welcome here!" And syne he kissed her on ae cheek. And syne upon the ither ; And he ca'ed her his sister dear, And she ca'ed him her brither. " Light doun, light doun now, layde mine, Light doun upon the shore; Nae English king has trodden here. This thousand years and more." " And gin I lighted on your land. As light fa' weel I may, O am I free to feast wi' you. And free to come and gae V 102 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, And the black stane o' Duniblane, That she is free to come and gae Till twenty days are gane. "I 've lippened to a Frenchman's aith." Said gude Lord Aberdeen ; " But I '11 never lippen to it again Sae lang 's the grass is green. " Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, Since better may na be ; * The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, By the blessing o' Marie!" Then doun she lighted frae the ship, She lighted safe and sound ; And glad was our good Prince Albert To step upon the ground. " Is that your Queen, My Lord," she said, " That auld and buirdly dame ? I see the crown upon her heid ; But I dinna ken her name." And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, And eke her daughters three, And gi'en her hand to the young Princess That louted upon the knee. And she has gane to the proud castle, That 's biggit beside the sea : But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, The tear was in her e\'. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 108 She gied the King the Cheshire. cheese, But and the porter fine ; And he gied her the puddock-pies, But and the blude-red wine. Then up and spak the dourest prince, An Admiral was he ; "Let 's keep the Queen o' England here, iSin' better may na be ! •' O mony is the dainty king That we hae trappit here ; And mony is the English yerl That 's in our dungeons drear !" "You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, Sae loud 's I hear ye lee ! There never yet was Englishman That came to skaith by me. "Gae out, gae out, ye fliuse traitor! Gae out until the street ; It 's shame that Kings and Queens should sit Wi' sic a knave at meat !" Then up and raise the young French lord, In wrath and hie disdain— " O ye may sit, and ye may eat Your puddock-pies alane ! "But were I in my ain gude ship. And sailing wi' the wind, And did I meet wi' auld Napier, T 'd tell him o' my mind." 104 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, And her color went and came ; " Gin ye met wi' Charlie on the sea Ye 'd wish yersell at harae !" And aye they birllt at the wine, And drank right merrilie, Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, And the abbey bell struck three. The Queen she gaed until her bed, And Prince Albert likewise ; And the last word that gay ladye said Was — " O thae puddock-pies !" The sun was high within the lift Afore the French King raise ; And syne he louped intil his sat.t, And warslit on his claes. " Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, Gae up until the toun ; And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, Be sure ye bring him doun." And he has met wi' the auld harper ; O but his e'en were red ; And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees Was singing in his heid. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 10.> "Alack ! alack !" the harper said, " That this should e'er hae been ! I daurna gang before my liege, For I was fou yestreen." "It 's ye maun come, ye auld harper: Ye daurna tarry lang ; The King is just dementit-like For wanting o' a sang." And when he came to the King's chamber, He loutit on his knee, " O what may be your gracious will Wi' an auld frail man like me f " I want a sang, harper," he said, '"I want a sang richt speedilie; And gin ye dinna make a sang, 1 '11 hang ye up on the gallows-tree." "I cannot do 't, my liege," he said, " Hae mercy on my auld gray hair ! But gin that I had got the words, I think that I might mak the air." " And wha 's to mak the words, fause loon. When minstrels we have barely twa ; And Lamartine is in Paris toun, And Victor Hugo far awa f ' ^'The deil may gang for Lamartine, And flie awa wi' auld Hugo, For a better minstrel than them baith Within this very toun I know. 106 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " O kens my liege the gude Walter, — At hame they ca' him Bon Gaultier 1 He '11 rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, And he is in the castle here." The French King first he lauchit loud, And syne did he begin to sing; " My e'en are auld, and my heart is cauld. Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King. " Gae take to him this ring o' gowd, And this mantle o' the silk sae fine, And bid him mak a maister sang For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine.' "I winna take the gowden ring, Nor yet the mantle fine : But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake. And for a cup of wine." The Queen was sitting at the cards, The King ahint her back ; And aye she dealed the red honors, And aye she dealed the black ; And syiie unto the dourest Prince She spak richt courteouslie : — " Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, Now will ye play wi' me V The dourest prince he bit his lip, And his brow was black as glaur : " The only game that e'er I play Is the bluidy game o' war !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 107 " And gin ye play at that, young man, It weel may cost ye sair ; Ye 'd better stick to the game at cards, For you '11 win nae honors there !" The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, Till the tears ran blithely doun ; But the Admiral he raved and swore, Till they kicked him frae the room. The Harper came, and the Harper sang, And O but they were fain ; For when he had sung the gude sang twice, They called for it again. It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, In the days of auld lang syne ; When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, Wi' his brither King to dine. And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till up the Queen she sprang — " I '11 wad a County Palatine, Gude Walter made that sang." Three days had come, three days had gane, The fourth began to fa'. When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, " It 's time I was awa ! " O, bonny are the fields o' France, And saftly draps the rain : But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, And greeting a' their lane. 108 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, As I have come to ye ; And a benison upon your heid For a' your courtesie ! "Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere: Ye sail na say me no ; And ye 'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare For your wily friend Guizot." Now he has ta'en her lily white hand. And put it to his lip, And he has ta'en her to the strand. And left her in her ship. "Will ye come back, sweet bird," he cried, "Will ye come kindly here. When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, In the spring-time o' the year?" " It 's I would blithely come, my Loi-d, To see ye in the spring ; It 's I would blithely venture back, But for ae little thing. "It is na that the winds are rude. Or that the waters rise. But I lo'e the roasted beef at hame, And no thae puddock-pies !" THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 109 FROM THE GAELIC. I. i*'HAiRSTON swore a feud Against the clan M'Tavish; Marched into their land To murder and to rafish : For he did resolve To extirpate the vipers, With four and twenty men, And five and thirty pipers. But when he had gone Half-way down Strath Canaan, Of his fighting tail Just three were remainin'. They were all he had, To back him in ta battle ; All the rest had gone Off", to drive ta cattle. 110 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ' Fei7 coot !" cried Fhairshon, " So my clan disgraced is ; Lads, we '11 need to fight Pefore we touch the peasties. Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusalen Coming wi' his fassals, Gillies seventy-three, And sixty Dhuinewassails !" IV. " Coot tay to you, sir ; Are not you ta Fhairsho" '? Was you coming here To visit any person *? You are a plackguard, sir ! It is now six hundred Coot long years, and more, Since my glen was plundered." V. Fat is tat you say ? Dar you cock your peaver ? T will teach you, sir, Fat is coot pehavior ! You shall not exist For another day more ; I will shot you, sir, Or stap you with my claymore !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I 1 I VI. " I am fery glad To learn what you mention, Since I can prevent Any such intention." So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh Gave some warlike howls. Trew his skhian-dhu, An' stuck it in his powels. VII. In this fery way Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, ' Who was always thought A superior person. Fhairshon had a son, Who married Noah's daughter, And nearly spoiled ta Flood, By trinking up ta water. VIII. Which he would have done, I at least believe it, Had ta mixture peen Only half Glenlivet. This is all my tale : Sirs, I hope 't is new t' ye ! Here 's your fery good healths, And tamn ta whusky tuty ! ( I 2 TflE BOOK OF BALLAi»s*. €1|B ^nuttg Itntkknte's ISrih '• O SWIFTLY speed the gallant bark ! — I say, you mind my luggage, porter ! 1 do not heed yon storm-cloud dark, I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter. I go to claim my own Mariar, The fairest flower that blooms in Har-\ .ch My panting bosom is on fire, And all is ready for the marriage." Thus spoke young Mivins, as he stepped On board the " Firefly," Harwich packet ; The bell rung out, the paddles swept Plish-plashing round with noisy racket. The lowering clouds young Mivins saw, But fear, he felt, was only folly ; And so he smoked a fresh cigar, Then fell to whistling — " Nix my dolly !" The wind it roared ; the packet's hulk Rocked with a most unpleasant motion ; Young 'Mivins leant him o'er a bulk, And poured his sorrows to the ocean. THE BOOK iF BALLaDS. | 13 Tints — blue and yellow — signs of wo — Flushed, rainbow-like, his noble face in, As suddenly he rushed below. Crying, " Steward, steward, bring a basin !" On sped the bark : the howling storm' The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far ; Unmoved, youno; Mivins' lifeless form Was stretched upon a hair-cloth sofa?*. All night he moaned, the steamer groaned, And he was hourly getting fainter ; When it came bump against the pier. And there was fastened by the painter. Young Mivins rose, and blew his nose, Caught wildly at his small portmanteau • He was unfit to lie or sit, And found it difficult to stand, too. He sought the deck, he sought the shore, He sought the lady's house like winking, And asked, low tapping at the door, " Is this the house of Mr. Jcnkin ?" A short man came — he told his name — Mivins was short — he cut him shorter, For in a fury, he exclaimed, " Are you the man as vants my darter ? Vot kim'd on you last night, young squire ?" "It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her!" "Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar, Valked off last night vith Bill the butler. 114 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. •'And so you 've kim'd a post too late." " It was the packet, sir, miscai-ried !" " Vy, does you think a gal can vait As sets 'er 'art on being married'? Last night she vowed she 'd be a bride, And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better : So Bill struck in ; the knot vos tied, And now I vishes you rnay get her !" Young Mivins turned him from the spot, Bewilder'd with the dreadful stroke, her Perfidy came like a shot — He was a thunderstruck stockbroker. "A curse on steam and steamers too ! By their delays I 've been undone!" He cried, as, looking very blue. He rode a bachelor to London. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 115 &\it riiurfntBs' (Kntimt]. BY THE HON. T B M A- [This and the five following poems were among those forwarded to the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureate- ship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they came in our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own sonnet on the subject, is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. Bays, which in former days have graced the brow Of some, who lived and loved, and sung and died ; Leaves, that were gathered on the pleasant side Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough ; With palpitating hand I take ye now, Since worthier minstrel there is none beside. And with a thrill of song half deified, 1 bind them proudly on my locks of snow, There shall they bide, till he who follows next. Of whom I cannot even guess the name, Shall by Court favor, or some vain pretext Of fancied merit, desecrate the same, — And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell !] FYTTE THE FIRST. " What news, wlmt news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land ? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand 1 no THE BOOK OF BALLAP3. How does the little Prince of Wales — how looks >ur lady Queen ) And tell me, is the gentle Brough* once more at Windsor seen f ' " I bring no tidings from the court, nor from St. Stephen's hall ; I 've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle call ; ■ • And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er hath seen. Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green. " He 's dead, he 's dead, the Laureate's dead !" 'Twas thus the cry began, And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel man ; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farrinsdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din. Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham : but sore afraid was he ; A hardy knight were he that might face such a min- strelsie. • For the convenience of future commentators it may be mentioned, that the '•gentle Brnugh" was the Monthly Nurse who attended her RI 'jesty ou th« occasion of the birth of the Princess Roval. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 11'7 "Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I swear, I 'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here ! — " What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves, what make you there beneath f " The bays, the bays ! we want the bays ! we seek the laureate wreath ! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song: Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight — we mav not tarry long !" Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn — " Rare jest it were, I think. But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink ! An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 't is easy to be seen That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo- crene. "Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thou- sand sheaves: Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves ? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locrst train 1 118 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields !" Down went the window with a crash, — in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near ; Then up and spake young Tennyson — " Who 's here that fears for death 1 'T were better one of us should die, than England lose the wreath ! " Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow ; — For armor bright we '11 club our mite, and horses we can borrow. 'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German JDichters too. If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do H ■•' The lists of love are mine," said Moore, " and not the lists of Mars ;" Said Hunt, " I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com bat's jars 1" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 119 "I 'ni old," quoth Samuel Rogers. — -'Faith," cays Campbell, " so am I !" "And I 'm in holy orders, sir !" quoth Tom of Ingoldsbj, " Now out upon ye, craven loons!" cried Moxon, good at need, — " Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred's motion, boys, — let 's try the chance of lot; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot." Eight hundred minstrels slunk away — two hundred stayed to draw, — Now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw ! 'T is done ! 't is done ! And who hath won ? Keep silence, one and all, — The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball !" FYTTE THE SECOND. Qh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields, — How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields ! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, \nd in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. 120 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear. The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. " What ho, there, herald, blow the trump ! Let 's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name !" That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel. On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel ; Then said our Queen — " Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall *? His name — his race f — " An 't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. "Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown. And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes !" — Then rung the startled air With shouts of " Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho ! th^ bard of Rydal 's there." And lo ! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course. Appeared the honored veteran ; but weak seemed man and horse. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 121 Then shook their ears the sapient peers, — " That joust will soon be done: My Lord of Brougham, I '11 back Fitzball, and ^ive you two to one !" ■' Done," quoth the Brougham, — "and done with you !" " Now, Minstrels, are you ready f Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, — " You 'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge ! and forward to the fight !" "Amen !" said good Sir Aubrey Vere ; "Saint Schism defend the right !" As sweeps the blast against the mast, when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound, the terrible Fitz- ball ; His lance he bore his breast before, — Saint George pro- tect the just, Or Wordsworth's hoary head must "roll along the shame ful dust ! " Who threw that calthrop ? Seize the knave !" Alas the deed is done ; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew l)right Apollo's son. " Undo his helmet ! cut the lace ! pour w^ater on his head 1" " [t ain't no use at all, my lord ; 'cos vy ? the covey 's dead !" 6 122 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Above him stood the Rydal bard — his face was full of wo — " Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe : A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall. Ne'er brought the upper gallery down, than terrible Fitzball !" They led our Wordsworth to the Queen — she crowned him with the bays. And wished him many happy years, and many quarter- days,— And if you 'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You 've but to call at Rydal Mount, and tast^ the Laureate's wine ! ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I'^S €^t llnttnl Untujurt. BV THE HON. G- The Queen, she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly hall, And round her sat the gartered knights, and erminci] nobles all ; There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary Peel, And at the bottom of the board, Prince Albert carved the veal. " What, pantler, ho ! remove the cloth ! Ho ! cellarer, the wine. And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brmiswick's line!" Then rose, with one tumultuous shout, the band of British peers, " God bless her sacred Majesty ! Let 's see the little dears !" IVi4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 't was a touch ing sight to see That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his knee ; To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape With rosy .mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape ! They passed the wine, the sparkling wine — they filled the goblets up, Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup ; A.nd Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease. Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his knees. " What want we here, my gracious liege," cried good Lord Aberdeen, "Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between 1 I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's warbling lay, But where 's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to- day?" Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he cried, " Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself beside ? THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 125 Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's vacant crown, x\nd now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through Lon- don town !" " Now glory to our gracious Queen !" a voice was heard to cry, And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; " Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious race, A boon, a boon, my sovran liege ! Give me the Lau- reate's place ! " 'T was I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre ; » And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? The hero of a hundred fights — " Then Wellington up sprung, " Ho, silence in the ranks, I say ! Sit down, and hold your tongue. " By heaven thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling iay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! 'T is hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. Nurse, take her Royal Highness here ! Sir Robet, pass- the wine !" 126 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Nc laureate need we at our board !" then spoke the Lord of Vaux ; " Here 's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. Even I, myself — " Then rose the cry — " A song, a song from Brougham !" He sang, — and straightway found himself alone within the room. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1*47 €)^ aJnri nf dEriu's tmul BY T M RE, ESQ. Oh, weep for the hours when the little blind boy Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower ; When I dipp'd my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soar'd in the sunshine, the moth of the hour ! From beauty to beauty, 1 pass'd like the wind ; Now fondled the lily, now toy'd with the rose ; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close. I sighed not for honor, I cared not for fame, While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest ; They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, And the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest ; And the harp of my country — neglected it slept — In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs ; From Love's Syl' arite dreams I aroused me, and swept Its chord to the tale of her glories and wrongs. 12^ THE BOOK OF BALLADS. But weep for the hour! — Life's summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast. Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead — and, alas ! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, [iike a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire tete-a-tete with a friend. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. V-^'' €1r laittBah, Who would not be The Laureate bold With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold ! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, T 'd lounge in the gateway all the day long. With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. 1 'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord ; But 1 'd lie on my back on the smooth green sward, With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon ray breast, And 1 'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds as listless as I, Lazily, lazily! 130 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And 1 'd pick the moss and daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite : And I 'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birth-day ode, Crazily, crazily ! Oh, that would be the life for me. With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, Trance-somely, trance-somely. Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, With their saucy caps, and their crisped hair, And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air. And say to each other — " Just look down there. At the nice young man, so tidy and small. Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, Handsomely, handsomely !" They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, And crumpled up balls of the royal bills. Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, As they 'd see me start, with a leap and a run. From the broad of my b^ck to the point of my toes, When a pellet of paper hi: my nose, Teazingly, sneezingly. Then I 'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers ; . And I 'd challeng*^ them all to come down to me, And 1 'd kiss then -ill till they kissed me. Laughingly, laughingly. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1551 Oh, would r.ot that be a merry life, Apart from care, and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day ? Oh, that would be the post for me ! With plenty to get and nothing to do But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo. And scribble of verses remarkably few. And at evening empty a bottle or two, Quaffingly, quaffingly ! 'T is I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold ! 132 THE BOOK OF BALLADS a 3Kftniglit HtMtotinn. Fill me once more the foaming pewter up ! Another board of oysters, ladye mine ! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine ; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink ; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brmk ! This makes strong hearts — strong heads attest its charm- - This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawn}/ arm ! But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was 1 1 Oh, I see — old Southey 's dead ! They '11 want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt — and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garland ec" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I r>3 Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil 1 I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams ; There should Apollo's bays be budding now : And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams. When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance' divine of poesy and liquor. They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my ftmcy took their being's stamp : There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Cliflbrd leads his pals upon the tramp ; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp. Roams through the starry wilderness of thought. Where all is everything, and everything is nought. Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline ! How love and murder hand in hand may run. Cemented by philosophy serene. And kisses bless the spot where gore has becji ! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime. And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime ! Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light ! Until the. public, wildered as they read. Believed they saw that which was not in sight — Of course 't was not for me to set them right; 134 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy 's as good as any other bam. Novels three-volumed I shall write no more — Somehow or other now they will not sell ; And to invent new passions is a bore — I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating 's simple, too, as I can tell, W>ho 've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my uvvn. Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed ; Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past. Warmed. his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry 's greatly better. A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these ! Shall they compete with him who wrote " Maltravers,'^ Prologue to " Alice or the Mysteries f No ! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho ! another pint of Stout ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 135 3ilniitgnniprn. A POEM. Like one w'lio, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme ; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill : Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene ; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him, and before; Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the mass around Servetus' pile, — So once again I snatch this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sound of Satan's Universal Prayer ; Not now to sing in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life; But to proclaim the wish, with pious art. Which thrills through Britain's universal heart, — That on this brow, with native honors graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed ! I no THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak ; Let no desponding tears ]>edim 3'our cheek ! No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. There are who move so far above the great. Their very look disarms the glance of hate ; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. I, who nave bathed in bright Castalia's tide, By classic Isis and more classic Clyde ; I, who have handled in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane ; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread ; I, who on mountain — honey dew have fed; I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal ; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw ; I, who have done what Milton dared not do, — I fear no rival for the vacant throne ; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own ! Let dark Macaulay chaunt his Roman lays. Let Monckton Milnes go mounder for the bays, Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid. Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Camp1)ell carol Copenhagen's knell, Let Delta warble through liis Delphic groves, Let Pvlliot shout for pork and penny loaves, — THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 137 I caie not, I! resolved to stand or fall ; One down, another on, I '11 smash them all ! Back, ye profane ! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower ; This brow alone is privileged to weai The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair ; These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine. Back, ye profane ! And thou, fair queen, rejoice: A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. Thus, then, I kneel where Spencer knelt before, On the same spot perchance, of Windsor's floor ; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from s;reat Victoria's hand. 138 THE ROOK OF BALLADS. (KljB BBEtli nf Ipart [Wht has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his mar- vellous threnody ou "The Death of Space ?" Who knows where the hays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office ? If unwonted motlesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon thp boldne^^s that tears from blush- ing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.J Eternity shall raise her funeral pile In the vast dungeon of the extinguish'd sky, And, clothed in dim barbaric splendor, smile. And murmur shouts of elegiac joy. While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, And those that people all that dreary void. When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoy'd. And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail. The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, And lash the empyrean with his tail. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. l^y And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws. And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, Infinity shall creep into her shell. Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, And end their strife with suicidal yell. While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of Kings 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, Nonentity, on circumambient wino-s An everlasting Pha'nix ^h.iil ai-ise. f40 . THE BOOK OF BALLADS- littk 3d1ie nni tijt EA /rmt A LAY OF SHERWOOD. FYTTE THE FIRST. 'Ihe deer may leap within the glade ; The fawns may follow free — For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid Beneath the greenwood tree. And broken are his merry, merry men, That goodlie companie ; There 's some have ta'en thi. h . rthern road With Jem of Netherbee. The best and bravest of the band With Derby Ned are gone; But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood, They staid with Little John. Now Little John was an outlaw proud, A prouder ye never saw ; Throilgh Nottingham and Leicester shires He thought his word was law, And he strutted through the greenwood wide Like a pestilent jack-daw. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 141 He swore that none, but with leave of him, Should set foot on the turf so free • And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, All over the south countrie. " There 's never a knave in the land," he said, " But shall pay his toll to me !" And Charlie Wood was a taxman good As ever stepped the ground. He levied mail, like a sturdy thief. From all the yeomen round. " Nay, stand !" quoth he, " thou shalt pay to me, Seven pence from every pound !" Now word has come to Little John, As he lay upon the grass, That a friar red was in merry Sherwood Without his leave to pass. " Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page ! Ben Hawes, come tell to me, What manner of man is this burly frere Who walks the wood so free !" " My master good !" the little page said, " His name T wot not well. But he wears on his head a hat so red, With a monstrous scallop-shell. " He says he is Prior of CopmaDshiirsb, And Bishop of London town, And he comes with a rope from our father, tlie Pope To put the outlaws down. 142 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " I saw him ride but yester-tide With his jolly chaplains three; And he swears that he has an open pass From Jem of Netherbee !" Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, And broke it o'er his knee ; " Now I may never strike doe again, But this wrong avenged shall be ! " And has he dared, this greasy frere, To trespass in my bound, Nor asked for leave from Little John To range with hawk and hound? " And has he dared to take a pass From Jem of Netherbee, Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws Pertain of i-ight to me 1 " O were he but a simple man And not a slip-shod fi ^re ! I 'd hang him up by his own waist-rope Above yon tangled brere. *' O did he come alone tVom Jem And not from our father the Pope, 1 'd bring him in to Copmanshurst. With the noose of a hempen rope ! TnE BOOK OF BALLADS. 113 " But since he has come from our father the Pope, And sailed across the sea, And since he has power to bind and loose, His life is safe for me ; But a heavy penance he shall do Beneath the greenwood tree !" " O tarry yet," quoth Charlie Wood, '' O tarry, master mine ! It 's ill to shear a yearling hog. Or twist the wool of swine ! " It 's ill to make a bonny silk purse From the ear of a bristly boar ; It 's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, When the way lies him before. " I 've walked the forest for twenty years, In weather wet and dry. And never stopped a good fellawe Who had no coin to buy. " What boots it to search a beggarman's bag? When no silver groat he has ? So, master mine, I rede you well, E'en let the Friar pass !" " Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, ' " Thou japest but in vain ; An he have not a groat within his pouch We may find a silver chain. 141_ THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " I>nt were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, As truly he may be, He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws Without the leave of me !" " Little John has taken his arrows and bow, His sword and buckler strong, And lifted up his quarter-staff, Was full three cloth yards long And he has left his merry men At the trysting-tree behind. And gone into the gay greenwood. This burly frere to find. O'er holt and hill, thro' brake and brere He took his way alone — Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear This geste of Little John. PYTTE THE SECOND. 'T h :iierry, 't is merry in gay greenwood, When the little birds are singing, When the buck is belling in the fern And the hare from the thicket springing] 'T is merry to hear the waters e'ear As they splash in the pebbly fall ; And the ouzel whistling to his mate As he lights on the stones so small. THE BOOK OF EA.LLA.DS. 14; But small plerisaunce took little John In all he heard and saw ; Till hf> reached the cave of a hermit old Who wonned within the shaw. " Ora pro nobis /" quoth Little John — His Latin v.as somewhat rude — " Now, holy Father, hast thou seen A frere within the wood 1 " By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nost. I guess you may know him well; And he wears on his head a hat so red, And monstrous scallop shell." " I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit saidj " In this cell for thirty year. Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, The face of such a frere ! " And if ye find him, master mine. E'en take an old man's advice, And j-acldle him well, till he roar aaairs Lest ye tail to meet him twice !'* ••Trust me foi' that 1" (iiicih Little John — " Trust me foi that !" qrioth he with a laugh, ''There never was man of wcman born, That ask'd twice for the taste of my quarter-staff'!'" 7 lie thp: book of ballads. Tlien Little John, he strutted on, 'Till he came to an open bound, And he was aware ol a Red Friar Was sitting upon the ground. His shoulders they were broad and stror g, And large was he of limb : Few yeomen in the north countrie Would care to mell with him. He heard the rustling of the boughs, As Little John drew near ; But never a single word he 'jpoke, Of welcome or of cheer. I like not his looks ! thought Little John, Nor his staff of the oaken tree. Now may our Lady be my help, Else beaten I well may be ! " What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, In Sherwood's merry round, Without the leave of Little John, To range with hawk and hound 1" " iSmall thought have 1," quoth the Red Fiiar, "Of any leave, I trow. 'A hat Little John is an outlawed thief^ And so, I ween, art thou ' THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 147 '' Know, 1 ani Prior of Copmaiishurst, And Bishop of London town, And 1 bring a rope fi-orn our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down." Then out spoke Little John in wrath, "I tell thee, burly frere. The Pope may do as he likes at howie, But he sends no Bishops here ! "Up, and away. Red Friar!" he said, " Up, and away, right speedilie ; An it were not for that cowl of thine, Avenged on thy body I would be !" " Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, " And let my cowl no hindrance be ; I warrant that I can give as good As ever I think to take from thee !" Little John he raised his quarter-staff. And so did the burly priest, And they fought beneath the greenwood tree, A stricken hour at least. But Little John was weak of fence, And his strength began to fail. Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, Like the strokes of a threshing flail, 118 THE BOOK IJF BALLADS. " Now, hold thy hand," thou stalwart Friar, "' Now rest beneath the thorn, Until I gather breath enow, For a blast at my bugle horn !" "I '11 hold my hand," the Friar said, " Since that is your propine. But, an you sound your bugle horn, I '11 even blow on mine I'' Little John he wound a blast so shrill That it rung o'er rock and linn, And Charlie Wood and his merry men all Came lightly bounding in. The Friar he wound a blast so strong That it shook both bush and tree, And to his side came Witless Will And Jem of Netherbee ; With all the worst of Robin's band. And many a Rapparee ! Liltle John he wist not what to do. When he saw the others come ; So he twisted his quarter-staff between His fingers and his thumb. "There 's some mistake, good Friar !" he said, "There 's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, But not beneath the greenwood tree. THE BOOK OF EALLALS. "And if jK^u. will take some other name, You shall have ample leave to bide ; With pai-.tiire also for your Bulls, And power to range tho forest wide." "Thf^re 'b nj mistake''' the Friar said, •' I '11 call myself j ist what 1 please. My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, And cheese is nothki^ else than cneese *' "So be it then ! ' quoth Little John ; "But surely you will not object, If I and all my ine.-ry men Should treat you with reserved respect 'f ' We can't call you Prior of Copmanshursl, Nor Bishop of London town, '.^or on the grass, cs you chance to pass, Can we very well kneel down. -' But you '11 send the Pope my compliments, And say, as a further hint, That, within the Sherwood bounds, you s>aw Little John, who is the son-in law Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint i'' So ends this geste of Little John — God save our noble Queen ! But, Lordlings, say — is Sherwood now What Sherwood once hath been ? 149 150 . THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €i)t EjiumB Bf lit InnntBlnt lingU, A LEGEND OF GLASC^OW. BY MRS. E H- JC There 's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of tl West, Where its bravest and- its best find their grave. Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep In the waters still and deep. Not a wave ! And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed, and gray, and taJl. Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond. And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well. Makes a kind of tidal swell On the pond ! .\nd there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, With the odor of the hay floating by ; Vnd I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demureljc ring, ' 'hime by chime, ting by ting, Droppingly. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 151 Then my thoughts went wandering back on a very beaten track To the confine deep and black of the tomb, And 1 wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass. Where the dandelion has Such a bloom. Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly sloping eye, A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; And I read in letters cold — ?i^crc.l2es.3Launcelot.se.boHic, ©ff.ge.race.off.iSoflilc.olli, ^lasfloto.torne. 3[l5c.toals.anf.bair'aunt.ttnDcf)tr.Tnatst.t€rritlc.in.f2ct)te. . . Here the letters failed outright, but I knew That a stout crusading; lord, who had crossed the Jordan's ford. Lay there beneath the sward, VYet with dew. Tim_e and tide they passed away, on that pleasant sum mer's day. And around me ns I lay, all giew old : Sank the ohimneya from the town, and the clouds of vaDor brown No iongc]-. like a crown, O'er It rolled. j 5") 'rriE BOOK o^ ballads. Sank the ^veai Saint Roliux stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers. And a donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes, With its nien-at-ra-ms in rows. On its towers. And the flag that flaunted there, showed the grim and grizzly bear, Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall. " Wake ye up ! my comrades all. From your rest ! " For by the blessed rood, there 's a glimpse of armor good In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream ; And I hear the stifled hum, of a multitude that come, Though they have not beat the drum It would seem ! "Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford With partizan and sword, just beneath ; Ho, Gilkison and Nares ! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs ! We '11 back the bonny bears To the death !" To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not. Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed ; On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, With his arms across him glued On his breast. THE BOOR OF BALLADS. 153 And he nmttered "Foe accurst! bus thou daied to seek ine first? George of GorLals, do thy worst — for J swear, O'er tiiy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my Ijride, From my undesevered side, Thou shalt tear ! " Ho ! herald mine, Brownlee ! ride forth, I pray and see. Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend ! Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish With his bloodhounds in the leash. Shall attend." Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse. He sank from off his horse On the plain ! Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart Neish, With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. "Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord. Thou caitiff thrice abhorred. Shame on thee ! li)i THE BUOK^OF BALLADS. "Ho, jowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon th*^ foes, i'or.hwith no end of those heavy bolts. Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, And a gallows for the slave Who revolts !" Ten days the conibat lasted ; but the bold defenders fasted, While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host ; You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbar Hers, As at night they dressed the steers For the roast. And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath ; In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief, Nor did Neish the spellword, beef, Dare to breathe. To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful dame, With the rosy evening flame on her face. She sighed, and looked around on the solu-ers on the ground, Who but little penance found. Saying grace ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 155 And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, " One short and little wo)d may I speak ? I cannoo bear to w'lew those eyes so ghastly blue, Or mark the sallow hue Of thy cheek ! •' I know the rage and wrath that my furious .brothei hath Is less against us both than at me. Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe An arrow from the bow, Like Brownlee !" "I would soil my father's name, I would lose my trea- sured fame, Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light : While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand. Heart to heart, hand to hand !" Said the knight. " All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host Shall discover to their cost rather hard ! Ho, Provan ! take this key — hoist up the Malvoisie, And heap it, d' ye see, In the yard. 156 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find I reckon some, Besides the beei* and nmm, extra stout ; Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks*, As also range the flasks, Just without. " If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears In the very inmost tiers of the drink. Let them wm the outer-court, and hold it for their sport, Since their time is rather short, I should think !" With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids ; Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, Till they stumbled or the floor, O'er the fluids ! Down their weapons then they threv/, and each savage soldier drew From his belt an iron screw, In his list : George of Gorbcils found it vain their excitement to restrain, And indeed was rather fain To assist. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 157 With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, And silence did command all below — " Ho ! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, In the centre of thy hold. Pledge me now ! " Art surly, brother mine ? In this cup of rosy wine, I drink to the decline of thy race ! Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run. Never more shall setting sun Gild thy face ! ' The pilgrim in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up, ^nd perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high ! What, brother ! art thou dry 1 Fill my cup !" Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heartl him not, But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore : And Sir Roderick Dalgleish, remarked aside to Neish, " Never sure did thirsty fish Swallow more !" 158 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel 's scarce begun, It were knightly sport and fun to strike in !" ^'Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum — They are working at the mum, And the gin !" Then straight there did appesT to each gallant Gorbalier Twenty castles dancing near, all around. The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, And sinuous as a snake Moved the ground. Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, But all agreed the rum was divine. And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born. Who preferred to fill his horn Up with wine ! Then said Launcelot the tall, " Bring the chargers from their stall ; Lead them straight unto the hall, down below : Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, And together we shall ride On the foe !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 159 Then Piovan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, That few would 'scape to tell how they fared, And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, Looked terrible as bears, All prepared. With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinew- ed Neish, And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright — " Now, wake the trumpet's blast ; and, comrades, follow flist; Smite them down unto the last !" Cried the knight. In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. On the miserable kerne, fell the death-strokes suitT and stern, As the deer treads down the fern, In the vale ! Saint Mungo be my guide ! It was goodly in that tide To see the Bogle ride* in his haste ; He accompanied each blow, with a cry of " Ha !" or "Ho!" And always cleft the foe To the waist. 16x; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. "George of Gorbais — craven lord ! thou didst threat me with the cord, Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare !*' But he met with no reply, and never could descry The glitter of his eye Anywhere. Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down, Like a field of barley mown In the ear : ft had done a soldier good, to see how Pro van stood, With Neish all bathed in blood. Panting near. " Now ply ye to your tasks — go carry down those casks, And place the empty flasks on the floor. George of Gorbais scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum. To taste our beer and rum Any more ! So they plied them to tVeir tasks, and they carried down the casks. And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; But pallid for a week was the cellar master's cheek, For he swore he heard a shriek Through the door. THE BOOK Of BALLADS. 101 When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame To the face of squire and dame in the hall, The cellarer went down to tap October brown, Which was rather of renown 'Mongst them all. He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow. But his liquor would not flow through the pin. "Sure, 't is sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles. But a sound as if of buckles, Clashed within. "Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer ; What a spectacle of fear met their sight ! There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey. In the arms he bore the day Of the fight ! 1 have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, Though the moral ye may fail to perceive. Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, And now, I think, I must Take my leave ! 162 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. [Am — " The days we went a gipsying."] I WOULD all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea ; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me : It is not that I 'm touched myselfj For that I do not fear ; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 't is the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who 's lost his heart A short time ago. Whene'er we steam it to Black wall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun ; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 103 Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air : Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 't is the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know. To have a friend who 's lost his heat t A short time ago. In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz ; His sole reply 's a burning sigK And " What a mind it is !" O Lord ! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who 's lost his heart A short time ago. I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, 1 'm sure ; And all the while I 've tried to smile, And patiently endure ; He waxes strong upon his pangs. And potters o'er his grog ; And still I say, in a playful way — * Why you 're a lucky dog !" |t)4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. But oh ! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. I really wish he'd do like me When 1 was young and strong ; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 't is the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago, THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1 (i5 /rnurMn Da Eiminl TO BON GAULTIER. Argument, — An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive cousequences thus.] Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball. Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less. Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness ? Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dailce ; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm ; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes ? Ah, me ' that night there was one gentle thing, Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering ! 166 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. There's wont to l)e, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, — A crispy-cheekiness, if so 1 dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air ; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart ; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, " Oh yes, sir, certainly !" Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear. And felt I eared not, so thou wert with me. If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, x\nd took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk. Though rather more, than full three-quarters drunk But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. Ah, what a sight was that ? Not pruHent Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars — Not young Apollo, beamily array'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade — Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong. As thou when pranking thro' the glittericj^^ throng! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 167 How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above ; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver ! So bare .was thy fine throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back, So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it. That my weak soul took instant flight to thee. Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery ! But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm, (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm,) We pass'd into the great refreshment hall, Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn ; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with enquiring accents, whisper'd " Ice, Water, or cream ?" I could no more dissemble. But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain. The corks seem'd starting fi-om the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouch'd upon the fljor. Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more ! 168 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS. How beauteous is the star of night Within the eastern skies, Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkrnan's lance. Or the antelope's azure eyes ! A lamp of love in the heaven above, . That star is fondly streaming ; And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mos(|ue In the Golden Horn are gleaming. Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, And she hears the bulbul sing. As it thrills its throat to the first full note, That anthems the flowery spring. She gazes still, as a maiden will. On that beauteous eastern star : Vou might see the throb of her bosom's sob Beneath. the white cymar! She thinks of him who is far away, — Her own brave Galiongee, — Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, On the "^^ild Carpathian sea. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. She thinks of the oath that bound them both Beside the stormy water ; And. the words of love, that in Athens' grove He spake to the Cadi's daughter. " My Selim !" thus the maiden said, " Though severed thus we be, By the raging deep and the mountains' steep, My soul still yearns to thee. Thy form so dear is mirror'd here In my heart's pellucid well, As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, Or the moth to the gay gazelle. "I think of the time, when the Kaftan's crime Our love's young joys o'ertook. And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes Of my silver-toned chibouque. Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed. Thy soul it is heavy laden ; Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's boWer ; Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden !" A light step trode on the dewy sod. And a voice was in her ear, And an arm embraced young Leila's waist — " Beloved ! I am here !" Like the phantom form that rules the storm, Appeared the pirate lover. And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, As he fondly bent above her. 8 100 170 THE BOOB OF BALLADS. " Speak, Leila, speak ! for my light caique Rides proudly in yonder bay ; I have come from my rest to her I love best, To carry thee, love, away. The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover My own jemscheed from harm ; Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier. Or the mufti's vengeful arm ? " Then droop not, love, nor turn away Fi'om this rude hand of mine !" And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, And murmured — " 1 am thine !" But a gloomy man with a yataghan Stole through the acacia blossoms. And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade Had pierced through both their bosoms. " There ! there ! thou cursed caitiff Giaour ! There, there, thou false one, lie !" Remorseless Hassan stands above. And he smiles to see them die. They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, The lover and the lady — And the maidens wail to hear the tale Of the daughter. of the Cadi! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 171 cKnstBtu l^rrauit The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool ; The voice of the musniid is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest, The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. Where art thou, my beauty ; where art thou, my bHde ? Oh, come and repose by the dragoman's side ! 1 wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik — I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu ! Oh, wake thee, my dearest ! the muftis are still. And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill ; No sullen aleikoum — no derveesh is here, And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul ! 172 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I see thee — I hear thee — thy antelope foot Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot ; The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, My dove ! my phingari ! my gentle gazelle ! Nay, tremble not, dearest ! I feel thy heart throb, 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star ! Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier. Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear ? Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss ! And sweeter than balm of Gehenna, thy kiss ! Wherever I wander — wherever I roam, My spirit flies back to its beautiful home : It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, With thee, my adored one ! my own attar-gul ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 173 «ljB iBattf nf ittmiL ESQ. ^ Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and niore lovely than the nosegay in his hand ! 1 hear the crowd extolling his re- solution and intrepidity ! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace I I see him at the tree ! the whole circle are in tears ! even butchers weep !" — Beggaji's Opera. A LIVING sea of eager human faces, A thousand bosoms, throbbing all as one, Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places. Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun : Through the hushed groups low buzzing murmurs run ; And on the air, with slow reluctant swell. Comes the dull funeral boom of old Sepulchre's bell. Oh, joy in London now ! in festal measure Be spent the evening of this festive day ! For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away ! A little while, and he, the brave Duval, Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. 174 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Why comes he not ? say, wherefore doth he tarry ?" Starts the enquiry loud from every tongue. " Surely," they cry, " that tedious Ordinary His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung, — Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung !" But hark ! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. '' He comes, he comes !" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart. Join'd in the stunning cry ten thousand voices. All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. " He comes, he comes !" and every breast rejoices, As down Snow Hi]l the shout tumultuous came, Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. " He comes, he comes !" and each holds back his breath, — Some ribs are broke and some few scores are crush'd to death. • With step majestic to the cart advances The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. He feels that on him now are fix'd the glances Of many a Britain bold and maiden sweet, W hose hearts responsive to his glories beat. In him the honor of " The Road" is centred. And all the hei-o's fire into his bosom enter'd. His was the transport — his the exultation Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 175 They bore with them in the triumphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. lo Triumphe! They forgot their clay. E'en so Duval who rode in glory on his way. His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, The many -tinted nosegay in his hand. His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow. Like the old vintages of Spanish land. Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, Subdue all hearts ; and, as up Holborn's steep Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. He saw it, but he heeded not. His story. He knew, was graven on the page of Time. Tyburn to him was as a field of glory. Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, Hymn'd in full many an elegiac rhyme. He left his deeds behind him, and his name — For he, like Csesar, had lived long enough for fame. He quail'd not, save when, as he raised the chalice, — St. Giles's bowl, — filled with the mildest ale, Co pledge the crowd, on her — his beauteous Alice- His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale. She, whom he fondly deem'd his own dear girl, Stood wn'th a tall iragoon, drinking long draughts of purl. 176 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. He bit his lip — it quiver'd but a moment — Then pass'd his hand across his flashing brows : He could have spared so forcible a comment Upon the constancy of woman's vows. One short, sharp pang his hero-soul allows ; But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, And on his pilgrim-course went calmly forth again. A princely group of England's noble daughters Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, And waving many a snowy handkerchief. Then glow'd the prince of highwayman and thief I His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam : — That woman could be false was but a mocking dream. And now, his bright career of triumph ended. His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended. And fix'd the hempen bandages, while he Bow'd to the throng^ then bade the car go free. The car roll'd on, and left him dangling there Like famed Mahommed's tomb, uphung midway in air As droops the cup of the surcharged lily Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, Or the soft petals of the daffodilly. When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, So drooped his head upon his manly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 177 With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as they found him, nightcap, rope, and all, And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, Among the otomies in Surgeon's Hall : " These are the Bones of the renown'd Duval !" There still they tell us, from their glassy case, He was the last, the best of all that noble race ! 178 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. tf k iirgB nf i]$t Mnkn. BT W E A , ESQ. Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tum- bler down ; He has dropp'd — that star of honor — on the field of his renow n ! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink. Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half wnth drink ! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from oflfthe floor; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door ! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd ; where the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. THE BOOK OF BALL vDS. 179 Deep in shady Cider Cellars 1 have dreani'd o'er heavy- wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the ric) Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock ; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon ; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danes- man blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, 1 havs shared the planter's rum. Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb ; But a stouter, bolder drinker — one that loved his liquor more — Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor ! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd — let the rest of us beware ! We shall leave him, as we found him, — lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. 180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, Better 't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobies off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy. Large supplies of soda water, tumbler's bottomed well with brandy, So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un a& he is! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 181 §mt /rBtegnuto, When folks with headstrong passion blind. To play the fool make up their mind, They 're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'T is not advice they want, in fact. But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race. A dame more buxsome, blithe and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape. Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape. Could for her trade wish better sign ; Her looks gave flavor to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, 9mack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad, — A jovial coaxing way she had ; 182 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. And, — what was more her fate than blame, — A nine months' widow M^as om* dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. " And what can a lone woman do ? The nights are long, and eerie too. Now, Guillot there 's a likely man. None better draws or taps a can ; He 's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to 't." With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : The dame, they say, who doubts is lost. " But then the risk 1 I'll beg a slice Of Father Raulin's good advice." Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest ; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed : " With such a business on my head. I 'm worried off my legs with care. And need some help to keep things square. [ 'v(i thought of Guillot, truth to tell ! He 's steady, knows his business well. What do you think?" When thus he met her ' Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better !" ' But then the danger, my good pastor, (f of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." ' Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" " But help I must have, there 's the curse. I may go farther and fare worse." THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 183 " Why, take him then !" " But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good, — In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall V " Don't have him, then ! But I 've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing, — hark ! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say ' Yes !' wed, and be blest — [f ' No,' why — do as you think best." The bells rung out a triple bob : Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, " Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot !" Bells were not then left to hang idle : A week, — and the rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She ]ost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kiss'd And back'd his orders with his fist. Proving by deeds as well as words, That servants make the worst of lords. She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak. With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. 184 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, To all, his calm reply was this, — " I fear you 've read the bells amiss. If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way. And sure enough their chime went so, — " Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot !" " Too true," she cried, " there 's not a doubt What could my ears have been about !" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink. THK BOOK OF BALLADS. 185 €^t iBiitli nf 33limaBl [This and the six following poems are examples of that new achieve- ment of modern sons: — which, blending the ntile with the dulce, symbolizes at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of the ag«, — and is called familiarly " the puff poetical."] Died the Jew ? " The Hebrew died. On the pavement cold he lay, Around him closed the living tide ; The butcher's cad set down his tray : The pot-boy from the Dragon Green No longer for his pewter calls ; The Nereid rushes in between, Nor more her ' Fine live mackerel !' bawls." Died the Jew 1 " The Hebrew died. They raised him gently from the stone, They flung his coat and neckcloth wide — But linen had that Hebrew none. They raised the pile of hats that pressed His noble head, his locks of snow ; . But, ah, that head, upon his breast. Sank down with an expiring ' Clo !' " 180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Died the Jew "? " The Hebrew died, Struck with overwhelming qualms, From the flavor spreading wide Of some fine Virginia Hams. Would you know the fatal spot, Fatal to that child of sin ? These fine-flavored hams are bought At 50, BiSHOFSGATE WiTHIN f" THE BOOK OF BALLADH. 18* fm'5 Mt fills. 'T WAS in the town of Lubeck A hundred years ago. An old man walk'd into the church With beard as white as snow ; Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, Nor dim his eagle eye : There's many a knight that steps the street, Might wonder, should he chance to meet That man erect and high ! When silenced was the organ, And hush'd the vespers loud. The Sacristan approached the sire. And drew him from the crowd — " There's something in thy visage, On which I dare not look, And when I rang the passing bell, A tremor that I may not tell, My very vitals shook. 188 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Who art thou, awful stranger 1 Our ancient annals say, That twice two hundred years ago Another passed this way, Like thee in face and feature ; And, if the tale be true, 'T is writ, that in this very yeai Again the stranger shall appear. Art thou the wandering Jew V " The wandering Jew, thou dotard !" The wondrous phantom cried — 'T is several centuries ago Since that poor stripling died. He would not use my nostrums — See, shaveling, here they are ! These put to flight all human ills, These conquer death — unfailing pills, And I 'm the inventor, Parr !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 189 €ari]uiE aui tljE augur. Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving. Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in Church Extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears — a deadly sin ! " Jove confound thee, thou bare-legg'd impostor ! From my dressing-table get thee gone ! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster 1 There again ! That cut was to the bone ! Get ye from my sight ; I '11 believe you 're right When my razor cuts the sharping hone !" Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness ; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered — " Try it, your Imperial Highness, Press a little harder, if you please. 190 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. There ! the deed is done !" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. So the Augur toueh'd the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid : But he wronged the blameless Gods ; for hearken ! Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his seaching eye Did the priest espy RoDGERs' narrp engraved upon the blade. THE BOOK OF BALLADE. !l»I ITu 3ilnrt i'lrtlmr. NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON. Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, Through which the fountain of his life runs dr\, Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. A roughening wind was bringing in the waves With cold, dull plash and plunging to the shore, And a great bank of clouds came sailing up Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, With a short stagger, senseless on the stones. No man yet knows how long he lay in swound ; But long enough it was to let the rust Lick half the surface of his polished shield ; For it was made by far inferior hands Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore The magic stamp of Mechi's Silver Steel. IP2 THE ROOK OF RALLADS. SttpitBt iiiii ttjB 3nMnn lU. " Take away this clammy nectar !" Said the king of gods and men ; "Never at Olympus' table Let that trash be served again. Ho, Lyaeus, thou, the beery ! Quick — invent some other drink; Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest On Cocytus' sulphury brink!" Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, Paly grew his pimpled nose, And already in his rearward Felt he Jove's tremendous toes ; When a bright idea struck him — " Dash my tliyrsus ! I '11 be bail — For you never were in India — That you know not Hodgson's Ale !' TMR BOOK OF BALLADS. "Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller And the wine-god brought the beer- " Port and Claret are like water To the noble stuff that's here !" And Saturnius drank and nodded, Winking with his lightning eyes ; And amidst the constellations Did the star of Hodgson rise ! \vd \9\ THE BOOK OF BALLADS. €ljB fail nf tjiB 8nttkn[ SSrntlirrs. Coats at five-and-forty shillings ! trousers ten-and-six n pair ! Summer waistcoats, three a sovereign, light and comfort- able wear ! Taglionis, black or colored, Chesterfield and velveteen ! The old English shooting-jacket, — doeskins, such as ne'er were seen ! Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost ! Do you want an annual contract ? Write to Doudney's by the post. DouDNEY Brothers! Doudney brothers! Not the men that drive the van, Plaster'd o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan. How, by base mechanic measure, and by pinching of their backs. Slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax : But the old established business' — 'v\'iiere the best oi clothes are given At the very lowest prices — Fleet-street, Number Ninety- THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 195 Would'st thou know the works of Doudnet ? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade, To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel. When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel. Should 'st thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morn ing frock, Peering at the proud battalion o'er the margin of his stock, — Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the vete- ran, worn an gray, Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye — Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears Started into shape and being from the Doudney Bro- thers' shears ! Seek thou next the rooms of Willis— mark, where D'Orsay's Count is bending. See the trousers' undulation from his graceful hip descending; Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love- compelling ? Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if tliou seek'st the DouDNEYs' dwelling. Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear ? "Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat? Oh, who made it, Albert dear? 196 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 'T is the very prettiest pattern ! You must get a dozen others !" And the Prince, in rapture, answers — " 'T is the work of DouDNEY Brothers !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 197 As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed, He said : "So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield ; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field. " Let me ever gaze upon thee. Look into thine eyes so deep ; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep. " Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder Who was ever like to thee ? Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me. 198 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy soft and pearly skin ; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in ! " Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest ! Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom 1 Whence the rosy hue thou wearest. Breathing round thee rich perfume 1" Thus he spoke, with heart that panted. Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied : " Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell ! 'T was a gift I had of Venus, — Venus, who hath loved me well. " And she told me as she gave it, ' Let not e'er the charm be known, O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.' ' 'T is enclosed in yonder casket — Here behold its golden key ; But its name — love, do not ask it. Tell 't, I may not, even to thee !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 199 Long with vow and kiss he plied her, Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow ; Then her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the eben table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay : Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, Cakes of his Transparent Soap ! 200 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ^HEg nf tIjB (KEttnt(t I 'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din ; Where I 'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin ; Where love has two eyes for your banker. And one chilly glance for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker. But when they 're well garnished with pelf. I 'm sick of the whole race of poets, Emasculate, missy, and fine ; They brew their small beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine. I 'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St. Stephen's, — ain't you ? I want some strong spirits to rouse up A good I'evolution or two ! I 'm sick of a land, where each morrow Eepeats the dull tale of to-day. Where you can't even find a new sorrow, To chase your stale pleasures away. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 201 I 'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, Steam, railroads, gaSj scrip, and consols ; So I '11 off where the golden Pacific Round islands of paradise rolls. There the passions shall revel unfettered, And the heart never speak but in truth, And the intellect wholly unlettered. Be bright with the freedom of youth ; There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, Unsullied by vapor or soot, And there chimpanzees and opossums Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. There I '11 sit with my dark Orianas, In groves by the murmuring sea, And they '11 give, as I suck the bananas. Their kisses, nor ask them from me. They '11 never torment me for sonnets. Nor bore me to death with their owi ; They '11 ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, For milliners there are unknown. There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, My curtains the night and the stars, And my spirit shall gather new powers, Uncramped by conventional bars. Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, My days shall be manfully sped ; I shall know that I 'm loved while I 'm living. And be wept by fond eyes when I 'm dead ' 9* 202 THE BOOK OF BALLADS (Cralte. I LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine. Easy, breezy Caroline ! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine ! Thou in chains of love hast bound me- Wherefore dost thou flit around me. Laughtej"-loving Caroline 1 When 1 fain would go to sleep In my easy chair. Wherefore on my slumbers creep — Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair 1 Whei-efore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me. Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline I THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 203 When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shaking through and through, — • Cousin Caroline, I fear, 'T was no other, novf, but you Put gunpowder in the snuffers. Springing such a mine ! Yes, it was your tricksy self, "Wicked-tricked, little elf, Naughty cousin Caroline J Pins she sticks into my shoulder, Places needles in my chair, And, when I begin to scold her^ Tosses back her combed hair, With so saucy-vexed an air. That the pitying beholder Cannot brook that I should scold her : Then again she comes, and bolder, • Blacks anew this face of mine. Artful cousin Caroline ! Would she only say she 'd love me, ' Winsome tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 't would move me, Teasing, pleasing, cousin mine ! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose 204 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. With her pretty persecution ; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion ; Would she only say she 'd love me, Darning needles should not move me ; But reclining back, I 'd say, " Dearest ! there 's the snuffer tray ; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine ! Cork me, cousin Caroline !" THE ROOK OF BALLADS. 205 FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM CF LOVE TOKENS. Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye Did'st once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the passer-by Those tender words — Forget-me-not I Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought, — And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge — Forget-me-not ! Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, And happiness arose unsought. When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom — Forget-me-not ! What rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot, When, yielding to my kiss, she said, " Oh, Theodore— Forget-me-not !" 206 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. A-las, for love ! alas, for truth ! Alas for man's uncertain lot ! Alas for all the hopes of youth That fade like thee — Forget-me-not ! Alas ! for that one image fair, With all my brightest dreams inwrought ! That walks beside me everywhere, Still whispering — Forget-me-not! Oh, memory ! thou art but a sigh For friendships dead and loves forgot ; And many a cold and altered eye, That once did say — Forget-me-not ! And I must bow me to thy laws. For — odd although it may be thought — I can't tell who the deuce it was That gave me this Forget-me-not ! THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 207 '* Why art thou weeping, sister 1 Why is thy cheek so pale? Look up, dear Jane, and tell me What is it thou dost ail ? " I know thy will is froward, Thy feelings warm and keen, And that that Augustus Howard For weeks has not been seen. " I know how much you loved him ; But I know thou dost not weep For him ; — for though his passion be, His purse is noways deep. " Then tell me why those teardrops ; What means this woful mood 1 Say, has the tax-collector Been calling, and been rude % 208 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Or has that hateful grocer, The slave ! been here to-day 1 Of course he had, by morrow's noon, A heavy bill to pay ! " Come, on thy brother's bosom Unburden all thy woes ; Look up, look up, sweet sister ; There, dec-rost, blow your nose." "Oh, John, 't is not the grocer. For his account ; although How ever he is to be paid, I really do not know. " 'T is not the tax-collector ; Though by his fell command, They 've seized our old paternal cL^ik, And new umbrella-stand : " Nor that Augustus Howard, Whom I despise almost, — But the soot's come down the chimney, John, And fairly spoiled the roast !" THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 209 (Cnmfnrt in Iffl irtinn. " Wherefore starts my bosom's lord 1 Why this anguish in thine eye ? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh . " Rest thee, my dear lord, I pra-/. Rest thee on my bosom now ! And let me wipe the dews away. Are gathering on thy brow, " There, again ! that fevered start ! What, love ! husband ! is thy pain ? There is a sorrow on thy heart, A weight upon thy brain ! " Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye ; 'T is a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony. 210 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. " Si^^ce the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath ; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death. " Oh, what joy it was to seo My gentle lord once more awake ! Tell me, what is amiss with thee ? SpeaK, or my heart will break '" " Mary, thou angel of my life. Thou ever good and kind ; 'T is not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind ! " It is not in my oosom dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth ; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth ! " Then give, — oh, first, best antidote,- Sweet partner of my bed ! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head !" THE BOOK 01 BALLADS, ^ 211 €^i Sunnrntinu. " Brother, thou art very weary, And thine eye is sunk and dim, And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled. And thy collar out of trim ; There is dust upon thy visage, — Think not Charles I would hurt ye, When I say, that altogether, You appear extremely dirty. " Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee To thy chamber's distant room ; Drown the odors of the ledger With the lavender's perfume. Brush the mud from off thy trowsers. O'er the china basin kneel. Lave thy brows in water softened With the soap of Old Castile. " Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead Now in loose disorder stray ; Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers Cut those ragged points away. 412 • THE BOOK OF BALLADS. Let 110 more thy calculations Thy bewildered brain beset ; Life has other hopes than Cocker's, Other joys than tare and tret. " Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, Waiting to the very last. Twenty minutes after seven. And 't is now the quarter past. 'T is a dinner which Lucullus Would have wept with joy to see, One, might wake the soul of Curtis From Death's drowsy atrophy. " There is soup of real turtle, Turbot, and the dainty sole ; And the mottled roe of lobsters Blushes through the butter bowl. There the lordly haunch of mutton. Tender as the mountain grass, Waits to mix its ruddy juices With the girdling caper-sauce. " There a stag, whose branching forehead Spoke him monarch of the herds, He whose flight was o'er the heather, Swift as through the air the bird's, Yields for thee a dish of cutlets ; And the haunch that wont to dash O'er the roaring mountain torrent. Smokes in most delicious hash. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 213 " There, besides, are amber jellies Floating like a golden dream ; Ginger from the far Bermudas Dishes of Italian cream; And a princely apple-dumpling, Which my own fair fingers wrought, Shall un.^old its nectared treasures To thy lips all smoking hot. ' Ha ! I see thy brow is clearing. Lustre flashes from thine eyes ; To thy lips I see the moisture Of anticipation rise. Hark ! the dinner bell is sounding '" " Only wait one moment, Jane : I'll be dressed, and down, before you Can get up the iced champagne !" 214 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. «jlB lushanii's l^tiiliu. Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove ; 'T is something quite apart from The gentle cares of love. I feel a bitter craving — A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose ! Nay, dearest ! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak — I feel thy arms about me, Thy ti'esses on my cheek : THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2 1 ft I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine, — I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine : And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love : No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers — Ah, Jane ! how white they be ! — Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me. Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request ; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best — By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes r By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon. We sat beside the rivulet, Tn the leafy month of June ; And by the broken whisper That fell, upon my ear, More sweet than angel-mlisic, When first I woo'd thee, dear ! 216 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. By that great vow which hound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride ! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task — A BOILED sheep's-head ON SuNDAY Is all the boon I ask ! FIRMILIAN STUDENT OF BADAJOZ "SPASMODIC" TKAGEDY BY T. PERCY JONES (WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOON.) FIEMlLIAISr. {Extract from the North British Review, /or September, 1866.) " The latest of Aytoun's jeux cfesprit which made any con- siderable hit was perhaps the best of them all: Tirmilian; or, The Student of Badajoz. A Spasmodic Tragedy. By T. Percy Jones.' About a dozen years ago, there existed a bad school of poetry, encouraged by an absurd school of criticism, and owing its origin ultimately to the ' Festus ' of Mr. Bailey. "No doubt there were men among them whose natural poetic power was greater than Aytoun's own. But the power was absurdly used; was employed on extravagant conceptions clo*ih(d in extravagant expression; and the result was some- tb\ng offensive to all who had formed their -taste on tlie great models, whether of antiquity or of England. "Aytoun's sympathies in these matters were sound; indeed, if they erred at all, they erred from a certain narrowness on the sound side. So he did what his talents exactly suited him for — wrote an elaborate squib on the juvenile offenders., 'Fir- MILIAN ' is a poetaster, with a taste for sensuality and a morbid hankering after crime, and his rant in verse is an admirable imi- tation of the kind of stuff that was produced, in all seriousness, by our younger poets in 1853-54. " ' FiRMiLiAN,' no doubt, helped to explode the now-almost- forgotten nonsense at which it was levelled. "The 'spasmodic school' no longer exists as a school; and any single member of it, who has reached any position in letters, has done so by emancipating himself from the absurdities of his youth. "Unluckily, in some cases in which the extravagance was thought to be an excess of power, it has turned out that the power resided only in the extravagance. When the spasmodic poet has begun to write like other people, he has written worse." PREFACE, As several passages of the following Poem have appeared in the pages of periodicals, I consider it an act of justice to myself to lay the whole before the public. 1 am not at all deterred by the fear of hostile criticism — I be- lieve that no really good thing was ever injured by criticism ; and, so far from entertaining an angry feeling t(Twards the gentlemen who have noticed my work, I thank them for having brought me forward. IV PREFACE. It is a common practice, now-a-dajs, for poets to appeal to the tender mercies of the public, by issuing prefaces in which they acknowledge, in as many words, the weakness and poverty of their verse. If the acknowledgment is sincere, how can they expect the public to show them any favor? If it is a mere hypocritical affec- tation, it were better omitted. And the practice is unwise as it is absurd. What would we think .t* the manufacturer who should entreat us to buy his goods, because they were of an inferior kind, or of the tradesman who should deliber- ately announce that his stock was of a poor quality? For my part, if I conscientiously be- lieved that my poetry was not worthy of ad- miration, I never would commit the impertinence of asking any one to read it. There has been, of late, much senseless talk P ii E F A C E . T about "schools of poetry;" and it has been said, on the strength of the internal evidence afforded by some passages in m}^ play, that I have joined the ranks, and uphold the tenets, of those who belong to " the Spasmodic School." I deny the allegation altogether. I belong to no school, except that of nature ; and I acknowledge the authority of no living master. But, lest it should be thought that I stand in terror of a nick-name — the general bugbear to young authors — I have deliberately adopted the title of " Spasmodic," and have applied it in the title-page to my tragedy. It is my firm opinion that all high poetry is and must be spasmodic. Kemove that element from Lear — from Othello — from Mac- beth — from any of the great works which refer to the conflict of the passions — and what would be the residue ? A mere caput mortimm. I VI PREFACE. differ from those who regard veree and poeti-y as being one and the same thing; or who look upon a collection of glittering conceits, and appropriate similes as the highest proof of poet- ical accomplishment. The office of poetry is to exhibit the passions in that state of excitement which distinguishes one from the other; and, until a dramatic author has learned this secret, all the fine writing in the world will avail him nothing. Cato is perhaps the best-written tra- gedy in the English language ; and yet, what man in his senses would dream of reading Cato twice ? I have been accused of extravagance, princi- pally, I presume, on account of the moral obli- quity of the character of Firmilian. To that ] reply, that the moral of a play does not depend upon the morals of any one character depictea PREFACE. Vll in it ; and that many of the characters drawn by the magic pencil of Shakespeare are shaded as deep, or even deeper, than Firmilian. Set him beside lago, Richard III., or the two Macbeths, and 1 venture to say that he will not look dark in comparison. Consider carefully the character of Hamlet, and yon will find that he is very nearly as selfish as Firmilian. Hamlet is said to shadow forth '* Constitutional Irresolution ;" — my object in Firmilian has been to typify "Intel- lect without Principle." If the extravagance is held to lie in the con- ception and handling of my subject, then I assert fearlessly that the same charge may be preferred with greater reason against Goethe's masterpiece, the Faust. I have not considered it necessary to evoke the Devil in my pages — I have not introduced the reader to the low buffooneries of viii prefacp:. Auerbach's cellar, or to the Witch with her hybrid apes — nor have I indulged in the weird revelries and phantasmagoria of the Brocken. I do not presume to blame Goethe for his use of such material, any more than I should think of impugning Shakespeare for the Ghost in Hamlet^ or the Witches in Macbeth. I merely wish to show that the "utter extravagance" v"vhich some, writers affect to have discovered in my play, is traceable only to their own defects in high ima- ginative development. If I am told that the character of Firmilian is not only extravagant, but utterly without a parallel in nature, 1 shall request my critic to revise liis opinion after he has perused the histo- ries of Madame de Brinvilliers and the Borgias. I am perfectly aware that this poem is un- equal, and that some passages of it are inferior PREFACE. ix in interest to others. Such was my object, foi I am convinced that there can be no beaut) without breaks and undulation. I am not arrogant enough to assert that this is the finest poem which the age has produced ; but I shall feel very much obliged to any gentleman who can ^make me acquainted with a better. T. PERCY JONES. Stueatham, July, '864. DRAMATIS PERSONS. FiRMiLiAN, The Student of Badajoz. Haverillo, a Poet. Alphonzo D'AamLAR, \ f Students ana l^fiends of Garcia Perez, V \ Firmilian. Alonzo Olivarez, ; Chief Inquisitor. An Old Inquisitor. Balthazar, ) ^ .,. ^ , r • •.• V Fmmliars of the Inquisttior. Gil of Santillane, ) NicoDEMUS, Firmilians Servant. Priest of St. Nicholas. A Graduate. Two Gentlemen of Badajoz. Confessor. Fabian, Steward to the Countess D'Aguilar. Apollodorus, a Critic. Sancho, a Coster mo7iger. The Countess D'Aguilar. Mariana. Lilian. Indlana. The Scene of the Play is Badajoz and its neighborhood. FTRMILIAN SCEISTE 1. FiRMiLiA"K in his study reading. Theee hours of study — and what gain thereby ? My brain is reeling to attach the sense Of what I read, as a drunk mariner Who, stumbling o'er the bulwark, makes a clutch At the wild incongruity of ropes, * And topples into mud ! Good Aristotle ! Forgive me if I lay thee henceforth by. 14 FIRMILIAN. And seek some other teacher. Thou hast been, For many hundred years, the bane and curse Of all the budding intellect of man. Thine earliest pupil, Alexander — he The most impulsive and tumultuous sprite That ever spurned old sy&fems at the heel, And dashed the dust of action in the eyes Of the slow porers over antique shards — Held thee, at twenty, an especial fool. And why ? The grand God-impulse in his heart That drove him over the oblique domain Of Asia and her kingdoms, and that urged His meteor leap at Porus' giant throat — Or the sublime illusion of the sense Which gave to Thais that tremendous torch Whence whole Persepol is was set on fire — Was never kindled surely by such trash As I, this m'ght, have heaped upon my brain ! Hence, vile impostor ! [Flings away the hooh F I li M I L I A N . 15 Who shall take his place ? What hoary dotard of antiquity Shall I invite to dip his clumsy foot Within the limpid fountain of ray mind, And stamp it into foulness ? Let me see — Following Salerno's doctrine, human lore Divides itself into three faculties. The Eden rivers of the intellect. There's Law, Theology, and Medicine, And all beyond their course is barren ground. So say the Academics ; and they're right. If learning's to be measured by its gains. The lawyer speaks no word without a fee — The Priest demands his tithes, and will not sing A gratis mass to help his brother's soul. The purgatorial key is made of gold : None else will fit the wards ; — and for the Doctor, The good kind man who lingers by your couch. Compounds you pills and potions, feels your pulse, And takes especial notice of your tongue, 16 FIKMILIAN. If you allow him once to leave the room Without the proper greasing of his palm, Look out for Azrael ! So, then, these three Maintain the sole possession of the schools , Whilst, out of doors, amidst the sleet and rain, Thin-garbed Philosophy sits shivering down, And shares a mouldy crust with Poetry ! And shall I then take Gelsus for my guide, Confound my brain with dull Justinian's tomes, Or stir the dust that lies o'er Augustine ? Not I, in faith ! I've leaped into the air. And clove my way through ether, like a bird » That flits beneath the glimpses of the moon. Right eastward, till I lighted at the foot Of holy Helicon, and drank my fill At the clear spout of Aganippe's stream. I've rolled my limbs in ecstasy along The self-same turf (Hi which old Homer lay F I R M I L I A N . 17 That night he dreamed of Helen and of Troy : And I have heard, at midnight, the sweet strains Come quiring from the hill-top, where, enshrined In the rich foldings of a silver cloud, The Muses sang Apollo into sleep. Then came the voice of universal Pan, The dread earth-whisper, booming in mine ear— " Rise up, Firmilian — rise in might !■ ' it said ; " Great youth, baptized to song ! Be it thy task, Out of the jarring discords of the world, To recreate stupendous harmonies More grand in diapason than the roll Among the mountains of the thunder-psalm ! Be thou no slave of passion. Let not love. Pity, remorse, nor any other thrill That sways the actions of uugifted men. Affect thy course. Live for thyself alone. Let appetite thy ready handmaid be. And pluck all fruitage from the tree of life, Be it forbidden or no. If any comes 18 F T R M r L I A N . Between thee and the pnrpose of thy bent, Launch thou the arrow from the string of might Right to the bosom of the impious wretch, And let it quiver there ! Be great in guilt ! If, like Busiris, thou canst rack the heart, Spare it no pang. So shalt tliou be prepared To make thy song a tempest, and to shake The earth to its foundation — Go thy way !" ■ I woke, and found myself in Badajoz. But from that day, with frantic might, I've striven To give due utterance to the awful shrieks Of him who first imbued his hand in gore, - To paint the mental spasms that tortured Cain ! How have I done it ? Feebly. What we write Must be the reflex of the thing we know ; For who can limn the morning. If his eyes Have never looked upon Aurora's face ? Or who describe the cadence of the sea. Whose ears were never open to tlie waves Or the shrill winding of the Triton's horn ? FTRMILIAN. 19 What do I know as yet of homicide ? Nothing. Fool — fool ! to lose thy precious time In dreaming of what may be, when an act Easy to plan, and easier to effect, Can teach thee every thing ! What — craven mind — Shrink'st thou from doing, tor a noble aim. What, every hour, some villain, wretch or slave Dares for a purse of gold ? It is resolved— I'll ope the lattice of some mortal cage. And let the soul go free ! A draught of wine ! {Drinlcs.) Ha ! this revives me ! How the nectar thrills Like joy through all my frame ! There's not a god In the Pantheon that can rival thee, Thou purple-lipped Lyseus ! And thon'rt strong As thou art bounteous. Were I Ganymede, To stand beside the pitchers at the feast Of the Olympian revel, and to give The foaming cups to Hebe — how I'd laugh To see thee trip up iron Yulcan's heels, 20 F I K M I L I A N . Prostrate old Keptune, and fling bullying Mars, With all his weight of armor on his back, Down with a clatter on the heavenly floor ! Not Jove himself dare risk a fall with thee, Lord of the panthers ! Lo, I drink again. And the high purpose of my soul grows Arm, As the sw^eet venom circles in my veins — It is resolved ! Come, then, mysterious Guilt, Thou raven-mother, come— and fill my cup With thy black beverage ! I am sworn to thee, And will not falter ! But the victim ? That Requires a pause of thouglit — I must begin With some one dear to me, or else the deed Would lose its flavor and its poignancy. Now, let me see There's Lilian, pretty maid — Tlie tender, blushing, yielding Lilian — She loves me but too well. What if I saved Her young existence from all future throes. F I R M I L I A N . 21 And laid her pallid on an early bier ? Wlij, that were mercy both to her and me, "Not ruthless sacrifice. And, more than this. She hath an uncle an Inquisitor, Who might be tempted to make curious quest About the final ailments of his niece. Therefore, dear Lilian, live ! I harm thee not. There's Mariana, she, mine own betrotlted, The blooming mistress of the moated grange, She loves me well — but we're not married yet. It will be time enough to think of her After her lands are mine ; therefore, my own. My sweet affianced, sleep thou on in peace, Nor dream of ruffian wrong. Then there's another, That full-blown beauty of Abassin blood Whose orient charms are madness ! Shall she die ? Why, no — not now at least. 'Tis but a week Since, at the lonely cottage in the wood, My eyes first rested on that Queen of lud ! O, she of Sheba was an ugly ape 22 F I R M I L I A N . Compared with Indiana ! — Let her pass. There's Haverillo, mine especial friend — A better creature never framed a verse By dint of finger-scanning; yet he's deemed A proper poet by the gaping fools Who know not me ! I love him ; for he's kind, And very credulous. To send him hence Would be advancement to a higher sphere — A gain to him, no loss to poetry. I think that he's the man : yet, hold awhile — No rashness in this matter ! He liath o^ot CD Acknowledgments of mine within his desk For certain sums of money — paltry dross Which 'tis my way to spurn. TVe found him still A most convenient creditor : he asks No instant payment for his fond advance, Nor yet is clamoi'ous for the usufruct. How if, he being dead, some sordid slave, Brother or cousin, who might heir his wealth. Should chance to stumble on those bonds of mine, F I R M I L I A N . 23 And sue me for the debt ? That were enough To break tlie wanton wings of Pegasus, And bind him to a stall ! l^or have I yet Exhausted half his means ; it may be soon I shall require moie counters, and from him I may depend upon a fresh supply. A riglit good fellow is this Haverillo — A mine, a storehouse, and a treasury, My El-Dorado and my Mexico — Then let .him live and thrive ! Are there no more? O, yes ! There's Garcia Perez — he's my friend, And ever stood above me in the schools. And there's that young Alphonzo D'Aguilar, Proud of his Countsliip and Castilian blood, He hath vouchsafed me notice, and I love him. And there's Alonzo Olivarez, too. That mould of Hercules, — he's near of kin To "Mariana, and his wealth accrues Solelv to her. I love him like a brothei'. 24 F I R M I L I A N . Be these mj choice. I sup with them to-morow. Come down, old Raymond LuUj, from the shelf, Thou quaint discourse!* upon pharmacy. Did not Lucretia — not the frigid dame Who discomposed young Tarquin in her bower, But the complete and liberal Borgia — Consult thy pages for a sedative ? Ay — here it is ! In twenty minutes, death ; The compound tasteless, and beyond the skill Of any earthly leech to recognize. Thanks, Raymond, thanks ! How looks the night ? Thou nioon, That in thy perfect and perennial course Wanderest at will across the fields of heaven — Thoii argent beauty, meditative orb. That spiest out the secrets of the earth In the still hours when o-nilt and murder walk — To what far region takest thou thy way ? Not Latmos now allures thee, for the time When boy Endymion stretched his tender liinbs F I R M I L T A N . 25 Within the coverture of Dian's bower. Hath melted into fable. Wilt thou pass To Ephesus, thy city, glorious once, But now dust-humblecl ; and, for ancient love, Make bright its ruined shafts, and weed-grown walls. With molten silver? Or invite thee more The still witch-haunted plains of Thessaly, Where, o'er ihe bones of the Pharsalian dead, Amidst the gibbering of tlie Lemures, Grim women mutter spells, and pale thy face With monstrous incantation ? What ! already Shrink'st thou behind the curtain of a cloud E'en at my looking ? Then I know indeed My destiny is sure ! For I was born To make thee and thine astral brethren quake. And I will do it ! Glide thou on thy way — I will to rest — best slumber while I miij ! 2 26 ' F I R M I L I A N . SCENE 11. A7i Apartment. Mariana and Haverillo. HAVERILLO. Yoli need not fear liini, cousin ; for I'm sure His heart's m the right place. He's wayward, doubtless, And very often unintelligible, But that is held to be a virtue now. Critics and poets both (save I, who cling To older canons) have discarded sense, And meaning's at a discount. Our young spirits, "Who call themselves the masters of the age, Are either robed in philosophic mist, And, with an air of grand profundity. Talk metaphysics — which, sweet cousin, means Nothing but aimless jargon — or they come Before us in the broad bombastic vein, FIRMILIAN. 27 With spasms, and throes, and transcendental flights, And heap hyperbole on metaphor : [harm ; Well ! Ileaven be with tiiem, for they do small And I no more would grudge them their career Than I would quarrel with a wanton horse That rolls, on Sundays, in a clover-held. Depend upon it, ere two years are gone, Firmiiian will be wiser. MARIANA. Yet you leave The point on which my soul is racked untouched. Men read not women's characters aright, !Nor women men's. But I have heard this said. That woman holds by duty —man by honor. If that be true, what think you of your friend ? HAVERILLO. Whv — honor is at best a curious thinof. A very honorable man will drive ^8 F 1 K M I L I A N . His sword into the bosom of a friend For having challenged some oblique remark, Yet will not stand on honor when the road Lies open for him to his neighbor's wife. Your honorable man cheats not at cards. But he will ruin tradesmen, and will sign A vast abundance of superfluous bills Without the means to pay them. Honor ! humph ! No doubt Firmilian is honorable. MARIANA. Ay, cousin ; but there's something more than that. Honor in love — How say you ? Do you think That you can stand the sponsor for yonr friend? HAVERILLO. i never was a sponsor in my life, And won't be now. My pretty Mariana, You should have thought of all such toys as these Ere the betrothal. You have given yonr word. F I K M I L I A N . 29 And cannot well withdraw. And, for yonr comfort, You nrnst remember what Firmilian is — A Poet He is privileged to sing A thousand ditties to a thousand maids. Ten Muses waited at Apollo's beck — Our modern poets are more amorous, And far exceed the count of Solomon ; But 'tis mere fancy ; inspiration all ; Pure worthless rhyming. — Soft you : here lie comes." Enter Firmilian. FIRMILIAN. joy ! to see the partner of my thought Together with the partner of my soul ! Dear Haverillo ! pardon if before 1 join the pressure of my palm with yours, I lay this tribute on my lady's hand. HATERTLLO. Well, we'll not tight about precedenc3\ 30 FIRMILIAN. And you have come in time. My cousin here Was pressing me too hard. FIRMILIAN. [Jpon wliat point ? havp:rillo. Why, faith, to tell the truth — for I could never Summon a lie to meet an exigence — Nay, frown not, cousin ! — She's inquisitive About what men call honor. I have done My utmost to explain it. FIRMILIAN. I am glad. Dear Mariana, that you laid your doubt Before so wise a judge. ]^ot Badajoz, Nor Spain, nor Europe, doth contain a man So stainless in his mind as Haverillo ; And you shall pardon me for saying this F I R ^r I L 1 A N . 31 Before your face, for I've especjal reason. You've been to me a true and constant friend. When I had need of money ('tis no shame In a poor student to acknowledge this) — You have supplied me ; and I come to-day To thank you and repay you. My old uncle, The Dean of Salamanca, has expired Quite full of years and honors, and has left To me, his nephew, all his worldly goods, Which are, to say the least, considerable. Therefore, dear Haverillo, let us meet — Yet not to-day — because some time must pass Ere I receive the hoards — they say, enormous — Of that quiescent pillar of the Church — But at the very speediest point of time I can select, that I may show my friend What love I bear him for his trust in me. HAVERILLO. You hear him, Mariana ? Dear Firmilian ! 32 F I K M I L I A N . I'm prouder of thy love than if I were The king of Onnus ! So your uncle's dead» Go you to Salamanca speedily ? FIKMILIAN. If I am summoned, and they send me funds, I cannot choose but go—not otherwise. Taith, this bequest comes at a lucky time. For my last ducat slumbers in my purse Without a coin to keep it company. HAVERILLO. Be that no hindrance. Here are eighty ducats — Take them. Nay, man ; is't kindly to refuse ? "What a friend proffers, that a friend should take Without compulsion. 'Tis a petty loan To be repaid at your convenience — You'll vex me otherwise. FIRMILIAN. S3 FrRM[LIAN. I VI rather clash My band, like Scsevola, into the flame, Than vex my Haverillo ! O dear heaven ; If those who rail at hnman nature knew How many kindly deeds each hour brings forth — How man by man is cherished and sustained — They'd leave their carping. ■ I will take your olFer, And hail it as the earliest drop of wealtli, So soon to ripen to a glorious shower. What says my Mariana ? MARIANA. That she loves you More for your yielding to your friend's desire, Than if you held by pride. HAVERILLO. Well put, sweet cousin ! 2* 84 F I R M I I- I A N . But, dear Firmilian, what hath chanced of late, To make you such a hermit ? You were once Gay as the lark, and jocund as the bee ; First in good-fellowship, and ever prone To wing occasion with a merry jest. l^ow you are grave and moody, and there liangs A cloud of mystery about your brow ; You look like one that wrestles with a thought And cannot fling it down. Is't poetry Hath brought you to this pass ? How come you on With your intended tragedy on Cain ? FIRMILTAN. O, that's abandoned quite ! The subject was Too gloomy for my handling ; and perhaps, Out of absorption of my intellect. It threw a shade on my behavior. Henceforward I'll be genial — take my place With the large-hearted men who love their kind FIRMILIAN. 35 ^Whereof there seems a vast abundance now), And follow your example. HAVERILLO. Well said, boy ! Anacreon crowned his hoary locks with flowers, Blithe-hearted Horace chirped amidst his cups. Then why not we ? Right glad am I to find You've done with dismals. Here's a little thing, now, I wrote tlie other day, on love and wine. Quite germain to the matter. Will you hear it ? FIRMILTAN. I would not listen to Apollo's lute With greater rapture. But my^ime is brief — I had a word to say to Mariana, HAVERILLO. I understand. You want to speak of love 36 FIRMILIAN. In the first person ? 'Faith I was a fool I^ot sooner to perceive it ! Fare you well — Some other time, be sure, I'll claim your ear. [Exit MARIANA. my clear love, what trouble rends your heart ? A loving eye hath instinct in its glance, And mine discerns in yours a deeper weight Than yoii light-hearted creature could perceive. What ails my own Firmilian ? FiRMILIAN. Mariana — 1 think you love ine? MARIANA. Cruel ! Can you ask That question of me now ? Three months ago, Beside the gentle Guadiana's stream, FTKMILIAN. 37 You asked it in a whisper, and I gave No cold response. FIRMILIAN. Three months, my Mariana, Are somewhat in a lifetime, and may give Large opportunity for altered thoughts. Three hours may change a sinner to a saint — Three days a friend into an enemy — Three weeks a virgin to a courtesan — Three months a conqueror to a fugitive. I say not this in challenge of your love, But as a fixed eternal law of time That cannot be gainsayed. I know you loved me. When, by the gentle Guadiana's stream, We interchanged our troth. MARIANA. And what hath chanced Since then to make you doubt me ? Have a care 38 FIKMILIAN. Of what you say, Firinilian ! Women's hearts Are tender and impressible as wax, But undei-neath there lies a solid fold Of pride. You'd best be cautious ! FIRMUJAN. Lo you now — She makes me an accuser ! Mariana ! My own, my beautiful — I'd rather doubt The lustre of the star Aldebaran Than the firm faith of thine unbiassed soul. But I have enemies. It is the fate Of genius that it cannot spread its wings. And soar triumphant to the welcoming clouds, Without a hateful cawing from the crows. Mark me I I am not quite as other men ; My aims are higher, more resolved than theirs, And therefore they detest me. There's no shaft Within the power of calumny to loose Which is not bent at me. I am not blind F 1 R M I L T A N . 39 "With soaring near the sun. I know full well That envious men have termed me libertine — And, from the frank out-welling of my mind (Which never flowed from impulse save to thee), Have done me fearful wrong. And this it is That racks my being. There's your kinsman now, Alonzo Oiivarez — he makes free, I'm told, with my fair fame. MARIANA. You need not fear him. Surely you know Alonzo. FIRMILTAN. Yes. I know him As a strong fool, who, in his roystering cups, Does far more mischief than the veriest knave Whose power of satire makes his words suspect. There's no such libeller as your arrant ass ! Men know he can't invent ; and what he says 40 FIRMILIAN. Gains credit from his sheer stupidity. Hath he not talked of me ? MARIANA. Indeed he has ; But what he said escaped me. FIRMILIAN. Then I'm right ! He's Garcia's mouthpiece ; and I know the man That sets them on— Alphonzo D'Aguilar — Who swears you loved him once. MARIANA. If he does so, He's an unmeasured villain ! What — Alphonzo Had I ne'er seen thy face, Firmilian, And did my choice lie 'twixt a muleteer And that stiff scion of Castilian blood, F I R M I I. I A N . 41 I'd wed the peasant ! Do you tell me this ? O, now I understand their treachery ! FIRMILIAN. And therefore solely have I tried thee thus. Dear Mariana, weep not ! I perceive What hath been done. 'Tis an accursed world, Wherein bright things have little leave to shine Without the sullying of some envious hand. Henceforth be thou and I sole witnesses Against each other. Let us shut the door To all the outward blasts of calumny, And live by mutual trusting. Dry your tears ! Or, if you will, weep on, and I shall count For every pearly drop with D'Aguilar, Making him pay tlie ransom with his blood. O that a caitiff's slander should have power To rack thee thus ! 42 FIRMILIAN. MAKIANA. 'Tis gone — the storm has past. 'Twas but a bitter hail-shower, and the sun Laughs out again within the tranquil blue. Henceforth, Firmilian, thou art safe with me. If all the world conspired to do thee wrong, And heap its ugly slanders on thy head — Yea, though an angel should denounce my love, I would not listen. From thy lips alone I'll hear confession. FIRMILIAN. And the penance, sweet — Make it no more than this. O balmy breath ! [The scene closes. F I R M I L I A N . ^^ SCENE III. A Tavern, Alphonzo D'Aguilak, Garcia Perez, Alonzo Olivarez, and Firmllian. PEREZ. You take it far too hotly, D'Aguilar— All men are fanciful in love, and beauty Is as abundant as the open air In every region of this bounteous world. You stand for Spanish beauty— what's your type? Dark hair, vermilion lips, an olive tint, A stately carriage, and a flashing eye, Go northward : there's your Dutchman— he prefers Blonde tresses, dove-like glances and a form Of most enticing plumpness. Then the Dane Is all for red and blue ; the brighter color Pertaining chiefly to the lady's hair, 4:4: FIKMll. IAN The duller to her eyes. For my own part, I love variety. d'aguilak. And so do I, Within its proper bounds. No grander show Could poet fancy in his wildest dreams, Than a great tournament of Europe's knights, The free, the strong, the noble, and the brave. Splintering their lances in a guarded list, Beneath a balcony of Europe's dames. Oh, could I sound a trump and bring them here, In one vast troop of valor and renown ! The gay, light-hearted cliivalry of France, The doughty English, and the hardy Scot, The swart Italian, and the ponderous Swede, With those who dwell beside the castled Khine. Nor they alone, but with them all the flowers That send their odor over Oliristendom — The fair and blushing beauties of the lands F I K M I L I A N . 4:5 From tlie far Baltic to our inland sea. Bj him of Compostella ! 'twere a field "Wherein a noble might be proud to die. FIRMILIAN . I am not noble, and I'd rather die At peace in my own bed. But, D'Aguilar, — Are you not too exclusive ? I have read — For I have been a student of romance. And pored upon the tomes of cliivalry — How ere the days of mighty Charlemagne The South did glorious battle with the North, And Afric's atabals were lieard to clang Amoiig the thickets by the turbid Seine. Yea, I have heard of knights of old descent, Cross-hilted warriors. Paladins indeed, Who would have bartered all tlie boasted charms Of Europe's beauties, for one kindly glance Shot from the eyelids of a Faynim maid. 46 ftrmilian. d'aguilar. Firmiliau, thou blaspheniest ! Never knight To whom the stroke of chivahy was given, Could stoop to cuch an utter infamy ! FLRMILIAN. Your pardon, Count ! When English Richard bcr- Upon his bosom the Crusader's sign, And fought in Palestine, he laid liis sword Upon the shoulder of a Moslem chief And dubbed him, knight. The greater villain he I I've heard of that same Richard as a most Malignant child of Luther. FTRMILIAN. Have you so ? F I R M I L I A N . 47 Nay, then, chronology must do him wrong: But that's no matter. Then you would exclude All beauty from that tournament of yours Which did not appertain to Christendom ? Doubt you the answer of a Christian peer. Within whose veins the blood of old Castile, Un dimmed by peasant or mechanic mud, Flows bright as ruby ? Yes, what mean you. Sir, By asking such a question ? PEREZ. Soft you now ! Theic s no offence. Let's hear Firmilian. FIRMILIAN. I knew a poet once ; and he was young, And intermingled with such fierce desires As made pale Eros veil his face with grief. 48 F I R M r L I A N . And caused his lustier brother to rejoice. He was as amorous as a crocodile In the spring season, when the Memphian bank, Receiving substance from the glaring sun, Resolves itself from mud into a shore. And — as the scaly creature wallowing there, In its hot fits of passion, belches forth The steam from out its nostrils, half in love, And half in grim defiance of its kind ; Trusting that either, from the reedy fen. Some reptile-virgin coyly may appear, Or that the hoary Sultan of the Nile May make tremendous challenge with his jaws, And, like Mark Antliony, assert his right To all the Cleopatras of the ooze — ' So fared it with the poet that I knew. He had a soul beyond the vulgar reach. Sun ripened swarthy. He was not the fool To pluck the feeble lily from its shade FIKMILIAN. 49 When the black liyacinth stood in fragiaiice by. The lady of his love was dnsk as Ind, Her lips as plenteous as the Sphinx's are, And her short hair crisp with Numidian curl. She was a negress. You have heard the strains That Dante, Petrarch, and such puling fools As loved the daughters of cold Japhet's race, Have lavished idly on their icicles. As snow melts snow, so their unhasty fall Fell chill and barren on a pulseless heart. But, would you know what noontide ardor is. Or in what mood the lion, in the waste, All fever-maddened, and intent on cubs, At the oasis waits the lioness — That shall you gather from the fiery song Which that young poet framed, before he dared Invade the vastness of his lady's lips. d'aguilae. Spawn of Mahmoud ! would'st thou pollute mine ears 3 50 FIRMILIAN. With thy lewd ditties? There! {Strikes him.) Thou hast the hand For once, of a true noble, on thy cheek ; And what the hand has done, it will defend. PEREZ. This is too much ! Nay, D' Aguilar, you're wrong ! Alonzo Olivarez — ^rouse, thee, man ! Lay down the wine-pot for a moment's space, There's a brawl here ! OLIVAREZ. I wish you fellows would keep quiet, and not inter- rupt drinking. It is a very disagreeable thing for a sober man to be disturbed over his liquor. I sup- pose you are quite aware that I can throw the whole of you over the window in a minute. My opinion is that you are a couple of bloody fools. I don't know what you are quarrelling about, but I won't stand any nonsense. FIRMILIAN. 51 FIRMILIAN. You struck me, sir ? I did. FIEMILIAN. And you're aware, Of course, of what the consequence must be. Unless you tender an apology ? Of course I am. FIRMILIAN. Madman ! wouldst thou provoke The slide o' the avalanche ? 62 FTRMILIAN. I wait its fall Lc perfect calmness. FIRMILIAN. O thou rash young lord ! Beware in time ! A hurricane of wrath Is raging in my soul — If it burst forth, 'Twere better for thee that within the waste Thou met'st a ravening tigress, or wert bound In a lone churchyard where hyaenas prowl ! I may forget myself ! Small chance of that. Words are your weapons, and you wield them well ; But gentlemen, when struck, are not in lise To rail like muleteers. You wear a sword, sir ! FIRMILIAN. 53 PEREZ. Are you mad, D'Aguilar, to court a brawl Within the college precincts ! Olivarez — Set down the flagon, and bestir thee, man ; This must not be ! FIRMILIAiq-. , Nay, Perez, stand thou back — He hath provoked his fate, and he must die. {Draws.) OLIVABEZ. I'll score the first man that makes a thrust, over the costard with this pint-pot ! If you needs must fight, fight like gentlemen in the open air, and at a reasonable hour. What right has either of you to disturb the conviviality of the evening ? FIRMILIAN. A blow — a blow ! I have received a blow — 54: FIRMILIAN. My soul's athirst for vengeance, and I'll have it I Come not between the lion and his prey. OLIVAEEZ. To the devil with your lions ! I suppose you think it safe enough to roar now? Once for all, if you can't settle this matter without fighting, fix some hour to-morrow morning, and take your fill of it. But here you shall not fight. What say you, Al- phonzo ? He hath the blow, so let him speak the first. FIRMILTAN. Agreed ! Until to-morrow, then, I'll keep My rage unsated. Let the hour be eight ; The place, the meadow where the stream turns round Beside the cork-trees ; and for witnesses, Perez and Olivarez. D'Aguilar — FIRMiLIAN. 65 If I should fail thee at the rendezvous, Perpetual shame and infamy be mine ! Agreed ! And I rejoice to hear thee speak So manfully. If I have done thee wrong, I'll give thee satisfaction with my sword : You show at least a nobler temper now. FIRMILIAN. Fail you not, D'Aguilar — /"shall not fail. OLIVAEEZ. Well — all that is comfortably adjusted, and just as it should be. Let's have some more wine — this talking makes a man thirsty. PEKEZ. N^o more for me. 66 FIKMILIAN. FIRMILTAN. Your pardon — I'd provided fN"ot dreaming of this hot dispute to-night), Some flasks of rarest wine — 'Tis Ildefonso, Of an old vintage. I'll not leave them here To be a perquisite unto our host ; And, lest our early parting hence should breed Suspicion of to-morrow, let us stay And drink another cup. You, D'Aguilar, Whose sword must presently be crossed with mine. Will not refuse a pledge ? d'aguilar. Not I, in faith ! Now you have shown your mettle, I regard you More than I did before. FIKMILIAN. Fill then your cups. Nay, to the brim — the toast requires it, sirs. Here's to the King ! FIKMILIAN. 57 OMNES. The King ! FIKMILIAN. Fill up again — 'Tis my last pledge. OLIVAREZ. Why don't you help yourself? The wine is capital, FIRMILIAN. My goblet's full. Drink to another King, Whose awful aspect doth o'erawe the world — The conqueror of conquerors — the vast But unseen monarch to whose sceptre bow The heads of kings and beggars ! PEREZ. That's the Pope ! 58 FIKMILIAN. FIRMILIAN. No — not the Pope — but he that humbleth Popes. Drink to King Death !^ — You stare, and stand amazed — O, you have much mista'en me, if you think That some slight spurting of Castilian blood, Or poet's ichor, can suffice to lay The memory of to-night's affront asleep ! Death hath been sitting with us all the night, Glaring through hollow eye-holes — to the doomed He is invisible, but I have seen him Point with his fleshless finger! But no more — Farewell ! — I go : and if you chance to hear A passing-bell — be it a comfort to you ! At eight to-morrow I shall keep my time. See you are there ! lExit. PEREZ. I think the fellow's mad ! I held him even as a mere poltroon ; FIRMILIAN. 59 But that same blow of your's, Alphonzo — 'faith, 'Twas wrong in you to give it — hath prevailed, Like steel against a flint. He shows some fire. And seems in deadly earnest — what's the matter? d'aguilar. Don't ask — I'm sick and faint. OLIVAREZ. I'm not drunk, I am sure — but I have the strangest throbbing in my temples. Do you think you could get a waiter or two to carry me home ? I feel as cold as a cucumber. PEREZ. My brain swims too. Hark ! what is that without? \Tlie Passing-hell tolls ^ and Monks are heard chaunting the Penitential Psalms. Slow and wailing inusic as the scene closes.^ ^^ F I R M I L I A N . SCENE lY. Cloisters. Enter Firmilian. This was a splendid morning ! The dew lay In amplest drops upon the loaded grass, And filled the buttercups hard by the phice Where I expected fiery D'Aguilar. He did not come. Well — I was there at least, And waited for an hour beyond the time, During which while I studied botany. And yet my proud opponent showed no face ! Pshaw ! to myself I'll be no hypocrite — If Raymond Lully lied not, they are dead, And I have done it ! {A pause.) How is this ? My mind Is light and jocund. Yesternight I deemed. When the dull passing-bell announced the fate Of those insensate and presumptuous fools, FIRMILIAN. 61 That, as a vulture lisrhts on carrion, flesh With a shrill scream and flapping of its wings, Keen-beaked Remorse would settle on my soul, And fix her talons there. She did not come ; J^ay, stranger still — methought the passing-bell Was but the prelude to a rapturous strain Of highest music, that entranced me quite. For sleep descended on me, as it falls Upon an infant'in its mother's arms, And all night long 1 dreamed of Indiana. What ! is Remorse a fable after all — A mere invention, as the Harpies were. Or crazed Orestes' furies ? Or have I Mista'en the ready way to lure her down ? There are no beads of sweat upon my brow — My clustering hair maintains its wonted curl, Nor rises horrent, as a murderer's should. I do not shudder, start, nor scream aloud — Tremble at every sound — grow ghastly pale o2 FIRMILIAN. When a leaf falls, or when a lizard stirs. I do not wring my fingers from their joints, Or madlj thrust them quite into my ears To bar the echo of a dying groan. And, after all, what is there to regret ? Three fools have died carousing as they lived, And nature makes no special moan for them. If I have gained no knowledge by this deed, I have lost none. The subtle alchemist, Whose Jiim is the elixir, or that stone The to^ich whereof makes baser metals gold. Must needs endure much failure, ere he finds The grand Arcanum. So is it with me. I have but shot an idle bolt away. And need not seek it further. Who comes here ? Enter a Priest ana a Graduate. -GRADUATE. Believe me, father, they are all accurs'd ! These marble garments of the ancient Gods, FIKMILIAN. 63 Wliich the blaspheming hand of Babylon Hath gathered out of ruins, and hath raised In this her dark extremity of sin ; Not in the hour when she was sending forth Her champions to the highway and the field, To pine in deserts and to writhe in flame — But in the scarlet frontage of her guilt. When, not with purple only, but with blood, "Were the priests vested, and their festive cups Foamed with the hemlock rather than the wine ! Call them not Churches, father — call them prisons ; And yet not such as bind the body in. But gravestones of the soul ! For, look you, sir, Beneath that weight of square-cut weary stone A thousand workmen's souls are pent alive ! And therefore I declare them all accurs'd. PRIEST. Peace, son ! thou ravest. 64 FIRMILIAN. GRADUATE. Do I rave indeot. ? So raved the Prophets when they told the truth To Israel's stubborn councillors and kings — So raved Cassandra, when in Hector's ear She shrieked the presage of his coming fall. I am a prophet also — and I say That o'er those stones wherein you place your pride Annihilation waves her dusky wing ; Yea, do not marvel if the earth itself. Like a huge giant, weary of the load, Should heave them from its shoulders. 1 have said it. It is my purpose, and they all shall down ! [Exit. PRIEST. Alas, to see a being so distraught ! And yet there may be danger in his words,- For heresy is rife. Ha ! who is this ? FIRMTLIAN. 65 If 1 mistake not, 'tis Firmilian, Mine ancient pnpil ! FIRMILIAN. And he craves your blessing ! PRIEST. Thou hast it, son. Kow tell me — didst thou hear The words yon Graduate uttered ere he left ? Methought his speech was levelled at the Church. FIRMILIAN. I heard him say all Churches should be levelled ; That they were built on souls ; that earth would rise To shake them from its shoulders ; and he railed At Mother Rome, and called* her Babylon. My ears yet tingle with the impious sounds. PRIEST. Ha — did he so ? By holy Nicholas, Q6 FIRMILIAN. I'll have him straight reported ! Dost thou think, Good son Firmilian, he deviseth anght Against the Church, or us her ministers ? FIRMILIAN. I do suspect him very grievously. PRIEST. And so do I. We hold a festival On Tuesday next, when the Inquisitor Is certain to be present — it were best Ere then to give him notice. Who shall say Tliat, like another Samson, this vile wretch May not drag down the pillars of the Church And whelm u-s all in ruin ? I am bound To see to that. Son — Benedicite ! [Bxit FIRMILIAN. On Tuesday next, when the Inquisitor FIRMILIAN. 67 Is certain to be present ?— Lilian's uncle ? That were an opportunity too rare To be allowed to pass ! For this same priest — . He is my old preceptor, and instilled, By dint of frequent and remorseless stripes Applied at random to my childish rear, Some learning into me. I owe him much, * And fain I would repay it- Ha — ha — ha ! What a dull creature was that Graduate To blurt his folly out ! If a church falls Within the next ten years in Badajoz, Nay, if a single stone should tumble down, Or a stray pebble mutilate the nose Of some old saint within a crumbling niche, His life will pay the forfeit. As he spoke, Methought I saw the solid vaults give way. And the entire cathedral rise in air. As if it leaped from Pandemonium's jaws. But that's a serious matter. I have time To meditate the deed. These cloister walks 68 FIBMILIAN. Are dull and cheerless, and my spirit pants For kind emotion. Let me pass from hence And wile away an hour with Lilian. F I K M I L I A N . 69 SCENE Y. A Wine Shop. I^icodemus cmd Two Familiars. NICODEMUS. Not a drop more, gentlemen, if you love me ! FIRST FAMILIAR. Nonsense, man ! We have not had as much as would satisfy the thirst of a chicken. Another stoup here ! And now tell us a little more about your master. NICODEMUS. Aha, sirs ! He^s an odd one, is Senor Firmilian. FIRST FAMILIAR. A devil among the wenches, I suppose ? To F I R M I r. I A N . NICODEMUS. Hum for that, sir ! I hope I am not the man to betray confidence. What I see, I behold ; and what I behold I can keep to myself ; and there's enough on't. What have you black-coated gentry to do with the daughters of Eve ? FIRST FAMILIAR. Nay, no ofi'ence meant. Master Nicodemus — ^you are sharper than Pedrillo's razor ! What — young blood will have its way ! But you are happy in serving, as I hear, the most promising student in Badajoz. NICODEMUS. Serving, sir ? Marry come up ! I'd have you know that I am his secretary. SECOND FAMILIAR. Aha ! Your health, Master Secretary ! I fear me you have heavy labor. F I K M I L I A N . 71 NICODEMUS. Don't speak of it ! If you knew what I have tc do — the books I have to translate from the Coptic, Latin, Welsh, and other ancient languages — you'd pity me. I sometimes wish I had never been familiar with foreign tongues. Learning, my mas- ters, is no inheritance. And then, when you come to deal with the Black Art — SECOND FAMILIAR. Enlighten us. Master Secretary — what is that ? NICODEMUS. The Black Art ? Here is your very good health ! — I wish you could see my master's room, after he has been trying to call up the devil ! Lord, sir ! there's no end of skulls, and chalk marks on the floor, and stench of sulphur, and what not — but I don't believe that, with all his pains, he ever brought the devil up 72 FIRMILIAN. SECOND FAMILIAR. Take another cup. — But he tries it sometimes ? NICODEMUS. Punctually upon Wednesdays — about midnight, when the whole household have gone to sleep, "^ut he's not up to the trick : he never could raise anything larger than a hedge-hog. ^ FIRST FAMILIAR. But he has done that, has he ? NICODEMUj. Of course ! Any one can raise a hedge-hog. But I'm not going to sit here all night seeing you drinking. I must go home to translate Plotinus, who was a respectable father of the Latin Church. Take my advice and go home too — you are both rather drunk. Where's my beaver ? Don't attempt FIRMILIAN. ' 73 to ofter me two, in case I put the phantom one on my head. I say — if there is a drop remaining in the bottle, you might offer it by way of courtesy. Thanks, and take care of yourselves. [Exit, FIRST FAMILIAR. What say you to this story ? A clearer proof Of arrant sorcery was never given Unto the Holy oflBce. SECOND FAMILIAR. It is complete. He raises hedge-hogs ! That's enough for me. \JExeunt, 74 F I R M I L I A N . sce:ne yi. Exterior of the Cathedral of St. 1N"icholas. Choir heard chaunting within. Miter FiRMILIAN. How darkly hangs yon cloud above the spire ! There's thunder in the air — What if the flash Should rend the solid walls, and reach the vault. Where my terrestial thunder lies prepared, And so, without the action of my hand, Whirl up those thousand bigots in its blaze. And leave me guiltless, save in the intent. That were a vile defraudment of my aim. A petty larceny o' the element. An interjection of exceediiig wrong ! FIRMILIAN. »0 Let the hoarse thunder rend the vault of heaven, i^ea, shake the stars by myriads from their boughs, As Autumn tempests shake the fruitage down ; — Let the red lightning shoot athwart the sky, Entangling comets by their spooming hair, Piercing tlie zodiac belt, and carrying dread To old Orion, and his whimpering hound ; — But let the glory of this deed be mine ! ORGAN and CHOIR. Sublimatus ad honorem !N"icholai presulis : Pietatis ante rorem Cunctis pluit populis : Ut vix parem aut majorem Habeat in seculis. FIRMILIAN. Yet I could weep to hear the wretches sing ! There rolls the organ anthem down the aisle, 76 FIRMILIAN. And thousand voices join in its acclaim. All they are happy — they are on their knees ; Round and above them stare the images Of antique saints and martyrs. Censors steam With their Arabian charge of frankincense, And every heart, with inward fingers, counts A blissful rosary of pious prayer ! Why should they perish, then ? Is't yet too late' O shame, Firmilian, on thy coward soul ! What ! thou, the poet ! — thou, whose mission 'tis To send vibration down the chord of tim.e. Until its junction with eternity — Thou, who hast dared and pondered and endured, Gathering by piecemeal all the noble thoughts And tierce sensations of the mind — as one Who in a garden culls the wholesome rose, And binds it with the deadly nightshade up ; Flowers not akin, and yet, by contrast kind — Thou, for a touch of what these mundane fools Whine of as pity, to forego thine aim. F I E M 1 H A N . 77 And never feel the gnawing of remorse, Like tlie Promethean vulture on the spleen, That shall instruct thee to give future voice To the unuttered agonies of Cain ! Thou, to compare, with that high consequence The breath of some poor thousand knights and knaves. Who soaring, in the welkin, shall expire ! Shame, shame, Firmilian ! on thy weakness, shame ! ORGAN and CHOIR. Auro dato violari Yirgines prohibuit : Far in fame, vas in mari Servat et distribuit : Qui timebant naufragari Nautis opem tribuit. FIRMILIAN. A right good saint he seems, this K'icholas ! 78 FIRMILIAN. And over-worked too, if the praise be just. Which these, his votaries, quaver as his claim. Yet it is odd he should o'erlook the fact That underneath this church of his are stored Some twenty barrels of the dusty grain, The secret of whose framing, in an hour Of diabolic jollity and mirth, Old Roger Bacon wormed from Beelzebub ! He might keep better wardship for his friends ; But that to me is nothing. Now's the time ! Ha! as I take the matchbox in my hand, A spasm pervades me, and a natural thrill As though my better genius were at hand, And strove to pluck me backwards by the hair. I must be resolute. Lose this one chance, Which bears me to th' Acropolis of guilt. And this, our age, forgoes its noblest song. I must be speedy — FIRMILIAN. 7y ORGAN and CHOIR. A defunctis suscitatur Furtum qui coinmiserat * Et Judseus baptizatur Fiirtum qui recuperat : Illi vita restauratur, Hie ad fidem properat. FiRMILIAlf. ISlo more was needed to confirm my mind ; That stanza blows all thoughts of pity off, As empty straws are scattered by the wind ! For I have been the victim of the Jews, Who, by vile barter, have absorbed my means. Did I not pawn — for that same flagrant stuff, Which only waits a spark to be dissolved, And, having done its mission, must disperse As a thin §moke into the ambient air — My diamond cross, my goblet, and my books ? ^^ FIKMILIAN. What ! would they venture to baptize the Jew 2 The cause assumes a holier aspect, then ; And, as a faithful son of Rome, I dare To merge my darling passion in the wrong That is projected against Christendom ! Pity, avaunt ! I may not longer stay. [Msit into the vaults. A short pause^ after which he reappears. 'Tis doup ' I vanish like the lightning bolt. ORGAN and CHOIR. Nicholai sacerdotum Decus, honor, gloria : Plebem omnem, clerum totum — \The Cathedral is hloion up.'] FTRMILIAN. 81 SCENE yu. Saloon. Pall and Coffin. Enter Countess, Confessor, Haverillo, am.d Attendants. confessor Weep not, dear lady — he is now at rest ! Nor thundering cannon, nor loud-booming drum, JSTor braying trumpet, nor the clarion's call, Nor rapid crash of charging chivalry. Can stir him from his sleep. For him no more Hath the lewd tinkling of the amorous lute Behind a twilight lattice, or the wave Of a light kerchief in a stealthy hand, Or lifting of dark eyelids, any charm ! "No more shall he, in joyous revelry. Ply the loose wine cup, or exchange the jest — And therefore, I beseech you,' drv vour tears. 4* b2 FIKMILIAN. HAVERiLLO. {Aside.) Why, what a ghostly comforter is this ! He tells her nothing of the yet to be, But only harps upon the aching past. CONFESSOR. Bear np that coffin ! Grief hath had its scope, And now 'tis time to pause. Bethink thee, lady, How it may fare with thine Alphonzo's soul. There's no rich clothing in the world beyond, No jewell'd cups, no sparkling costly gems, No rare display of silver and of gold Such as your sideboards show on gala-days — But the poor spirit, shivering and alone, On the cold sea-beach of eternity. Must shriek for help to those he left behind. gr^y — shall Alphonzo plead to thee in vain ? FIRM 1 LI AN. 83 COUNTESS. man — man — man ! Thy prating drives me mad- riij hideous voice is loathsome to mine ear, Albeit I know not what thou croakest there ! Set down the coffin — set it down, I say ! 1 have not yet wept half the flood of tears That I must pour on my Alphonzo's head. There's a hot deluge seething in my brain. And I must give it leave to flow, or die ! HAVERILLO. Poor lady, she is greatly moved ! 'Twere best To give her passion way. Bethink you, Sir ; A mother rarely will with patience hear A true reproach against a living son, Far less a taunt directed at the dead. CONFESSOR. Who's he that dares usurp my privilege, 84: FIRMILIAN. Or question my discretion ? Is't for thee, Thou silken moth, to flutter round the torch Of conscience, flaming in a Churchman's hands And try to smother it ? What art thou, sirrah ? I warrant me some kinsman, with an eye To those vast hoards of molten vanity. Which can alone relieve Alphonzo's soul Under the guidance of our holy Church. Out on thee, heretic ! HAVERILLO. Presumptuous priest ! Wer't thou unfrocked, I'd tell thee that thou liest. CONFESSOR. Hence, vile disturber of the hapless dead ! Thou enemy of souls — thou sordid knave. That, for a paltry pittance to thyself, Wouldst bar the gates of Paradise to him Who lies beneath yon pall ! What, caitiff wretch ! FIRMILIAN. 85 Wilt thou again presume to answer me ? Let but a word escape thy tainted lips, And the most fell anathema of Rome, From w^hich there neither is appeal nor cure, Shall fulmine on thy head ! As for thee, lady — If thou regardest him whom thou hast lost With holier feeling than the tigress shows When, in her savage and blood-boltered den. She moans above the carcass of her cubs — Consume no more the precious hours in grief ; Each hour is precious to a soul in pain ! Give me the keys of all thy coffered wealth, That, with a liberal hand, I may dispense Thy hoarded angels to the suffering poor. Thy jewels also — what hast thou to do With earthly jewels more ? — give them to me ; And for each brilliant thou shalt hear a mass Sung for Alphonzo. Fie on filthy pride ! Is't meet a widow's house should hold such store 86 FIRMILIAN. Of flagons, cups, and costly chalices. Of massive salvers and ancestral bowls ? These are the subtile spider- threads of sin That bind the soul to earth. Away with them ! Thou hast no children now. COUNTESS. Thou crawling wretch — Thou holy lie — thou gilded sepulchre — Thou most consummate hypocrite and knave ! How darest thou take measure of my grief With thine unnatural hands ? What ! thou a priest, And, in the hour of desolation, seek'st For ransom to be paid in gems and gold For a pure spirit, which, beside thine own. Would show as glorious as an angel's form Contrasted with an Ethiopian slave ! What are thy prayers, that I should purchase them ? Hast thou not fed, for twenty years and more. Upon the liberal bounty of our house ? F I R M I L I A N . 87 Have I not seen thee flatter and deceive ; Fawn like a spaniel ; and, with readiest lie, Make coverture of thine obscene attempts Upon my handmaids ? Yillain ! there they stand, The blushing proofs of thine impurity. Hast thou not stroked my lost Alphonzo's head A thousand times, protesting that no youth Gave ever promise of a fairer course ? And wouldst thou now retract that word of thine, And, in the presence of my blighted flower, Deny the glorious perfume that it bore ? get thee gone ! thou mak'st me wrong the dead, By w^asting moments, consecrate to tears. In idle railing at a wretch like thee ! CONFESSOR. This is mere madness ! ' Think not to escape. By angry words and frantic declamation, The righteous claims of the defrauded Cliurch, 1 stir not hence until her dues are paid. 88 FIRMILIAN. If thou withhold'st thy keys, I warn thee, lady, That holy Peter will not turn his key For any of thy race ! COUNTESS. Thou cormorant That screamest still for garbage ! take thy fill, And rid me of thy presence. Fabian — Show him the secret chamber of the Cid, "Wherein the ransom of the Moors is piled : There is the key — and let him never more Pollute my threshold ! O my lost Alphonzo ! {Swoons.) CONFESSOR. Ho, ho ! I have it now ! The key, the key ! Come quickly. Master Steward ! \Exit Scene closes.. .FIRMILIAN. 89 SCENE YIII. A Gallery. At the end an armed figure hearing a mace. Enter Confessok (^tk^. Fabian. COXFKSSOR. I warrant me thou tliinkest, Master Steward, That I was over urgent with thy dame. There are some natures, sir, so obstinate That mildness will not stir them, and for these The Church enjoins a wholesome stimulant. Such is your lady. FABIAN. You are learned, sir. And doubtless know your duty. Here's the chamber. CONFESSOE. What mean you, fellow ? There is nothing here 90 FIRMILIAN. Except an e^gj in rusted mail. Beware of trifling with the Holy Church ! FABIAN. That is the guardian of the treasure-room. I see you marvel — Listen. Long ago, Pedro, the founder of this ancient house, "Was the dear friend and comrade of the Cid. Often together in the battle-field Did they two charge the squadrons of the Moor, And mow the stalwart unbelievers down. Seldom they spared a life — yet once, by chance, The cali23h of Baldracca crossed their path, Him they to(>k captive, with three princes more. And made them stand to ransom. All the East, As I have heard — Chaldea, Araby, Fez, Tunis, India, and the far Cathay — Was racked for tribute. From the Persian gulf There came huge bags of large and lustrous pearl Which in the miry bottom of the sea FIB MIL IAN. 91 The breathless diver found. Then there were opals Bright as young moons, and diamonds like stars, Far-blazing rubies, gorgeous carbuncles, Jacinths and sapphires. And with these tlieru came Ten camel-loads of curious workmanship, All wrought in solid gold — a greater ransom Than ever yet was tendered for a king ! CONFESSOR. Thy words have oped a fountain in my mouth, And stirred its waters ! Excellent Fabian — So half this wealth accrued to D'Aguilar ? FABIAN. Of that, anon. When all the heap was piled Before them, then the Campeador said : — " May not my sin lie heavy on my soul Upon my dying day ! For I have broke A vow I made in youth before the shrine Of San lago, never in the field 92 FIRMILIAN. To spare a heathen. What is done, is done — May be atoned for, but not- blotted out. I will not touch the ransom. Be it given Entire to thee, my brother D'Aguilar !" CONFESSOE. No wonder Spain still glories in the Cid ! What ! are the treasures here ? Speak quickly, man I FABIAK. Your patience for a moment ! When the knight Found no persuasion could affect the Cid, Or sway him from his purpose, then he yielded. One half the ransom bought the goodly lands Which still pertain unto the D'Aguilars. The other half lies in a secret room, The door of which I'll show you — you've the key. But first I'll tell you why yon effigy Stands there to guard it. FIRMILIAN. 93 CONFESSOR. What is that to me ? What do I care about your effigies, Or mumbled stories of the knights of old ? The door, I say 1 FABIAN. Yet listen — 'Tis my duty To make this clear. When Ruy Diaz died. The knight of D'Aguilar obtained his arms ; And in remembrance of the bounteous gift He placed them there before the treasure-room. 'Tis said the mighty spirit of Bivar * Still dwells within that corslet ; and the mace, Which once was called the hammer of the Moor, Is swayed on high, and will descend on those Who come to wrong the race of D'Aguilar. I've heard my father tell, that, ere my birth. Two reckless villains of Gitano blood. Lured by the rumor of the treasured wealth, 9'J: * F 1 K M I L I A N . Tried, over night, to force that secret door ; And, in the morning, when the servants came. They found a brace of battered carcases, The skulls beat into pulp, upon the floor ; And yonder mace — how terrible it is ! Was dropping with their blood ! CONFESSOR. And dost thou thinly With thy false legends to deter me now, Thou paralytic slave ? Eeserve thy tales For gaping crones, and idle serving-men ! Cau I not make an image stare and wink, Exhibit gesture with its painted hands. Yea, counterfeit the action of a saint — And dost thou hope to scare me with a lie Where is the door, I say ? FABIAN. Bear witness, Saints, F I R M T L I A N . 95 That I am sackless of the consequence ! You. are forewarned — CONFESSOR. The door — the door, I say I FABIAN. Insert the key beneath that pannel there I CONFESSOR. So — it is mine, all mine ! Why, now am I A king of Ind, an emperor of the earth ! No haste, no haste ! — I wouh] not lose the thrili Of expectation that entrances me For half the glorious heap that's stored within ! A¥hy, for a handful of those orient pearls I'll buy a bishopric. A dozen rubies May make me Metropolitan ; and then, A.S gems are scarce and highly prized at Rome, . A costly diamond for the noble front Of the Tiara, may advance my claim 90 FIRMILIAN. Unto the title of a Cardinal — Let me take breath — Lord Cardinal — a Prince And Magnate of the Church ! What follows next? Brain, do not lose thyself in ecstasy, Kor swim to madness at the thought of that Which lies within my reach — Saint Peter's chair ! Why, half the wealth within this hidden vault Would bribe the Holy College, and would make Me — me, the lord of monarchs, and the chief Of all the rulers over Christendom ! Ha, ha ! to see the mighty world lie down In homage at my feet, and hear its hail To me as lord and master ! Is't a dream ? Oh, no, no, no ! for here, within my hand, I hold the precious key that shall at once Admit me to the temple of my hope — Open, old wards, to him who shall be Pope ! [Se atteinjpts to open the Door^ and is struck down hy the Mace of the Effigy, '] FIRMILIAN. 97 FABIAN. Right little moaning need I make for one Who died by liis own sin ! Poor prostrate fool, Whom warning would not reach ! Six feet of earth Is all that even Popes can claim as theirs. Thy span must yet be less : no funeral bell May toll for thee — I'll drop thee in a well. < [Exit with the lody. 98 FIRMILIAN. SCEISTE IX. Summit of the Pillar of St. Simeon Stylites, FIRMILIAN. 'Twas a grand spectacle ! The solid earth Seemed from its quaking entrails to eruct The gathered lava of a thousand years, Like an imposthume bursting up from hell ! In a red robe of flame, tne riven towers, Pillars and altar, organ-ioft and screen. With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed. Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars, And all creation trembled at the din. It was my doing — mine alone ! and I Stand greater by this deed than the vain fool That thrust his torch beneath Diana's shrine. For what was it inspired Erostratus FIKMILIAN. 99 Bat a weak vanity to have his name Blaze out for arson in the catalogue ? I have been wiser. 'No man knows the name Of me, the pyrotechnist who have given A new apotheosis to the saint With lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell I And yet — and yet — what boots the sacrilice ? I thought to take remorse unto my heart, As the young Spartan hid the savage fox Beneath the foldings of his boyish gown, And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven — My heart is 3^et unscarred. I've been too coarse And general in this business. Had there been Amongst that multitude a single man Who loved me, cherished me — to whom I owed Sweet reciprocity for holy alms. And gifts of gentle import — had there been Friend — father — brother, mingled in that crowd. And I had slain him — then indeed my soul Might have acquired fruition of its wish, 100 FIRMILIAN. And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin ! But these — what were the victims unto me ? l^othing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods, Uninspired duUards, unpoetic slaves, The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind ; Who-m, having scorched to cinders, I no more Feel ruth for what I did, tlian if my hand Had tln-ust a stick of sulphur in the nest Of some poor hive of droning humble-bees, And smoked them into science ! I mnst have A more potential draught of guilt than this, With more of wormwood in it ! Here I sit, Perched like a raven on old Simeon's shaft. With barely needful footing for my limbs — And one is climbing up the inward coil, Who was my friend and brother. We have gazed Together on the midnight map of heaven, And marked the gems in Cassiopea's hair — FI RMI L I AN. 101 Together have we heard the nightingale Waste tlie exuberant music of her throat, And lull the flustering breezes into calm — Together have we emulously sung Of Hjacinthus, Daphne, and the rest Whose moiM:al weeds Apollo changed to flowers Also from him I have derived much aid In golden ducats, which I fain would pay Back with extremest usury, were but Mine own convenience equal to my wish. Moreover, of his poems he hath sold Two full editions of a thousand each. While mine remain neglected on the shelves ! Courage, Firmilian ! for the hour has come When thou canst know atrocity indeed, By smiting him that was thy dearest friend. And think not that he dies a vulgar death — 'Tis poetry demands the sacrifice ! Yet not to him be that revealment made. He must not know with what a loving hand — 102 FIRMILIAN. With what fraternal charity of heart I do devote him to the infernal gods ! I dare not spare him one particular pang, "Nor make the struggle briefer ! Hush — he comes, Havekillo, emerging from the staircase. How now, Firmilian !— I am scant of breath ; These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs, And made the bead-droj^s cluster on my brow. A strange, unusual rendezvous is this — An old saint's pillar, which no human foot Hath scaled this hundred years ! FIRMILIAN. Ay — it is strange ! HAVEEILLO. 'Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such : They seem to flourish in the column here, FIKMILIAN. 103 And are not over courteous. Ha ! I'm weary : I shall sleep sound to-night. FIRMILIAN. You shall sleep sound ! HAVERILLO. Either there is an echo in the place, Or your voice is sepulchral. FIKMILIAN. Seems it so ? HAVERILLO. Come, come, Firmilian — Be once more a man ! Leave off these childish tricks, and vapors bred Out of a too much pampered faiitasy. What are we, after all, but mortal men, Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like. 104 FIRMILIAN. As well as any jolterhead alive ? Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams. Or stay the hungry cravings of the maw By mere poetic banquets. FIRMILIAN. Say you so ? Yet have I heard that by some alchemy (To me unknown as yet) you have transmuted Your verses to fine gold. HAVERLLLO. And all that gold Was lent to you, Firmilian. FIRMILIAN. You expect, Doubtless, I will repay you ? FTKMILIAN. 105 HAVERILLO So I do. You told me yesterday to meet you here, And you would pay me. back with interest. Here is the note. FIKMILIAN. A moment. — Do you see Yon melon-vender's stall down i' the square ? Methinks the fruit that, close beside the eye. Would show as largely as a giant's head. Is dwindled to a heap of gooseberries ! If Justice held no bigger scales than those Yon pigmy seems to balance in his hands, Her utmost fiat scarce would weigh a drachm How say you ? HAVEEILLO. Nothing — 'tis a fearful height 5* 10(i FIKMILIAN. My brain turns dizzy as I gaze below, And there's a strange sensation in my soles. FIRMILIAN. Ay — feel you that? Ixion felt the same Ere he was whirled from heaven ! HAVERILLO. ' Firmilian ! You carry this too far. Farewell. We'll meet When you're in better humor. FIRMILIAN. Tarry, sir ! I have you here, and thus we shall not part. I know your meaning well. For that same dross. That paltry ore of Mammon's mean device Which I, to honor you, stooped to receive. You'd set the Alguazils on my heels ! What ! have I read your thought? * J^ay, never shrink, FIRM I LI AN. 107 Nor edge towards the doorway ! You're a scholar ! How was't with Phaeton ? HAVEEILLO. Alas ! he's mad. Hear me, Firmilian ! Here is the receipt — Take it— I grudge it not ! If ten times more, It were at your sweet service. FIRMILIAN. • Would you do' This kindness unto me ? HAVERILLO. Most willingly. FIRMILIAN. Liar and slave 1 There's falsehood in thine eye I I read as clearly there, as in a book, That, if I did allow you to escape, 108 F I R M I L I A N. In fifteen minutes you would seek the judge. Therefore, prepare thee, for thou needs must die ! HAVEKILLO. Madman — stand ofi:'! FERMILIAN. There's but four feet of space To spare between us. I'm not hasty, I ! Swans sing before their death, and it may be That dying poets feel that impulse too : Then, pry thee, be canorous. You may sing One of those ditties which have won you gold, And my meek audience of the vapid strain Shall count with Phoebus as a full discharge For all your ducats. Will you not begin ? HAVERILLO. Leave off this horrid jest, Firmilian ! FIRMILIAN. 109 FIKMILIAN. Jest ! 'Tis no jest ! This pillar's very high — Shout, and no one can hear you from the square- Wilt sing, I say ? HAVERILLO. Listen, Firmilian ! I have a third edition in the press, Whereof the proceeds shall be wholly thine — Spare me ! FIRMILIAN". A third edition ! Atropos — Forgive me that I tarried ! HAVERILLO. Mercy ! — Ah ! — [Firmilian hwla him from the column. 110 FIRMILIAN. SCENE X. Square helow the Pillar. Enter Apollodorus, a Critic. Wlij do men call me a presumptuous cur, A vaporing blockhead, and a turgid fool, A common nuisance, and a charlatan ? I've dashed into the sea of metaphor With as strong paddles as the sturdiest ship That churns Medusae into liquid light. And hashed at every object in my way. My ends are public. I have talked of men As my familiars, whom I never saw. Nay — more to raise my credit — I have penned Epistles to the great ones of the land. When some attack might make them slightly sore, Assuring them, in faith, it was not I. PIBMILIAN. Ill What was their answer ? Marrj, shortly this : '' Who, in the name of Zernebock, are you ?" I have reviewed myself incessantly — 1 ea, made a contract with a kindred soul For mutual interchange of puffery. Gods — how we blew each other ! But, 'tis past — Those halcyon days are gone; and, I suspect, That, in some fit of loathing or disgust. As Samuel turned from EIi's coarser son. Mine ancient playmate hath deserted me. And yet I am Apollodorus still ! I searcb for genius, having it myself. With keen and earnest longings. I survive To disentangle, from the imping wings Of our young poets, their crustaceous slough. I watch them, as the watcher on the brook Sees the youno^ salmon wrestlino^ from its eofsr. And revels in its future bright career. Ha ! what seraphic melody is this ? 112 FIRMILIAN. Enter Sancho, a Costennonger^ singing. Down in the garden behind the wall, Merrily grows the bright-green leek ; The old sow grunts as the acorns fall, The winds blow heavy, the little pigs squeak. One for the litter, and three for the teat — Hark to their music, Juanna my sweet ! APOLLODOEUS. Now, heaven be thanked ! here is a genuine bard, A creature of high impulse, one unsoiled By coarse conventionalities of rule. He labors not to sing, for his l)right thoughts Resolve themselves at once into a strain Without the aid of balanced artifice. All hail, great poet ! SANCHO. Save you, my merry master ! Need you any leeks FIRMILIAN. 113 or onions ? Here's the primest cauliflower, though I say it, in all Baclajoz. Set it up at a distance of some ten yards, and I'll forfeit my ass if it does not look bigger than the Alcayde's wig. Or would these radishes suit your turn ? There's nothing like your radish for cooling the blood and purging distempered humors. APOLLODORUS. I do admire thy vegetables much. But will not buy them. Pray you, pardon me For one short word of friendly obloquy. Is't possible a being so endowed With music, song, and sun-aspiring thoughts, Can stoop to chaifer idly in the streets. And, for a huckster's miserable gain, Eenounce the urgings of his destiny ? Why, man, thine ass should be a Pegasus, A sun-reared charger snorting at the stars, And scattering all the Pleiads at his heels— 114 FIKMILIAN. Thy cart should be an orient-tinted car, Such as Aurora drives into the day, What time the rosj^-fingered Hours awake — Thy reins — SANCHO. Lookye, master, I've dusted a better jacket than yours before now, so you had best keep a civil tongue in your head. Once for all, will you buy my radishes ? APOLLODORTJS. No! SANCH©. Then go to the devil and shake yourself ! ^ \_Exit. APOLLODORUS. The foul fiend seize thee and thy cauliflowers 1 FIRMILIAN. 115 I was indeed a most egregious ass To take tliis lubber clodpole for a bard, And woi-sliip that dull fool. Pjtliian Apollo I Hear me — O hear ! Towai'ds the firmament . I gaze with longing eyes ; and, in the name Of millions thirsting for poetic draughts, I do beseech thee, send a poet down ! Let him descend, e'en as a meteor falls, Hushing at noonday — [He is crushed hy the fall of the hody of Haverillo. ilH FIBMILIAN. SCEJtvTE XL A Street. Enter two Gentlemen, meeting. rmST GENTLEMAN. Save you, brave Cavalier ! SECOND GENTLEMAN. The like to yoii, sir. I scarce need ask where you have been to-day - All Badajoz was at the market-place. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You mean the act of faith ? I was too late : Will you vouchsafe me some relation of it ? SECOND. GENTLEMAN. I've seen a larger, muster for the stake. FIB MI LI AN. 117 But never was tlie jDiiblic interest Excited to so vehement a pitch. Men did not care for Jews or heretics, Though some of both descriptions were produced. The leading victim was the Graduate, Whose monstrous deed in blowing up the church, Whereby a thousand lives and more were lost, Stands yet unequalled for atrocity. Faith, sir ! the Inquisition had hard work To guard him from his dungeon to the pile. When he came forth, from twenty thousand throats There rose so horrid and so fierce a yell That I was fain to hold my tingling ears. Mothers, whose sons had perished in the church, Howled curses at him : old men shook their fists With palsied vehemence ; and there were some Who carried naked daggers in their hands, And would have hacked him piecemeal. 118 FIRMILIAN. FmST GENTLEMAN. And no wonder — 'Twas a most horrid and unnatural deed ; My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yet was he quite calm : A little pale, perhaps, but noway moved By all their hooting. When he reached the pile, He craved permission of the Inquisitor, To say a word or two. That being granted. He turned him straightway to the raging crowd, Which, at his gesture, stilled itself awhile, And spoke in parables. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How mean you, sir ? Did he confess his guilt FTRMILIAN. 119 SEOOND GENTLEMAN. In faith, not he ! His speech was worse than any conimination. He ciirs'd the city, and he curs'd the church ; He curs'd the houses, and he curs'd their stones. Lie cui'sed, in sliort, in such miraculous wise, Tliat nothing was exempted from his ban. Tlien, sir, indeed the people's wrath was roused. And a whole storm of cats came tumbling in, Combined with baser missiles. I was fain, Not wishing to be wholly singular. To add my contribution to the rest. Yet he cursed on, till the Familiars gagged him- Bound him unto the stake, and so he died. BIKST GENTLEMAN. You tell the story very pleasantly. Were there no more of note in the procession ? 120 FTRMILIAJS. SECOND GENTLEMAN. TJiere was a fellow, too, an Anabaptist, Or something of the sort, from the Low Countries, Rejoicing in the name of Teufelsdrockh. I do not know for what particular sin He stood condemned ; but it was noised abroad That, in all ways he was a heretic. Six times the Inquisition held debate Upon his tenets, and vouchsafed him speech. Whereof he largely did avail himself. But they could coin no meaning from his words, Further than this, that he most earnestly Denounced all systems, huuian and divine. And so, because the weaker sort of men Are oft misled by babbling, as the bees Hive at the clash of cymbals, it was deemed A duty to remove him. He, too, spoke But never in your life, sir, did you hear Such hideous jargon I The distracting screech FIEMILIAN. 121 Of wagon-wheel ungreased was music to it ; And as for meaning — wiser heads than mine Could find no trace of it. 'Twas a tirade About fire-horses, jotuns, windbags, owls, Choctaws and horse-hair, shams and flunkeyism, Unwisdoms, Tithes, and [Inveracities. 'Faith, when I heard him railing in crank terms, And dislocating language in his howl At Phantasm Captains, Hair-and-leather Popes, Terrestrial Law-words, Lords, and Law-bringers. — I almost wished the Graduate back as^ain : His style of cursing had some flavor in't ; Tlie other's was most tedious. By-and-by, The crowd grew restive ; and no wonder, sir ; For the effect of his discom-se was such. That one poor wench miscarried in aflfright. I did not tarry longer. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Your narration 122 FIR MI LI AN. Makes me regret less heartily tlie chance That kept me from the sliow. Is tliere naiiglit else Talked of in Baclajoz? SECOND GENTLEMAN. AVhj, yes, sir — much, And of strange import : l)ut the cautious lip Dares not, as yet, give utterance to its thought Ln the full measure. Death hath been amongst us, ISot striking at the old, but at the young. In most unusual fashion. Three young men, All in strong heaUh, untainted by disease, Died in a tavern. Marry, sir — 'tis thought Their cups were spiced. But a few days ago, Our most aspiring poet, Ilaverillo, Fell from St. Simeon's column — no one knows What took him to its top ; — another life, I hear, was lost in his abrupt descent. But no one could identify the corpse. Then there's a Priest amissing — these are things FIRMILIAN. 123 Portentous in t-hemselves, and very strange. Further, there's some sHght scandal noised abroad About the niece of an Inquisitor — I name no names — who may have been, perchance, Somewhat too credulous. 'Tis a strange world ! Are you acquainted with Firmilian s FIRST GENTLEMAN. But slightly, sir : I've held a bet or so With him upon the buU-iights. Why d'ye ask ? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Because (in confidence), I think 'twere wise To close your book with him. I heard it said. Not many days ago, that his old uncle. The Dean of Salamanca, had expired, And left him all his w^ealth. Heaven bless you, sir, ^ have a turn for genealogy, And, by my reckoning, he is no more kin To the old Dean than to the Holy Pope ! 1 24 F I R M I L I A N . I may be wrong, you l^now — but in such ma,tters 'Tis prudent to be sure. There are reports, On whicli I sliall not dwell, which maJve me think Firiuilian is not safe. Yoa understand me ? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Your kindly hint hath found a ready way To a most anxious bosom ! Let us go Towards the Prado. I've a little tale To tell you of that same Firmilian. [Exeunt. FIKMILIAN. 125 SCENE XII . The Vaults of the Inquisition. The Inquisitors are seated on henches. Behind them Familiars hearing torches. Throughout this Scene, distant peals of thunder heard. CHIEF INQUISITOR. Would I could bid you welcome, brethren, here ! This wild derangement of the elements, These fiery gashes in the vault of heaven That stream with flame, and fright the astonied earth. Are not from natural causes: Hell is loose ; The Prince o' the Air hath called his legions up. And demons' wings are madly flashing by On hideous errantry ! There have been deeds Wrought here among us of so vile a sort — 126 FIKMILIA.N. Such impious words have pierced the netherworld, That the fiends, starting from their sulphurous beds, Have answered to the summons ! OLD rNQUISITOR. Such a night There hath not been since that in Wittemberg, "When damned Faustus lost his wretched soii'l. CHIEF INQUISITOR. Yea, reverend brother, it was even so. And, much I fear me, some in Badajoz Have, by their practice of unholy arts, Sinned worse than Faustus. Stand thou forth, Balthazar ; And tell us what thou knowest. FIRST FAMILIAR. Most reverend sirs, I, and my fellow, Gil of Santillane, F I RM I L I A N . 127 Both sworn Familiars of this Holy office, Keceived of late commission to inquire Touching the trade of a suspected Jew. His dealing was in philtres, amorous drug-5, Powders of mummy, amulets, and charms, All which we seized, and brought the caitiff here To be examined. When upon the rack. He, being urged by subtle questioning, Confessed that of ten-times he had procured Most strange material for a student's use — As skulls, thigh-bones, a murderer's wasted hand Hewn from the gibbet, and such other ware As sorcerers do employ. Besides these things. He owned that he had purchased from a Moor A curious work upon geometry. And sold it to Firmilian. CHIEF INQUISITOK. Can the stars Ketain their place within the firmament, 128 FIRMILIAN. When wickedness like this is wrought below ? Proceed, Balthazar. FIRST FAMILIAR. Tliese particulars Being in their nature horrid and profane, Did Mordecai right cheerfully disclose. Yet we, remembering what the vulgate saitli, Touching the doubtful witness of a Jew Against a Christian, did esteem it fit To make more perquisition. For that end, I, and mj comrade, Gil of Santillane, Sought out Firmilian's servant. Him we found Within a wine-shop — OLD INQUISITOR. Mark that well, my masters ! For three score years and ten I've held my office And never did I know the sorcerer yet F I R MIL I A N . 129 "Whose servant felt not a perpetual thirst. I praj you let that fact be noted down. CHIEF INQUISITOR. It shall be noted. Well — what followed next? FIRST FAMILIAR. Obedient to our orders, Gil and I, Albeit habitual shunners of the cup, Did somewhat deviate from our wonted rule, And made slight show of wassail. Whereupon, This Nicodemus, young Firmilian's knave, Did gradually to us some part disclose Of his employer's practice. SECOND FAMILIAR. Did he so ? A servant's tale is damning evidence Against his lord ! What said this ISTicodemus ? Stand down, Balthazar — Speak thou, Santillane. 130 F I R M I L I A N . SECOND FAMILIAE. He toid ns this — that long ago, in Wales, His master had from one Plotinis learned Most wondrous secrets : that on Wednesday nights He was attended by an ugly imp. Whose outward apparition bore the stamp Of an enormous hedge-hog. OLD INQUISITOR I remember The like was said of Paracelsus too. And of Cornelius. I myself have seen A hedge-pig suckled by a Moorish witch. That must have been about the year sixteen, Or two years later. Is it taken down ? For three score years and ten I've held my office, And never knew a necromancer yet But dealt in hedge-hogs ! Is it taken down? FIRMILTAN. 131 CHIEF INQUISITOii. It is, my reverend brother. Santillane — On with your stor^^. SECOND FAMILIAH. Warily he talked Of magic circles, skulls, and fumigations — Of the great Devil, and his sulphurous stench—- Of phantom beavers, and of bottle imps ; The bare recital of which monstrous things Made each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. I can depone no further. OLD INQUISITOR. Porcupines Are worse than hedge-hogs ! 132 FIRMILIAN. CHEEF mQUISITOK. Is this Nicodemus Still safe within your reach ? FIRST FAMILIAR. Right holy sir, He is. We deemed it wiser to defer His capture till we knew your reverend pleasure, In case Firmilian might take sudden wiug. Moreover, I have something yet to tell. Which, if not touching sorcery, may lean To worse than heresy. CHIEF INQUISITOR. Thy care is great. Thou art our best Familiar ; and I think. E'en as thou speak'st, and lettest out the truth, The frightened fiends desert the upper sky And calm their thunder down. Say out thy say. FIRM ILI A N. 133 FIRST FAMILIAR, I pray jour reverend worships to believe I act not as spy. 'Tis not for me To mark the twinkling of a lady's fan, To Inrk behind church pillars, or to note The course of fervid glances. Such things lie Beyond my office ; and I know full well That they are oftentimes assumed to hide Most faithful service to our Holy Church ; And, therefore, 1 repeat, I am no spy. CHIEF INQUISITOR. I have still found thee — as the Church hath done- Discreet within thy function. Didst thou know Aught that might appertain to one of us, Or to the honor of our nearest kin, I do believe that thou wouldst rather dare Expose thyself upon the stretching rack Than speak out openly. 134 F I R M I L I A N . SEVERAL INQriSITORS. We do believe it I FIRST FAMILIAR. Therein you understand ice thoroughly. I am the poor Familiar of this House, And for the movements of such holy sirs, And of their households, have no eyes at all, Save at their pleasure. But Firmilian's case Demands a full divulgement. OLD INQUISITOR. Yery right ! I gather from this talk there's something wrong About Firmilian's morals. I have been For three score years and ten Inquisitor: And always have observed that heretics Are faulty in their morals. Tell us all- FIRMILIAN. io. FIRST FAMILIAR. Three weeks ago — 'twas but a week befoi-e The death of the three students — there appeared Within a lonely cottage in the wood, Hard bordering on the skirts of Badajoz, An Indian maiden. She was dark as night, And yet not unalluring, as I heard From Santillane, my comrade — SECOND FAMILIAR. Holy sirs, I swear such laJiguage ne'er escaped my lips ! I only said that in a heathen's eye She might find favor. OLD INQUISITOR. Doubtless so she would. I do remember, fifty years ago, A very comely damsel of that kind, 136 FIRM I LI AN. Purveyed, I think, from inner Africa — I never saw a more voluptuous shape. But to your story — FIRST FAMILIAR. Every day since then Hath young Firmilian stolen to her bower With utmost secresy. What passeth there I know not. But men say she sings by night Mysterious ditties in an unknown tongue, Of such unnatural' and thrilling sort, That the scared nightingales desert their boughs. And evil birds of omen flit around To list the Indian's music. CHIEF INQUISITOR Is it so ? That shall be also looked to heedfully. The fiend hath many snares, and it may be That, in the likeness of a dusky queen, FIRMILIAN. 137 He sends an agent hither. What I know Of this Firmilian makes me fear the worst : Yet it were wise to wait. I'll set a trap Shall lure him to his ruin. Go we hence ; And in the innor casket of our hearts Be all our secrets locked. Put out the lights ! \The torches are extinguished. 138 FIRMILIAN. SCENE XIII. Among the Mountaitta, Enter Firmilian. Why slionld I strive to comprehend the charm Of savage nature, or to fill my mind With thoughts of desolation, meanly filched From those rude rocks, and chasms, and cataracts ? Why, none but fools afi'ect to seek them now For the mere sense of grandeur. To a painter, Yon crag might seem magnificent indeed. With its bold outline. A geologist Would but regard it as a pillar left To mark some age that was pre-Adamite, And, with his hammer, excavate the bones Of brutes that revelled in the oozy slime, Ere yet a bud had burst in Eden's bower. P I R M I L I A N . 139 Here is a terrace on the mountain side, As stately as the ever-watched approach Unto the palace of the greatest king. Your man of science cares not for its sweep, Nor anght around that might attract the eye ; — He calls it a sea-margin, and exhumes The withered fragment of a cockle-shell, In 2:*i'Oof of his averment, with more pride Than if he stumbled on a costly gem. O, there is room for infinite debate In a stray boulder ; and tlie jagged streak Upon the surface of a harmless stone. May be the Helen to some future host Of glacier-theorists ! Sucli men are wise. Tliey overlook the outward face of things ; Seek no sensation from the rude design Of outward beauty ; but fulfil their task Like moles, who loathe the gust of upper air, And burrow underneath ! 140 F I R M I L I A N . Three days have 1 Been wandering in this desert wilderness In search of inspiration. Horrid thoughts, Phantasms, chimseras, tortures, inward spasms, Disordered spawn of dreams, distracting visions, Air-s'hrieks and haunting terrors were my aim — Yet nothing comes to friglit me ! How is this ? Grant that my former efforts were in vain ; At least the death of yon poor Haverillo Might be a mill-stone tied around my neck, And sink me to despair ! It is not so. I rather feel triumphant in the deed. And draw fresh courage from the thought of it. Were all my creditors disposed like him, Methinks the sunshine would be warmer still ! Hold — Let me reckon closely with myself ! Could my weak hand put back the clock of time To the same point whereon its index lay When first tlie thought of murder crossed my soul- Gould I undo, even by a single word, F I R M I L I A N . 143 All my past actings, and recall to life Tlie three companions of my earlier years — The nameless crowd that perished in the church — The guileless poetaster — and the rest Who indirectly owe their deaths to me — Would I exert the power ? Most sm*ely not. Above the pool that lies before my foot A thousand gnats are liovering — an hour hence They'll drop hito the mud ! Should I lament That things so sportive, and so full of glee, So soon must pass away? In faith, not I ! They all will perish ere the sun goes down, And yet to-morrow night that self-same pool Will swarm with thousands more. What's done, is I'll look on it no further. [done. But my work — That grand conception of my intellect. Whereby I thought to take the world by storm- That firstling of my soul— my tragedy— What shall become of it ? 142 F I R M I L I A N . Alas ! I fear I have mista'en my bent ! What's Cain to me, Or I to Cain ? I cannot realize His wild sensations — it were madness, then, For me to persevere. Some other bard With weaker nerves and fainter heart than mine Must gird him to the task. Tis not for me To shrine that page of history in song, And utter such tremendous cadences, That the mere babe who hears them at tlie breast Sans comprehension, or the power of thought. Shall be an idiot to its dying hour ! I deemed my verse would make pale Hecate's orb Grow wan and dark ; and into ashes change The radiant star-dust of the milky-way. I deemed that pestilence, disease, and death, Would follow every strophe — for the power Of a true poet, prophet as he is, Should rack creation ! Get thee gone, my dream - F I R M 1 I. I A N . 143 My long-siistainino; friend of many clays ! Henceforth my brain shall be divorced from thee, JSlor keep more memory of the wanton past Than one wlio makes a harem of his mind, And dallies with his thoughts like concubines ! Yet something must be done. 'Twere vile for me To sink into inaction, or remain Like a great harp wherein the music lies Unwakened by the hand. What if I chose A theme of magic ? That might take the ear, For men who scarce have eyesight to discern What daily passes underneath their nose, Still peer about for the invisible. 'Twere easy now to weave a subtile tale Of ghosts and gobhns, mermaids, succubi, Mooncalves and monsters — of enchanted lialls, Wide-waving tapestry, haunted corridors — Of clinrchyards shadowed by mysterious yews. Wherein white women walk and wring their hands— Of awful caverns underneath the sea. 144: F I R M I L I A N . Lit by the gliinnier of a demon's eyes — Of skeletons in armor, phantom knights Who ride in fairy rings — and so revive The faded memories of our childish years With richer color. Bah ! — the time is })ast When such-like tales found audience. Children now Are greatly wiser than their fathers were, And prattle science in the nursery. Raw-head-and-bloody-bones no longer scares The inmate of the cradle into rest ; And that tremendous spectre of the North, The chimney-haunting Boo-man comes no more, With hideous answer, to the nurse's call. Yet something do I know of magic too, And might have further sounded in its deep, But for the terror that o'ermastered me In my first essay. Scarcely had I read Ten lines of incantation, when a light, Lii^e that of glow-worms j^astured upon graves, Glared from the sockets of a fleshless skull, i I F I K M I L I A N . 145 Aiid nU touches of patho«. Pr;ied has always been a favorite with American readers, and this collection of his poems will doubtless be very acceptable in this c untry. whe"e Praed's wit and tenderness an highly appreciated."— iV York Eve'.ing Post. For sale at principal Bookstores throughout the countiy and mailed by Publisher on receipt of price. W. J. WIDDLETON, Publisher, NEW YORK. CONINGTON'S ^NEID. THE ^NEID OF VIRGIL. Translated into English Terse (Scott's Ballad Metre). By JonN CoNiNGTON, M.A., late Professor in the University of Oxford. An elegant library edition, in large, clear type, on toned paper. One volume crown 8vo, cloth, $2 25; half calf, $4. " This version is unique in its metre, tliat of Scott's ballads being employed, wliich imparts a wotiderful life and vivacity, and will intro- duce the work to a class of readers by whom it has been heretofore ovcrlookea. The London Examiner characterizes it as '-the very lightest, freshest, and yet most accurate metrical translation of Virgil th it has been added to our literature " ; the Alheii(zum says that *' bc;- sidcs being a faithful copy of the original, it has all the fieshuess, life, and beauty of genuine poetry"; the Saturday Review^ "that among the many good translations, there has been none more true to the spirit and the letter of the original author than this"; and the Westminfiter Revieiv styles it '•eminently graceful and scholarlike." "After such commendations from such sonrce^;, little more need be said. The mechanical execution is very rich and attractive, and reflects credit on the house that publishes M.^'—New York Evenmg Post. For sale at the principal Bookstores throughout the country, and mailed by Publisher on receipt of price. W. J. WIDDLETON, Publisher, :t^EW YORK. 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