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 lie to SantDininu* 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD KENEALY. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 MDCCCL. 
 
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 The golden Julian morn was gleaming o'er me, 
 
 The diamond stars were waning one by one, 
 When, lo ! methought a Vision rose before me — 
 
 Two maidens beauteous as the rising sun. 
 On the pale brows of one were towers shining, 
 
 A glory burst like Here's from her eyes ; 
 But round the other's forehead I saw twining 
 
 Laurels and roses bright as brightest skies. 
 
 Then quoth the first, " My name, beloved, is Power ; 
 
 I come to thee and woo thee for mine own ; 
 Wealth, grandeur, titles — these shall be thy dower, 
 
 But thou must seek, court, worship me alone. 
 The marble palace glittering in its glory, 
 
 The pomp, the power, the attributes of Kings, 
 These I can give thee, with a name in story; — 
 
 Can'st thou for these put forth thine eagle wings ?" 
 
 Then quoth the second, " Pomp, and power, and palace, 
 And royal wealth and grandeur are not mine : 
 
 J cannot give thee garden, bower, or chalice 
 Resplendent with its gems, and crowned with wine. 
 
MY BIRTH-DAY DREAM. 
 
 Titles I cannot vaunt, sway cannot proffer; 
 
 In sooth, what I can give I scarce can name ; 
 Thy bright soul seeks not gaud nor gaudy coffer; — 
 
 I know thee — know it— what thou seek'st is Fame. 
 
 This I can give thee, on thy temples wreathing 
 
 Immortal honour, glory ne'er to end; 
 Renown, unto all future times bequeathing 
 
 A bright example, guiding foe and friend. 
 A shining place in history- — a splendour 
 
 Out-dazzling Kings' — the sunshine drowns the star — 
 A name to which all time its meed shall render, 
 
 Which Change can ne'er destroy, nor Folly mar." 
 
 She ceased, and I was left alone, unguided, 
 
 A little cradled child, to choose between 
 Power and Fame — alas, alas ! divided 
 
 Why should these glorious goddesses be seen ? 
 Why should not Fame and Power, like smiling graces, 
 
 Wander along the earth to woo and win ? 
 Why should not he who seeks the soft embraces 
 
 Of Power, gain them but by aid of Sin ? 
 
 I know not — care not. Virgin Fame immortal, 
 To thee, and not to Power, I yield my soul ; 
 
 Guide her, oh, guide her through thy crystal portal, 
 Blazon her name upon thy bannerol. 
 
MY BIRTH-DAY DREAM. 
 
 What care I for the lures of proud dominion ? 
 
 Dominion is of earth, and scents of crime; 
 Give me, sweet Fame, to soar with heavenly pinion 
 
 Above the paltry pride of earth sublime. 
 
\ 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 Cloimt. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, and you, 
 
 If any here there be, 
 
 Belonging to the intermediate crew 
 
 (Your pardon, since you know I cannot see), 
 
 We do present you here to-day 
 
 A certain thing — it can't be called a play, 
 
 A tragedy, a comedy, or farce, 
 
 A melodrama, interlude, or masque. 
 
 Our Author would as soon teach boys to parse, 
 
 Or priests true piety, or statesmen virtue, 
 
 As set himself to work at such a task. 
 
 He hates the humbug of the scenic stage ; 
 
 Its daggers, cannons, braves, 
 
 Intriguing wives, pert chambermaids, old knaves, 
 
 And gallants fired with Aphrodisian rage ; 
 
 Of things like these you've had so rank a heap, 
 
 The recollection sets my soul asleep. 
 
 We've something better, critics, to divert you : 
 
 A Pantomime! — what say you? — ah, you stare, 
 
 Wise — wisest children of a larger growth ; 
 
 Than your forefathers fifty times more clever; 
 
 The ladies flirt their fans — the he-things swear. — 
 
 Don't be alarmed — I'll not repeat each oath. 
 
 This is a Pantomime, and rightly named, 
 
 Because it is an Image of the All 
 
2 THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 In Earth, in Heaven, in Hell, and in the Air, 
 Wherever Life, or Soul, or Spirit dwells, 
 Or Thought, or Being are, 
 In Space or Star. 
 
 Our Author, dipping his gold pen in gall 
 And milk of paradise, conceived the work ; 
 And here it is, brought forth for you, and you, 
 Masculine, feminine, and neuter too. 
 
 Our Dramatis Personce are most numerous ; 
 'T would take me twenty years to count, 
 And yet not name their full amount — 
 Shapes, Spirits, Shadows, Angels, Fates, 
 Nymphs, Naiads, Imps from Satan's gates, 
 Satan himself, Abaddon, Man, 
 Ghosts, Goblins, Ghouls, and sovran Pan ; 
 Sphinxes, Chimseras, Minotaurs, 
 A pretty Woman, and Dame Mors ; 
 Fays, Destinies, Sprites, Wisps, and Frogs, 
 And the snake-headed King of Dogs. 
 Smart Hermes, Mephistopheles, and Charon, 
 A very celebrated German Baron, 
 Fierce Fiends, — but all our people, grave and humorous, 
 Will strut before you when the time arrives ; 
 Till when — look after other people's wives. 
 
 We've got besides unparalleled machinery — 
 The air-born Rainbow, the dark heaving Ocean, 
 Laugh terless Hades, Styx, the Sun and Moon, 
 The Star that every morning takes a lotion 
 Of the still deep — so sings that coarse buffoon, 
 My master Virgil, in the lying tale 
 Of him who shew'd his wife leg bail, 
 And left her in the Trojan embers, 
 As every well-whipped brat remembers ; 
 We've Clouds and Comets, Planets, Vapours, 
 That cut the most amazing capers : 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. 6 
 
 Rivers and Skies, and mighty Lakes 
 That teem with Hydras, Serpents, Snakes ; 
 Aye, and with Hippopotami 
 
 Big as the Monument no lie. 
 
 Since The Beginning, never artist had 
 
 A better stock of grand old scenery 
 
 Than here to-day's presented to our lad 
 
 By his most venerable Dad. 
 
 What Dad, you ask? ; pon honour, Ma'am, I know not, 
 
 For who the secret dark can tell? 
 
 Who in Heaven ? — who in Hell ? 
 
 Many there be who reap, } T et sow not. 
 
 Tippitywitchet is a strange abstraction — 
 
 And so is Truth — they differ not a fraction ; 
 
 For what is Truth ? — and what is Fact? 
 
 See you the soul of what I say ? 
 
 Of course you do — 'tis clear as day — 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, you are all — crack'd. 
 
 The moral of this Epic Pantomime 
 
 (For that 'tis Epic you shall see in time, 
 
 As truly as the tales of Troy, 
 
 Or Knave Laertes' hopeful Boy, 
 
 Or Dux Trojanus, Dante, Hudibras, 
 
 Milton, and Lucan are) — is, Man's an Ass. 
 
 A very pretty Pantomimic moral, 
 
 About whose truth the world and I wo'nt quarrel ; 
 
 I do not value three skips of a mouse 
 
 Whether in this the Author shews his nous 
 
 Or nonsense ; judging of the mighty mass 
 
 By his own noble self; who, if his rule 
 
 Be once admitted, it requires no fool 
 
 To tell you how he must henceforward class. 
 
 But looking at the people I see here, 
 
 And pondering on the millions far and near, 
 
 I think it very strange indeed 
 
 Why Fate produced the donkey breed. — 
 
 Go home, you stupid animals, to grass. 
 
4 THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 Yet — if Man be an Ass, I see no reason 
 Why he should therefore fret himself to death. 
 Asses are honest animals enough ; 
 And, pon my conscience, if I were a donkey, 
 I would not change my state with one of you, 
 Illustrious nobles, ladies, lords, and dandies. 
 For Men impose sad evils on their backs 
 By their own waywardness and beastly vices ; 
 But Asses suffer only those which Nature 
 Lays on their shoulders. Some of us grow sad 
 If a brat sneezes inauspiciously ; 
 And some grow sorrowful if men reproach them ; 
 And some are frightened by unlucky dreams ; 
 And some by a hooting owl i' the ivy bush ; 
 Contention, Care, Rage, Avarice, Lust, Law, 
 Lying, Deceit — a thousand similar curses 
 Wait upon noble sky-aspiring Man : 
 Who would not be an Ass, and void of such 
 Soul-racking playfellows as these I 've named ? 
 And faith I'd rather be long-ears himself 
 Than such a slippered Pantaloon as this. 
 
 pantaloon. 
 He who hoards gold, not using it, is like 
 A man who, swimming on some silvery stream, 
 Dies of hot thirst. Judge others by thyself. 
 Suspicion colours all things with its gloom. 
 Fierce love, fierce hatred — there's no meen between 
 In women's hearts. Deal with your dearest friends 
 As if you knew they were to be your foes. 
 Quick in opinion 's always in the wrong. 
 Man's richest luxury is his friend's misfortune. 
 The sole good deed a miser ever does, 
 Is when he dies. The goods that others have 
 We fiercely covet, dreaming not that they 
 As fiercely covet ours. Distrust all men. 
 There's scarce a single hair 'twixt life and death. 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. O 
 
 Death is perverse — he comes not when we call ; 
 But when we want him not, he rides post haste ; 
 Love makes the coward brave, and tames the bold. 
 
 ©loton. 
 
 wonderful discoveries by an ass. 
 
 pantaloon. 
 
 Only the base fear death. Man's heart should be 
 A book of virgin whiteness. He who robs 
 The poor robs heaven. Men are villains all. 
 The golden ladders whereon Virtue climbs 
 To God are Labour, Justice, Sense, and Truth. 
 The noble spirit swelling with great thoughts 
 Must die or bring them forth. A good man's smile 
 Is like the light of heaven — a bad man's frown 
 Is darker and more horrible than hell. 
 Pride is the strength and weakness of the soul : 
 Power is powerless without the will 
 To wield it. Who blasphemes his God's a fool 
 That, with clenched fist and desperate energy, 
 Strikes at a rock, and breaks his hand to pieces. 
 Experience is a teacher, in whose school 
 Even fools grow wise. 
 
 ©loton. 
 
 Then seek her school at once. 
 
 Kicks him off. 
 
 1 never heard such trash in all my life, — 
 You fellows in the orchestra play up. 
 
 Sings. 
 Keep in mind, keep in mind 
 What you shall hear, nor let it pass like wind 
 From your grave recollection ; sense and fun 
 Go always better blended into one. 
 For Wisdom does not teach or charm the less, 
 Because arraved in Mirth's attractive dress. 
 
6 THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 Keep in mind, keep in mind, 
 Lightest words have often souls within ; 
 Pearls which, if you dive for, you shall find. 
 Smallest hairs throw shadows ; spiders spin 
 Threads that link the stars with earth. 
 Gravity is shrined in mirth. 
 
 When you look upon The Snake, 
 
 Mark him well ; 
 
 Once in Aden's bowers he spake 
 
 Things that none may tell ; 
 
 Only those who dwell 
 
 In the shadow of the Light 
 
 Which illumes the Universe. 
 
 The Great Beast you then shall see, 
 
 Whom the wily Snake hath fettered 
 
 In his shining coil. 
 
 Who is he ? who is he ? 
 
 Shouts each fool unlettered, lettered ; 
 
 Read and think, and think and read ; 
 
 When the time ordained you toil, 
 
 Haply you shall know ; 
 
 When you find it, let the seed 
 
 In your spirit grow, 
 
 Till from pole to pole it spread, 
 
 Like the Eternal Tablet of white pearl 
 
 Whereon God writes those wonderful decrees 
 
 W T hich speak of all, past, present, and to come, 
 
 As sung of old in Islam's orient hymns. 
 
 ^arUqum. 
 
 Spring up, bright flowers of harmony, spring up, 
 The nectar food of gods bestowed on man, 
 And wake the lyre of many tones ; 
 And from the golden-hearted lute, 
 And the lily-breathing flute, 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 Sprinkle round their silver}?- treasure. 
 Moving all to love and pleasure, 
 Spreading liquid sweetness 
 Through the sapphire air, 
 Picturing to the fancy 
 Visions strange and fair. 
 Lo ! Sir Harlequin is near, 
 With his mighty magic wand. 
 
 £Iohm. 
 
 What can bring the fellow here ? 
 He were better in a pond. 
 
 5§>arleqtu'tt, 
 
 Now that music floats around me, 
 I can featlier speak my speech. 
 
 ffiloton. 
 
 If I had a lance, confound me, 
 But I'd bleed him like a leech. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, I merely come 
 To tell you, and all classical communities, 
 That in this Pantomime of ours, we scorn 
 
 All critics, past and future, and the Unities. 
 
 We waft you as we please from Earth to Heaven, 
 Thence down to Hell, and upward to the Moon, 
 Ten million, billion, trillion miles or so, 
 Through space unbounded in our bard's balloon, 
 Which travels lightning-like through the Abyss 
 
 Of iEther, taking several years to do it ; 
 
 We do not care a farthing if you hiss ; — 
 Whate J er our doom, we'll willingly go through it. 
 Convinced in spite of fate that you are wrong, 
 And that we knowing ones alone are right ; 
 
b THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 Dont wonder therefore when I wave my wand, 
 Nor let the changes move grim Aristarchian spite. 
 
 ©olumfime. 
 I bring a garland of new flowers, 
 To wreathe me in the winding dance ; 
 I twine a chaplet of white roses, 
 As maidens do in old romance. 
 Ladies and Youths, by these bright presents, 
 Which I give here to each and all, 
 Look kindly on the earth-born daughters 
 Our Poet summons at his call ; 
 And if his heroine win your favour, 
 Believe her drawn from lights like you. 
 
 ffiioton. 
 Such compliments as these must gull them : 
 I only wdsh the lies were true. 
 And now, my beauteous little birdies, 
 T hope we've given you lime enough, 
 To catch within our wily net-work 
 Rook, magpie, wagtail, wren, and chough. 
 You've heard from me the choicest wisdom ; 
 From Pantaloon, the oldest fudge ; 
 From Harlequin, some namby-pamby ; 
 From Columbine — what all can judge. 
 Our anxious manager is sweating 
 With terror for his bantling's fate ; 
 Our high-flown bard is sipping claret ; 
 And I'm detaining you with prate. 
 Enough, — tis time the Prologue cease, 
 I see you're anxious for the piece. 
 Ho ! — prompters, callboys, fiddlers, and scene-shifters, 
 Prepare within there ! King the bell. Behold ! 
 
 The curtain rises now, by Mother Bunch ! 
 
 Scenes of such splendour saw I ne'er before. 
 
Act I. Scene I. 
 
 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 
 Moonlight and Starshine. The Earth whirling in the distance. 
 Time Dec. 31, 1831. 
 
 A Throne of Stars , on which the Spirit of the Year is sitting. 
 The Spirit rises, as the Spirit of the New Year enters 
 on a rainbow. 
 
 Z%t spirit of tfje #rto §ear. 
 
 Hail to thee, bright and beautiful Earth ! — 
 
 I have come from my home where the Lightnings 
 dwell, 
 
 Where the Thunders laugh in their giant mirth, 
 To watch thee, and tend thee, and guard thee well. 
 
 From my Cloud- Pavilion in space afar, 
 
 I have seen thee — a bright and a golden star, 
 
 Glittering still in the clear soft sky : 
 And, oh! with what joy to thy blissful bowers, 
 Where sunshine blends w^ith fruits and flowers, 
 
 On the wings of the morning light I fly ; 
 
 O sister Spirit ! thy throne resign, 
 
 For this beautiful earth is mine — all mine. 
 
 £!)* Spirit of tfj* <3lb fear. 
 
 Spirit of Beauty ! and art thou come 
 
 To this world of sin from thine angel home, 
 
 To see the sights that must strike thee dumb ? 
 For know it is ruled by a ghastly Gnome. 
 
10 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 A monster of monstrous crime, 
 
 Conceived from the earliest time ; 
 
 From the horrible womb of Hell 
 
 This loathsome infant fell ! 
 
 A despot without control, 
 
 His food is the human soul : 
 
 And, though millions the Fiend destroys, 
 
 Yet his hunger never cloys : 
 
 The accursed God of Gold — 
 
 He hath ruled from the days of old. 
 Spirit of Beauty and Truth ! — I weep 
 For the vigil of grief that thou must keep. 
 
 ®§t Fotce of Xty &amtr past 
 Oh weep ! oh weep ! 
 For the vigil that thou must keep. 
 
 jpfrat Spirit 
 
 Ah, me ! I dreamed that this beautiful sphere 
 Was the home of all that was pure and good ; 
 
 And though Evil widely reigns, yet here 
 I fondly fancied he never could. 
 
 The creatures of earth are passing fair, 
 
 They shine like the lovely spirits of air; 
 
 And through their eyes a heavenly soul 
 Beams as soft as the moon's soft gleam,— 
 Alas ! why are they not what they seem ? 
 
 And why do they bear the Fiend's control? 
 
 O sister Spirit ! for love's sweet sake, 
 
 Tell me all ere thy Throne I take. 
 
 &enmtr Sptrft. 
 
 A tedious tale, and a tale of woe, 
 Of Vice victorious, and Virtue slain; 
 
 Of Demons laughing at Truth laid low, 
 And Justice weeping in gyve and chain. 
 
THE TWO SPIRITS. 11 
 
 Shall I tell thee a tale like this ? 
 
 Shall I cloud thy dreams of bliss I 
 
 Shall I shew thee the murderer's knife 
 
 AVhetted for human life? 
 
 Shall I shew thee the modest maid 
 
 By her trusting love betrayed ? 
 
 Or religion brought to shame 
 
 By wretches in God's high name? 
 
 Or the vile and worthless priz'd ? 
 
 Or the noble and true despis'd ? 
 Spirit of Beauty and Truth ! ah, me ! 
 Lonely and sad must thy vigil be. 
 
 Z\)t Ynitt of t\)t Sarrrti 13ast 
 
 Ah. me ! ah, me ! 
 
 Sad is the vigil reserved for thee. 
 
 Jptrst Spirit 
 rare, beautiful Earth ! O sky ! 
 
 Zoned with ten thousand worlds of light ; 
 
 myriad Spirits, who dwell on high! 
 
 Thou, who wieldest the thunder's might ! 
 Can creatures of clay like these be found 
 
 To work such deeds on God's holy ground ? 
 Did he build this exquisite Paradise 
 
 Of garden and glen, and vale and mount, 
 
 And sunny scene and crystal fount, 
 For a huge bazaar, where the monster Vice 
 Traffics in human souls for gold, 
 And the angel Virtue is bought and sold ? 
 
 Srrontr Spirit. 
 
 1 cannot tell why the Earth was made, 
 
 1 know not why man was formed from clay ; 
 But the Fiend of Gold too long hath play'd 
 
 Such tricks as darken the light of day. 
 And the star of the holy truth 
 Hath sunk in a cloud uncouth : 
 
12 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And the virtue that should have shone 
 Upon earth is dead and gone ; 
 And the science that once was prized, 
 Is laughed at and all despised ; 
 And faith hath departed long — 
 And justice is killed by wrong — 
 And modesty's blush hath ceas'd 
 Since the reign of the baleful Beast, 
 Who laughs and quaffs in his palace hall, 
 And holds his slaves like swine in thrall. 
 
 jFtrat Spirit. 
 
 But are there not souls filled with light and love, 
 The shrine of the One, the Serene and Wise, 
 
 Who, like heavenly planets that smile from above, 
 Can still the storms in the soul that rise ? 
 
 Have The Powers that throne them on thunder sent 
 
 No spirits to earth on such mission bent ? 
 
 Have the Gods divine forgotten the race 
 Of mortal man, and left him lone 
 In the night of the mind to pine and moan, 
 
 Thus in his desolate dwelling-place ? 
 Or is this world of beauty a hell 
 Where the Satans only rule and dwell ? 
 
 Snontr Spirit 
 This beautiful world is a hell indeed, 
 
 Where the Satans hold their terrible sway, 
 And The Powers have left in their hour of need 
 The race of men in their wilful way. 
 For the Spirits of love and light, 
 Whom they sent to preach truth and light, 
 And whose hearts they filled with a fire 
 Divine, to make men aspire ; 
 And whose minds were by wisdom taught, 
 And whose souls were with beauty fraught, 
 Fallen from their high estate, 
 At the board of the Demon wait, 
 
THE TWO SPIRITS. 13 
 
 And pervert the immortal flame 
 
 To deeds of disgrace and shame. 
 A sight that hath made me mourn and weep, 
 In the watching that I was wont to keep. 
 
 JFtrst Spirit 
 
 Alas ! I weep at the tale I hear — 
 
 The sorrowful tale from thy lips divine ; 
 And my heart is filled with a terrible fear. 
 
 Oh, would that some other sphere were mine ! 
 But, tell me — oh tell, ere thy flight begins, 
 What spirits of God have changed to Sin's ? 
 Are any on earth, or have any been 
 
 In the dreary year of thy vigil sad? 
 
 Ah, me ! thy tidings have made me mad ; 
 They cling in my brain like arrows keen ; 
 
 And I long for the hour that shall set me free 
 
 From my watch of sorrow and misery. 
 
 Jbetonfc £pmt. 
 There is a Spirit on earth whose course 
 
 Is nearly run — thou shalt see him die ! 
 Whose soul was lit from the purest source 
 Of immortal Light that glows on high. 
 
 But the glorious gifts of God 
 
 In the mire of passion he trod : 
 
 He lived but to serve himself; 
 
 He became the slave of the Elf ; 
 
 He fed and grew fat on pride ; 
 
 He hated, he fawned, he lied. 
 
 His heart was as dead and cold 
 
 As Judas' s heart of old ; 
 
 He never did one good deed 
 
 To a soul who stood in need : 
 And the lessons he taught mankind were few, 
 And none that could make them good or true. 
 
14 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 ®i)t Fotce of tije &acre& iiast. 
 
 Eighty years and two have rolled 
 Since this soul found human mould, 
 Eighty years and two have passed 
 Since with mortal clay 'twas massed ; 
 But in all that stirring time 
 What engaged that soul sublime ? 
 Flirtings false as serpent's tears, 
 Worthless friendships, useless sneers, 
 Hours of selfish sloth and thought ; 
 Virtue spurned and good unsought ; 
 Childish love of baubles called 
 Titles, for the which he crawled 
 On his belly all his days, 
 Fixing ne'er on heav'n his gaze ; 
 Freedom, which is man's birthright, 
 Ne'er found favour in his sight ; 
 To the starry march of Mind 
 Through his land his eyes were blind ; 
 Liberty's immortal aim 
 Form'd his jeer, his mock, his game ; 
 Serfs content, and souls debased, 
 Suited best this statesman's taste : 
 What he wrote, and what he stole, 
 Served perhaps no human soul ; 
 The great work, that spread his name 
 O'er the earth, and gave it fame, 
 Is no blessing, but a curse ; 
 All who read it must be worse : 
 And the lessons that he gave 
 Might make an infidel or knave, 
 But ne'er a freeman, of the slave. 
 
 JFtrst Spirit. 
 
 But will not this Spirit of light repent, 
 And atone ere death for the mind misused ? 
 
THE TWO SPIRITS. 15 
 
 The priceless gem which the Godhead lent, 
 
 Should have been through earth like a lamp diffused, 
 That all who in valleys of darkness sit 
 Might illumine their sorrowing souls from it. 
 
 SetontJ Spirit. 
 That time is past, and the hour is nigh 
 Thou shalt see this erring mortal die. 
 He dies — his mission is unfulfilled, 
 
 As his ever must be w T hose sole design 
 Is a gorgeous temple to self to build, 
 
 And The Human prefers to The Great Divine. 
 But, rejoice : for a brighter era of days 
 Shines like a sun through the living haze : 
 A new and celestial race shall grow, 
 And their spirits yclothed in fire from Heaven 
 Shall come, and proclaim in the thunder's steven 
 Truth to the hearts that are steeped in woe 5 
 
 And the mind of man shall burst 
 
 In the end the bonds accurst ; 
 
 And his soul shall walk in pride, 
 
 With truth for its godlike guide ; 
 
 And Knowledge shall rule the world, 
 
 And Falsehood to hell be hurled ; 
 
 And Genius and Worth shall shine 
 
 Like the stars in the Milky Sign : 
 
 And Liberty sit enthroned, 
 
 And Slavery die disowned ; — 
 Spirit of Beauty ! these things shall be : 
 They are writ in the Book of Destiny. 
 
 W)t Fotce of fyz Fnletr jfutttre. 
 I am what is, and hath been, and shall be, 
 And those great days Mankind on earth shall see. 
 
 jFtrst Spirit. 
 O blest Prediction ! Eternal Voices 
 Sent from the Palaces of Heaven ! my soul 
 
16 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Pants with celestial rapture — leaps — rejoices, 
 
 To hear the words of truth in thunder roll 
 
 In glorious prophecy from pole to pole. 
 O man of woman born ! awake, arise ! 
 
 Gird up thy soul with Wisdom, Knowledge, Truth ! 
 
 Let her, like eagles, straight renew her youth, 
 And soar aloft to heaven — the good man's prize ! 
 O ye pure spirits ! sent from God to teach — 
 
 Eloquence, Knowledge, Poesy divine, 
 Come forth in majesty and beauty ! — each 
 
 Bent to fulfil the Maker's great design. 
 Thousands of years have sunk into the vast 
 
 And mystic grave of Death to wake no more ; 
 Oh ! be it yours from many a hallowed store 
 To cull the sacred wisdom of the Past, 
 And pour it forth upon the world like light, 
 Till Ignorance and Vice, the fiends, take flight 
 At the fair dawning of those golden beams 
 
 Of Truth and Virtue, Charity and Love, 
 Foreseen in many a godlike Poet's dreams, 
 
 Pictures of things that are in heaven above. 
 
 The Spirit of the Old Year departs, as the Spirit of the 
 New Year ascends the throne. 
 
EARLY MORNING. 17 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 EARLY MORNING. 
 
 The open country near Weimar. Time March 22, 1832. 
 
 Stutinxt. 
 How beautiful is mora ! the virgin light 
 Breaks from behind yon dewy bills that veil 
 The palace of the dawn, from whose vast gates 
 The white-winged steeds that bear Aurora forth 
 Leap, proudly pawing the pellucid skies. 
 The rose-cheek' d Hours flash sunshine o'er the world, 
 And from their floating tresses wreathed with light, 
 And waving like a comet's flowery rays, 
 Sprinkle rich perfume o'er the winds that wake 
 The delicate hyacinths from their silver sleep ; 
 Sunbeams, soft airs, the song of birds, blue skies, 
 With orange light and purple interfused, 
 And musical waters sparkling, as their waves 
 Dance in delight over the pebbly beds 
 That glitter down below, like jewelled walks 
 Paven by Naiads for their favourite rills. 
 The hum of pastoral labour, the green fields 
 Fresh with the dews, the gently-tapering smoke 
 From cottage roofs, the cock's delighted crow ; 
 The glistening sheen of white and fairy feet 
 Across the living emerald of the meads ; 
 Young girls and laughing boys and gambolling youth, 
 And the cow 7 lowing, and the brisk young horse 
 With ears attent and limbs refreshed for toil, 
 And the grave honest watch-dog up and out 
 Beside his master, whose clear joyous w T histle 
 Tells of content — a heart at peace with all. 
 
 From such a scene of beauty and repose 
 Sadly I turn to yonder town, where ebbs 
 
 c 
 
18 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The mighty life away that charmed the world 
 
 With its rare harmony ; broken are the strings 
 
 Of that celestial lyre, and sad and faint 
 
 The last soft murmurs through its exquisite breast. 
 
 The wondrous Master sinks in final sleep, 
 
 Gloriously fading, like the sun that set 
 
 Last night behind the azure mountain-peaks. 
 
 The undetermined hour at length has come, — 
 
 He who strove ever after Possible Good, 
 
 And shunned the Unattainable with a wisdom 
 
 Deep as the patriarch's, dies ; and, dying, leaves 
 
 No soul on earth of equal might with his, — 
 
 Greatest of all the race of modern men 
 
 Since Byron went. In him was shadowed forth 
 
 The true Poetic — action made sublime 
 
 By heroic purpose — whose whole aim was bent 
 
 To shew in all their nothingness and guilt 
 
 The False, Distorted, Vulgar, to men's gaze, 
 
 That they might hate and shun them. 
 
 Weeks have past 
 Since last we met ; and then he said, As long 
 As one creates there is no room for dying ; 
 But yet the night, the great nighty will come on 
 When none shall work. Alas ! I little thought 
 The night of that great soul so near as now 
 Humour reports. Now does he pass away 
 On whom the Gods smiled sweetly at his birth, 
 Whom Venus loved and cradled in her breast ; 
 Whose eyes Apollo kissed, whose lips were touched 
 By graceful Mercury — on whose brow Jove set 
 The seal of might — away, away for ever ; 
 Leaving on earth only his pure renown 
 To comfort those who live but see him not. 
 
 Why are we here ? I asked. He paused, and looked, 
 And, smiling like a god, said, That we may 
 
EARLY MORNING. 19 
 
 Immortalise ourselves, and no true man 
 
 Suffers belief to be torn from his breast. 
 
 Nobly and truly has lie won the crown 
 
 Undying for whose light he struggled long, 
 
 While we, alas ! — but why indulge the thought ? 
 
 Yet if there be a few to whom his life 
 
 Seemed an enigma, and the good he did 
 
 In his broad sphere unworthy the professions 
 
 Which he might make, or did make, let them pause 
 
 Ere they pronounce harsh judgment. Men nor angels 
 
 Read not the wonderful mysteries of the soul, 
 
 Which is tripartite as the Platonists hold, 
 
 Divine, angelical, and animal, 
 
 A rare and heavenly compound of whose essence 
 
 We nothing know. The part that man sustains 
 
 Upon this mystic theatre, the earth, 
 
 Strange in its mixture of the True and False, 
 
 Is even to loftiest Seraphim a thing 
 
 Unveiled ; and only can the highest Gods 
 
 Pronounce upon it, whether good or bad. — 
 
 That which to eyes of spirits, or of flesh, 
 
 Seems outwardly a vice, may be to God 
 
 The pure sublime of virtue ; that which wears 
 
 The dazzling snowy semblance of the True, 
 
 Which the wise Cherubim behold with joy, 
 
 May to The Powers appear the thing it is — 
 
 Black vice enmasqued. Thus angels, spirits, and men 
 
 Err ever in their judgment of man's ways; 
 
 And this should bid them pause ere they condemn. 
 
 SONG OF A MILKMAID. 
 I. 
 
 There is a beauteous little dame, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 Mary is this beauty's name. 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 
20 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 She has eyes like some young fawn's 
 Tripping wild on Eastern lawns, 
 And her white and gentle feet 
 Lightly dance to music sweet. 
 Ah ! take care. 
 
 ii. 
 She has little snowy hands, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 Like white lilies twin'd in bands. 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 When she strikes her light kitar, 
 See them glitter like a star ; 
 Feel them too, like roses, soft, 
 Kiss them — if she'll let you— oft. 
 
 Ah ! take care. 
 
 in. 
 
 She has ringlets richly brown, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 Lovelier than a jewell'd crown. 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 You are lost- if once you press 
 To your lips one silken tress ; 
 They are nets of love that hold, 
 By some magic, young and old. 
 Ah ! take care. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She has temples fair and white, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 Like the crescent moon at night. 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 And a beauteous heaving breast, 
 With two rosy buds impress'd ; 
 They are there, I know, but she 
 Veils them up most cunningly. 
 Ah ! take care. 
 
EARLY MORNING. 2 1 
 
 V. 
 
 She has roses in her mouth, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 Sweeter than the fragrant South. 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 If you see her crimson lip, 
 Ten to one you'll long to sip ; 
 But so guarded is the fruit, 
 You must snatch, or lose your suit. 
 
 Ah ! take care. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She is witty, young, and wild, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 Playful, like a little child. 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 Beauty, goodness, wit, combine 
 To make little Poll divine ; 
 Never fairer form enshrin'd 
 A more sweet or playful mind. 
 
 Ah ! take care. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When she sings, and when she speaks, 
 
 Take care, take care ; 
 When she plays her pretty freaks, 
 
 Ah ! Sir, beware ! 
 In a trice you'll find your heart 
 From its lawful owner part, 
 And the beauteous little dame 
 Say 'tis hers by lawful claim. 
 
 Ah I take care. 
 
 Stufctttt. 
 A pretty song — a pretty maid — a morn 
 All beauty, and a sky all sunny-hued, 
 Are things so rarely meeting, that I must 
 Entreat a kiss to make it quite Elysium. 
 
22 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 You may entreat, Sir Minstrel, till you're tired, 
 But, trust me, you shall fail. 
 
 StttUent 
 
 Nay, do not pout 
 So charmingly with those sweet scarlet lips, 
 Rivalling roses in their perfumed blush, 
 And warbling sweetlier than the speckled lark. 
 
 :Ptafemat&. 
 Go — kiss the Muses whom you worship, Sir ; 
 You shall not kiss me even in a dream. 
 
 ^ttttrent. 
 She's gone : I never saw a lovelier face, 
 Or whiter ancle as she steps along ; A 
 How trippingly she crosses o'er that stile. 
 Were I Anacreon I might wish myself 
 A cow; but not being Greek, I'm satisfied 
 To be a German still. By Zeus ! she looks 
 So roguishly behind that I shall follow. 
 This is a very pantomimic change 
 From grave to gay ; but such is life. She smiles 
 Again — ah ! blue eyes. I am coming quick ; — 
 Nay, though you ran as fast as Atalanta, 
 I have a golden spell will stay your flight. 
 
 Three Destinies. 
 jFtrst Besttng, 
 From the cloud-caverns, where we dwell ; from Night's 
 Dun palaces in Hades, shadowy, vast, 
 And boundless, we float hither on the blast 
 Of Eurus, on unwelcome mission bent ; 
 
 The hour is come — the blissful Past is past ; 
 A voice like mighty ocean's has gone forth 
 
 And called the spirit-ones 
 From Heaven, from Hades, and from trembling Earth. 
 
EARLY MORNING. 23 
 
 &eront) Besting. 
 Lo ! where young Mercury, like a sunbeam lights 
 Upon the radiant hills, Olympus -sent, 
 His crystal-gleaming plumes on head and heel 
 Plashing new lustre o'er the face of dawn ; — 
 
 They live — Napsean- haunted wood and lawn; 
 They live with life enchanted ; hill and stream 
 
 Send forth their gods 
 That long lay hushed in rosy-breathing dream. 
 
 &J)irtr IStztinv. 
 And from the million-peopled firmament 
 
 Of j°y and splendour leap young Nymph and Faun, 
 Satyr and Msenad, Angel flowery-crowned, 
 Shining with rays that dim the diamond stars ; 
 
 A thousand elves in airy circles wheel, 
 Spirits of light and shade, careering round, 
 
 As morn her aureate gates 
 Of sunshine wide to smiling worlds unbars. 
 
 jFtfSt Besting. 
 See — in mists the Arch-Denier, 
 With his hideous mocking sprites : 
 
 SeconU Besting. 
 Heaven-eyed Poesy in rainbows 
 Flashing forth unnumbered lights : 
 
 &i)tr& Besting. 
 Dark-winged Death, the loveliest virgin 
 
 Whose touch breathes ambrosial sleep, 
 And her nymphal train of beauty 
 
 Slowly down through aether sweep. 
 
 Stye ftfjree. 
 All are here from Heaven and Hades, 
 
 All are here with hopes and terrors ; 
 Some exulting — some lamenting 
 
 O'er the dying mortal's errors. 
 
•J4 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 JFtrat testing. 
 The sevenfold veils that wrap the Future burst 
 Away, the coming hour stands out in glory ; 
 Unto mine eye alone shines forth the story 
 Of him whom now the Old Arch Foe accurst 
 Comes from his hells with blood of millions gory, 
 And gorged like fierce hyena of the wild, 
 To bear away. — The flattering hopes he nursed 
 So long — so ruthlessly, shall fade — shall fall 
 Like the card palaces of some wayward child. 
 What ! wouldst thou plunge him in thy fiendish thrall ? 
 Does hot Revenge — fell Hate thus spur thee on ? 
 Thou see'st his life — thou read'st the past and gone. 
 The spirits, in whose light and by whose side 
 He should have walked, resigned him — did they well ? 
 Resistance, not base flight, becomes the guide 
 Who should have braved thy power and banded Hell. 
 
 But yet 
 
 A peal of thunder. 
 
 Voitt from afcobe. 
 Rash Destiny, forbear ; 
 The Future stands revealed to thee alone, — 
 
 Forbear ! — 
 The Sons of Heaven — the powerful Prince of Air 
 
 Unto their eyes must not be shewn 
 Until the destined hour the secrets thou hast known. 
 Forbear ! rash Destiny, forbear ! 
 
WEIMAR. 25 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 WEIMAR. 
 
 An open Place in front of Goethe's House at Weimar. — 
 Hermes and Mephistopheles, entering from opposite 
 • sides, meet. 
 
 Good morrow, Squire : I really feel delighted 
 To see your Highness look so devilish well. 
 
 W r hat brings you hither ? Do you come invited 
 By the Grand Duke, with latest news from Hell? 
 
 J^UpStstopgeles. 
 
 Ah, my dear younker, of immortal Maia, 
 
 Pm very glad to take you by the hand : 
 You look as merry as the fair Aglaia 
 
 When capering zoneless on the silver sand. 
 I really envy you your snowy feathers, 
 
 They're so much better than the cloven hoof: 
 In this the coldest of all cold March weathers, 
 
 You're rather early from your father's roof. 
 
 Vermes. 
 I've come to take some souls to your dominions, 
 For which I'll scarcely get their thanks, I fear. 
 
 J^tfpJnstopJjeles. 
 Hooh — pooh ! what care you for their foul opinions ? 
 
 Vermes. 
 Not much, perhaps. — But, coz, what brings you here ? 
 
 J$t*p!)fstopf)eU8. 
 To make a morning call on an old sinner 
 
 Who lives close by — a cherished friend of mine ; 
 Native of that free town whose Jews grow thinner, 
 
 As years pass on, through holy hate of swine : 
 
26 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 When I've despatched him, you and I'll have dinner 
 At the old place, so famous for old wine. 
 
 I've asked the noted English atheist, Toland 
 (The ape's grimace is sure to make us laugh) ; 
 
 Home Tooke and Wilkes are coming — 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 Nay, Sir Voland, 
 Why do you patronise such vile riff-raff? 
 You, who can have lords, bishops, brahmins, kings, 
 
 Moguls, and muftis, princes, popes, and caliphs, 
 Ought not to waste your hours on such vile things 
 As these ; I'd rather dine with dogs or bailiffs — 
 Or, worse than all, a Middle-Temple Bencher, 
 That synonyme for swindler, beast, and wencher. 
 
 J^epfn'stopfjeles. 
 I'faith, you're right — but come. 
 
 And get as tipsy 
 As you and I've so often done before. — 
 
 Jj^pfjtstopfjeles. 
 No matter — there is such a little gipsy 
 
 To wait on us, as Venus was of yore, 
 Ere she went common on that star-bright mountain, 
 
 Olympus called, and mixed with gods and men : 
 Making one think of some ambrosial fountain 
 
 Rising in heaven, and ending — in a fen. 
 
 Come, cousin, gently — Venus is my sister. 
 
 Jttepfn'stopfjdes, 
 I know it well, my cousin ; and I know 
 
 That was the reason, doubtless, why you kissed her, 
 And got that heavenly baby long ago, 
 
 Hermaphroditus. 
 
v EI MAR. 3 
 
 Vermes. 
 Nay, no further scandals. 
 
 I supped last night with some demure old maids, 
 Who vowed, as I was taking off their sandals, 
 
 That all their sex were most confounded jades. 
 You may be sure they didn't spare the goddesses ; 
 
 They mauled your mother Maia black and blue ; 
 They said that women should be cased in bodices 
 
 Laced tightly from the bosom to the shoe ; 
 And as to men, they swore they all were rascals, 
 
 Deceivers, liars, dandies, drunkards, beasts — 
 I've not enjoyed myself so much since Pascal's 
 
 Delicious letters about nuns and priests. 
 
 I wonder what you find in such society, 
 So stale, so mouldy, and so sour, to please ; 
 
 For my part, of the sex I've had satiety, 
 
 And shun them as I would the Scotch disease. 
 
 I scarcely know, except it be variety, 
 
 And that is something in dull times like these ; 
 I also like the sickening cant of piety 
 
 With which they sprinkle o'er their cups of teas. 
 Old maids and tom-cats ! — did you ever fancy 
 
 That I, the wildest of our seraph race, 
 
 Should seek amusement in a source so base ? 
 But so it is* — Oh ! days of necromancy, 
 Astrology, crusades, and revolutions, 
 
 New Popish plots, ghosts, witches, saints in pickle, 
 Long parliaments, quick trials, executions — 
 
 Would ye were come again our nerves to tickle ! 
 What with the novels I've been lately reading, 
 
 The poems that have so confused my brains, 
 
28 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 I feel a nausea like a woman breeding, 
 And think my sufferings greater far than Cain's. 
 
 I wish I were an ass, or goose, or noddy, 
 Or any very stupid bird or beast, 
 
 Exempt from mind or thought, with only body 
 To care for, and to sleep, and leap, and feast. 
 
 Vermes. 
 A very noble wish, my dearest devil ; 
 I hope you'll get it some auspicious day. 
 
 fftepfnstopfjeles. 
 Amen ! But now, to have a half hour's revel 
 
 Here with a piece of crumbling human clay, 
 Yclept a Poet — one whose trade was lying, 
 
 Buffooning, sneaking, blasphemy, and cant, 
 Us and our Satan-system falsifying, 
 
 And covering many thousand sheets with rant ; 
 I marked him from the time he said he'd rather 
 
 Be bastard to some lord of high degree, 
 Than sprung from any honest humble father, 
 
 Or modest mother, sans a family tree ; 
 I reared him, schooled him, as a cherished darling 
 
 Destined for me and mine, and taught his mind 
 The merest trash, as one might teach a starling, 
 
 The tree will shoot as the young twig's inclined. 
 He grew a sycophant of starveling princes, — 
 
 A mere bread-scholar, working but for self, 
 Whose whole career, from birth to death, evinces 
 
 But a he-prostitute's for place and pelf. 
 
 Vermes, 
 His name? 
 
 jlftepfjtstopSeleg. 
 
 Jack Wolfgang Goethe. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 The old rhymer? 
 
WEIMAR. 29 
 
 fftepfjtstopljeUs. 
 The very lad that I've come here to grab. 
 
 f^erwrs. 
 The veriest charlatan that lives in Weimar, 
 
 Worse than that ancient humbug, good Queen Mab. 
 A kreuzer to a flask of bright Hochheimer 
 
 We'll find him prating of some worthless drab. 
 
 iHepfn'stopfjelea. 
 Why, Hermes, bless me ! you too seem to know him. 
 
 Hermes. 
 
 I think I should, for I'm the God of Quacks. 
 I gave him some assistance in that poem 
 Which so delighted all the Jills and Jacks, 
 
 fftepfjfetopfjeles. 
 You mean the Faust. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 I do. 
 
 fHrpijtstopJjdes. 
 
 Ah, scamp and schemer ! 
 
 Mark how he libelled me his earliest friend, 
 Making me duped by such a wretched dreamer 
 
 As Faust, whom, by the bye, we've safely penn'd 
 In one of Hell's hot nooks. But what assistance 
 
 Could he receive from you ? 
 
 S?enrtes. 
 
 How can you ask 
 Such a fool's query ? Were there any distance 
 
 Between us I'd suppose it was a mask, 
 Not Mephistopheles who put that question 
 
 To me, the God of Eloquence and Thieves. 
 Pray, how could bards find food for their digestion, 
 Did they not feed upon each other's leaves, 
 
30 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 As silk-worms do ? they are the paltriest robbers 
 
 That ever plundered on this blackguard globe ; 
 They cheat each other like the worst stockjobbers ; 
 
 Ask Harlow, Shakspere, Calderon, and Job, 
 How this old scribbler plagiarised their verses, 
 
 And then ask me how oft he begged my aid 
 (For which these bards have stifled me with curses), 
 
 Their thoughts divine to dress in masquerade, 
 And palm them on the world for his own notions : 
 
 Thus he made cash and fame by what he stole. 
 
 i^tepjtstopijeles. 
 Indeed, I fear it is for such devotions 
 
 Of his to you that Fm to nab his soul. 
 A paltry prize, God wot — scarce worth the having ; 
 
 Certainly not worth journeying for it here : 
 I don't believe that for the sake of saving 
 
 Ten billion such Pd shed a single tear. 
 
 Vermes. 
 I've come on the same errand ; but my duty 
 
 Is to release the spirit from its cell : 
 Which done, we'll gang together with the booty, 
 
 If you'll permit, the shortest way to Hell. 
 
 i^tcp^tstop^eles. 
 
 With all my heart — 'twill give me special pleasure 
 To have your company upon the road ; 
 
 Conducting such a precious priceless treasure 
 As the Old Sneerer to his last abode. 
 
 I fear he'll make a very sorry figure 
 Before the Court below. 
 
 I think so too : 
 And when he's judged, you'll roast his soul with rigour 
 For slandering such a sovereign lord as you. 
 
WEIMAR. 31 
 
 fHcpIjtstopijdes. 
 
 Leave liira to me ; I'll teach him to write slander 
 About my compacts with such fools as Faust. 
 
 He makes your Highness but a kind of pander. 
 
 My imps shall have him for a holocaust. 
 
 What — dare to libel me and my enjoyments, 
 Make me with Pluto's lowest mobs be classed, 
 
 Give me a thousand mean and vile employments, 
 And to be swindled of my own at last ! 
 Faustus himself shall see his poet roasted 
 
 As some revenge for such audacious lies. 
 Nay, he shall baste him ; when he's nicely toasted 
 
 The Witch can feed her cat-apes on flesh pies. 
 But we've delayed too long — suppose we enter 
 
 And take our station by the bard's bedside. 
 
 Vermes, 
 Most willingly — lead on, right reverend Mentor; 
 
 To a damned soul I know no better guide. 
 But softly — softly — who comes floating hither 
 
 With gentle heavenly eyes and wings of light ? 
 
 fHrpfjtstopfjeUs. 
 Death, by the Lard ! I feel my marrow wither 
 
 Within me when that Spirit comes in sight. 
 Let us be off — I hate to look upon her. 
 
 formes. 
 
 Immortal beauty shrouds her silent course. 
 
 fHep!jtstop!jeIes. 
 
 Come, coz, I will not wait, upon my honour : 
 Away ! or I will drag you off by force. 
 
32 A MEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 dream-like 5 shadowy Spirit sent by Heaven ! — 
 
 fftep^tstopfjelea, 
 Hermes, don't talk and look so like a fool. 
 
 See, the town-clock is hastening to eleven, 
 And the day's growing cooler and more cool : 
 
 'Tis almost time that I should grab this minister. 
 I'm very glad that Lady Death is come ; 
 
 1 hope no accident or bother sinister 
 
 Will interrupt our pleasant journey home. 
 
 They enter the house. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 THE SKY. 
 
 Flight of the Guardian Angel. The Farewell Song. 
 
 Oh ! and alas for thee ! spirit of splendour, 
 
 Born in bright heaven, but fashioned to woe ; 
 Long have I watched thee with fondness as tender 
 
 As only the hearts of young mothers can know. 
 Long, from the first placid hour of thy springing 
 
 On earth, like an innocent flower in its bloom, 
 Till now when the cold hand of destiny's bringing 
 
 The mist that shall wrap thee for ever in gloom. 
 
 Clear shone the stars on their thrones, and serenely 
 
 Silence smiled o'er the calm brows of the skies ; 
 When, as I watched, came a Presence most queenly 
 
 Borne on swift lightnings, and bade me, Arise ! 
 This was thy Genius, and thus was I chosen 
 
 Even in that hour thine own angel to be ; 
 Whiter than dew in the winter flowers frozen 
 
 Was thy young soul when 'twas yielded to me. 
 
 Gently I stood by thee, guarding thy childhood, 
 Filling thy new life with sweetness and love, 
 
THE SKY. 33 
 
 Till, like a lark's happy songs in the wild wood, 
 Rose thy glad thoughts to thy first home above. 
 
 Fountains of crystal through valleys descending 
 Were not so pure as thy spirit was then ; 
 
 Like the bright rainbow with earth and sky blending. 
 Seemed thy clear heart ere its mixture with men. 
 
 Then came a change o'er thee, — all that was vernal 
 
 Faded, and wasted, and withered away, 
 Even as young Paradise, when the Eternal 
 
 Spake, and it vanished, and all was decay, — 
 Gone were the flowers which the angels had planted, 
 
 Gone the fair sunshine that lightened the scene ; 
 Silent the music that once had enchanted, 
 
 Silent as though its voice never had been. 
 
 Crowds came around thee, the vile and base-hearted, 
 
 Luring, and lying, and leading aside ; 
 Strong was the conflict, and tears often started 
 
 Hot from thine eyes, but were lost in thy pride. 
 Oh, that the world should corrupt the undying 
 
 And seraph-taught spirit of beautiful youth ! 
 Spoiling its heavenly lustre, nor sighing 
 
 O'er the sad wreck of faith, virtue, and truth. 
 
 There, where the Virtues had made them a palace, 
 
 Golden and virgin, and grand and divine, 
 In rushed the Passions, — and each bore a chalice 
 
 Brimming with poisons that tempted like wine : 
 Till that chaste soul, which I fondled and tended 
 
 Truly and faithfully, faltered and failed, 
 Spurning the counsels I gave it ; and bended 
 
 Down in the dust to the foes that assailed. 
 
 Sadly I wept, and would still fain awaken 
 
 Visions within thee, aspirings sublime ; 
 Still would I tempt thee to pathways forsaken, 
 
 Pointing to heights where thy spirit should climb ; 
 
 D 
 
•34 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Even while I soared on the wings of the morning, 
 Through those star-realms where the seraphim reign, 
 
 Hopes would allure, and would paint thee yet scorning 
 Vice and the World and the Flesh with disdain. 
 
 Round thee, unseen by thee, like sunshine o'er thee, 
 
 Morning and night saw me fixed by thy side ; 
 All the winged splendours of thought that before thee 
 
 Burst like a heaven were the gifts of thy guide. 
 Spirits I brought to thee, Visions and Dreamings, 
 
 Voices of angels, to win thee once more ; 
 But the dark Idols of Earth whose false seemings 
 
 Charmed thee, were all that thy soul would adore. 
 
 Oh ! and alas for thee ! deep was thine error, 
 
 Fatal the change to the False from the True, 
 Ever since then the thick darkness of Terror, 
 
 Known to the fallen ones, still round thee grew. 
 Manhood confessed it — Old Age shrank in sadness, 
 
 Awed by the prospect of death and the grave ; 
 Now, when thou'rt dying, and owning thy madness, 
 
 Gladly I'd claim thee, and gladly I'd save. 
 
 But the great voice of The One hath forbidden ; 
 
 / must away, and thou too must depart 
 Ere a short hour, and the secret that's hidden 
 
 Deep in the skies shall illumine thine heart. 
 Oh ! and alas for thee — exiled for ever, 
 
 Some ray of happiness still o'er thee dwell : 
 I, thy true angel, still love thee, and never 
 
 Came from my heart more despairing farewell. 
 
 CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS IN THE AIR, 
 
 16 — 
 
 The destined hour, 
 When he who baffled still the demon-power 
 
THE SKY. 35 
 
 Of earth and fire and cloud, 
 The thunder-folded Passions of black Hell, 
 To whose high will he bowed 
 The seraph-soul within, 
 
 In sin — 
 Lowly as bowed the mother of mankind 
 Before the Eternal Foe, 
 Her primal tempter and our sovereign lord, 
 Shall pass away 
 Ere dies advancing day. 
 Dim and dark tokens in the sky foretell 
 
 The hour of gloom : 
 The trembling beam, the gently-moaning wind, 
 The cold white eyes of heaven on earth inclined, 
 The shadows of a newly-yawning tomb, 
 The hurried flight of spirits to and fro, 
 The rainbow melting into dream-like snow, 
 The sad and solemn musfc of the spheres, 
 The muttering thunder's distant, dismal boom, 
 The mountains wreathed in azure mists of tears ; 
 The airs that sigh o'er forest, stream, and sward, 
 The clouds that shed quick drops of rain and flame, 
 
 Proclaim 
 The fall of one of Adam's race abhorred. 
 
 16 — 
 
 As falls 
 
 An orb of light 
 
 From heaven, to sink in never-ending night ; 
 
 So sinks a destined human soul 
 
 Ere it attains the fair celestial goal 
 
 That shines aloft on Truth's sun-flashing site : 
 
 While we, 
 Children whilom of God, but fire-condemned, 
 Exiled from heaven, for Adam's race contemned, 
 
 Tossing in space's drear immensity ; 
 Cursing the hand relentless that enthrals 
 
36 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 In floods of flame, reproach, hate, torment, terror, 
 Spirits that yielded to but one wild error, 
 
 Catch with infuriate glee 
 The headlong children of the earth, whom He, 
 Baffled in his revenge on us, is fated 
 
 Still to behold fierce rebels to his reign, 
 Till, hot with rage at mortals thus created, 
 Into our realms of pain 
 He hurls them with disdain, 
 And hate that preys on his own heart unsated. 
 Io — He made them with his own pure hands 
 To stand around his throne 
 
 Where once we stood alone 
 
 He made them for himself— they serve our hostile bands. 
 
 K — 
 
 The wild-eyed charioteers whom men call Hours 
 Have brought the moment hither, when the mortal 
 
 Shakes off the chain of life to put on ours, 
 Who wait around to form his gay escortal 
 Down to the gloomy Kings of Sense and Sloth, 
 To whom he bound his spirit by an oath, 
 
 Silent, strong, self-imposed, that never breaketh $ 
 He who serves them on earth must serve them there 
 
 Where starlight gleams not, morning ne'er awaketh ; 
 But all is silence, darkness, arid, bare, 
 Perpetual self-reproach, contempt, remorse, despair. 
 
 lb — 
 
 Behold from earth an awful Shadow rises 
 Gloomy and terrible, like a giant fire 
 From flame-exhaling marshes ; night enshrouds him ; 
 Despair is on his brow — he shrieks in madness 
 
 As one might shriek chained on a blazing pyre, 
 From whose terrific serpent-coiling bite 
 He sees no hope of flight ; 
 
THE SKY. 37 
 
 Gone at that sound of spirit-rending sadness, 
 Whose tone a world of speechless grief comprises, 
 Is the dun mist — no longer darkness clouds him. 
 16 — 
 It is the Daimon of the Man who dies 
 The exiled heir of yon ambrosial skies. 
 16 — 16 — 16 — 
 He shrieks again 
 That scream of deep unutterable pain ; 
 Like a blind Cyclops, see — he writhes — he reels ; 
 His sense already feels 
 The brazen, hissing chain 
 That eats into the life, and poisons every vein. 
 
 And there are pale and weeping Apparitions, 
 
 Some beautiful, and some of heavenly hues, 
 Who came to him in waking dreams and visions, 
 Tempting him in the form of Nymph and Muse 
 To paths of love ; but yet he would not listen 
 To their enchanting voices ; — now they fly 
 Away in woe ; their eyes and features glisten 
 With saddest tears — nor dare they see him die. 
 16 — 
 He served but us alone — to us he gave 
 His spirit as a slave ; 
 
 We come, 
 Each from his chasmal home, 
 To follow our good servant to the grave, 
 And bear his spirit hence in triumph loud and brave. 
 
 16 — 
 The ghastly Phantoms of his sins appear ; 
 Youth, Manhood, Dotage — these are they with wings 
 Of harpy, tongues of stench, and fire, and stings, 
 To pierce him through and through for evil done 
 
 And good omitted in his long career ; 
 Angels they seem to man until his race 
 On earth is run : 
 
38 
 
 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 With syren songs they lure him on and on, 
 Making him blind to his most dire disgrace, 
 Nursing him with rich dainties, pride and pleasure, 
 For which he stakes his soul's eternal treasure : 
 
 While we look on and laugh, nor ever stay 
 The harpies in their way ; 
 Even as He does who made this hapless one : 
 Man is not ours, nor do we owe him 
 
 Aught but revenge, fraud, perfidy, and hate ; 
 Why did not He who formed endow him 
 With strength to raise above his grovelling fate ? 
 
 16 — 
 
 Scene V. 
 THE BEDROOM. 
 
 Mephistopheles and Hermes, Goethe lying in Bed; Busts, 
 Statues, and Pictures all around. 
 
 (&Qtfyt (very faintly). 
 My life is waning 
 
 Away like a fading lamp ; 
 My feet are straining 
 
 Away to the charnel damp : 
 In the clouds of the slumber 
 
 That never knows waking hour ; 
 In the thoughts that o'ershadow 
 
 The soul with their mystic power 
 In the star-illumined mists 
 
 That memory draws from my soul ; 
 In the fires of the hot Simoom 
 
 Of Sin that round me roll ; 
 In the gloom that enclasps my Spirit 
 
 As it dreams of bright chances lost ; 
 In the w r ide and moonless Ocean 
 
 Of doubt where my sense is tost ; 
 
THE BEDROOM. 30 
 
 In the slough of regrets and sorrows 
 
 I sink, while the fiend Remorse 
 Asks, what shall I be when to-morrow's 
 
 Bright Sun shines over my corse? — 
 I care not — I fear not — but blest shall be 
 The stroke that my weary soul sets free : 
 I fear not — I care not — the all I ask 
 Is quittance for ever from Life's dull masque. 
 Free, and free as the eagle 
 
 That soars through the silver air ; 
 Free, and free as the lion, 
 
 Sole lord in his forest lair ; 
 Or the Ocean that owns no chain ; 
 Or the Sun in his wide domain ; 
 Or the Winds that rush from their cloudy caves, 
 And trample the giant oaks like slaves ; 
 My soul, life- weary, 
 
 Pants for unbounded space, 
 And loathes this dreary 
 
 And viperish dwelling-place, 
 And the poison-hearted snake that Iks 
 Hidden in human lips and eyes. 
 
 For Life is a hideous folly, 
 
 A harlot with painted smile, 
 And madness and melancholy 
 
 She shoots through the soul the while 
 In her baleful arms we dream, 
 And drink the venomous stream 
 Of her kisses and loathsome breath. 
 O Fools ! to shun the sweet angel, Death, 
 Who with calm and winning eyes 
 Courts us to yonder skies. 
 Come hither, come hither, and crown my cup 
 With the grape's red blood till it sparkles up ; 
 Come hither, come hither, and crown it still, 
 My soul draws life from the rosy rill. 
 
40 
 
 ^ u A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scorpions lurk in that heart of thine, 
 But none there be in this foaming wine. 
 
 Let me drown sadness. 
 
 Here's to thee, Death ! sweet friend ; 
 
 Come, like a gladness, 
 
 Come and fulfil the end. 
 
 Wrap me up in thy snowy shroud, 
 
 Binding me round like a gentle cloud. 
 
 Sinks back exhausted. 
 
 fftepfjfstopfjcUs. 
 'Tis rather funny to see these mortals 
 
 Dying and breathing out their last t 
 Whenever they come to the Grave's dark portals, 
 
 They give such a terrible kick to the Past. 
 To hear their prate when the knaves are gasping, 
 
 How full of contempt for the things of earth : 
 Yet all the while you can see them grasping 
 
 Hard to stick in their fleshly berth. 
 White-livered fools ! — I have watched them dying, 
 
 And heard them swear they were so resigned : 
 Yet the varlets knew they were foully lying, 
 
 And would have lived still — had they had but wind. 
 
 Vermes. 
 I never heard truth more truly spoken. 
 
 JHepfjtstopijeta, 
 Why, how could you think that I'd mistake ? 
 These lies would long since my heart have broken ; 
 But, alas ! — I had no heart to break. 
 
 StpitiU 
 Bring the Past hither, 
 Its joys and its splendours, 
 Its woes and its sorrows, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 41 
 
 Its thin mocking phantoms — 
 Before him and round him 
 I see them — the shadows 
 Of rainbows and tempests, 
 Black hell and bright heaven. 
 The lightnings, the Passions ; 
 The star-beams, the Virtues ; 
 The angels and daimons, 
 The gnomes and pure seraphs, 
 The fear-breathing spectres 
 Are near — 
 
 Commingling and sighing, 
 And laughing and grinning, 
 And scoffing and shouting ; 
 
 O O 7 
 
 An atmosphere flashing 
 The darkness of terror 
 Enwraps them, enfolds them, 
 Sustains them and holds them — 
 They are here. 
 
 We are here. 
 
 j^UpfustopJjeles. 
 What laughter ! what bother ! 
 They wrangle and jostle ; 
 They're scratching and screeching : 
 The cat- apes and witches, 
 The angels and seraphs, 
 Are fearfully mingled : 
 Fate grant that they quarrel 
 And tear, one another. 
 
 Spirit. 
 The bright shapes of childhood, 
 With sweet eyes and voices ; 
 The haggard and wrinkled, 
 And stench-breathing harpies ; 
 
42 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Foul Vices embodied 
 
 Of Gluttony, Hatred, 
 
 And Malice, and Lying, 
 
 And Avarice scrambling 
 
 With goat-footed Lust : 
 
 And Genius lamenting, 
 
 And Childhood's white seraphs 
 
 Their eyes beaming heaven, 
 
 Their brows girt with star-beams, 
 
 Wrapped close in their mantles 
 
 Of mourning and sorrow^ ; 
 
 A soul made of splendour 
 
 Thus trampled to dust — 
 
 I see them— I see them — 
 
 In darkness and lightnings, 
 
 In black mists and azure, 
 
 In soft gleams of sunlight, 
 
 Sweet music, fierce bowlings, 
 
 Wild sorrow, hoarse laughter ; 
 
 Two angels are weeping, 
 
 Like fair statues keeping 
 
 Watch o'er a soul sleeping 
 
 The sleep of the Just. 
 
 We are here — we are here. 
 
 We know r it — we see it. 
 O charming young monkeys, 
 And Venus-tail' d witches, 
 And ape-faced old beldams, 
 And cat-hearted hell-dams, — 
 My exquisite children, 
 Bow down to your Master — 
 
 Fotrea. 
 Sir Voland 
 
THE BEDROOM. 43 
 
 ftfepfjtstopijrUs. 
 Of No-land. 
 
 From Styx I've come faster 
 Than ever before for these ten years or more. 
 Good welcome, glad welcome, 
 To all that from hell come. 
 
 formes. 
 Soft ! — he awakes— the swoon hath passed away. 
 
 O ye bright moments of my earliest days, 
 
 How vividly methinks I feel ye now ! 
 
 How full of life the fair and happy Past 
 
 Rises from the deep ocean of my soul, 
 
 Roseate in beauty, freshness, youth, and hope ! 
 
 Fair Frankfort, city of my childhood, dearer 
 
 To me than all the world beside — thy streets 
 
 Of ever-lively bustle — thy broad Zeile 
 
 Thronged with shrewd dealers skilled in gems of rare 
 
 And matchless beauty, and thine antique towers, 
 
 The Saalhoff, Rbmer, and the Virgin's Church, 
 
 The bright and boat-thronged Mayn, the arching bridge 
 
 Whose sacred Cross so glitters in the sunshine, 
 
 The many massive forts and frowning gates 
 
 That gird thee in, the belt of flower-bright gardens 
 
 That stretch beyond and round thee ; the green trees, 
 
 Linden and poplar, in whose cooling shade 
 
 So oft I've gambolled like a happy bird ; — 
 
 Lo ! how they pass before my eyes, those old 
 
 And well-remembered pictures of delight, 
 
 Freshly as if Pd seen them yesterday. 
 
 The garden- room of strange and delicate plants, 
 
 And the large windows, through whose opened panes 
 
 The sun poured in a rich and luminous flood, 
 
 Instinct with life and strength, ripening the buds, 
 
 Until they burst in fragrant splendour forth ; — 
 
44 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Here would I sit, a wild yet thoughtful Boy, 
 
 Gazing beyond the City's walls and ramparts 
 
 Over the picture-like and fertile plain 
 
 That leads to Hochst, and here with book in hand 
 
 I meditated o'er the historic past, 
 
 Or thought upon the future, painting life 
 
 In hope's bewitching colours ; here I watched 
 
 The thunder-storms rush down from the far hills, 
 
 And looked enraptured on the setting sun 
 
 That made the western clouds to fancy seem 
 
 A mass of diamond palaces, a world 
 
 Of faerie structures, and of magical beauty, 
 
 Built for the gods alone. 
 
 O wandering Shapes, 
 That rise in star-shine and in melody round me, 
 Beckoning me on with fond and beaming eyes, 
 Whence have ye come, and whither do ye wend? 
 Pale and most spirit-white your features seem, 
 Like lilies in the moonlight bathed in dew. 
 Whence are these exquisite voices ? Whence the hymns 
 Of sad celestial sweetness that ye raise? 
 Who strikes that harp with silver strings so gently ? 
 Whose the sweet breath that courses through this flute 
 Of ivory? and whose the hand that draws 
 From this soft lute ambrosial harmonies ? 
 I feel an atmosphere of waving light, 
 Brighter than chrysolite more pure than flame, 
 Round me and in me ; rapidly ye rise, 
 Ye musical undulations born of fire, 
 That hath a soul within it and a sense. 
 Ye are as off-shoots from the Evening star, 
 Or as the lightnings that enwrap the steeds 
 Of rosy-breathing Morning — but the songs 
 Ye sing are of the saddest, mournfullest strain 
 That ever fell like sorrow on the ear. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 45 
 
 <&i)0ru8 Of xlltgeltC Spirits {vanishing slowly). 
 
 Spirit of splendour, 
 
 Linked to corruption ; 
 
 Star-bright, enshrouded 
 
 Deeply in darkness ; 
 
 Spirit immortal, 
 
 Sphered in the garments 
 
 Woven of earth ; 
 
 Anxious and weary one, 
 
 Year-stricken, hoary one, 
 
 Even now flinging 
 
 From thee thy cerements, 
 
 Spite of endearments 
 
 Painfully winging 
 
 Away from the torment 
 
 Of life and of being, 
 
 That cling round Eve's offspring 
 
 From the sad birth. 
 
 Lo ! — from the portal, 
 
 Pure and star-shining, 
 Where the Eternal 
 
 Children of Heaven 
 
 Ever inclining 
 
 To the Supernal, 
 
 Joyously render 
 
 Hymns of thanksgiving ; 
 
 We, the bright, living 
 
 Angels selected 
 
 To guard thee and guide thee, 
 
 And wander beside thee, 
 
 Through life and its terrors, 
 
 Its falsehoods, its errors, 
 
 Its vices, its horrors, 
 
 Hither have flown 
 
 Sadly and sadly, 
 
 To see thee once more 
 
46 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Ere the soul shall depart 
 
 And the struggle be o'er. 
 
 Fare thee well, fare thee well, 
 
 Weary one, weary one. 
 
 Soul of the minstrel, 
 
 Like the eruption 
 
 Bursting from Hecla, 
 
 In flame and in power, 
 
 When its caverns are riven, 
 
 Like crystal, asunder, 
 
 With fire and with thunder, 
 
 While clouds darkly lour, 
 
 O'er its fierce, foaming chasm : 
 
 Even such be the hour 
 
 Of the final death-spasm 
 
 That frees thee from life, 
 
 For the combat and strife 
 
 With the cohort of Hell 
 
 That keep guard round thy bed, — 
 
 Fare thee well, fare thee well. 
 
 Zounds ! I never heard such music, 
 It would make Mozart the Jew sick, 
 It has dosed myself completely ; 
 Hollo ! hollo ! bring a basin, 
 Not indeed to cleanse my face in, 
 But to , guess — a feat unsvveetly. 
 
 Fences. 
 They are vanished — they are banished. 
 
 Fot'tes. 
 Dis be thanked ! they're gone at last. 
 Who comes hither on her dragons ? 
 
 'Tis Witch Conscience, fast and fast ; 
 
THE BEDROOM. 47 
 
 Shaking fierce her long grey hairs, 
 Rolling wide her black bright eyes. 
 
 #Up!)t'stopi)eIes. 
 Gad ! she looks intensely savage. 
 Now for a long curtain lecture. 
 Ma'am, I humbly kiss your slippers. 
 Have you come to take farewell 
 Of this ancient courtier here, 
 Now departing straight for Hell, 
 Which he looked to many a year ? 
 
 WLittt) Conscience. 
 And thou art dying — life and strength are gone, 
 Faded, as fade the hues of evening rainbows ; 
 And the glad thoughts in which thou didst indulge 
 Pass like sere autumn leaves ; no more for thee 
 The happy sunbeam smiles, nor on thine eyes 
 The starry lights that gild the arch of morn 
 Shall gleam, nor thy sweet, sorrowing look, moon ! 
 The haunted forest, the flower-sprinkled plains 
 Thou shalt not tread again^ nor look aloft 
 On the crystalline clouds that veil from sight 
 Of human eye the paradise- thrones of God. 
 
 Fours. 
 As the North Wind shakes the Ocean, 
 As an Earthquake shivers cities, 
 As an Avalanche, descending 
 From a heaven-defying mountain, 
 Crushes some reposing hamlet, 
 So a mighty flash of terror 
 Shakes and smites his quivering spirit. 
 
 gSiitcf) Conscience. 
 Hadst thou won empires, sullying fame and honour, 
 Thou wert a loser by that frantic game ; 
 
48 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Haclst thou gained earth, and lost thine own bright soul, 
 Satan would mock thee for a fool. Behold ! 
 Thy days are done, and what hast thou to shew 
 To the Eternal for the trust they gave thee? 
 
 How she sticks her serpent fangs 
 
 Through and through his harrowed heart ; — 
 
 Uot'tes. 
 As through some sly knave who hang?, 
 Their black talons vultures dart. 
 
 Vermes, 
 Her words are wild and sweet, like mermaid voices 
 Breathed o'er the silence of the Ocean-World. 
 
 S^aitcf) ©onsct'ence. 
 The soul, like some great chariot drawn by steeds 
 White-winged, celestial, of immortal flight, 
 To Heaven should still aspire. Has thine been such? 
 Hast thou put off the flesh, the sinful flesh, 
 Panting to soar aloft and wisely study 
 The mysteries sublime of Truth and God ? 
 Or, hast thou not consorted through thy days 
 With Hate and Falsehood, those sly imps of hell, 
 Anger and Pride, the children of Sir Mammon, 
 And Power and Wealth, whose jewelled cup held poison 
 That made thee blind or drunk, and wrapped in night 
 Truth's starry image shining o'er thy soul? 
 
 Jftep^tstopfjdes. 
 His long-drawn sighs are laughable methinks — 
 
 Vermes. 
 Broken and sad, like a despairing soul's 
 Low plainings at the Gates of Paradise. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 49 
 
 This old Witch is ten times fiercer 
 Than the Furies with their firebrands. 
 
 Voites. 
 How she pulls about the sick one, 
 Sparing not grey hairs, or sorrow. 
 
 WLitti) Qonztitntt. 
 White hairs are signs of age, and not of wisdom. 
 
 ;PUpi)fetopi)eIes. 
 
 And an old goat has more than Solomon ; 
 Should he be therefore wiser than the sage ? 
 
 Wiittf} ©onsctenrr. 
 Virtue was cradled in thy virgin soul ; 
 I look within, and see her not ; she's fled, 
 And fire-eyed serpents clamber round her seat. 
 There was a time ere she had ta'en her flight 
 I saw thee, knew thee, reverenced thee then ; 
 The Roman Csesars in their triumphings, 
 With monarchs harnessed to their haughty cars, 
 Ne'er looked so great or beautiful as thou, 
 Armed thus in honour, wisdom, truth, and good. 
 Wliy didst thou put thine heavenly segis off? 
 
 4ft*j>$fctop$*Tt8, 
 
 These are rather ugly questions ; 
 What on earth will Jacky answer? 
 
 O Life, warm life, I feel thee passing from me, 
 The spirits that are near, methinks are come 
 To bear me from this orb upon their wings 
 Far to some airy realm beyond the ken 
 Of human eye or fancy. Lo ! the gauds 
 
 E 
 
50 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And glittering mists that promised fair, and lied ; 
 
 The purple pageantry of life, the noise, 
 
 Excitement, folly, madness, pomp, and crime, 
 
 That form the world's existence, fade away, 
 
 For ever, into unsubstantial nothing, 
 
 Like thinnest smoke dissolved by mighty winds ; 
 
 And only this remains — a faint old man, 
 
 With wasted limbs, scant hair, and soulless eyes, 
 
 Trembling upon the giddy verge of death ; 
 
 Loathing the stage whereon he played a part, 
 
 Unfit for one who bore upon his soul 
 
 A heavenly impress of the true Divine. 
 
 Is it then come to this? — Is glory nothing? 
 
 Learning a straw ? — renown and power a rush 
 
 Thrown on Time's Ocean to be swallowed up, 
 
 And no man know its fate ? Pleasure and pride, 
 
 Ambition, splendour, wealth, and worshipping crowds, 
 
 The smiles of woman, the delights of sense, 
 
 Are they but fantasies and follies all ?- — 
 
 Mere exhalations of distempered dreams? 
 
 Unreal as hues from in any- coloured glass, 
 
 Painted and flattering — but false, most false ? 
 
 Man an ephemeron, that lives his day, 
 
 Eats, drinks, dies, rots, like his poor fellow worm ? 
 
 Now, by the Gods, I thought this world were true ; 
 
 I lived for it — I loved it — and I gave 
 
 My soul to its vile altar ; bowing low 
 
 Before a Golden Image framed in hell, 
 
 That tempted me, with many a luring charm, 
 
 From the True Beautiful that silently 
 
 Within me spake, and said, Be only mine ; 
 
 I am of God — yon idol is of Evil, 
 
 And courts thee only for thine own destruction. 
 
 But yet I would not — heart and soul were deaf 
 
 To all I heard ; and so I wandered on, 
 
 Deem hi g applause and power solid goods, 
 
 Not such poor trash as I now find they are, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 51 
 
 More worthless than the baubles of a babe. 
 Could I recall my youth, my strength, my days, 
 And walk into the Past of Life, once more 
 Schooled by experience of the paltry prize 
 For which man stakes eternity of being — 
 Alas, I rave, and dream what ne'er can be. 
 As well attempt to stay the flowing tides, 
 Chain up the furious winds, arrest the lightning, 
 Or stop the thunder-march of the lordly sun, 
 As bid our byegone days return and bide. 
 
 Is there a soul indeed within this frame ? 
 
 A burning particle of God's own nature? 
 
 Or is it fancy ? — are we but of earth, 
 
 Doomed for a space to breathe, eat, sleep, laugh, talk. 
 
 Play insect-gambols, and then die for ever, 
 
 Furnishing feasts of laughter for the Gods, 
 
 To whom we swear ourselves so near akin ? 
 
 Or are we heirs of yonder skies ; accursed 
 
 And exiled here for some disloyal deed 
 
 Done in the days of spirit-life, whereof 
 
 We in our fleshly robe have no remembrance ; 
 
 Yet fated once again (atonement made) 
 
 To reach our old hereditary homes ? 
 
 Or have we transmigrated from the forms 
 
 Of lowliest creatures, by some inward effort 
 
 Of nature ; of development from worm, 
 
 Fish, reptile, bird, ape, up to human being, 
 
 For so within the very womb of woman 
 
 The heart and brain we have, exhibit changes 
 
 Beginning at the least, and ending man ? 
 
 Prompted by. instinct to a higher order 
 
 Of animal life, but still without the fire 
 
 Within that links us with the star-bright race ? 
 
 What is this soul, if soul indeed there be ? 
 
 Or what is God, if God there be at all ? 
 
 Is that but one, which we call God and soul, 
 
o'2 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 A mixture of four elements, earth, fire, air, 
 
 And water, so combined and knit together 
 
 Into that union which we here call life, 
 
 And which, when Death disperses and resolves them 
 
 Into their simple unities, exist 
 
 Singly, as once they did ere thus conjoined ? 
 
 Thus are these elements the whole of all 
 
 We see exist of Man and God himself? 
 
 Thus are they too eternal, and the world, 
 
 With all its changes and vicissitudes, 
 
 Eternal likewise — but eternal matter 
 
 Unformed by soul or bright intelligence ? 
 
 Whate'er our destiny may be we know not ; 
 
 But yet, methinks His sad. A strain of music 
 
 Seems borne on mists of sunshine through my soul, 
 
 And million-peopled Dreams, or living Visions, 
 
 Crowd round me, full of life and active passion ; 
 
 And there are beauteous landscapes, and fair skies, 
 
 And genial meetings, and enchanted hours, 
 
 And tones of old and well-remembered songs, 
 
 And spirit-shapes bringing my life before me ; 
 
 And some are clad in beauty, such as crowned 
 
 The angels ere they fell from heaven through pride ; 
 
 And now methinks the lovely phantasm passes, 
 
 And all seems vacant, misty, undefined, 
 
 And dark as Chaos, ere reduced to form : 
 
 They move again — the light streams in — and now 
 
 A broken cloud of fire and darkness rises 
 
 Like the dun smoke of flaming hell ; I see 
 
 A myriad weird, and wondrous things of terror, 
 
 Such as wild Fancy ne'er could picture forth, 
 
 Save to the maniac's wandering eyes of fear, — 
 
 A tremulous purple light, a spectral mist 
 
 Of icy coldness withering o'er my soul, 
 
 Which shrinks within herself; a cold grey gleam, 
 
 Like the still eyes of wolfish Hate, seems round 
 
 My spirit's form, and drags it down and down. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 53 
 
 Away, away, sad phantoms! Hence, away. 
 
 Still, still they press upon my heart and brain ; 
 
 Methinks I sink amid a sea of groans, 
 
 And songs, and fire, and lightnings. Yon tall shape, 
 
 Like a star fallen and blasted — myriad voices, 
 
 Hissing and mocking — lo ! the living waves 
 
 Of spiritual life, some bright, some black, 
 
 The thunder peals a wild unearthly peal, 
 
 Reverberating ever, ever, and ever — 
 
 Avaunt, Erynnis, Fury, hag, avaunt ! 
 
 gpfxiu 
 
 Lo ! in mists I bring before thee 
 One of those dim recollections 
 
 Which upon thy childhood's morning 
 Broke with fatal error o'er thee ; 
 Poisoning all thy young affections 
 Which even then were ripe for scorning 
 All, whose inmost soul and spirit, 
 Thou, poor worm, who didst inherit 
 Thy first mother's curious prying, 
 
 Could'st not read. — The wild thoughts born in 
 That sad hour I've seen pursue thee, 
 Thence till now, when they undo thee. 
 'Tis so ever — he who doubted 
 Early thus ; mocked, jeered, and flouted, 
 Ends at last with all denying. 
 
 <&otfyt. 
 
 Hark ! heard ye not the sound of rushing waters, 
 Of clouds embattled, of the quivering bolt, 
 Of thunders winged with lightning, of the earth 
 Yawning and gaping wide, till in her maw 
 Of death and darkness a fair city sinks ? 
 Palaces, Churches, Towers, all engulfed, 
 And sixty thousand spirits freed by death 
 
54 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 In one tierce agonising moment?— Yes, 
 
 The Giant of the Earthquake ! See — He stamps 
 
 His foot — and men ask where is Lisbon now ! 
 
 Ye Gods, inscrutable in judgment, what 
 
 Have these, the young, the innocent, and pure, 
 
 The good and gentle, thus consigned to torture, 
 
 Done to arouse the terrors of this wrath? 
 
 Creators of the Universe — Preservers 
 
 Of heaven and earth, benignant, wise, and good, 
 
 For such our primal prayers declare ye are, 
 
 And being prayers of course they cannot lie, 
 
 How can ye joy in chastisement like this ? 
 
 How can ye laugh at human suffering? 
 
 How can ye stoop from the star-paven skies, 
 
 And thrones of ever-beaming sunshine, thus 
 
 To wreak black vengeance on a helpless worm, 
 
 Weak as a straw in such omnipotent hands? 
 
 Is this fit pastime for the glorious Gods ? 
 
 Why do ye punisli ? Why cause woe on earth 
 
 Worthy of demons damned not Gods divine? 
 
 Ye answer not — no heavenly voice responds, 
 
 And my soul sits in darkness and dismay. 
 
 They say the ways of heaven are wonderful. 
 
 Man cannot read them— and he must not try. 
 
 Why must he not? I, who was but a child 
 
 When these things happened, from that hour to this 
 
 Have reasoned on them, yet could ne'er discover 
 
 The force of that parental love which sent 
 
 The blood-stained Titan forth to wreak this woe. 
 
 fftepfjtetopijeUs. 
 Why, this is the silliest poet-raving 
 
 That ever I heard since old time began ; 
 Only think of this two-legged grasshopper craving 
 
 The soul of the Ancient of Days to scan. 
 The child who scooped a hole near the ocean, 
 
 And thought the hole would the seas contain, 
 
THE BEDROOM. OO 
 
 Was as wise as this numskull, who has a notion 
 That Infinity is not too large for his brain. 
 
 igtrmt*. 
 
 Yet the proud spirit shrined in man will pry 
 
 Into the secrets of the vast Unknown ; 
 And strive to read with quick and curious eye 
 
 The wonders of those worlds beyond his own. 
 
 J^trpifjtstopljeles. 
 Ay, so he will ; but his aim is stupid, 
 
 For pry as he may, he will nothing find ; 
 You know Dame Fortune and Master Cupid — 
 
 Well, Man is ten thousand times more blind. 
 That very same earthquake I well remember, 
 
 And could a most curious tale unfold ; 
 It happened one day in a bleak November, 
 
 When this hopeful brat was but six years old. 
 There were friars, and players, and country cousins, 
 
 And critics, and dandies, and flirts, and duns, 
 And poets who should have been damned in dozens, 
 
 In that Catholic city of punks and nuns. 
 There were soldiers hired to cut throats for money ; 
 
 There were lawyers ready to prove black white ; 
 There were virgins who wouldn't (you'll think this funny) 
 
 Have slept for the world all alone at night ; 
 There were bishops in mitre and cope — great schemers, 
 
 With saintly faces and gluttonous maws, 
 Who thought religion a farce for dreamers, 
 
 And believed the Apostles were mere jackdaws ; 
 There were magistrates trained to all sorts of sinnings, 
 
 And bravos, who stabbed in the public streets ; 
 There were elderly ladies whose nightly winnings 
 
 At cards were a series of nightly cheats ; 
 There were novelists mighty on rope and gibbet, 
 
 On arsenic, ribaldry, filth, and slang : 
 The purlieus of Pluto could hardly exhibit, 
 
 Even in Saints' Corner, a nastier gang ; 
 
56 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 There were newspaper scribblers — we'll call them writers, 
 
 With hearts of reptiles and tongues of toads ; 
 There were Quakers, for purity clamorous fighters, 
 
 Who went to Sin's haunts by the privates t roads ; 
 There were usurers, tribads, and blasphemous friars, 
 
 With eight or nine sprouts of the House of Guelph ; 
 There were numbers who thought that that father of liars, 
 
 The Pope, was a Christian as true as myself; 
 There were booksellers, Scotchmen, old bawds, and 
 actors, 
 
 Stage-managers, pathics, and similar folks — 
 The best people there were the known malefactors, 
 
 Who openly sinned without masks or cloaks ; 
 There were judges who sold the law to the briber, 
 
 And spitted the weak as young boys spit flies ; 
 There were Jesuits too, from the banks of Tiber, 
 
 And eight or nine hundred pimps and spies ; 
 There were women whose sole delight was scandal, 
 
 Who vended their souls like goods in a mart ; 
 Had Diogenes come with his best wax candle, 
 
 He could not have found out one taintless heart ; 
 Nay, had you, my friend, brought your golden apple 
 
 From Heaven, inscribed, For an honest man, 
 You'd have found it a difficult thing to grapple 
 
 With one, though from end to end you ran ; 
 Yet with all these facts, here's a poet and scholar 
 
 ('Tis perfectly plain he has lost his wits,) 
 Getting into a fit of poetical choler, 
 
 Because this Lisbon was knocked to bits. 
 
 I'm glad to hear your Highness, like blind Milton, 
 Thus vindicate the ways of God to man. 
 
 J#tep!)t!3topi)*leg. 
 The blundering insects always lay the guilt on 
 Where they should not — as if such worms could span, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 57 
 
 With their small brains, the purposes divine ; 
 
 Like maggots crawling in a world of Stilton, 
 
 That seek to know the nature of moonshine. — 
 
 A goose, the stupidest bird, says old Montaigne, 
 
 Who, though a man, had much of Lucifer's wit, 
 
 Walked out one night, when all the heavens were lit 
 
 With the immortal jewelry of stars, 
 
 And cackled thus : ever bounteous Jove, 
 
 Accept my thanks for making million worlds 
 
 Blazing with pomp to shed their rays on me, 
 
 The elegant object of your ceaseless love, 
 
 And light me to the worms that are my prey. 
 
 I scarcely know the use of so much sea, 
 
 But feel obliged that you have made the sun 
 
 For my especial pleasure in the day. 
 
 The limpid waters, and the enamelled earth, 
 
 With flowers on which I gambol in goose-mirth, 
 
 Are very pretty things ; yet I feel angry 
 
 You've made some very foolish blunders, Jove. 
 
 You should have made our notes a nightingale's, 
 
 And given such noble birds a stately gait 
 
 And step majestic, as if lords of fate ; 
 
 With peacock hues you should have decked our tails : 
 
 Had you done this, you'd have done better, wiser, 
 
 For as it is, you've acted like a miser : 
 
 However, my Old Gentleman, I thank you ; 
 
 And so I'll find as few faults as I can 
 
 With your economy and nature's plan. 
 
 Good night, dear Jove, my benison attend you. 
 
 How was this goose more silly than wise Man, 
 
 Who swears, like her, that the whole Universe 
 
 Was made for his vile ends, and his alone ? 
 
 And when he sees therein a certain something 
 
 He cannot comprehend, vows instantly, 
 
 With rashness worthy of the anserian dumb thing, 
 
 The Gods are in the fault — and not his brains ; 
 
 Which know of God what blind men know of light, 
 
58 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The deaf of music, or the toad of heaven. 
 'Twould anger me, but that my rage is lost 
 In deep disgust and hatred of the wretches. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 Nay, but these insects play your game, my cousin, 
 By their mad dreams. 
 
 I grant ye, that they do ; 
 Is that the reason I should close my mouth, 
 Or shut my eyes to their egregious folly ? 
 'Tis not for my sake, coz, they do these things, 
 But for their own, for vanity, self-love ; 
 And if they go to hell, I thank them not, 
 Nor am I bound to falsehood for the worms ; 
 The course they take is the straight path to me. 
 They hate each other, and blaspheme their Maker ; 
 Is it for this that I should play the slave, 
 And stand up to defend them ? No. I love 
 The sins, but hate with all my soul the sinners. 
 And when I hear the mites sophisticate 
 Against the Lord, to whom I am a rebel, 
 Even for old times, and old remembrance' sake, 
 I cannot but give utterance to the scorn 
 I feel, and though against my will, confess 
 The omnipotence of Truth thus outraged by them. 
 We pat them on the backs to sin, we laugh 
 At their strange lunacy, and thank them not, 
 But rather loathe them for being fooled by us. 
 This is plain speaking — but I love to say 
 Just as I think — no phrases fine for me, 
 Such as your Miltons, Byrons, and the rest 
 Of the poetic mammals, dream for us. 
 Ye Gods, defend me from poetic speech ! 
 
THE BEDROOM. 59 
 
 Spirit. 
 
 With a wreath on her brow, 
 
 Like a beautiful bride's, 
 Down the blue depths of heaven 
 
 The rainbow-winged glides, 
 On a cloud of pure silver ; 
 
 A lyre in her hand ; 
 And the cestus she wears 
 
 Is a bright diamond band. 
 
 The splendour of light 
 
 Flashes forth where she looks ; 
 Her eyes are the crystal 
 
 Of sun-lighted brooks. 
 Her smiles are soft music, 
 
 Her breath is the rose ; 
 Her glance calm and sweet as 
 
 Love's Star in repose. 
 
 Fragrant is the air with music, 
 
 Which she wafts around ; 
 Radiant is the flowing sunshine 
 
 From the amaranth-crowned. 
 She — the Darling Child of Heaven 
 
 Hastens hither ; 
 Does she bring a life-elixir 
 
 With her ? 
 
 No — the life is fading slowly 
 
 From his face ; 
 Grave and marble melancholy 
 
 Takes its place. 
 
 Ah ! his eyes seem newly lighted ; 
 
 In a dream he sees 
 Crimson sunsets — Orient gardens 
 
 Fountains, thyme, and bees, 
 
60 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Landscapes, lakes, and falling waters, 
 
 Glades and bowers, and sparry eaves ; 
 Isles that seem a part of Aden 
 
 Sparkling o'er green Indian waves. 
 Once again his spirit rambles 
 
 In its faerie dells ; 
 Once again he hears thine accents, 
 
 Queen of Spells ! 
 
 Comes a vision of the past, 
 Like an angel to his soul ; 
 
 Till it glitters — till it glows, 
 Like a talismanic scroll. 
 
 And the characters appear 
 
 Sparkling, magical, and clear ; 
 With a placid light they burn, 
 Like the lamp within an urn, 
 O'er the dead. 
 
 The lines of beauty deeply traced 
 By the amaranthine One, 
 
 Still are fair and uneffaced, 
 And they dazzle like the Sun, 
 When he leapt 
 
 To the bed, 
 Where Cyrene, newly won, 
 
 Like a summer evening slept. 
 
 Thoughts are flashing through his brain, 
 
 Quick as falls the arrowy rain ; 
 
 They are pleasure — they are pain, 
 
 Like a sweet but plaintive strain. 
 
 From his trance divine and deep, 
 From his brief but blissful sleep, 
 He awakes — alas ! to weep. 
 
 Guardian angel, art thou here ? 
 
 Ah ! methinks thou shouldst be near, 
 
 Whispering solace in his ear. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 61 
 
 Well I remember me that blessed hour 
 
 When first the Muse descended down from heaven 
 
 Into my soul. It was a moonlit eve ; 
 
 I wandered by the silver-shining Mayn ; 
 
 The stars were in the skies ; a melody 
 
 Such as my heart never before conceived, 
 
 In its enraptured dreamings, floated round me 
 
 In the purpureal stillness. As I gazed 
 
 Deep into space with passionate eyes of hope, 
 
 A Vision moved before me : — not the star, 
 
 The golden-winged herald of the dawn, 
 
 Nor Cynthia, when she walks abroad at night, 
 
 Nor dewy Spring, nor Summer, when her smile 
 
 Gives life to opening flowers, and paints the meads 
 
 With roses lovely as the Pleiades, 
 
 Equalled the sunbright beauty of that shape. 
 
 Her cheeks, her brow, her majesty of mien, 
 
 The Amphionic sweetness of her smiles, 
 
 Her loosely-flowing tresses, falling free 
 
 Over a bosom bright as noonday clouds 
 
 When the sun fills them ; and her footsteps light 
 
 As summer winds, ,to fancy made her seem 
 
 Fairer than her whose golden glance of love 
 
 Stole from himself the impassioned youth of Troy. 
 
 She came — her coming was like morning light. 
 
 She moved — so moves the cygnet o'er the stream. 
 
 She spake — and Melody herself stood charmed. 
 
 There breathed a perfume from her rose-like lips 
 
 Sweeter than that which woos the passing winds 
 
 in Araby the blest, and courts their stay : 
 
 While her dark silken lashes curtained o'er 
 
 Eyes in whose softness all her soul broke forth, 
 
 Whose look was language, and whose light was thought. 
 
 Lightly she stood, and with a look more soft 
 
 Than wreathed flowers, sang a winning song 
 
62 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 That passed into my soul, and dwells there still ; — 
 Methinks I hear its eloquent echoes now. 
 
 A strain of sweet soft music heard, in the midst of which 
 Mnemosyne, the Spirit of Memory, and Mother of the 
 Muses, glides towards Goethe on a silver cloud, and sings 
 as follows : — 
 
 Hither, hither, dreamer fair, 
 
 O'er the meadows bend thy way, 
 To thine eyes I will display 
 
 Scenes of beauty rich and rare, 
 Sparkling with the light of May, 
 
 Such as star-eyed dreamers only 
 
 See in visions bright and lonely. 
 
 Palaces with golden domes, 
 
 Marble fanes and silver towers, 
 
 Gardens glittering with flowers, 
 Where sweet Aphrodite roams 
 
 All the live-long summer hours, 
 With those star-eyed dreamers only, 
 Whom I wrap in vision lonely. 
 
 Lakes whose bosoms are as clear 
 As the emeralds of the mine, 
 Trees with rosy fruits that shine ; 
 
 Founts that shed upon the ear 
 Music like a voice divine ; 
 
 Music which the star-eyed only 
 
 Hear in moments sweet and lonely. 
 
 Gentle winds whose whispers fall 
 Softly through the trembling leaves, 
 And a bower that idly weaves 
 
 Its green boughs into a hall — 
 Saffron morns and purple eves. 
 
 Gorgeous, glittering, and lonely, 
 
 Made for thee and angels only. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 63 
 
 Nymphs that wander through those scenes 
 
 Like fair Venus every one ; 
 
 Youths as beauteous as the sun, 
 When from his bright car he leans, 
 
 Ere his evening march be done. 
 Phantasms all, resplendent, lonely, 
 Thou canst give them life — thou only. 
 
 All these wonders I can place 
 
 Palpably before thine eye ; 
 
 Lo ! — I speak, and they are nigh ; 
 Angel form, and nymphal face, 
 
 Fairy bower and golden sky ; 
 Shining for the star-eyed only; 
 Like the star-eyed, bright and lonely. 
 
 i^tepljtstopjeles. 
 
 And what is the value, Old Lass, of your teaching? 
 
 And what the result to your star-gazing pupil ? 
 Why this — a good flogging, no doubt, for his miching 
 
 From school, which must make him enjoy his cold 
 soup ill. 
 And what gains mankind by your labour united — 
 
 By ail that from Orpheus to Shelley and Byron, 
 In prose or in poem has e'er been recited? — 
 
 The value perhaps of an ounce of old iron. 
 Pooh — pooh, I've an apologue ready this moment, 
 
 I'll tell it you, Ma'am, if you're not in a hurry. 
 I knew an old noodle who lived in the North ; 
 
 He sawed down an oak, and he cut it in two, 
 Ke scraped and he chiselled from morning till night, 
 
 In making a handle to fit to an axe. 
 He dug up some ore from a deep iron mine, 
 
 He kindled a furnace, he smelted, he forged, 
 Until he had hammered an axe-head of steel ; 
 
 He fitted the handle upon the axehead. 
 
64 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And what was the end of this wonderful travail? 
 
 Alas but to smash a most pitiful egg ! 
 
 Mnemosyne vanishes. 
 
 Soetfjr. 
 
 Nearer and nearer still, ye bright-eyed Shapes, 
 Nearer and nearer still, I see ye come ; 
 In heavenly dreamings wrap my visioned soul, 
 And waft it on your pinions to the past. 
 Bear me once more unto those purple hills 
 And meadows vernal with the opening rose ; 
 Where blooms the oak, the cyprus, and the lime, 
 The elm, the myrtle, and o'ershowing plane, 
 Whose curving branches kiss the emerald turf. 
 There the bees sweetly hum around their hives, 
 That breathe of honey and of summer flowers ; 
 There sacred to the nymphs and from their caves 
 Murmur soft crystal fountains, and the birds 
 Sing woodland songs of love ; the very shadows 
 Seem softened sunshine, and the pine-trees shed 
 Their nuts upon the sward beneath my feet. 
 
 Who comes hither, lonely, lonely, lonely, 
 Singing sweetly like a bird upon a ruin ? 
 Gazing on him only, only, only, 
 Like a sunbeam lighting up a falling ruin ; 
 Sad her smile, and stonely, stonely, stonely, 
 She herself a fair and blasted ruin. 
 
 Hermes. 
 'Tis Lucinda, the sweet Strasburg maiden, 
 
 Once the vernal sunshine of delight ; 
 But her soul, with madness deep o'erladen, 
 
 Feels the bane of that accursed blight. 
 Stately, like the golden-sandalled Here 
 
 On snow-topt Olympus throned of old, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 65 
 
 So she shone — 'tis past — and dim and weary- 
 Still she weeps for one grown icy-cold. 
 
 Phantom of Lucinda passes. 
 
 Human hopes are fleet-winged spirits, 
 
 Lo, they glitter and are gone*; 
 Or as flowers that bloom, and perish 
 
 In the bleak Euroclydon. 
 
 Who is this with floating hair, 
 Lutrous as the Morning Star 
 When he fills the rory air 
 With the light of cinnabar ? 
 
 e&ttrt) <£<m»tf«w*. 
 Tis Emilia, pale Lucinda's sister, 
 She is weeping too and veiled in sorrow ; — 
 Was not one, thou false heart, all-sufficient? 
 Why from twins in love thy pleasures borrow? 
 Soul-incestuous, fickle, dark, deceitful, 
 Let thy guilt upon thy^ spirit press 
 With the force and weight of black- winged thunder 
 On some bark o'er Ocean's wilderness ! 
 
 Phantom of Emilia passes. 
 
 Um'ces. 
 Like the beaming daughter of the Sun, 
 Flower-tressed Day with steps of music soft 
 Tripping o'er the rosy meads of heaven, 
 When her father's star shines full aloft — 
 Comes the young and sprightly virgin-beauty 
 With her graceful flowing train ; 
 Ah ! she stops — she pouts — and queenly feeling 
 Lights her blushing face with high disdain. 
 
 Phantom o/Frederica passes. 
 F 
 
66 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Now she passes — yes — he merits all thy scorn ; 
 Hearts like his could never mate with thine : 
 Sooner shall the pure and heaven-born 
 Mix with those of Satan's fated line. 
 
 Even as the music of a fountain flowing 
 
 From woodland rocks into some echoing well, 
 
 On whose rich marge are fragrant flowers growing, 
 
 The nymph-like rose and air-born asphodel, 
 
 She comes — she moves — a child-like gleam of splendour 
 
 Is round her — o'er her ; she alone, with one 
 
 Whom the dim Shadowy Ones prepare to render 
 
 Back to brief earth, were all he loved alone. 
 
 Exquisite Lilli, — lo ! in all her brightness 
 
 She stands before him, as in that fond scene 
 
 So well remembered still, when death enfolds him— 
 
 Pure as the moonlight on some village green. 
 
 Phantom of Lilli passes. 
 
 Yet she fades into oblivion, 
 
 Short and transient was the vision ; 
 
 One is coming — she is coming, 
 
 Gretchen, Gretchen comes from heaven ; 
 
 Look ! — he breathes again in wonder, 
 
 Only she could rouse his spirit 
 
 From the all-embracing torpor, 
 
 Which, like brazen chains, clings round him. 
 
 Dreams, delicious Dreams ! whence do ye come ? 
 Methinks I am a boy once more ; methinks 
 
 1 see her now beside me in the sunshine, 
 Or when the evening light is fading slowly 
 Into the glimmering west, and the young moon, 
 whose youth and beauty are a type of Gretchen, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 67 
 
 Peeps through the deep blue sky, and one by one 
 
 The stars — night's nymphs — come forth, and o'er the 
 
 forest 
 In the soft gloaming shimmer down upon us, 
 As hand in hand we saunter through the trees, 
 And in her ear I whisper fondest words. 
 Hark ! — hark ! — me thinks I hear a Spirit's voice 
 Bring back that olden melody beloved ; 
 I sit once more within the accustomed bower, 
 And look in those pure eyes that were my heaven. 
 O exquisite echoes ! what hath brought ye hither ? 
 
 A beautiful Phantom passes slowly and with saddened looks ; 
 deep silence and melancholy music. The Shadows retire, 
 
 ftrtel. 
 
 In the green and leafy wood, 
 When the gentle sisterhood 
 
 Of stars are bright, 
 Wilt thou — wilt thou, lady fair, 
 Wander fondly with me there 
 
 By the pale star-light ? 
 
 We shall stroll beneath the trees, 
 Through whose boughs' interstices 
 
 The young moon flings 
 Smiles as sweet and pure as thine, 
 Or the million rays that shine 
 
 In a spirit's wings. 
 
 We shall wander by the stream, 
 Gazing on its water's gleam 
 
 Glassing the skies, 
 Hand entwined with hand the while, 
 And upon me bent the smile 
 
 Of thy loving eyes. 
 
68 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 As its waters glide along 
 We shall listen to its song, 
 
 Whose melody, 
 Though it charm full many an ear, 
 Still is far — oh ! far less dear 
 
 Than thy voice to me. 
 
 On the turf we'll sit and pull 
 Flowers the most beautiful — 
 
 A moonlight wreath ; 
 Though their bosoms perfum'd be, 
 Have they, love, the fragrancy 
 
 Thy kisses breathe ? 
 
 When our garland is entwined^ 
 I with it thy brows will bind — 
 
 O garland blest ! 
 Of this flowery diadem 
 Every leaf is worth a gem 
 
 On a monarch's breast. 
 
 Then, along the turf we'll walk, 
 Talking only Cupid -talk, 
 
 And the sweet bond 
 Of affection which, methinks, 
 Our two spirits closely links 
 
 In one spirit fond. 
 
 Or, within our own dear grove 
 We shall sit and talk, my love, 
 
 Thou, my sweet theme ; 
 How I first before thee knelt, 
 Wildly, fondly loved, and felt 
 
 Thee my life's dream. 
 
 How thou wert within my heart 
 Long its bright Star ; how thou art 
 
THE BEDROOM. 69 
 
 Still — still mine own ; 
 How unto the paradise 
 Of thy face and shining eyes 
 
 My whole life hath grown. 
 
 As our Eden moments fly 
 Thus beneath the purple sky, 
 
 The stars shall shine 
 With a sweeter, lovelier light 
 On that bower flower-dight 
 
 Where thou and I recline. 
 
 In the green and silent wood, 
 When the starry sisterhood, 
 
 With footsteps bright, 
 Trip along the azure air, 
 Meet me, meet me, lady fair, 
 
 By the pale star-light. 
 
 O delicate Ariel ! — it is thou, I know thee ; 
 Waft me again in spirit on the plumes 
 Of song divine to those enchanted hours. 
 
 9frfel. 
 It is a lone and gentle walk, 
 
 O'erarched by moss-grown woodland trees, 
 Beneath whose shade we laugh and talk, 
 
 And live in soft luxurious ease ; 
 Our thoughts as bright as Indian seas 
 
 A-sleeping in the golden sun, 
 And rich as that enchanted breeze 
 
 That blows o'er woods of cinnamon ; 
 Such thoughts our happy hours beguile 
 With thee in sweet Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 The ash-trees wreathe their graceful boughs 
 Aloft to form an arch of green, 
 
70 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 So closely twined it scarce allows 
 A wandering beam of sun between ; 
 
 A dim religious vesper light 
 This walk of trees and flowers pervades, 
 
 Save only where thine eyes so bright 
 Shed morning radiance through the shades : 
 
 Though dark as night, one witching smile 
 
 From thee illumes Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 Along this silent wild retreat 
 
 The yellow cowslips thickly grow, 
 While airs with many an odour sweet 
 
 Prom yonder beds of roses blow — 
 Give me thy hand as white as snow, 
 
 But warm as sunshine, and we'll stray 
 Through the green paths with footsteps slow 
 
 Till evening veils the face of Day— 
 Oh ! what so sweet as thus to while 
 The hours in lone Saint Mary's Aisle? 
 
 I see thee like some nymph of old, 
 
 Some Grecian nymph with wild flowers tressed, 
 Thy silken ringlets all unrolled, 
 
 Loose on thy swan-like neck and breast ; 
 I hear thee, and thy language breathes 
 
 Delicious rapture in mine ears, 
 Like the bright breath of rosy wreaths, 
 
 Like the rich music of the spheres ; 
 For Angels talk and Angels smile 
 Like thee in sweet Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 How oft by moonlight have we strayed 
 
 Beneath this Gothic roof of leaves, 
 And gazed upon the distant glade, 
 
 With frequent trees and saffron sheaves ; 
 How oft in mellow nights in June 
 
 We've rambled through the sleeping shade, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 
 
 While the soft rays of star and moon 
 
 Round us like showers of silver played— 
 It seemed some old cathedral pile, 
 And thou the Saint of Mary's Aisle. 
 
 At times some flute's melodious sound 
 
 Broke through the silence of the night, 
 Careering round, and round, and round, 
 
 Like a young seraph's airy flight, 
 Filling our hearts with new delight ; 
 
 Lending new visions to the scene 
 Of Fauns and Nymphs in festal rite, 
 
 And dancing o'er the moonlit green — 
 Such antique dreams our hearts beguile 
 At night in sweet Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 O beauteous dreams of faerie time, 
 
 Of tilt and tournay, knight and dame ; 
 Fain would I build the lofty rhyme 
 
 And give your praise to deathless fame ; 
 Fain would I chant the olden days 
 
 Of Nymph and Oread, Bard and Faun, 
 But other themes demand my lays 
 
 From purple night till blushing dawn — 
 My songs are hers alone, whose smile 
 Makes heaven of dear Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 Bring forth the lute, whose speaking strings 
 
 Have oft beguiled the summer hours, 
 And while the wild bird yonder sings, 
 
 Recline within the acacia bow'rs ; 
 And wake once more its wond'rous chords 
 
 With airs as fond as airs can be, 
 Nor yet disdain the quaint old words 
 
 Of song that once I wrote for thee, 
 Received with many a gracious smile 
 Of thanks in dear Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
72 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Or, if thou wilt, sit still and hear 
 
 The classic tales we love so well. 
 To noble hearts, like thine, how dear 
 
 The great heroic truths they tell : 
 Spenser and Shakespere, wild Rousseau, 
 
 The Wandering Bard whose heart grew hell, 
 Or lonely Dante born to woe, 
 
 Or stern Ferrara's shadowy cell ; — 
 Ah ! these will win thy tears awhile 
 When musing in Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 Thus pass our joyous hours away 
 
 With flowers and music, songs and books, 
 The bright and gladdening light of day, 
 
 The beauty of thy brighter looks. 
 Why need we sigh for marble halls, 
 
 Or Eastern pomp, or stately domes ? 
 More dear to me one word that falls, 
 
 And one love-look from her who roams 
 With happy heart, and song and smile, 
 Through thy green shades, Saint Mary's Aisle. 
 
 Upon my life, a very handsome canticle ! 
 
 It quite exceeds the famous Song of Solomon, 
 
 Who, in his flirting, heartlessness, and rhyming, 
 
 Was somewhat aped by this our false and hollow one. 
 
 So he made wreaths for thee, Miss Gretchen, did he ? 
 
 I do remember me an ancient chime 
 
 That mentions such true lovers and such wreaths : 
 
 Sings. 
 
 The wreath of roses twined by thee, 
 
 To bind thy true love's hair, 
 Has thorns loithin its leaves, I see, 
 
 That whisper still, Beware ! 
 
THE BEDROOM. 73 
 
 Such are the wreaths we value most below, 
 Such are the chaplets these fond lovers twine. 
 But I grow tired. O raven-pinioned Woman ! 
 Earth-wandering, idling, sauntering Death ! where art 
 
 thou? 
 I ne'er before so longed to see thy face. 
 
 fgtntte*. 
 
 Your presence frightens her perhaps. 
 
 fftepjjts topples. 
 
 No, no ; 
 Scarce an hour passes that we do not meet 
 In some death-chamber ; she and I are friends 
 Of an old standing. In whatever shape 
 I clothe my majesty, goat, poodle, snake, 
 Franciscan friar, woman, or black dog, 
 (For so I caught the Witch of Edmonton,) 
 The lady knows me, and feels no alarm. 
 
 Gcerlje. 
 Beautiful Gretchen ! in an hour like this 
 How sweet to wander by thy side, to clasp 
 Thy folding hand in mine, to watch the glance 
 Chaster than light that sparkles in thine eyes, 
 Or gaze enraptured on thee ; while the wind, 
 Laden with breath of hyacinths, blows round 
 Thy musical footsteps, or, in merry mood, 
 Plays with the shining circlets of thine hair. 
 Speak to me — speak I — oh ! let me once more hear 
 The heavenly words that from thy lips distill 
 Like notes from some rare exquisite instrument 
 Of pearls and rubies made — speak to me, Gretchen ! 
 And I will welcome death for the blest chance 
 That brought thee thus in fancy to my side. 
 Dost thou remember — can'st thou e'er forget 
 The night when first I saw thee — saw and loved 
 
74 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 With a boy's sudden, fierce, immortal love ? 
 
 Dost thou remember — can'st thou e'er forget 
 
 How my eyes fed on thee, and on thy face, 
 
 Like bees on nectar-welling flowers, while thou, 
 
 Handing the wine-cup round and tasting it, 
 
 Didst seem a heavenly Hebe ? Never, never 
 
 Hath the scene faded from my passionate soul— 
 
 Nor thou, who art my worship, even to death. 
 
 Dost thou remember that bright evening, Gretchen, 
 
 When at the latticed window thou satst spinning, 
 
 And I confessed in burning words of love, 
 
 And poetry, and fear, my secret heart ? 
 
 How my voice trembled ! how my young limbs shook ! 
 
 How my eyes filled with happy boyish tears ! 
 
 How, when I pressed my face on thy fair hands, 
 
 I quivered, and my fond soul leapt to thine ! 
 
 Here, at the casement window with the vines 
 
 And roses interlaced, once more I sit 
 
 And see thee, Gretchen, while our friends laugh round 
 
 In gay companionship— thy distaff lying 
 
 Beside thy little lilied foot that plays 
 
 Unconsciously upon the sanded floor, — 
 
 Watching us with sweet gravity, I see thee. 
 
 Yet, while thou art familiar with us all, 
 
 Thou wilt not let thy best friend touch thy hand. 
 
 Even me — thy lover — when thou art beside me 
 
 Listening to some old fable of romance — 
 
 Or leaning on my shoulder as I w r rite, 
 
 And looking o'er my book — thou wilt not grant 
 
 The liberty of fond and passionate glance, 
 
 Or gentle pressure of the hand or lip. 
 
 And thus we spend the hours in happy talk 
 
 And happy thoughts ; night passes — we sit round 
 
 The cheerful fire and share the social meal, 
 
 Till one by one the guests drop off in sleep. 
 
 The mother slumbers in the great arm-chair \ 
 
THE BEDROOM. 75 
 
 The strangers, travel-stained, are rapt in dream ; — 
 While thou and I, talking in low fond tones, 
 Ward off the mists of drowsiness — anon 
 She leans her head upon my shoulder, blest 
 With the sweet burden while my arms embrace 
 Her nymph-like form — and when I wake 'tis day, 
 And Gretchen stands before the mirror tying 
 Over her starry hair her little cap ; — 
 Lovelier than ever in my eyes she looks. 
 She presses both my hands in hers — we part — 
 And I steal home trembling and truant-like. 
 
 Room for the Coronation-pageant ! room ! 
 Frankfort pours out her smiling citizens 
 In holiday dress and courtier-like array. 
 The streaming sunshine clothes the streets in gold, 
 The double-eagle fountain pours forth wine, 
 The guards, the courtiers, and the pealing bells, 
 The Marshals of the Empire on proud steeds, 
 And mantled rich in aureate Spanish tire 
 The Emperor in his robes — the King of Home, 
 The splendent train that follows in procession. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 'Tis moonlight — Gretchen hangs upon my arm, 
 And through the dazzling streets of lamps and torches 
 We wander on, and through the linden trees 
 With pyramids of flame and spheres of light 
 Fixed on transparent pedestals, and through 
 A maze of glittering garlands flashing fire ; — 
 Hours of Elysium ! ah, how soon ye pass ! 
 I stand beneath the casement once again, 
 And look in Gretchen* s eyes and press her hand. 
 She prints one burning kiss upon my brows, 
 A kiss whose magical seal is on them still, — 
 The first and last — 'tis o'er — she passes from me ; — 
 Gretchen is gone — I never saw her more ! 
 
76 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 I tell thee that I loved her — she to me 
 
 Was a whole world of light and happiness ; 
 
 Her voice was like the music of my soul, 
 
 Her eyes were as an angePs to my heart ; 
 
 She was my dream, my thought, my life, my all ; 
 
 I knew no joy that did not spring from her, 
 
 I felt no sorrow that she did not lighten ; 
 
 Her coming was like morning bathed in dew 
 
 And scattering sunshine, and her absence was 
 
 Night to my soul, which felt or knew no brightness 
 
 When she was gone. I lived but for her smile ; 
 
 One glance of hers could raise me to high heaven, 
 
 And one cold look press me beneath the earth. 
 
 The soul that beamed from her sun-lighted eyes 
 
 Seemed but the heavenly twin of mine own soul ; 
 
 And the celestial pureness of her mind, 
 
 Whose virgin whiteness never knew a stain, 
 
 Made me love virtue even for Gretchen's sake ; 
 
 Heaven that had made her like itself, so made her 
 
 That I might worship it in loving her : 
 
 Like incense breathing from a precious censer, 
 
 Or like the fragrance of a moss-twined rose, 
 
 Or like new honey streaming from an oak, 
 
 Her thoughts and words — O ever, ever loved, 
 
 Where art thou now ? Methinks thou shouldst be here, 
 
 Here, by thine early lover's dying pillow : 
 
 Together we should pass from life, together 
 
 Lie on one couch while the funereal strain 
 
 Was sung o'er both ; together should our ashes 
 
 Mix in one marble urn, beneath one tomb. 
 
 O mihi prceteritos referat si Jupiter annos ! 
 Oh, that once more I were a happy boy, 
 Imparadised in day-dreams of my youth ! 
 Enraptured Dreams ! ah ! whither have ye fled? 
 There was a time when round my heart ye spread 
 Hopes beauteous as the rainbows, but as fleet ; 
 
THE BEDROOM. 77 
 
 Thoughts of enchantment, that like music sweet 
 
 Breathed — but in breathing, died, — so frail — so brief; 
 
 Now ye are gone, and left my soul in grief. 
 
 Dreams of my Youth ! 
 
 In days of old 
 
 Angels came down from Heaven's starry floors 
 
 And walked on Earth, and knocked at poor men's doors, 
 
 And entered and sat down, in earthly guise. 
 
 But brought bright revelations from the skies — 
 
 So to my soul came Dreams of lovely things, 
 
 Dear Angel-dreams ! Alas ! why had ye wings, 
 
 Ye days of old? 
 
 In those sweet times, 
 
 When o'er me childhood shed its purple light, 
 
 This world seemed some vast garden faerie bright, 
 
 Through which my spirit wandered plucking flowers 
 
 Under fair skies and sunshine-laden hours; 
 
 And many a fancy garland then I twined, 
 
 And many a hope divine employed my mind, 
 
 In those sweet times. 
 
 All the long day 
 
 In sunshine would I sit near some old tree, 
 
 Dreaming o'er Spenser's gorgeous minstrelsy, 
 
 Of towers, and silver lutes, and ladyes gay, 
 
 Of tilt, and tournament, and knightly fray, 
 
 And songs— old songs, the music of the soul — 
 
 These thoughts across my busy brain would roll 
 
 All the long day. 
 
 At other hours 
 
 Beneath some ruin I was wont recline 
 
 Profusely mantled o'er with ivy twine, 
 
 Catching sweet pictured fancies from my books, 
 
 While round me cawed the old monastic rooks, 
 
 And dappled deer and silver-footed fawns 
 
 Flitted like nymphs across the emerald lawns, 
 
 At other hours. 
 
 At Evening's fall 
 
78 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 By the dark waters I would slowly pace, 
 Watching the star-beams mirrored on its face ; 
 Or stretched along the strand, sedgy and damp, 
 Until the Moon lit up her crystal lamp, 
 Gaze upward to the Heaven, and pray that some 
 Celestial shape thence to my side would come 
 At Evening's fall. 
 
 happy Dreams ! 
 
 My spirit still is with you ; — in the night, 
 By my lone taper's dim sepulchral light, 
 
 1 sit and weep, and think of early days 
 
 When she, whose eyes were dearer than the rays 
 
 Of Heaven itself to me, sat by my side, 
 
 Hand clasped in hand, spirit to spirit tied — 
 
 O happy Dreams ! 
 
 Where is she now, 
 
 The Venus of my boyhood ? — my sole tie 
 
 On Earth, whose face, like yonder glittering sky 
 
 Thick set with stars, made me behold in her 
 
 A gentle, heaven-sent, heavenly minister 
 
 To be my happiness — my spirit's mate — 
 
 But she is gone ! O Heart disconsolate, 
 
 Where is she now ? 
 
 Dreams of my Youth, 
 
 Will ye not come again to gild my heart? 
 
 Ah ! — no. I feel that we are wide apart — 
 
 No more — no more upon my soul shall fall 
 
 The sunlight that ye shed. Grief like a pall 
 
 Of darkness sits upon me ; and I clasp 
 
 The form of Death with fond tenacious grasp. 
 
 Dreams of my Youth ! 
 
 Can I forget thee ? — not an hour of life 
 Hath seen my soul untenanted by thee, 
 Or blotted from my memory the sense 
 That thou and I were one, inseparate, 
 Inseparable, as from planets light, 
 
THE BEDROOM. 70 
 
 From sunshine warmth, or fragrance from the rose. 
 
 Can I forget thee ? Ours was love indeed ; 
 
 No childish day-dream, but a life intense 
 
 Within our hearts ; we spake not of our love, 
 
 But in our mutual silence it was felt, 
 
 In the intense absorbing happiness 
 
 Of mutual long, long looks, as if our souls 
 
 Held sweet communion through our passionate eyes. 
 
 Can I forget thee ? All I see around 
 
 Reminds me of thee — the clear silvery stream — 
 
 The fresh wild thyme — the silent starry night — 
 
 A tree — a ruined tower — a grassy knoll — 
 
 Like those of old, in scenes where thou and I 
 
 Were once together in our loving time, 
 
 Can call thine image ever to my soul. 
 
 Gretchen ! where art thou ? Come, my soul awaits thee ; 
 
 It cannot wing its flight from earth alone. — 
 
 Oh, how thou'lt weep when thou shalt know Fm dead ! 
 
 j$U:pf)tStopf)eta5. 
 
 The Gods themselves were drunk or silly 
 When they soused into love with women of earth ; — 
 Fd prefer to be whipped from Cologne to Chili 
 *Than afford such a feast for the Cherubim's mirth. 
 I would rather bury a wife than marry one ; 
 Fd much sooner bed with a serpent or bear ; 
 The most certain bother on earth to harry one 
 Is one of those darlings with golden hair. 
 Fire, Water, Women, are well known evils ; 
 But the last of the three is by far the worst. 
 When Jupiter rose up and damned us devils, 
 In pity he married us but to the first. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 You're certainly right when you talk of ladies 
 In the way you do, my most excellent cozen. 
 
80 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The gods must have hoped to make a Hades 
 Of Earth when they made them. 
 
 Thrice ten dozen 
 Myriads of blessings be theirs for doing it ; 
 Blessings for making an Eve for Adam. 
 In pure love of mischief, and zeal in pursuing it, 
 Shew me an equal for Miss or Madam. 
 
 Vermes, 
 But for the sex, Earth would still be Aden. 
 
 Wonder not therefore that I defend them : 
 
 From the dry grandmother to the soft maiden, 
 
 Still may my warmest wishes attend them. 
 
 But, sir, the matter that most disgusts me 
 
 Is to see men like this man here dying, 
 
 Puling and puking 1 , groaning and sighing, 
 
 Like a trout on a gridiron frying, 
 
 Or a big lubberly schoolboy crying, 
 
 A 'prentice girl thus glorifying 
 
 Of beauties she never had, prating and lying, 
 
 Her very small virtues still magnifying, 
 
 And that when they're scarcely worth denying ; 
 
 His great soul to a wench's tying, 
 
 Like two swine in a dunghill stying, 
 
 That's the matter that most disgusts me. 
 
 Were I a man, do you think you'd find me 
 
 For a sly milliner whimpering thus ? 
 
 Sooner my master and yours should bind me 
 
 By the tail to frosty Caucasus. 
 
 But what became of this poor little Gretchen 
 Whose memory makes this mortal rave ? 
 
THE BEDROOM. 81 
 
 i^Upijtstopfjeles. 
 
 She died of a horrible fit of screeching, 
 Induced by a fabulous fit of retching 
 (As funny to see as a Ranter preaching,) 
 In the Bay of Biscay, which was her grave. 
 
 Vermes. 
 Nay, this is a jest. 
 
 ;PtepJ)tstopJ)eles. 
 Pooh ! pooh ! no matter ; — 
 She died, I suppose, but when or how 
 I never inquired — the w T orms are the fatter ; 
 Fve no doubt she's a beautiful skeleton now. 
 
 l^rmes. 
 This thing is plain, my cousin, however, 
 She has had nothing to do with you. 
 
 fftepfjtstopijeles. 
 We've so many millions of women, I never 
 Distract my slumbers for one or two. 
 
 She is dead! — she is dead! — 
 
 With a stone at her feet and a stone at her head, 
 
 She lies in the cold, cold grave ; 
 
 While I weep, and wander, and rave. 
 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! 
 
 The blossoms are bright on flower and tree ; — 
 
 The lilies and roses come and go ; 
 
 The floral beauty of May and June 
 
 Fades away like the gentle moon ; 
 
 Their short-lived brightness flies, 
 
 But summer comes with her sunny eyes; 
 
 She breathes! — she laughs o'er their graves, I trow, 
 
 And the fair young flow'rs, like wood-nymphs, rise : 
 
 G 
 
82 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 They shine once more 
 With the light of days of yore. 
 But we — the lords of the earth — ah, me ! 
 And, oh ! good God, that such things should be ! 
 Die, and die for eternity. 
 We rise no more from the silent tomb, 
 We sit in icy darkness and gloom, 
 And the holy priests, they say : 
 ******* 
 
 ! thou errant flickering beam 
 
 Of sunshine, bathe me in thy stream 
 Of warmth and beauty, love and light, 
 For, ah! — my soul is black as night. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Unto thine ear I will unfold 
 The records of a wild and old 
 Mysterious tale of love and death, 
 And tears and sighs that choke the breath. 
 
 ******* 
 
 When I was a lonely wanderer 
 My heart was in the silent wood ; 
 
 1 loved to muse by the mountain stream, 
 Bathed in the sunshine's heavenly flood. 
 
 ******* 
 Gretchen was like a beauteous Thought 
 In a Poet's fancy wrought; 
 Wild and sweet her gentle voice, 
 And like a magic spell it came 
 Through my faint and fainting frame, 
 In even to the innermost soul 
 I could feel its music roll. 
 
 ******* 
 At thy divine, all-powerful call 
 Memory leaps from her dsedal hall 
 Of mind, and straight before me brings 
 The days — the old long summer days 
 Of sunshine, love, and flowers, and lays, 
 
THE BEDROOM. b'S 
 
 And wandering walks by rippling brooks, 
 And faltering words, and genial looks, 
 And tones of music, and the lute's 
 Low whispered musical voice which shoots 
 Down through my being's deepest springs. 
 
 ******* 
 The primrose paths, where Youth and Pleasure 
 Gaily dance to music's measure ; 
 The murmur of wild mountain bees 
 Around the fragrant young rose-trees, 
 When summer-showers of sun and dew 
 Have drenched the rose-buds through and through ; 
 And the young choir of laughing hours 
 Upon my road shed loveliest flowers. 
 
 ******** 
 And slow and sad the fair-hair'd maid 
 Paced the well-known greenwood glade, 
 Her voice had grown a winter wind 
 That moans at night through some old pile 
 Of mouldering towers with ivy twined ; 
 And, oh ! — her sweet and sorrowing smile, 
 So cold and yet so purely bright, 
 Was like the moon's on graves at night ; 
 A glad face o'er a heart of woe — 
 Beauty above and death below. 
 
 ******** 
 The forest swung beneath the blast, 
 The crashing trees fell fast and fast, 
 And to my soul there came a Dream ; 
 I knew her tall and shadowy shape, 
 Bright and thin as the moones beam. 
 -And then she spake such words to me 
 As cling like fire to meino^, 
 And gently blamed my marble pride ; 
 And then 
 
 ******** 
 
 The winds on coal-black wings they came, 
 
 And they flashed from their eyes the lightning's flame ; 
 
&4 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 They came like terrible desert steeds, 
 
 They wrapt in the folds of their monstrous wings 
 
 The giant-snouted cliffs, that seemed 
 
 To bend beneath them like young reeds. 
 
 They shrouded the sky, and they blackened the sun : 
 
 O frowning winds ! are ye spirits of hell? 
 
 Ye flash from your hearts an unearthly fire, 
 
 And now ye clash with a dreadful roaring. 
 
 ******** 
 
 His brow was garlanded with flowers. 
 More bright than ever bloomed on earth, 
 Through which the sportive zephyr wandered, 
 And all around its fragrance squandered ; 
 
 While a low voice .... 
 
 ******** 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 Cold, and dead, and cold, 
 
 She lies in the frigid fold 
 
 Of the horrible serpent, Death. 
 
 She sucked his poisoned breath, 
 
 Till the rose on her cheek that gleamed 
 
 Like a withering lily seemed. 
 
 Her silver laughter, her smiling eyes, 
 
 The music of her words, 
 
 Sweet as a singing bird's 
 
 On the merry greenwood tree, 
 
 Live but in memory ; 
 
 For, oh ! my own dear love is dead, 
 
 And in her coffin cold she lies, 
 
 Shrouded in white from foot to head, 
 
 While over her grave the grass doth grow. 
 
 Ah ! whither hath her spirit fled ? 
 
 That spirit as white as snow. 
 
 Is it in heaven, or in the sky ? 
 
 Or in the grave where my love doth lie ? 
 
 Oh, no — sweet Heaven ! — no. 
 
 Her beautiful spirit is here in my heart, 
 
 Never — never — never to part ; 
 
THE BEDROOM. 85 
 
 It came to my heart in the hour she died. 
 
 Over the mountains broad and wide, 
 
 Over the land and over the tide, 
 
 And my soul knew then that my love was dead, 
 
 And welcomed the angel-guest love-led ; 
 
 And deep in my soul her spirit dwells, 
 
 Like a lily embowered in its woodland dells. 
 
 Hast thou not seen the evening star 
 
 Shining from its blue home afar, 
 
 Down on the breast of a mountain-lake 
 
 When the winds their slumbers take ? 
 
 Fixed and still its beam appears ; 
 
 Even so, from the stellar spheres 
 
 And the halls of heaven ordained for her, 
 
 She came like a winged wanderer 
 
 Into her own true lover's breast, 
 
 And there my love hath built her nest. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! — well-a-day I — 
 
 That thou shouldst lie in the cold black clay ! 
 
 What is the sunshine of heaven to me ? 
 
 I feel not its heat, nor its beauty see ; 
 
 Or if, then I pause and weep the while 
 
 For the death of thy soft and sun-bright smile. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! . 
 
 My heart is broken for ever and aye. 
 
 Is this raving moonstruck madness ? 
 Is this love not feigned woe ? 
 
 JftrpfjtstopJjeUs. 
 
 Yes, in truth and sober sadness ; 
 Now he feels it, now he owns it, 
 When his tide of life runs low. 
 Pride and folly, love unholy, 
 Ruled him ever until now ; 
 Is he not a gallant lover ? 
 
86 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Gallant ! no ; a beast, I vow. 
 Why, my cousin, did he never 
 Use the very least endeavour 
 In his pomp of days to find her, 
 If he really loved her so ? 
 
 iftejrfjtstopfjeUs. 
 
 Because, my excellent sage soul-driver, 
 
 The rascal didn't intend to wive her ; 
 
 And to anything else she'd have thundered, No. 
 
 And what is the reason that now, when dying, 
 And life like the dream of a shadow is flying 
 For ever, his soul is still testifying 
 The passionate love that it bore for her ? 
 
 Because though in heart he loved her dearly, 
 
 Yet coldness and vanity touched him more nearly ; 
 
 Never but once did he feel sincerely, 
 
 And that was for Gretchen — you're answered, Sir. 
 
 The hour is come that will not be deferred ; 
 The ravening bloodhound Doom is on my path, 
 I feel his hot fierce breath, and fain would court 
 The gentle dews of slumber, but they come not ; 
 Nor will they till eternal sleep enfolds me, 
 And life has passed like a dull acted play 
 That leaves no thought of gladness or content ; 
 Even such as mine, alas ! too long has been. 
 O Nature ! give me back my youth once more. 
 
 Is, then, the world to which I fly a world 
 Of souls, or do we perish in the instant 
 
THE BEDROOM. 87 
 
 Life quits the body ? No ; some instinct tells me 
 Our minds are then expanded to perfection, 
 They can see farther into the dim past, 
 They can think farther into the wide future 
 Than we can here imagine ; free from all 
 The uneven combinations of gross matter 
 With fire ethereal that on earth confound it, 
 Making it now a god and now a beast ; 
 So 'twill be likewise then, exempt from all 
 The evil changes which it here endures 
 That tell it it is linked to earthly stuff, 
 And make it pant to burst its prison-house. 
 
 The wonders of the Universe are boundless, 
 The space illimitable ; — as the mind 
 Cannot conceive Eternity of Time 
 That no beginning had, and fears no end, 
 So the small human eye is blinded, lost, 
 And valueless, when peering into Space 
 That seems itself as vast as Time or God. 
 Lo, the astronomer with his glass ! he sees 
 In one short hour before his field of view 
 An army of bright stars, as vast and countless 
 As the thronged millions of the Xerxean host, 
 March on before his dazzled eyes, and light 
 The wide celestial vault with splendour ; each 
 A world itself, or centre of new worlds, 
 Larger than man's small earth as it exceeds 
 A grain of sand ; and who shall say that these 
 Marvellous realms of glory, order, beauty, 
 Are not the homes, the happy, innocent homes 
 Of spirits great and noble, wise and good, 
 Proportioned to the spheres in which they dwell, 
 Archangels, Seraphs, Cherubim, or Gods ? 
 
 They are not wrecks of worlds — they gleam all perfect ; 
 They are not germs of worlds, but orbs complete 
 For happiness and life. The God who makes 
 
88 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Even on our earth, our feeble, shadowy earth, 
 
 Nothing but what to use and beauty tends, 
 
 Has not designed and clothed such mighty mansions 
 
 Simply for show, to taper-light small men 
 
 To feats of gallantry, or theft, or blood ; — 
 
 All earth is full of life, land, sea, and air ; 
 
 Why should Death reign in god-like space alone ? 
 
 Time's coursers, meteor-maned and fiery footed, 
 And lashed by spirits invisible, hurry on 
 The light car of our destiny ; all that we 
 Can do is hold the reins with hand unflinching, 
 And guide the hasty wheels, now here, now there, 
 Shunning the mounds or rocks that cross our path : 
 We know not whither we hurry. Who can tell ? 
 We know not whence we started, or for what ? 
 And lo ! behold, the ethereal steeds are here, 
 Waving their snowy wings of heavenly birth. 
 
 Voice*. 
 Vanish! vanish! Sprites and Daimons ! 
 Water-wolves give over howling ; 
 Hence, Seghuirim ! rough and hairy, 
 See, the dark-winged One is coming 
 Like an infant's dream from Aden ; 
 Lo ! — her presence is as moonbeams, 
 Or the sapphire eyes of daylight 
 When they greet the heaving ocean. 
 
 Duergars, Brownies, Gnomes, and Fairies, 
 Bright-haired Mab, and Spirits elfin, 
 See — the blue-eyed One approaches, 
 Gently, softly, like a planet 
 Sailing through the boundless heavens. 
 Silence, beauty, love, are round her, 
 Like the morning which Aurora 
 
THE BEDROOM. 89 
 
 Scatters from her rosy tresses — 
 Vanish ! hence ! — it is commanded. 
 
 % Voitt. 
 Whither hath the Guardian Angel 
 Of this mortal lone departed? 
 
 Jftepfjtstopijetes. 
 Ha! — ha! — ha! — a silly question ; 
 Why she's almost broken-hearted. 
 Half an hour ago, or better, 
 Up the chimney flue she flitted, 
 Weeping very, very sadly, 
 Something like a swan when dying, 
 If one may believe the poets. 
 Ah ! — poor thing, she's to be pitied ; 
 Even I was almost crying 
 When I heard this mortal's follies 
 In such moving rhymes bedittied. 
 
 The Spirit op Death entering silently, becomes visible to 
 Goethe. 
 
 €>oetf)e. 
 Beautiful Spirit, whom I see beside me, 
 A rainbow rising from an ocean stream, 
 With thy blue eyes like childhood's violet eyes, 
 And look that seems to wake within my soul 
 A lonely, dream-like feeling of delight, 
 
 A paradise of mystical loveliness 
 
 Whence hast thou come on flower-like pinions hither ? 
 
 From what rapt solitude and invisible home 
 
 Of winds, whose voices are wild harmonies ; 
 
 Of stars, whose beauty is but as the picture 
 
 Of thine own spirit radiant ever with love ? 
 
 Art thou of God ? Or hath thine essence flowed 
 
 From the dark source of Him whose fate forlorn 
 
 The Ancient Prophets sang in mournful dirge ; 
 
90 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 That Son of God, beauteous but sin-begrimed ? 
 
 Have I not seen thee in my slumbering hours ? 
 
 Thy look, and eloquent gesture, and mild eyes 
 
 Seem all familiar to me, and I gaze 
 
 Upon thee as I would on one whom I 
 
 Had loved from early childhood as a friend. 
 
 If thou canst speak, and if my mortal ears 
 
 Can drink in thine immortal words, oh, speak! 
 
 And I will listen to thy voice as once 
 
 I do remember me I used to listen, 
 
 "Wandering in childhood by the lonely streams, 
 
 To the soft whispers of the silver waves, 
 
 Until I found in every note that breathed 
 
 From broken billows on the strand a tone 
 
 That seemed to find an answer in my soul. 
 
 A moonlike splendour floats around thy form 
 
 Like the pure dreams of heaven that fill my thoughts 
 
 When musing on Eternity and Space. 
 
 My tablets ! quick ! my tablets ! I would write. 
 
 The pictures passing o'er my mind's clear mirror 
 
 Deserve eternal memory — quick ! my tablets ! 
 
 O Light, where art thou ? Light ! Darkness, avauntj 
 Open the shutters, and let in more light ! 
 
 Art thou the Spirit of the Spring come hither? 
 Oh, then I'll welcome thee, celestial Spring ! 
 My spirit drinks new life from Spring's approach. 
 My tablets ! — quick ! my tablets ! I would write. 
 More light, I say ! — Darkness, what dost thou here ? 
 
 And yet methinks, fair Shape, thou art not Spring* 
 The beautiful flowers that enwreathe thy brows 
 Are faded all, and in thy gentle smile 
 There's more of sadness than of vernal mirth. 
 And the still dazzling light of thy blue eyes 
 Is not the light of life, nor tells of aught 
 That appertains to sunshine-bringing Spring. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 91 
 
 Pale Splendour ! — calm and ghostlike Presence !— proud 
 And mighty as a Queen, but statelier far 
 Than any majesty that ever trod 
 Upon our earth, answer me ; speak ! oh, speak ! 
 
 Spirit of Beatf). 
 Goethe ! 
 
 (fcotfyt. 
 
 I hear thee ; what would'st thou with me? 
 
 Spirit of 23eatf). 
 I see no Guardian Angel standing near thee, 
 But one dark Shape, and One who should be here, 
 The heavenly messenger of Gods and men. 
 
 ©Oftf)f. 
 
 I know not who is here, I see not any 
 But thee, all-shining and celestial Spirit. 
 
 .pUpfjistopfjdes. 
 His Guardian Angel hath long since left him, 
 Such creatures are ne'er to be found at court ; 
 The fate that sent him to Weimar bereft him 
 Of her, which afforded us wonderful sport. 
 For seventy years he has served King Mammon 
 And neglected poor penniless Lady Truth ; 
 So I bear a warrant from Jupiter Ammon 
 To bring him away, for he loves the youth. 
 
 Spirit of 33eatf). 
 I grieve to hear it ; but the hour is come 
 When he must render up his soul to Death. 
 Goethe ! 
 
 ©oetlje. 
 
 Fair Spirit, what would'st thou with me ? 
 
 Spirit of S*atf>. 
 Twice have I called thee. When I call again 
 Thy soul will leave thy body. Art thou ready ? 
 
92 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Rather a useless question ; whether ready 
 Or whether not, there's no refusing you ; 
 Certes his thoughts must have been most unsteady 
 If he's not well prepared at eighty-two. 
 
 Come — we've been waiting long enough; despatch him . 
 Hark ! the clock tells eleven — it is told. 
 
 Jft*pSi8topf)eUs, 
 
 You see me, Madam, quite prepared to catch him, 
 And shield him from the slightest draft of cold. 
 
 Hymn of a Spirit faintly borne on the echoes from farthest 
 Heaven : soft and plaintive Harp-music, 
 
 Lord have mercy, Lord receive him 
 
 In the mansions of thy blest ; 
 Cleanse the stains of sin that grieve him, 
 
 Till thy light illumes his breast. 
 
 Alleluia ! 
 
 From thy throne sublime of splendours, 
 
 Reared on suns divine, look down 
 On thy servant, who surrenders 
 
 Life, yet fears thine awful frown. 
 
 Alleluia ! 
 
 By thy life, and mystic passion 
 
 On the Cross, and boundless love, 
 Stretch thine hand of sweet compassion, 
 
 Raise him to thy realms above. 
 
 Alleluia ! 
 
 Sort!)*. 
 
 Fcede hunc mundum intravi — anxius vixi, 
 Perturbatus egredior, Causa Causarum miserere mei. 
 
THE BEDROOM. 93 
 
 These were the last sad words of Aristotle, 
 Except that they were spoken in good Greek ; 
 Were I a man, and dying, what I'd seek 
 Would be a flask of wine, or brandy bottle, 
 Like a bold English thief at Tyburn tree. 
 Such gay contempt of death more taketh me 
 Than the last horrible howlings of the pious, 
 From Doctor Johnson back to Ananias. 
 
 Spirit of Seat!). 
 Goethe ! 
 
 6totf)e. 
 I come. Dies. Spirit vanishes. 
 
 Xfermes. 
 At last I have his lordship. 
 Baron Von Humbug, you are truly welcome. 
 
 Mephistopheles appears suddenly in the guise of a beautiful 
 Angel, and introduces himself to the Spirit of Goethe as 
 one of the heavenly host sent by the Gods to conduct him 
 and Hermes to the 'Elysiak Fields. They depart. Women 
 enter and weep over the dead Body. 
 
94 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 THE AIR. 
 
 CJjorus. 
 Mount with me the golden Steeds, 
 Soaring high on wings of splendour 
 Over sunbright seas and knolls, 
 And the whitely-foaming main, 
 And the dewy plains whose flowers 
 Glisten far from beauteous trees ; 
 Through Bavaria rich in wine, 
 Cattle, wheat, and pastures broad, 
 See the Three like meteors pass, 
 Fleeter than the car of triumph 
 Drawn by terror-snorting coursers : 
 Lightning clothes their rushing wings, 
 And the eagles scream in horror : 
 And the elements deep roaring, 
 Fire and Air and Water tremble, 
 And the thunder- wielding Spirits 
 Lowly kneel before the Imp 
 Cloven-footed and cock-feathered : 
 And the solemn stars grow dark. — 
 Now they pass the mountain vineyards, 
 And the gentle hymning waters, 
 And the Austrian plains below, 
 Emerald, brown, and red are seen ; 
 And the palaces and towers, 
 Churches, prisons, convents, forts : 
 Woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 They are wending, fleetly wending 
 To the dark and dread Abyss, 
 There to sit in night unending — 
 Onward, onward, Magic Steeds ! 
 
THE AIR* 95 
 
 Through the blest ambrosial heaven, 
 
 While the dews of song and music 
 
 Bathe my brows and throbbing temples, — 
 
 Flashes by a thunderbolt 
 
 Followed quick by cloud on cloud, 
 
 Black and horrid, gorged with night. 
 
 Hark ! the merry oaten pipe 
 
 Mounting upward with the songs 
 
 Of the lark from yonder lawns, 
 
 And the breathing fields enchant me 
 
 With the perfume that ascends. 
 
 See — below, the vine-clad hills, 
 
 Haunts beloved of sylvan Pan, 
 
 And the ocean fair and faithless 
 
 As its child fair Aphrodite. 
 
 Yonder woodlands crowned with oaks, 
 
 Yonder gardens swarming thick 
 
 In the May w T ith humming bees, 
 
 And the fountains, firs, and poplars, 
 
 Valleys, glens, and heathery mountains 
 
 Of the Styrian please me well ; 
 
 Fleecy herds and pastoral swains, 
 
 Goats milk- dropping, sheep and kine. 
 
 Onward still, my Steeds of wonder ! 
 
 Woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 
 They are wending, fleetly wending, 
 
 To the dark and drear Abyss, 
 
 There to sit in gloom unending. 
 
 Lo ! — the hoarsely-dashing Danube ; 
 
 Hungary is now beneath us, 
 
 Beauteous as a heavenly Muse 
 
 With immortal fillets crowned ; 
 
 Lovely child of shame and sorrow, 
 
 Where are thy great lion-souled ? 
 
 Roses sweeter than the breath 
 
 Of Cythere waft their fragrance 
 
 Upward through the amber air. 
 
96 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Grass grows on its streets and towers, 
 
 Desolation sits upon them. 
 
 Curses seize ye, bloody vultures ! 
 
 Leagued against the graceful fawn. 
 
 Trident-bearer, sitt'st thou moveless? 
 
 As a thunder-blasted oak, 
 
 May the fire of heaven fell ye, 
 
 Till ye totter headlong, hellward. 
 
 We have passed the Servian limits ; 
 
 Turbanned Turkey smiles beneath. 
 
 Fair as some eye-mocking Syren 
 
 Warbling to her ivory flute ; 
 
 And its spicy odours mount 
 
 The thin atmosphere around. 
 
 Lo ! the land renowned for horses, 
 
 Land of crescent, star, and cypress ! 
 
 Once thy soul burst like a war-steed 
 
 Fiercely to the battle-field ; 
 
 Now art thou a lordly lion 
 
 Tortured by a feeble kid . 
 
 Death and Terror float beside me, 
 
 And the Fates in mighty dance, 
 
 And my steeds, like wild sea-monsters, 
 
 Rush along the sounding air. 
 
 Whither, whither, are they flying ? 
 
 Whither bend the meteor-Three? 
 
 They are wending, fleetly wending, 
 
 To the dark and dead Abyss, 
 
 There to sit in chains unending. 
 
 Woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 
 As a cork is tossed and tossed 
 
 On the boiling water's rage, 
 
 So the fiery mist, cloud, thunder, 
 
 Flame, and tempest, hurl me fiercely 
 
 Through the elemental strife. 
 
 Onward, on, my panting Steeds ! 
 
 Onward through the howling heavens, 
 
THE ATR. 97 
 
 Now we pass the marble ocean, 
 
 Margined with steep hills and castles. 
 
 War's red dogs no more unleashed, 
 
 Rave and roar upon thy shores ; 
 
 Discord hides her bloody brand, 
 
 Murder doffs her robe of gore, 
 
 Havoc veils her crest of pride. 
 
 See the mountains lift their helms, 
 
 Dazzling sight with gleaming snow. 
 
 We are o'er the Asian realms, 
 
 Far and wide they stretch below ; 
 
 O thou lark, wild-singing lark, 
 
 Cloudland hermit pouring songs 
 To thy god, what dost thou here ? 
 Would'st thou reach the starry ramparts 
 Of the heaven ? Fare thee well ; 
 Thou art mounting still, and mounting 
 High o'er earth, sweet-chanting lark. 
 We are o'er Armenia's plains, 
 And the stellar-mantled rainbow, 
 Flashing far unnumbered splendours, 
 Spans the whirling orb beneath. 
 Rainbow, rainbow, take me heavenward, 
 Let me mount thy glittering arch, 
 And fly upward to the Sun. 
 Mist enclouds it — it is swallowed 
 Up in darkness, even as youth 
 By the monster jaws of Orcus. 
 Onward ! on, my Magic Steeds, 
 After these the meteor-Three. 
 Ah — they stop — they stay — they veil 
 In thick mist their shining brows ; 
 Woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 They are wending, fleetly wending, 
 To the black and cursed Abyss, 
 There to sit in fire unending, 
 
 H 
 
A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Woe is me ! woe is me! 
 
 Who are these ? infernal phantoms ; 
 
 Tortured spirits sent from hell ? 
 
 Ah ! what do they ? whom await they ? 
 
 Is this, then, the Sacred Mountain 
 
 Ararat ? — the Mount of Noe ? 
 
 Rest ye here, my sunbright Coursers, 
 
 Ye have better borne me hither 
 
 Than a witch's greasy broomstick, 
 
 Than the Dsedalsean pinions, 
 
 Or the fabled golden arrow. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 MOUNT ARARAT. 
 
 Abaddon and the Locusts. 
 
 gCfcafctlon. 
 
 Hilliho ! hilliho ! 
 
 Lo, the hour of noon approaches, 
 
 When Squire Voland folds his cattle 
 
 In the caves immense of Hades. 
 
 Hilliho ! hilliho ! 
 
 Mighty Locusts, ye who go 
 
 Without ceasing to and fro 
 
 O'er the wrinkled, blood-besprinkled, 
 
 Bread-and-butter-bard-betinkled, 
 
 Rusty, musty, fusty, dusty, 
 
 Face and form of Madam Terra. 
 
 Hilliho ! 
 
 Hilliho ! 
 
 Man-faced, horse-shaped, woman-haired, 
 
MOUNT ARARAT. 99 
 
 Lion-toothed, and scorpion-tailed, 
 
 Golden-crowned, sharp-stinging, winging, 
 
 Iron-breasted, smoke-spawned Locusts ! 
 
 Hilliho ! 
 
 Hilliho ! 
 
 East and West and North and South. 
 
 Hilliho ! 
 
 On this mystic spot your monarch 
 
 Takes his daily stand, awaiting 
 
 The due muster of his forces, 
 
 With the souls that bear imprinted 
 
 Satan's seal upon their foreheads. 
 
 Hillihoi 
 
 Hilliho ! 
 
 Bring them hither, high and low. 
 
 In five minutes more the trumpet 
 
 Of the Hours will noon proclaim ; 
 
 In five minutes more Sir Voland 
 
 Will be here in mist and flame ; 
 
 Cursing, swearing, shouting, fuming, 
 
 Million oaths from hell exhuming, 
 
 If he misses one of mine 
 
 Absent without leave or license. 
 
 Trust me, ere his lordship hies hence, 
 
 He will have him dragged before him, 
 
 Though ten thousand clouds hung o'er him ; 
 
 And will bang the hapless creature, 
 
 Body, bone, limb, tail, and feature, 
 
 Into softest gelatine. 
 
 Hilliho ! high and low, 
 
 To the Devil's raree-show ! 
 
 Homst. 
 Here's one whose religious maxim 
 You may read upon his wine-bag, 
 Sine Verier e et Baccho 
 Friget vita. 
 
100 
 
 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 %0 tMt. 
 
 Here's another, 
 Paunched like holy Father Luther. 
 
 locust. 
 Here's a renegade Franciscan, 
 With his spectacles on nose, 
 And with Judas-coloured eyes, 
 And with heart more black than Styx, 
 And with tongue more false than hell, 
 And with smile more foul than Cain's, 
 And with form more base than toad's, 
 Father Frank Sylvester Proteus, 
 Full of tricks and lewd grimaces, 
 As a monkey when he's wooing ; 
 He was once an authorling, 
 Till his papers grew so fcecal, 
 Not a decent butter-seller, 
 Ragman, or tobacco-vender, 
 Would disgrace himself by buying 
 Them for wrapping up his ha'porths. 
 
 3Loru8t 
 Here's a crowd, all tongue, no brains, — 
 France's most admired riff-raff. 
 
 %otmt 
 Here's a mighty lord of Spain's 
 Best noblesse, but worthless chaff. 
 
 iLomst 
 The sun gleams on the mountain's shoulders, 
 The serpents hiss, the lions roar, 
 But here's a troop of female scolders, 
 More desperate to their hapless holders, 
 Than fire, or fang, or tusk that thirsts for human gore. 
 
MOUNT ARARAT. 101 
 
 locust 
 Here's a miser, a monk, a blasphemer, all drunk, 
 A black-bearded dragoon and a Cadi ; 
 Here's a patriot quite willing to sell for one shilling 
 His soul to my lord or my lady. 
 
 locust 
 Here's a big-bellied friar, a scarlet-faced liar, 
 A shrew, and a parliament member ; 
 A justice of peace, who, for turkeys and geese, 
 Did injustice from March to December. 
 
 locust 
 Here's a dandj^, a bishop, a wench who cried fish up, 
 A trollop, a trull, and a trimmer, 
 A rabbi, a mufti, a dean so pride-puft he 
 Quite stinks, and a famed fogle-nimmer 
 
 locust 
 Here's a soldier all gashes, whose face bullets flashes, 
 And a nun, but I swear no man kist her ; 
 Here's a bull-dog faced judge, whose decisions were 
 
 fudge, 
 And a quaker who died of a clyster. 
 
 locust 
 Here are Kalmucks from Ural, who robbed in the 
 
 plural, 
 And prayed in the singular number ; 
 Heine's a tinker, a tailor, a duke, and a sailor, 
 Who tumbled dead drunk in the Humber. 
 
 locust 
 Here's a batch of assassins, and makers of fascines, 
 Grenades, bayonets, rockets, and bullets ; 
 Here's a flock of physicians, a mob of patricians, 
 Who lived but for stuffing their gullets. 
 
102 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 3L0Ctt8t 
 
 Here are judges in ermine, and breeders of vermin, 
 False witnesses, thieves, and field-preachers ; 
 Ten swindling stock-brokers, a score of dull jokers, 
 And dandies with paint on their features. 
 
 %otMt. 
 Here are mollahs from Turkey, with faces all murky, 
 And beards full as black as their vices ; 
 Here are tea-table tabbies, and six Hebrew Rabbis, 
 Who need to be wrapped up in spices. 
 
 iLotust 
 Here's a prince of high station, all rank affectation, 
 With negroes from Freedom's own land, 
 By the stripes on their backs, you can see what fine 
 
 thwacks 
 Have been laid on their cuticles tanned. 
 
 ILomst. 
 Here's a gambler, a bully, a surgeon, a cully, 
 A lawyer, a hangman, a Brahmin ; 
 A critic, a juggler, a quean and a smuggler, 
 And one who grew rich by a famine. 
 
 Ho mat. 
 Here's a parson who curst till his jugular burst, 
 And a vintner who watered his liquors ; 
 Here's a lodging-house keeper, who robbed every 
 
 sleeper, 
 And hated your mere pocket-pickers. 
 
 3Lomst. 
 Here's a merchant from Holland, a pretty French doll ? 
 
 and 
 A blubber-fed beauty from Iceland, 
 
MOUNT ARARAT. 103 
 
 A princess from Russia, an old drab from Prussia, — 
 All emigrants bound for our nice land. 
 
 ICotttBt. 
 Here's a spark of high quality all hospitality, 
 Famous for wines and fine dinners ; 
 I brought him away from a festival gay, 
 Where I saw many saints who were sinners. 
 
 THotwt. 
 Here's a wise politician, who thought the condition 
 Of that fickle rascal the people 
 
 Demanded improvement. He joined a grand movement, 
 And hanged was as high as the steeple. 
 
 Xocttst. 
 Here's a beauteous coquette, so fantastic e'en yet, 
 That she almost made love to black Locust ; 
 But I frown'd her to silence some five thousand mile 
 
 hence, 
 And swore Fd not be hocus-pocussed. 
 
 IContst. 
 
 Here's a booby from Pindus, a poet from Indus, 
 With Cherokees, Chickasaws, Chocktaws ; 
 A sack full of fanquis, a bag full of Yankees 
 From cities whose names give one lock-jaws. 
 
 %otmU 
 Here's an impudent merryman, food for the ferryman 
 Charon, who glowers on brisk passengers ; 
 And here's a new journalist, swears the infernalest 
 Plays are Ben's, Shakspere's, and Massinger's. 
 
 %otmt. 
 
 Here's a crate full of Japanese, who thought 'twas hap- 
 piness 
 Last night to rip up their bellies, 
 
104 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 To honour some grandees who tippled their brandies, 
 And swallowed their puddings and jellies. 
 
 %atmt 
 Here's a crowd of Dominicans, swindlers, and finikins, 
 Smelling of perfumes profusely ; 
 Here's a ton of nuns' flesh, neither juicy nor fresh, 
 Whose owners lived rather too loosely. 
 
 %otmt 
 Here's a party of gluttons, all pig-brains or muttons, 
 A rabble of foul fustilarians ; 
 
 Twelve monks of St. Francis, a deacon who dances, 
 And ninety-nine Anythingarians. 
 
 <£!)ortts. 
 So here we are mustered ; our governor blustered 
 At twelve o'clock yesterday awfully ; 
 But he'll surely not blame us, our freight is so famous 
 Of mortals who've revelled unlawfully. 
 
 Gentlemen, thanks, I like such punctuality ; 
 I see you've got a famous spirit-cargo ; 
 The Fates be praised, we need not very far go, 
 To introduce them to complete sodality 
 With Cerberus and Pluto. 'Faith, they seem 
 Rare samples of the earth's most vile rascality. 
 So much the better and the worse. The dream 
 Of filth in which they passed their lives away 
 Is gone for ever. Henceforth my embargo 
 Is on their worships. We must off to Hell ; 
 Time presses ; I have been this hour detained 
 With an old gentleman whom life enchained 
 Longer than I expected. No delay 
 Is needed now ; see Hermes and the stranger 
 Waiting for us apart. Old bald-pate knows not 
 
HEAVEN. 105 
 
 As yet the gentleman with whom he travels, 
 Nor shall he till the time arrives. Too soon 
 By several hours for him, or much I err. 
 At present he believes he's out of danger, 
 And hops, as hops the sun on Easter-day ;— 
 So — so — immerse them in this thunder-cloud, 
 And guard them well ; each visible to each, 
 In any shape that will the senses mock 
 With hopes fallacious. So, good-bye, Abaddon ; 
 I'll tell Lord Satan something that will serve you, 
 And raise you higher in his sovran favour. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 The Elohim. In the distance the Soxs of God. 
 
 Zfyt jFtrst 9lrd)angel 
 Lord ! who art our Lord, perfection's splendour, 
 
 We bow before thy thrones of cloud and fire ; 
 To Thee, whose footstool are the heavens, we render 
 
 The joy and worship that our hearts inspire. 
 As leap the rills from the eternal mountains, 
 
 As the streams seek the ever-flowing sea, 
 As runs the fawn to the bright cooling fountains, 
 
 So turn our fainting spirits still to Thee. 
 
 Wfyt Senmtr ^rrfjangel. 
 Thcu hast thy chambers in the Vast Unbounded, 
 
 Thine are the Keys of Life and Death and Hell ; 
 The myriad stars on which thy thrones are founded, 
 
 And the sun's daily songs thy glories tell. 
 Thou gavest the moon her seasons, to the ocean 
 
 Thou didst assign the bounds that chain its might ; 
 Strength to the thunders, to the lightnings motion, 
 
 Flowers to the earth, and to the planets light. 
 
106 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 At thy command the lordly sun upriseth, 
 
 Quick at thy bidding the fierce storms grow tame ; 
 Thou speak'st — an earthquake follows — death chastiseth 
 
 The impious scoffers of thine hallowed name. 
 Yet gently as a hen her chicks will gather 
 
 Beneath her folding wings of love and care, 
 Dost thou the Ancient and All Loving Father 
 
 Thy prodigal children in thy mercy spare. 
 
 ©fjortts of Angels. 
 How shall our faltering tongues declare thy praises? 
 
 How shall we hymn the gladness of thy ways? 
 Language and music yield not tones or phrases 
 
 Worthy of Thee, the Ancient One of Days. 
 Read in our inmost souls the unbounded treasure 
 
 Of faith, obedience, reverence, love, and awe; 
 And make our duty form our greatest pleasure 
 
 While humbly walking in thy Holy Law. 
 
 O Lord, thou art our Lord ; behold, before Thee 
 
 The Darkness and the Elements bow down, 
 The lightnings lick thy footstool and adore Thee, 
 
 The whirlwinds shudder in thine awful frown ; 
 Yet girt with power, unbounded and eternal, 
 
 Thou dost not spurn the humblest, lowliest rite : 
 But seest with equal eyes of love paternal, 
 
 The monarch's offering and the widow's mite. 
 
 &lje ®J)tr£r &rtf)anpl 
 The kings and lords of earth whose proud dominion 
 
 Spreads over empires, oceans, peoples vast, 
 Are weak against Thee as a sparrow's pinion 
 
 Against the fierce and headlong thunder-blast. 
 Yet breathes no slave of theirs — the feeblest, weakest, 
 
 And most despised, who shares not in thy love ; 
 
HEAVEN. 107 
 
 There is no outrage practised on the meekest, 
 That arms not heavenly vengeance from above. 
 
 Chorus of Angels. 
 Lord, 'tis for this thy justice that we bless Thee, 
 
 For this we bend in love before thy throne ; 
 For this that all created things confess Thee, 
 
 True Sovereign Power, in earths and heavens Alone. 
 Smile on thy sons, that, clothed in thy protection, 
 
 Before thy heavenly glance we still may shine, 
 Secure from evil in the pure affection 
 
 That emanates from Thee, the One Divine. 
 
 Sxtttfjtn. 
 Lord ! wilt thou hear the lowliest of thy servants, 
 Prostrate before the footstool of thy thrones ? 
 
 £fje ©lofjtm. 
 What wouldest thou, Margaret? 
 
 <&xt\t$txx. 
 
 Mercy, mercy, mercy ! 
 
 &f)e ®loi)im. 
 Hast thou not had it, Margaret, else why here ? 
 
 <&Tt\tty\x. 
 Not for myself, I ask it, but for him. 
 
 &ty CMofjtm. 
 Thou meanest my servant Goethe, whom even now 
 The Spirit of Death hath loosed from earth. 
 
 (frretrijen. 
 
 I do. 
 £fce €MoJ)tro. 
 
 He hath not done the mission that I gave him ; 
 He bowed his soul to human lusts — and died. 
 Who spares the wicked wrongs the man that's just. 
 
108 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 <&xttti)tn. 
 Alas ! the Tempter is too strong for Man. 
 
 ftp €£lof)(m. 
 Man may subdue the Tempter if he will ; 
 The Soul he had was equal to the task. 
 
 (totdjen. 
 Lord ! I did love him — for my sake have mercy ; 
 Or if thou wilt not, join my soul to his ; 
 Where'er its destined home may be I care not. 
 
 Is, then, thy love so strong? 
 
 Alas ! it is ; 
 I never felt in heaven while Goethe lived ; 
 But still I cherished hope that time and change 
 Might make him worthy of Almighty mercy ; 
 And so I dreamed, and dreamed that we should meet : 
 But now that dream is gone — he is condemned, 
 And I am lonely even here in heaven. 
 
 Margaret, this man forgot — deserted thee. 
 
 Srettjen. 
 No — not forgot ; I know he did desert me ; 
 The pride and vanity of his high place 
 Raised him above me ; but I know that still 
 I dwelt within his innermost heart and soul. 
 Forget me ! — no — he never could forget me. 
 
 What ! if I took thee at thy word, and sent thee 
 Down to deep hell ? 
 
HEAVEN. 109 
 
 (&retci)0tt. 
 
 Not hell if he be there ; 
 Where'er he be to me can ne'er be hell. 
 Place me but by his side, and I am blest ; 
 Let me but look upon him once again, 
 And whisper to his soul one little word 
 Of the undying love I feel for him, 
 And then do with me as thou wilt, for never 
 Can I be happy while he sits in sorrow, 
 What ! shall that noble soul that so loved Nature 
 Perish because it erred as Man must err ? 
 What ! shall that thought divine that loved all Beauty 
 Die for the transient errors of an hour? 
 What if he did not give bis life for Men, 
 Did he not make his soul a thing of majesty 
 By contemplation of thy wond'rous worlds ? 
 The glory of the Universe, the splendour 
 Clothing Creation in ineffable grandeur ; 
 The innumerous spheres of life and light and order, 
 Stars, planets, suns, shining, advancing onward 
 Beyond the grasp of thought through boundless space ; 
 The wond'rous word Eternity, that runs 
 Backward for million centuries of Aions, 
 And forward — forward — forward — forward still, 
 Until the soul, in speculation lost, 
 Returns to God the Maker — and repose ; 
 The magical dream of woods, the virgin morn 
 Lighting the shades with loveliness ; the bees 
 Humming o'er flowers, or by the sylvan springs 
 Whirling in silver circles ; May -day hours, 
 Whose innocent eyes shed spring and sunshine round ; 
 The gentle whispers of the breathing air, 
 The unseen lyres that breathe from forest trees, 
 The meadows with fresh roses gaily prankt, 
 The sheep-bells' tinkling, the deep silent vales, 
 The wild goat browsing on the mountain's side, 
 
110 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The torrent tumbling down the rocks, the pine 
 
 Waving its green head in the spectral wind, 
 
 The pale stars mirrored on the woodland brook, 
 
 The moonlight streaming through the diamond lattice, 
 
 The lordly eagle's scream, the birds' blithe songs, 
 
 The proud tall yew trees tranquil in their beauty, 
 
 The starry-wimpled skies, the nymphal winds 
 
 That o'er the flowers with printless footsteps dance, 
 
 Nor brush away the dews ; the rustling leaves 
 
 In summer-time, when flute-like airs are breathing 
 
 Kisses amid the boughs ; the shepherd's pipe, 
 
 Whose music woke the startled forest Echoes 
 
 In their green bowers of shade; the murmuring stream, 
 
 Soft as the song-like laughter of a child ; 
 
 The swallow skimming round her covert nest, 
 
 The hawthorn's flowers of snow : — to sights and sounds 
 
 And things like these he gave his thoughts, — in these 
 
 He found the happiness for w r hich he sighed ; 
 
 In loving these, he loved and worshipped Thee ; 
 
 And thus he grew inured to high desires 
 
 And aspirations such as Poets feel 
 
 When soaring high in Fancy's boundless worlds. 
 
 Oh, must a soul divine as this be lost ? 
 
 I will not punish thee for this despair ; 
 How can I punish thee for loving well ? 
 But go — and if thou canst, persuade the Judge 
 Before whose seat he stands to pardon him 
 (For I have long resigned what claim I had 
 On his immortal spirit, and have yielded 
 Him up entirely to the Gods he served). 
 The time may come, after purgation done, 
 When he may yet rejoin thy soul in heaven. 
 
 GRETCHEN^itfS off. 
 
 How wond'rous in its strength is woman's love ! 
 Through the long years since Margaret's spirit left 
 
HEAVEN. Ill 
 
 The earth, and dwelt in that blest sphere of light 
 
 To which her beautiful life of virtue led, 
 
 Fve watched her well, and saw how much she pined 
 
 For him who was not worthy of her truth. 
 
 He in his pride of place despised the girl, 
 
 For which I made his heart grow hard and cold 
 
 As marble, till it felt no sympathy 
 
 With any thing on earth, and thus he grew 
 
 Wretched, as all unsympathising hearts 
 
 Must ever be. — How say ye, Sons of God ! 
 
 Hath she done well to pardon and pray thus ? 
 
 £ije Sons of (£o&. 
 She hath. 
 
 Satan (on the right of the Thrones), 
 I did not think so, Brethren — no ; 
 The woman is a fool, as all her sex 
 Have ever been since God with mighty arm 
 Laid the foundations of the world for man ; 
 To pluck such brands from hell's hot belly argues 
 A mean and crawling spirit. — Yet I think 
 My lieutenant Mephistopheles a match 
 For all the arguments with which she'll tease 
 The hapless judge of Hades. — We shall see 
 Who wins. 
 
 Zty Sons of <&ob. 
 
 Behold, she stands by him already ; 
 Her angel soul illumes the black abyss 
 With rays celestial in their purity, 
 And the dusk Shadows gaze on her with wonder 
 Mingled with awe, but cannot hurt, for, lo ! 
 The snowy armour of pure innocence 
 In which she- always walked protects her now. 
 Blest and successful be her mission thither, 
 While we, rejoicing in the Father's love, 
 Chant a new hymn amid the heavenly realms. 
 
 Heaven closes. 
 
112 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 SPACE. 
 
 Mephistopheles, Hermes, and Goethe flying rapidly along. 
 A Troop of weird-like Shapes and Spirits before, around, 
 and after them. Distant thunder. 
 
 Onward still, and ever onward, 
 Like three shooting stars, we go ; 
 Space around us — space beyond us, 
 Space above, and space below. 
 
 Vermes. 
 Yonder swings the globe : how little 
 Seems that deity of man ! 
 Hardly even its loftiest mountain 
 From this distance can we scan. 
 
 (froetfje. 
 Brighter, bolder grows my spirit 
 Since it left its mortal mould ; 
 This is the true sphere of freedom 
 I so panted to behold. 
 
 Who that gazes on that fragment, 
 Like a mote in broad blue space, 
 E'er would dream that for its atoms 
 Hate should move the human race ? 
 
 Lo ! for this the conqueror murthers, 
 Despots slaughter, robbers slay, 
 Statesmen perjure, virgins sell them 
 To the spoiler day by day. 
 
SPACE. 113 
 
 d&oeti)*. 
 Fraud and slander, lust and lying, 
 Theft and cheating, base deceit, 
 Falsehood, blasphemy, and bloodshed, 
 Give its tiny mites their meat. 
 
 There the rank and lewd seducer 
 From the mother buys the child ; 
 There the felon smiling husband 
 Sells and sees his wife defiled. 
 
 Vermes. 
 There the bloodhound priest of Error 
 Prays and preaches plague and pest, 
 Shooting falsehood's venomed arrows, 
 Till they poison every breast. 
 
 There the strutting pigmy princeling, 
 Thinks mankind his slave and tool, 
 Eobs, oppresses, smites down thousands, 
 And they let him ! — which is fool? 
 
 There the black and viperish lawyer, 
 Robs, protected by King Law ; 
 Widows, orphans, men, and infants, 
 Daily fill his dragon maw. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 There the monied man grown fetid 
 With the pride of wealth and state, 
 Thanks his God so many people 
 Yearly starve to make him great. 
 
 i 
 
114 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 There the fat adulterous courtier 
 Daily whores his very soul, 
 That some dozen knaves may see him 
 In a gilded chariot roll. 
 
 There the fawning false physician, 
 Hired to stay his friend's disease, 
 Gives him poisons to increase it, 
 That he may increase his fees. 
 
 Vermes. 
 There the staid and portly merchant 
 Cheats and lies in myriad ways ; 
 Cent per cent by trick ; — on Sunday 
 See how piously he prays. 
 
 £koett)e. 
 There the mitred saintly prelate 
 Preaches meekly to the town ; 
 Step behind the scenes, and see him 
 Knock a starving curate down. 
 
 J$*pSfstopf)*tos. 
 
 There the gross and greasy glutton 
 Spends on one luxurious feast, 
 What would keep a wise poor scholar 
 For a twelvemonth at the least. 
 
 Vermes. 
 There the grey and rat-like miser 
 Squeezes from the poor their all, 
 That his heir may spend it gaily 
 On a harlot, pimp, and brawl. 
 
SPACE. 115 
 
 There the parasite who spaniels 
 At some beastly rich man's knees, 
 Swears that in his lord and master 
 God personified he sees. 
 
 f*Upi)fstop!)elns. 
 
 There the empty perfumed dandy 
 Finds in his sweet monkey air 
 Graces that might make a seraph 
 Clothed in heavenly light despair. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 There the false and filthy-hearted 
 Swears affection, faith, and truth ; 
 Look within — you see a scorpion 
 With false eye and deadly tooth. 
 
 Goetfje. 
 
 There the judge, who should be honest, 
 Makes the very devils blush, 
 That his son may have another 
 Footman clothed in lace and plush. 
 
 J^tqjgtstopSeUs. 
 
 There the venal cut-throat soldier 
 Struts in purple and brocade, 
 Gold and silver — people never 
 Think that murder is his trade. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 There the scorpion-tongue of woman 
 Stings the life of life to death ; 
 Honour, modesty, and virtue, 
 Wither in her poisonous breath. 
 
116 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 <&0tfyt. 
 
 There the slanderous slime of envy 
 Slavers all that's good and true ; 
 More are done to death by falsehood, 
 Than the plague-spot ever slew. 
 
 Jftepin'stopjeles. 
 
 What a very curious fancy 
 Made the Gods create mankind ! 
 For what purpose, earthly, heavenly, 
 Could the knaves have been designed ? 
 
 5§^rm*s. 
 
 Some say men are merely demons, 
 Sent for torture to the earth ; 
 Others think them speaking ourans, 
 Made to yield the immortals mirth. 
 
 Men and monkeys merely differ 
 In the faculty of speech ; 
 Though I think we might be better, 
 If each were not wolf to each. 
 
 Onward still, and ever onward, 
 Like three shooting stars of light ; 
 Through the blue empyrean heaven, 
 Have we made our magic flight. 
 
 Vermes. 
 
 Nearer, nearer, still and nearer, 
 We approach the wond'rous goal. 
 Where the judgment-seat of Pluto 
 Stands and awes the guilty soul. 
 
THE WORLD OF FAERIE. 117 
 
 <&0ttf)t. 
 
 Ha ! what horror makes me tremble ? 
 What new fear — what place is this ? 
 Liar, traitor, now I know thee — 
 
 ( Who having thrown off his disguise, appears again as Devil.) 
 This is Pluto's Bower of Bliss ! 
 
 Scene X. 
 THE WORLD OF FAERIE. 
 
 Weep, weep for the fallen spirit, 
 
 Who bowed to the beauty of clay ; 
 Who, destined to soar through the splendours of heaven, 
 
 Crouched down like a beast in the way. 
 
 Jiecfcs. 
 Woe, woe for the erring spirit, 
 
 Our gold harps are tuned unto woe ; 
 From our emerald caves in the foaming waves 
 
 We weep, while the sad winds blow. 
 
 JStnimttarl. 
 Waken the voice of the golden viol, 
 
 Breathing the soul of sorrow and shame ; 
 Curse on the. demons of dark denial, 
 
 Bliss to the Spirit who weeping came. 
 
 &!)£ &r>ltoftf) &eg. 
 Weep, lonely hills ; lament, enchanted waters, 
 Break into tears upon the silent shore ; 
 
118 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Tell to our bright-eyed sisters, wives, and daughters, 
 The Heaven-souled is no more. 
 
 Oh, were it ours to bear thee, and enthrone thee, 
 Chief in the diamond halls and emerald domes, 
 
 Far in the Cymric mountains, midst the gardens, 
 Fruits, flowers, and music of our raptured homes. 
 
 &roto8. 
 To the deep ocean dells the blast of thunder 
 
 Sank, while it howled the Doomed One's fatal fall ; 
 Through the crystalline elements the lightning 
 
 Flashed, while it sighed, and in that sigh told all. 
 
 Splendid halls and golden mansions, 
 
 Ye have gloomy grown as night ; 
 Since the flame-clothed soul of heaven 
 
 Sought the Dark, and left the Light. 
 
 We rode through the air on our fleet white steeds, 
 
 While music and light and song 
 Shed flower-sweet dews of beauty around 
 
 The least of our gleesome throng. 
 But the AngePs sorrowful, saddening strain, 
 
 Smote us in full career ; 
 And its tone of wild reproach and pain 
 
 Still rings in each heart and ear. 
 
 28rotom>. 
 My new cloak and hood, 
 
 My honeycomb and cream, 
 My old tree in the wood, 
 
 Beside the singing stream. — 
 Gladly would I give 
 
 Each of ye and all, 
 To save the mighty Master, 
 
 Lest evil him befal. 
 
THE WORLD OF FAERIE. 119 
 
 Lament, lament, shape-haunted towers that crown 
 
 The bacchant Rhine : 
 Lament, lament, grey clouds that wistly frown 
 
 Over its dells divine, 
 
 Of Undine, Sprite, and Fay ; 
 The saddening sunset of so fair a day. 
 
 Bun-gars. 
 Night gathers round the mountains, stars are peeping 
 
 From the blue vault, the birds are rocked in dream ; 
 We forge gold armour for the knightly-hearted, 
 
 But none for him who mocks the Gods supreme. 
 
 ®fcrr. 
 Death hath seized him, Sister Nornir. 
 
 Fmf)an&t. 
 And he stands before the Judger. 
 
 £fettll&. 
 But the doom is not eternal. 
 
 J^lorgue la §zvt. 
 
 Avalon ! fair Avalon ! 
 
 Thy lodestar walls and vales of light 
 That gleam for ever, pure and bright, 
 Since Enoch and Elias shone 
 Within thy tower s, fair Avalon ; 
 Gladly to thee I would have borne 
 Upon the wings of dove-eyed morn 
 The prophet soul, fair Avalon. 
 The hour is past, my tears are vain, 
 
 1 dare not, if I would, complain. 
 
 Ah, me, my hopes are dead and gone, 
 O Avalon, fair Avalon ! 
 
120 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 €^lbe 33£mgs». 
 
 Over the sea in our black-horsed chariots, 
 Trampling in spray its foaming billows, 
 Terrible Elve Kings whirl like lightning 
 Into our forests of living elder ; 
 Summon our soldiers changed by faerie, — 
 Follow the demon who enthrals him. 
 
 drolls. 
 Hide on the lay, and not on the clay, 
 
 On, ye dragons, that guard our gold ; 
 A ransom of kings to the Troll that brings 
 
 The spirit of him now dead and cold. 
 
 On from fair-hilled, pleasant Ireland, 
 Grassy lawns, and lakes of foliage, 
 Sacred mountains, warbling valleys, 
 
 Hasten to the minstrel's grave. 
 Breathe the hymn of spotless sorrow 
 Over him whose stately harp-strings 
 Sang the fallen Queen of kingdoms, 
 
 Prostrate, trampled, chained, — a slave. 
 
 Uch ! och on ! och on ! he dies, 
 The star of life wanes from his eyes, 
 The bloom of hope fades, falls, and flies, 
 
 And all is dark within. 
 The angels bright and amber-tressed 
 That round him wept, and scared unblest 
 And glimmering phantoms from his rest, 
 
 Have left the haunts of sin. 
 Uch ! och on ! och on ! he dies, 
 A star of light hath left the skies* 
 
 And I am sad and lone. 
 
THE WORLD OF FAERIE. 121 
 
 Gailtcena. 
 
 He hath perished as should perish 
 All who leave the heavenly shrines 
 
 Of celestial Truth and Beauty 
 For the ordure of the mines. 
 
 Gorica. 
 Up and away, my merry men all, 
 
 Up and away to the dance of stones ; 
 And merry to-night shall our meeting be 
 
 In the music of angel moans. 
 
 ©ourtls. 
 Up and away in the twilight gray, 
 
 To the Couril dance which no maid comes near ; 
 And sing ye the Devil's vesper lay, 
 
 And gallop around Old Bogie's bier. 
 
 Tu-whit, to-whoo tu-whit, to-whoo 
 
 So sings to the moon the horned owl ; 
 
 So singeth Sir Voland, 
 
 When some soul and 
 
 Body fall into his fingers foul. 
 
 £nts. 
 Soul of the Poet ! art thou then departed ? 
 Would I were near to shroud thee in my mantle, 
 Ere into darkness and its monsters hurled. 
 
 JftottacteUo. 
 We merry monkitos, who dwell in the woods, 
 With plenty of money and plenty of goods, 
 Though we often shew stores of gold treasure to people, 
 Which make them the tables of Moses to keep ill, 
 Ne'er light on fat windfalls of souls, such as now 
 
12*2 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Mephisto bears off in his budget, I vow. 
 
 O Italy, Italy, hast thou no poet 
 
 For me to play waggery on — and to shew it ? 
 
 Brt&e of ©orintf). 
 From tottering fanes, and woods of olive, 
 
 That sleep beneath the gentle moon ; 
 And from the wimpling waves of Corinth, 
 
 That softly hymn like sweet kanoon ; 
 The Bride of ancient rhyme and fable 
 
 Floats through the breathless air in tears ; 
 Flings o'er thy pall and mouldering grandeur 
 
 Fair faded flowers — and disappears. 
 
 Like an Archangel exiled for dark crimes, 
 
 His spirit walked the earth in scorn and gloom, 
 
 And where it smote, it smote like the Simoom, 
 
 Deadly though beautiful. Yet there were times 
 
 When his great soul shone out upon the world 
 
 In all the primal glory of her light, 
 
 Ere from her starry throne to darkness hurled. 
 
 His songs were sweet remembrances of heaven, 
 
 Dashed with the scoffing spirit of Sin and Night, 
 
 In which he sate, and lived, and moved. Yet even 
 
 In his most mocking moments you could trace 
 
 The beauty of the seraph, and the grace 
 
 Which once beamed round him. Ruin could not blight, 
 
 Nor Sin the original marks of angel-birth efface. 
 
 jFate. 
 From Demogorgon's palaces of wonder, 
 Deep in the Indian mountains, we have flown, 
 Drawn by the wild and melancholy moan 
 Chanted by angels, till the rocks asunder, 
 And the deep ocean chasms, were cleft in twain ; 
 We come, alas ! to find our flight was vain ; — 
 
THE WORLD OF FAERIE. 123 
 
 The Olyinpic-soul'd is gone ; the sun is set, 
 The earth with heaven's clearest showers is wet ; 
 O Soul ! O Sun ! O Might ! alas ! alas ! 
 Thy life is done. 
 
 IBracs. 
 
 As glide these waters, so glides life away, 
 
 These seek the ocean, this the eternal goal, 
 
 And both absorbed, are lost in their new sphere ; — 
 
 Poor waves ! poor human kind ! thrice happy they 
 
 Who bear no stains imprinted on the soul, 
 
 But yield it back to heaven, bright, pure, sincere. 
 
 jFa&as. 
 The golden fountains of his being dried, 
 The fiat passed — the Ancient Minstrel died ; 
 Did good preponderate, or evil deed ? 
 What the ripe fruits from such a mighty seed ? 
 Only is known unto The One above, 
 Who tempers justice with unbounded love. 
 
 From the womb of morning we, 
 On the airy sunbeams flee ; 
 
 Is the mighty Master dead ? 
 
 Rests he in the narrow bed ? — 
 All on Earth is vanity. 
 
 £tt!Ie=Foife. 
 Like the beam of emeralds, gems, and rubies, 
 Is the light of him who walks with virgin Truth ; 
 Like the poisoned slime of snakes and adders, 
 Is the soul of him who leaves her in his youth. 
 
 But what will become of his Guardian Angel ? 
 What will the Gods bestow on her ? 
 Will they change her to stone, 
 
124 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Body and bone, 
 
 And leave her alone ; 
 
 As they did to the Angel they set over Adam, 
 
 Who slept while The Snake was a -tempting poor 
 
 Madam ? 
 Ho, ho — ho, ho, 
 The Kobolds will know. 
 We'll find out what happens above or below. 
 
 J^la^tfeeen. 
 Weep not, oh, weep not the immortal parted, 
 Truth will redeem him in the fitting moment ; 
 For lives like his are twain, the out and inner ; 
 Not by the first, but by the last God judges. 
 
 fortunes. 
 O winds, could you waft us a flaggon of ale, 
 Stout English ale ; 
 
 You'd surely do better than howl as you're howling 
 The Old One whom idly you weep for and wail, — 
 Go bring us the flavour of English ale. 
 
 $%t OTfn'te Xatig. 
 In the harp's rich music floating, 
 
 From the ruined halls of eld, 
 Take these laurels green, denoting 
 
 Fame, for which thy bosom swelled. 
 Ah ! the gift is vain and thankless, 
 
 Life and all its gauds have passed, 
 And the Worldly-souled, whose Aden 
 
 Was of earth, is earthward cast. 
 
 $araa. 
 
 Like the white lily of the field he flowered, 
 The wind passed over, and the flower lay dead. 
 
 Ftlas. 
 Or like the purple rose in light embowered, 
 Fierce blew the storm, and all its splendours fled. 
 
THE WORLD OF FAERIE. 125 
 
 eUe-fl-tatirms. 
 The mountain-rushing winds, they sweep 
 
 Along the swanlike sea ; 
 The sea-nymphs o'er the sounding deep 
 
 Wake lonely minstrelsy. 
 Away — away to join the choirs 
 
 Of silver-glancing light, 
 Beneath the Moon, whose vestal fires 
 
 Invoke the elfin rite. 
 
 e&il&^jFrattrn. 
 Ululu! Ululu! Ululu! Ululu ! 
 Sad is his doom, 
 On earth or in tomb, 
 Who lives but for self, 
 And riots in pelf ; 
 
 Gloomy his passage, despairing his knell, 
 He roosts in the fire-ensnaked trees of deep Hell, 
 Ululu! Ululu! Ululu! Ululu! 
 Ride, ride — sisters, ride 
 Wildly over the land and tide, 
 Screaming aloud in choral crowd, 
 Ululu! Ululu! Ululu! O! 
 
 Merrily sing, little Men of the Hills, 
 
 Merrily laugh and sing, 
 
 The scoffer, the mocker, the man of the world, 
 
 Whose lip at the old dreams of soul ever curled, 
 
 Lies low in the shroud, like a poor sunless cloud — 
 
 And oh ! by King Ob, 'tis a laughable thing. 
 
 iSttsalfu. 
 Hearken, sweet sisters, 'tis the voice of death 
 Wandering in sighs upon the lonely heath ; 
 Away, away to yonder sparkling rills, 
 Melting in music from the azure hills, 
 
126 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And chant a chorus full of strange, sad woe 
 Over the light-eclipsed that sleeps below. 
 
 ©lurtcauna. 
 In faith it were better to sing to the streams 
 Than to listen to screams, 
 Qr bother our beautiful noddles with dreams. 
 The arrow is sped, and the Minstrel is dead ; 
 Then away to our own island lakes, 
 And list to the song of the thrush in the brakes, 
 Who melody wakes, 
 
 When the cold chain of silence hangs o'er 
 The fair Child of Genius no more. 
 
 Scene XI. 
 THE MARKET-PLACE AT WEIMAR. 
 
 Townsman and Countryman meeting. 
 
 Sohmsman. 
 Good morrow, neighbour! any news to-day ? 
 How go the crops, and how is Madam Plitt ? 
 
 ©otmtrgman. 
 The crops are middling, and my wife is well ; 
 The only news that stirs is, he is dead. 
 
 &ofcmsman. 
 What, dead at last ! he lived a merry time ; 
 I do remember him these forty years, 
 A pleasant gentleman, who loved to have 
 His will above all things ; I'm sorry for him ; 
 His name brought many to our town who never 
 Would have come here to spend their English gold 
 Had he not lived among us. 'Tis a loss 
 
THE MARKET-PLACE AT WEIMAR. 1*27 
 
 To be lamented. We shall see no more 
 Those everlasting Wandering Jews ; I mean, 
 The travelling English, who're so rich, 'tis said 
 They eat bank-notes for dinner, and would drink 
 For breakfast molten guineas, if their throats 
 And lard-lined stomachs could endure the draught. 
 Certes, I'm very sorry that he's dead. 
 
 CTotmirgmau. 
 
 And so am I, the visitors were rare 
 And generous customers, flinging cash like chaff 
 Among us farmers ; paying us for eggs, 
 Cheese, cream, and butter fifty times as much 
 As the Grand Duke gives in his happiest moods. 
 'Tis a great loss to all the world indeed. 
 
 Cotonsmatt. 
 Not that the man himself was much to speak of; 
 He never gave a pfennig, I'll be bound, 
 To any man that wanted it. 
 
 ©ountrgman. 
 
 Gadzooks ! 
 And so he never did ; he talked most finely, 
 As I've been told ; but deeds not words for me. 
 
 Cotonstnan. 
 No doubt he'll have a very splendid funeral. 
 
 Countrrman. 
 They say he will, but for my part I think 
 'Twere better to give the poor the cash 'twill cost, 
 Than waste it on a carcass useless now. 
 
 Coforcgman. 
 And how is Jack, and Martin, and small Fritz ? 
 Come, shall we have a bottle of brown beer? 
 When will they bury him ? We'll see the show. 
 The beer thev bottle here is excellent. 
 
128 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 ©ountrgman 
 I know it. We shall have a crust of bread 
 And cheese. A terrible loss to all the world. — 
 Get me a pipe, I long to have a smoke. 
 
 ^Fohmsman. 
 What a great loss he is ! And how are oats 
 To-day ? You'll buy a riband for your wife. 
 
 13aUa&*&Cttger. 
 A choice new song of Cupid. — Buy, sirs, buy. 
 
 Sings, 
 
 A fair lady once with her young lover walked, 
 
 Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; 
 Through a garden, and sweetly they laughed and they 
 talked, 
 
 While the dews fell over the mulberry -tree. 
 
 She gave him a rose— while he sighed for a kiss, 
 
 Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; 
 Quoth he, as he took it, " I kiss thee in this," 
 
 While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree. 
 
 She gave him a lily less white than her breast, 
 
 Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; 
 Quoth he, " 'Twill remind me of one I love best ; 
 
 While the dews fall over the mulberry -tree. 
 
 She gave him a two faces under a hood, 
 
 Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; 
 " How blest you could make me," quoth he " if you 
 would," 
 
 While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree. 
 
 She saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass, 
 
 Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; 
 Ah ! why did the lady that little flower pass ? 
 
 While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 129 
 
 The young lover saw that she passed it, and sighed, 
 
 Gillyflower , gentle rosemary ; 
 They say his heart hroke, and he certainly died, 
 
 While the dews fell over the mulberry -tree, 
 
 N ow all you fair ladies, take warning by this, 
 
 Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; 
 And never refuse your young lovers a kiss, 
 
 While the dews fall over the mulberry -tree. 
 
 (^ountrgmatt. 
 All Europe, Asia, Africa, America, 
 And Australasia, will lament his death. — 
 Come, let's make merry o'er our cakes and beer. 
 
 Scene XII. 
 
 TARTARUS OF HADES. 
 
 Mephistopheles, Hermes, Goethe. A countless multitude 
 of Shapes and Shadows. 
 
 J$tepi)tstopf)eU8. 
 So we have crossed the famous river Acheron, 
 And Styx flows by within a score of toises ; 
 So far at least we've wended safe and sound, 
 Our brows with garlands of white poplar crowned. 
 The screaming Shadows and infernal Voices 
 That hovered o'er our path have passed away ; 
 We're near our journey's end — sing and be gay ; 
 Don't be afraid — your soul's safe yet — I'll back her on 
 Until she stands before that Judge profound, 
 Wiser than any now on earthly ground, 
 Who strips men's hearts of all the burnished lacquer on, 
 And shews them bare and naked to the day ; 
 Exhaustless mines of lust, hate, filth, and falsehood, 
 A sight enough to make black hairs turn grey. — 
 
 K 
 
130 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Here is the Styx — a brown and stinking river. 
 
 Yonder' s Cocytus, echoing deep with groans 
 
 Enough to melt the hearts of stocks or stones, 
 
 Priests or hyenas : — you can smell the stench ; 
 
 They've buried in't that famous King of the French, 
 
 Louis Quatorze, whilom so grand and flourishing ; 
 
 That powerful monarch's fetid heart and liver 
 
 Pollutes this pleasant atmosphere around you, 
 
 And makes the waters loathsome, dark, and rotten. 
 
 Plug up your nostrils with this lump of cotton — 
 
 Quick — or the royal fragrance will confound you. 
 
 There is Canaan, whom angry Noe curst, 
 
 When filled with wine enough to make one burst. 
 
 There is Pharoah, and the wife of Lot, 
 
 A woman of whom Rabbis old relate 
 
 Scandalous tales, which I would rather not, 
 
 Calumny being a thing I fiercely hate. 
 
 Here is the wanton wife of Captain Potiphar, 
 
 Ox-eyed like Juno, stately in her beauty, 
 
 Large and majestic. Would you wish a knot of her 
 
 Dark flowing ringlets ? They no more owe duty 
 
 To her bold husband, who was one of those 
 
 (Millions on earth, although you never knew 
 
 The thing before) whom God, in His omnipotence 
 
 And multiform divinity, creates 
 
 In shape of man, but soulless. While they live 
 
 They have earth's pleasures ; when they die, they die ; 
 
 Passing at once into Annihilation. 
 
 The great majority of human kind, 
 
 Dear Sir, are animals of this dull order ; 
 
 Only a small minority have souls. 
 
 A lucky thing ; for were they all immortal, 
 
 They'd soon exhaust our Tartarean coals. 
 
 The Eastern Doctors tell a curious story. 
 Believe it, as you will, or don't believe it, 
 I care not with what faith you may receive it. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 131 
 
 When Adam dwelt in Aden, throned in glory, 
 
 He saw one morning at a single glance 
 
 His whole posterity, as small as ants ; 
 
 Who, w r hen they swore dependence on the Lord, 
 
 Were gathered up again in Adam's loins, 
 
 Just where the pelvis with the column joins. 
 
 The tale is found in many an old record, 
 
 With several thousand others just as true 
 
 Which the grave Rabbis mention ; they will swear 
 
 ye'em, 
 If you look doubtful ; and some sages say 
 It quite agrees with that profound brand-new 
 Discovery made by Liebig t'other day, 
 De animalculis in semine marium. 
 
 Gods ! what a drove of ghosts, men, women, children, 
 Sweep through this starless atmosphere of death ; 
 Lurid and purple like the poisonous breath 
 Of plague-corrupted wretches, gasping, dying. — 
 What deep and rending screams ! what wasps and 
 
 hornets ! 
 Borne headlong on the impetuous blasts of Hell ; 
 Lycanthrophi and Wolf-men from weird Thrace, 
 Hither and thither with winged serpents flying, 
 Hunting the damned in diabolic chase, 
 Rending their shrieking ghosts with fury fell ; 
 Darkness streaked o'er with gleams of coppery light, 
 More horrible and monstrous than the night 
 Of Afric deserts, when the Storm-Fiend raves ; 
 Rain, snow, and hail, that swell the Stygian waves ; 
 And dusky vapours. Blasphemies obscene 
 Against the name of God, themselves, and all 
 The race of mortals. — Swift, St. Patrick's dean, 
 Ne'er drew such scenes as this w 7 ith pen of gall, 
 And flame-clothed spirit. Curses, such as cornets 
 Swear in their drunken mess-rooms; groans bewilder- 
 ing, 
 
132 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 All mixed together in one gross hotch-potch, 
 
 Like haggis, prized so much by the savoury Scotch. 
 
 Vermes. 
 I ne'er approach these dark, detested regions 
 Without disgust ; although by this well used 
 To see and hear the gloomy glimmering legions 
 Of demons, ghosts, and damned all round diffused. 
 
 You're far too fine a gentleman, my cozen, 
 For such lewd company as meets us here. 
 See, how our precious charge is white with fear ; 
 Nerveless and senseless the old humbug trembles, 
 Mumbles the creed, and sweats at every pore. — 
 What will you wage ? I'll bet a rump and dozen 
 Flasks of red Rhenish he no more dissembles ; 
 The days of trick, and scheme, and fraud are o'er ; 
 Dichtung und Wahrheit. — Truth o'erlaid with Fiction 
 Won't do in this place — mark ! 'tis my prediction. 
 We'll hear confessions soon, more true, less polished. 
 Than those sad revelations, crammed with lies, 
 He published in his time, to win the sighs 
 Of male and female boobies. What a pity 
 That such a Babel-book— so neat, so witty, — 
 Should be so very ruthlessly demolished 
 Here in old Lucifer's truth-telling city ! 
 
 SINGS. 
 
 There was an old woman went mad when she saw 
 
 Her black wrinkled face in a mirror of steel ; 
 They hanged up the hag in the skin of an ass, 
 And trounced her all day from the head to the heel. 
 With a heigho ! and a heigho ! 
 Tira la la, lira lee ! 
 
 € I) at on. 
 Why how now, Mephistopheles ? 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 133 
 
 J¥lepf)tstopf)eIes. 
 
 How now, Charon ! 
 My dainty friend with eyes of living charcoal, 
 Here's a new comer to your hellish dark hole. 
 
 Hermes. 
 
 Well, I'll be off; here ends, thank Heaven, my duty ; 
 I give the ghost up ; take him ; keep him ; bind him ; 
 When next 1 come to Hell I hope to find him. — 
 
 J$tepf)tsropf)eles. 
 Nay — but our dinner, and the gipsy beauty, 
 The blasphemies of Toland, Wilkes, and Tooke. 
 
 Hermes. 
 
 Will scarce come off to-day. The Stygian journey, 
 The tedious speech of Pluto's learned Attorney, 
 The trial, verdict, sentence, and confinement, 
 Will long outpass the hour when we to dine meant. 
 
 fftepijtstopgeles. 
 Granted. We'll feed by moonlight, which you know 
 Assists digestion. I have such a cook. 
 
 S^nttes. 
 Cozen, good bye — shake hands, sweet bully-rook ! 
 
 ©ijarott. 
 Now then, to cross the Styx — hilloa ! hilloa ! 
 You rascal dead who wish to pass this way ! 
 Hilloa ! hilloa ! hilloa ! hilloa ! I say. 
 
 J^tepStstopfjeles. 
 Lord, what a crowd ! they scramble to and fro 
 In shoals since there's no obolus to pay ; 
 Blackbeetles scared by candle-light and brooms 
 
134 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Could not run quicker in confused pell-mell 
 Than these poor shadows to the Gates of Hell. 
 Numerous as leaves that fall when autumn winds 
 Rattle amid the faded forest branches, 
 Or wild birds seeking isles where summer blooms, 
 When hoary winter, fraught with rage, unbinds 
 His nipping gales, and o'er the aether launches 
 Eurus and Boreas, huntsmen of the skies. — 
 And what a motley mixture ! Kings, thieves, grooms, 
 Cobblers, pimps, soldiers, nobles, bishops, tinkers, 
 Scavengers, cabmen, duchesses, deep thinkers, 
 Pensioners, courtiers, aldermen, and harlots, 
 Lords of high lineage and the lowest varlets ; 
 Monks, misers, Calvinists, and millionaires, 
 Brahmins and opera- dancers, judges, bullies, 
 Gamesters, fat butchers, procuresses, cullies, 
 Bankers and usurers, quakers, bulls and bears, 
 Cardinals, actors, maids of honour, clowns, 
 Fools, misers, bawds, prime ministers, hard drinkers, 
 Felons in grey, and lawyers in black gowns. 
 
 Hilloa! hilloa! hilloa! Now then, ye rabble, 
 Strip to the skin ; no articles of dress 
 Must come on board. The king must cast aside 
 His golden cap and robe, the dame her shift, 
 The beggar his old rags, the priest his cloak ; 
 The virgin — if there be such a phoenix here — 
 Her long and cherished ringlets ; and the clown 
 His painted grin, and laugh-provoking daub : 
 Bare as ye entered life so leave ye life ; 
 Dustman and king are equal here in hell : 
 Such are the stern commands of Death and Fate. 
 
 ;PUpi)tstop?)rtes. 
 When will you take my bardic friend on board ? 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 135 
 
 Ctyaron. 
 Not now — first come first served is the rule I make ; 
 I will not break it even for you, my lord. 
 
 ISmg. 
 Fellow, make way — what ho ! — where are my guards? 
 
 Cljavon. 
 What bullying knave is this with portly air ? 
 
 Ittttg. 
 
 I am the mighty King of 
 
 ©Jjanm. 
 
 Six foot length 
 Of earth by two in breadth ; your majesty 
 Will meet scant loyalty on the river Styx. 
 
 Itmg. 
 Am I not then to cross in royal state ? 
 Is majesty in Hell a thing of nought ? 
 
 Charon. 
 Enter at once, or else Fll break your head ; 
 I have no time to bandy words with you. 
 
 l£mg. 
 What, how ! vile slave, dare you thus talk to me ? 
 
 ©fjanrn. 
 Ho — hangman ! — you with the halter in your hand, 
 Cast it around this king and haul him in. 
 So — so, well done; now gag and handcuff him, 
 And if he dares to murmur, baste his head 
 With this tough thong of leather. Who are you ? 
 
 (ttoxtomb. 
 A man of fashion travelling to Elysium ; 
 I'll teach the saintly sumphs the art of dress. 
 
136 A NEW PANTOMIME, 
 
 iiftqrijtstopfjeles. 
 
 But they wear none in the Elysian Fields ; 
 Virtue and purity need no disguise. 
 
 Qoxtotrib. 
 Then, if you please, Pd rather go to hell, — 
 London or Paris ; for this place 
 
 ©fjarott. 
 
 Won't do 
 
 For folks like you. Who told you, sir, 'twas yours 
 There is no room, but don't look blank ; we'll take you 
 Where you shall have most noble company, 
 Popes, emperors, czars, fine women, and fair men, 
 Smug dandiprats that will delight your eyes. 
 
 dDoxcomfc. 
 And tailors? 
 
 iPtepIjtstopfjelea. 
 Several millions at your service, 
 Our many-mansioned palaces contain 
 Ladies and gentlemen of all degrees. 
 
 Corccomfc. 
 Fellow, don't prate ; you tire me, — let me pass. 
 
 Statesman. 
 I don't think death so hideous after all ; 
 'Tis not so pleasant as our palace though. 
 I wish, indeed, I had lived to cheat Prince B. 
 In that long treaty which the fool would sign, 
 Hoping to trick me by ambiguous phrase. 
 I've missed a brilliant order. Is it vain 
 To sneak for rank and honour in this place ? 
 Why should it be so ? Spirits are but men 
 Quit of their bodies ; men are knaves and asses, 
 The exquisite tools with which we do our work ; 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 137 
 
 Doubtless Fll find sufficiency of both 
 In this broad land to serve my purposes* 
 
 A rummy place is this, but dark enough 
 For very pretty filchings ; — no police, 
 No gaslight, and no telegraph to tell ; — 
 I find no fault with it, if this be hell. 
 
 Ftrgm. 
 Snatched in the beauteous morning of my years, 
 Fate bore me hither, veiled in saddest tears ; 
 But yon bright angel-choirs, whose lips and eyes 
 Salute me sister, turn to bliss my sighs. 
 
 Sfjepfjertr. 
 
 Farewell ! sweet country-life of health and ease, 
 Sunshine, and dance, and song, and flowers, and trees ; 
 Day-dreams beside the cool and whispering brook, 
 And flocks obedient to the guiding crook; 
 Hours of delight and innocence enjoyed, 
 Of toil that tired not, bliss that never cloyed, 
 Farewell — a long farewell ! whatever may be 
 My lot in death, my thoughts will turn to thee ! 
 
 ' %obtx. 
 Let me kiss those shining eyes, 
 Where thy soul of beauty lies ! 
 Let my lips of love alight 
 On those eyelids lily-white. 
 Oh, sweet heaven, that thou wert mine ! 
 
 How my soul would grow to thee ! 
 Thou, a gentle golden vine, 
 I, its fond sustaining tree. 
 
 Let me kiss that budding mouth, 
 Sweeter than the fragrant south : 
 
138 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Let me nestle on the rose 
 Round thy teeth of pearl that grows. 
 Oh, sweet heaven, that thou wert mine ! 
 
 Soul to soul in fondness bound ; 
 Thou, a bright and starry sign, 
 I, the air that clasped it round. 
 
 Fold me as the stellar zone 
 Folds its much-loved earth, mine own ; 
 Or the rainbow, bright and clear, 
 Folds the smiling hemisphere. 
 
 Oh, sweet heaven, that thou wert mine ! 
 
 Ne'er in life or death to part ; 
 Thou, a spirit in its shrine, 
 
 And that shrine my faithful heart. 
 
 A very honeyed love-song. Yonder Phantom 
 
 Inspired the youth with memories of the past, 
 
 And painted on his soul a beaming image 
 
 Of her who was his mistress. See, he flits 
 
 Beside her, fancying it is she — a notion 
 
 Wild and fantastical. The ladye-love 
 
 For whom our rhymer sang these melting strains 
 
 Lives, laughs, eats, dances, sleeps, and has hot dreams, 
 
 And quite forgets her gallant, who departed 
 
 Life in a fit of sentimental bliss, 
 
 Hoping she'd follow him to heaven or hell. 
 
 I look into the vistas of the future, 
 
 Some thirty years from this mild day in March, 
 
 And see a fat old woman, pimple-faced, 
 
 With dugs for breasts, and elephantine legs, 
 
 And waist as graceful as a dromedary's, 
 
 Thick calves, beef cheeks, and brandy-smelling breath, 
 
 Grog-nosed, with some fifteen obstreperous brats, 
 
 And awkward hoydens. What a change is here 
 
 From our poor lover's soul-spun metaphors 
 
 Of shining eyes, white teeth, and rose-sweet lips. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 139 
 
 jWsantijrop*. 
 
 I'm not surprised that men love dogs so much, 
 
 For dogs, like men, are pitiful sneaking rogues. 
 
 There lives no man who has not in his breast 
 
 Some secret locked, which, if revealed, would make him 
 
 Despised and hated by all humankind. 
 
 j^trp^t'stopfjrl^s. 
 Two maxims first propounded by our friend 
 From Weimar, learned, no doubt, from his own heart. 
 
 J^ttsanrf)rope. 
 And is this hell ? 'tis not half black enough 
 For the best man I ever happed to know. 
 Weak as they seem, those mortal worms have oft 
 Made a worse Hell than this on their own earth. 
 Does Pluto lack invention ? Let him go 
 To Rome or Spain, and ask the Inquisition ; 
 They'll teach him how to torture two-legged knaves. 
 Few men know ail the evil that they do : 
 Their greatest actions are the effect of chance, 
 Caprice, or passion, not heroic will : 
 The grandest would seem villainous, did we know 
 The secret motive-power that gave them birth ; 
 Things of mere affectation are all mortals ; 
 The world's a stage of bare appearances, 
 Of masks and robes, and infamy beneath. 
 Cunning and treachery are their cherished gods, 
 Envy their daily thought ; self-interest 
 The harlot for whose smiles they barter Truth, 
 Religion, Justice, Honour, Virtue, Heaven. 
 
 Courtier. 
 There's something pleasant in this change of scene ; 
 I'll try what I can do in Lucifer's court 5 
 His Highness, whom I worshipped, as I'm told 
 
140 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The Gebirs worship sunshine, grew a beast, 
 
 A very brutal filthy beast, at last, 
 
 And turned me off for that sly flatterer 
 
 Who pampered him with new-invented soups, 
 
 While / could ne'er gain audience, though I brought 
 
 The loveliest maidens for his regal hands. 
 
 N'importe—ri'importe — for men o£my desert 
 
 Success is sure with palaces and kings, 
 
 And both are plenty in these spacious worlds. 
 
 This is an ugly embassy — no pay, 
 
 No honours — no fine tricks and polished lies, 
 
 No plotting, no disguises, no deceits ; 
 
 I do not like the look of it ; I would 
 
 I were again alive. I have a plan 
 
 Now in my brain would change a dynasty, 
 
 And drive a kingly race to utter ruin. 
 
 Perdition catch me for a stupid lout, — 
 
 Why did I never think of it before ? 
 
 iJftepijtstopSeUs. 
 Princes and statesmen are most godlike fellows ; 
 Power is their justice. Private men must keep 
 Their own, but those are surnamed " Great" who seize 
 The properties of others : — epic thieves. 
 To ravage, slay, and plunder, is to reign, 
 And desolation is called glorious peace. 
 
 $amtrr. 
 Heir to the glories of the glorious past, 
 Raphael, Guido, Titian, live and shine 
 Methinks once more in me ; the starry trine 
 In whose bright moulds my poet-soul was cast. 
 See, fire-eyed Fancy guide my glowing hand, 
 And Beauty soften, and young Grace refine, 
 While near me Truth and Skill and Genius stand ; 
 
TARTARUS OF HADE?. 141 
 
 Bright was my pathway on to pelf and fame, 
 
 And bright the garlands that enwreathed my name. 
 
 (SJjanw. 
 Who was this fellow ? 
 
 J^cpijistopijeles. 
 
 Oh ! an obscene painter. 
 His sisters were two prostitutes, so he thought 
 He'd make a third ; her husband radished him, 
 And in despair the sneak descended hither. 
 Read in his worthless heart, that dunghill seed 
 
 Produces nothing but rank dunghill breed. 
 
 © © 
 
 £rabeller. 
 Wonders on wonders ! ocean, earth, and sky. 
 Have nothing equal to these shadowy realms, 
 Interminable, boundless, vast, cloud-zoned ; 
 The tumbling cataracts of flame from high, 
 The frowning mountains on whose awful peaks 
 The Titan Phantoms of the Past sit throned, 
 Solitude, silence, sadness, solemn gloom, 
 And death-like coldness — all proclaim the Eternal 
 Tomb. 
 
 Since the rosy garlands of my life 
 Long have withered, children, friends, and wife j 
 What have I to do with being? Nought ; — 
 Life itself was but one saddening thought. 
 Blest since in Death's arms, I find once more, 
 Fresh and youthful, all I loved before. 
 
 Critic. 
 In this infernal, stupid place, 
 God-fashioned for the human race, 
 So many glaring faults I find 
 As must disgust a critic's mind. 
 
142 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Be silent, railer ; why shouldst thou pollute 
 With ribald tongue the Mysteries of Death. 
 
 Scholar. 
 Nay, let the carping creature prate — poor brute ! 
 How can he else disgorge his noisome breath ? 
 
 ©rtttc. 
 Nay, but hear me first ; be civil. 
 
 Here's confusion worse confounded ; 
 Pagan, Christian, god, and devil, 
 
 In one stupid mess compounded. 
 
 J$tepJ)fetopf)£Us. 
 Cease your vile, aesthetic ranting, 
 Critic's cant is worst of canting. 
 Here's a pretty sneaking fellow, 
 Who must needs complain and bellow, 
 If Hell don't, to his vexation, 
 Suit his notions of damnation. 
 
 Artist. 
 A scene for Rembrandt — darkness vast yet visible. 
 Oh, that I had my brush and pallet here ! 
 
 i#tr. jfttmpman. 
 I'll cap that with a wish as quaint and quizzible : 
 Oh, that I had a foaming pot of beer ! 
 
 0i an tat. 
 Henry, thou knowest for love of thee I died, 
 For thee I stained my young and virgin pride ; 
 Thou wert my life, my soul, my more than God, 
 The star of heaven, to which through fire I trod, 
 And trembled not. — Thou'lt not forget me. — No, 
 'Twas love of thee first brought me to this woe ; 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 143 
 
 May'st thou be happy now when I'm away ; 
 Alas, thou wilt not— old, and sad, and gray 
 Has grown thy Spirit, once as roses bright ; 
 Darkness has fallen upon thee ; cold and blight 
 Have nipped thy soul ; and thou art pale and sad 
 Even as poor I, but yet not wholly mad ! 
 Alas ! I did not think that love was this, 
 That grief like ours should spring from what seemed 
 
 bliss 
 
 Like heaven on earth — that thou shouldst still live on 
 In speechless woe, and I be dead and gone ; 
 But yet — Alas ! where runs my wandering brain ? 
 I know not, but I writhe with grief and pain ; 
 Here in my heart of hearts, where once I saw 
 Thine image only as my rule and law. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here I am, a jolly tinker, 
 Travelling always, and a skinker 
 Of full flagons. Maids and lasses, 
 If you've any thing that passes 
 Water through it, I will mend it, 
 And from breakages defend it. 
 Heigho ! the jolly tinker, 
 Ever toper, never thinker. 
 No one ever saw before 
 A dead tinker in these regions ; 
 We and donkeys never swore 
 To the King of Styx allegiance. 
 
 I'm the first that ever died. 
 
 Heigho ! the jolly tinker : 
 
 Yet I am not puffed with pride, 
 
 Welcome, then, the flagon skinker. 
 
 jfttilumaire. 
 
 Christ ! restore me to loved life once more ; 
 
 1 cannot bear the misery of this night. 
 
144 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 My soul is maddened, tortured with despair. 
 
 The splendid palaces, the bowing train, 
 
 The tapestried rooms, with gold and silver bright, 
 
 Mocking the glories of the sunny skies ; 
 
 The marble wonders from Ausonia fair, 
 
 The forest, garden, steed, and bower, and hall, 
 
 And gems that might have formed a monarch's prize ; 
 
 Women and gold — whatever sense, or sight, 
 
 Or touch, or smell could covet, once were mine ; 
 
 Restore me to them, thou whose hand benign 
 
 Holds pardon ever for poor man. Lol all 
 
 My treasures weep for me, and still my soul recall. 
 
 Why, what a false and sneaking knave is this ! 
 He calls on Christ, who never gave a cent 
 To Christ, a bit of bread or cup of water. 
 Old Dives was a saint to this lewd sinner. 
 
 (Sharon. 
 Aye, let him howl ; 'twill exercise his lungs 
 For the loud shouting which the flames of hell 
 Will train him to within a little time. 
 
 Can any wonder, w T hen a wretch like this 
 Is million-worshipped on the earth, that men 
 Wise, noble-hearted, great, but poor in purse, 
 Should grow, like the sage Greek Diagoras, 
 Atheists, when they see such perjured cheats 
 Prosper, get rich, and spend delightful days? 
 
 Cfjaron. 
 You're too severe, Sir, on this Christian age. 
 
 ;Ptep*){stopf}^s. 
 Christian forsooth ! Why yes, it bears the name ; 
 They laugh at the Pagans for the worship paid 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 145 
 
 Dumb wooden idols, things of clay and stone, 
 And dross of mines ; such senseless image-worship 
 Provokes contempt, while they themselves, good men, 
 Illumed in spirit by the faith of Jesus, 
 Nurtured in knowledge of the true Divine, 
 Prostrate themselves, and prostitute their souls 
 Daily to things of flesh and rottenness, 
 God-Money, God-High Rank, God-Lust, God-Lies. 
 
 ©ijarcm. 
 
 Aye, sir, they rail at Judas, who sold Christ 
 For thirty shillings, while the cozening knaves 
 Sell Him and God each day for thirty pence. 
 Had not the faith He founded been Heaven's truth, 
 It ne'er could have sustained the shame and scandal 
 Brought on it by its holy-robed professors. 
 
 HJorattan. 
 Mors etfugacem persequitur virum, 
 Nee parcit imbellis juventce 
 Poplitibus, timidoque tergo. 
 
 ILttrottan. 
 Licet quot vis vivendo vincere secla, 
 Mors ceterna tamen nihilominus ilia manebit, 
 
 €£nglt3f)man. 
 
 Talk honest English, comrades, if you please, 
 Not pedant saws and sentences like these ; 
 You, who quote Horace, sir, would aptlier say, 
 In homely speech, Death smites the runaway, 
 Nor spares the faltering stripling's coward limbs ; 
 While you,- who chant Lucretius' sibyl hymns, 
 Might tell the mob, Live long as e'er you will, 
 Nathelesse eternal death awaits you still. 
 An atheist maxim, sir, which you and I, 
 Who find we still exist, must needs deny. 
 
146 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 glnttquarg. 
 
 A dredging-net to drag the Styx would draw 
 
 Rare wonders of old times to light. I wish 
 
 My nurse had wrapped one round me when I died. 
 
 ©fjaron. 
 What Acarnanian hog comes floundering on ? 
 
 (Glutton. 
 Venison, turtle, whitebait, punch, 
 
 Turbot, pheasants, brawn, champagne, 
 Gorgeous breakfast, dinner, lunch, 
 
 Shall ye ne'er be mine again ? 
 Grapes, pines, puddings, strawberries, pears, 
 
 Almonds, raisins, figs, and jelly, 
 Lost for ever ! — or my heir's ; — 
 Oh, my soul is racked with cares. — 
 
 Would I ne'er had been but belly ! 
 
 J^Upf) (stopples. 
 
 This is a worthy visitor — a son 
 Of Gryllus, the companion of Ulysses, 
 Whom Circe changed into a sow, but who 
 Refused to be restored to human shape, 
 Preferring to high thoughts and noble feelings, 
 The squalid indolence of a filthy pig. 
 
 burgomaster. 
 
 What ho, there ! clear the road; a man of rank 
 And civic dignity sublime approaches. 
 Vagrants, keep off; let none molest my path; 
 Beware, I say ; tremendous is my wrath. 
 
 CDfjaxott. 
 Know you this strutting alderman, my lord ? 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 147 
 
 fttrpijtstopfjdes. 
 
 I know him well ; he comes from Hardenburg, 
 Where they elect their mayors shrewdly thus. 
 On an appointed day the burghers sit 
 Around a table ; each man bends his chin 
 Well bearded on the edge ; a hungry louse 
 Is placed exactly in the central point, 
 And equidistant from the several beards ; 
 Whatever beard the omniscient louse selects 
 To burrow in, they choose its owner mayor ; 
 Yon burgomaster was the last elected. — 
 You smile incredulously — 'tis a fact, 
 And happens yearly just as I relate it. 
 They choose as well as the wise men of London. 
 
 ©Janm. 
 
 Who is this knave with broad, square, brutal face, 
 Eyes like a beast's, and fiendish smile that gloats 
 On thoughts of blood, hypocrisy, and fraud ? 
 
 fftrpljtstopljdrs. 
 
 A truly British judge, whose Stygian look, 
 
 Dropsied by poison welling from his soul, 
 
 Is but a faint reflection of the foul 
 
 Cocy tian passions of his black bad heart. 
 
 Baron, come on, we've room for you with Scroggs. 
 
 jFtne 3La&g, 
 
 A horrid place ! no mirrors, no fine balls, 
 Ridottos, masques, amours, or theatres ; 
 What could Jove mean by making such a hole ? 
 O world of lace, cosmetics, and tight stays, 
 Delightful scandals, exquisite intrigues, — 
 I'd give a thousand years of Charon's realms 
 For one dear day and night of gallantry. 
 
148 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 ©fjaron. 
 
 I rather like a woman when she sins 
 In public ; she at least one virtue has, 
 The virtue of sincerity : but Pluto 
 Defend me from the slily-sinning dame ; 
 Satan himself is not a match for her. 
 
 3Lto. 
 
 I feel delighted since I came to hell ; 
 
 I met the Decalogue upon my way 
 
 (A portly gentleman like the Lord Mayor), 
 
 Who told me I was sure of perfect bliss. 
 
 He seems a very fine old hearty fellow, 
 
 And shook me warmly by the hand, and swore 
 
 That he would bring down Moses and Elias 
 
 To sup with me, and drink a stoup of wine 
 
 With old Sir Jonah Barrington, who lived 
 
 For three days in the belly of a whale. 
 
 For six short years with gay and flower-like heart, 
 The only joy of my fond mother's eyes ; 
 Stern Death stepped in, and tore our souls apart, 
 Heedless of her sweet prayers, or my sad cries. 
 
 &oper. 
 Oh, could I but barter my soul for a bottle 
 Of brandy or gin, rum, whiskey, port, claret, or punch, 
 I'd lose not a moment, but moisten my dearly-loved 
 
 throttle, 
 And give to Sir Cerberus body and spirit to munch. 
 Ho— ho ! 
 
 Jftoraltat. 
 In all our actions life still passes on. 
 We die, while doing that for which alone 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 149 
 
 Our life was granted. Nay, though we do nothing, 
 
 Time keeps his constant pace, and flies as fast 
 
 In idleness as in employment. Whether 
 
 We play or labour, sleep or dance, or toil, 
 
 Or lift our souls in high commune with God, 
 
 The sun posts on, and the sand glides away. 
 
 One hour of wickedness is just as long 
 
 As one employed in virtue, but the difference 
 
 Between them both is infinite indeed. 
 
 The first is vicious waste, the last lays up 
 
 Treasures of bliss for all eternity, 
 
 Of which not Fate itself can rob the soul. 
 
 The husbandman who sows, but is content 
 
 To wait until he reaps, is like the man 
 
 Who lays his goodness out, with certain hope 
 
 That Heaven prepares him an abundant harvest, 
 
 Which will a hundredfold repay his toil. 
 
 £ommg Ctoa&tile (reading). 
 O'er the white urn that held the sacred heart 
 Of great Isocrates of old was placed 
 The marble image of a Syren, graced 
 With all the loveliness of Grecian art. 
 Emblem of eloquence, whose music sweet 
 Won the whole world by its enchanting spells. 
 Oh, w T ith what type shall we our Tommy greet, 
 What image shall portray the spirit that dwells 
 Within his soul ? An angel from the skies 
 
 ©fjanm. 
 Pooh, fool, how can you gabble in this guise ? 
 Self-praise like this is most offensive carrion. 
 
 ittrpijtstopijeUs. 
 And therefore worthy of this Jackanapes, 
 Once a most drunken Judge, half-louse, half-lawyer, 
 Who crawled, and crawled, and crawled, until he 
 wriggled 
 
150 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 High on the bench, where common sense seemed tipsy, 
 
 When she was represented by this fellow. 
 
 The verses he repeats were written once 
 
 By a young dreamer, who, like several others, 
 
 Believed him noble ; but who peeped within 
 
 The dingy cellar where his soul lay stying, 
 
 And found him worthless, envious, false, and mean. 
 
 Thus is the lynx-eyed world deceived by rascals, 
 
 Who strut upon the stage, and learn stage tricks. 
 
 And thus most wisely Epictetus likened 
 
 Fortune to a fine woman, who bestows 
 
 Her choicest favours on her footmen. Look 
 
 At yonder fellow, was he e'er designed 
 
 By Destiny to be aught else than washer 
 
 Of greasy plates, boot-cleaner, bottle-rinser ? 
 
 But fortune interposed, and changed the fates, 
 
 And raised him to the board he should have wiped. 
 
 By day and night the world's a monstrous show-box. 
 
 O God ! the torturing madness of desire 
 Raves in my blood, fires every burning vein, 
 Leaps through my heart, and I am powerless. 
 Annihilation — oh, annihilation ! 
 So spake expiring Hume, and wisely spake. 
 Hurl it on me, thou torture-loving God. 
 
 l&epSistopJjelea. 
 
 Women, the bait with which we devils catch 
 The little vermin of the globe, mankind, 
 Have sent this satyr to our grasping mesh. 
 His very look must have profaned the chaste 
 And virgin light of heaven whereon he gazed. 
 
 £tage=;ptanager. 
 Gaslight and lamps, and loose-clad ballet-girls, 
 Would grace this theatre, which seems well-fitted 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 151 
 
 For melodrama, pirouettes, and twirls. 
 
 The stage is large enough for pimps and earls ; — 
 
 One might make money here if 'twere permitted. 
 
 EnUtan <5>labe. 
 To the same goal we hasten ; each in turn, 
 Sooner or later, from the fatal urn 
 Draws the blest lot that sends hiin to the tomb. 
 The eternal exile of the boat and stream, 
 Crowns the sad drama of that weeping dream, 
 Which seems too slow how fleet so e'er it spoom. 
 
 Generalissimo. 
 An excellent spot for ambuscades, methinks : 
 Gods ! what a beautiful defile is here. 
 I'd undertake, with but one staunch brigade, 
 To kill ten thousand of the foe with ease. 
 
 Assassin. 
 Hide thy diminished head, poor Venice ; hide 
 Thy brows, imperial Rome ; — thy colonnades 
 And sombre ruins ne'er possessed such fine 
 And tempting corners for stiletto work, 
 As in these beautiful nooks I see around. — 
 Oh, for a purse of gold, a man, and knife. 
 
 princess. 
 Thank heaven, my tiresome husband is away ; 
 I'll have a love affair with Thetis' son, 
 Or brawny Hector, or the gallant swain 
 Who cornuted Atrides. — Doubtless they 
 Are in Elysium, and will be too glad 
 To revel in such beauteous arms as mine, 
 Till some of ray own stalwart lovers come. 
 
 Courtesan. 
 Blest be the gods, thrice blest, sweet virgin Death, 
 The only friend the poor possess on earth ; 
 
152 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Gladly I seek the death-stream of repose, 
 Gladly I fly that worst of hells, the world. 
 
 Gold, my gold, sweet glittering musical gold, 
 Shall I indeed enclasp thee never more ? 
 Never again those chests shall I behold, 
 Brighter than God himself with Indian ore? 
 
 $aupw. 
 Now that all my cares are fled, 
 And Fm numbered with the dead, 
 Merrily, merrily, all the day, 
 
 1 will dance, and sing, and play. 
 Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily, 
 Dance, and sing, and laugh, and play. 
 
 Italian. 
 
 O Liberty, immortal child of heaven, 
 
 Once more I taste thy boundless blessings, freed 
 
 From chains, and Spielberg's dungeons, hell on earth ; 
 
 And him, the devil-hearted Emperor Francis, 
 
 Who held me, like a beast immured from light, 
 
 From friends, home, parents, brethren, children, wife, 
 
 And the sweet commune with soul-charming books, 
 
 In solitary bondage, till I grew 
 
 A moping idiot, laughing, howling, weeping, 
 
 Cursing the God that gave me to the world, — 
 
 A brute in shape of man. And what my crime ? 
 
 Murder— Theft— Blasphemy— Adultery ? No ; 
 
 My crime was Virtue. — Can there be a crime 
 
 More odious in the eyes of tyrants? Mine 
 
 Was vicious in the extreme. I loved the land 
 
 That gave me birth, the land of fatal beauty, 
 
 My Paradise, mine own fair Italy, 
 
 The Vesper-Star amid the world of nations, 
 
 That gaze but feel not. With a holy love 
 
TARTARUS OF HA.DES. 153 
 
 I felt her like a passion in my brain, 
 And laboured for her freedom from his gripe 
 Remorseless, like the Arch-Fiend's on a soul 
 Innocent, beauteous, young, but weak and frail ; 
 I lost — he conquered— chained me — I am here ; — 
 
 God eternal, free my much- wronged land ! 
 
 I-rtsfjman. 
 
 1 too am of an isle whose emerald plains 
 Have been thrice wet with heroic blood of men 
 Who loved her, as Christ loved mankind, to death. 
 The scaffold, dungeon, gibbet, gyve and stake, 
 Have not subdued us, nor our holy hate 
 
 Of the oppressor. Grant, omnipotent God, 
 The day arrive, when, armed from head to heel, 
 Her sons may rise, and, like the princely lion 
 Of Judah's fold, go forth and crush the head 
 Of the Old Serpent in whose coil she writhes. 
 
 Hungarian. 
 
 God of the warriors of Arpad, look 
 
 Upon thy servant, from tr^ throne of stars, 
 
 Who humbly owns the omnipotence of thy love : 
 
 And, as I died for mine own noble land 
 
 By rack and steel, have mercy on me, God, 
 
 Whose sun is radiant o'er the earth that holds 
 
 The bones of my heroic brethren fallen 
 
 In fight for Hungary. The blue heavens are smiling 
 
 Above the fields red with the sacred blood 
 
 Of us and of our fathers ; send, O Lord, 
 
 Thy genial rays, that flowers divine may spring 
 
 From that all-hallowed stream, too grand to flow 
 
 In mere corruption. Holy drops like these 
 
 Sanctify earth, and purge it of all sin ; — 
 
 O God, great Father of my father, God 
 
 Of Heaven, of Earth, and of the Sea, I ask Thee 
 
 Mercy for thy frail servant in the flesh ; 
 
 But, oh, whatever the fate ordained for me, 
 

 154 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Shower down thy light upon my land beloved, 
 That she may rise and take her stand once more, 
 A Queen amid the nations of the world ! 
 
 Pole. 
 Mercy for Poland, with my dying breath 
 I cried, but stern revenge upon the hands 
 That tore her beauties piecemeal ! Here in Hell 
 If they be prisoned, send me too to Hell, 
 Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe ! 
 Set me but face to face and hand to hand 
 With Russian, Austrian, Prussian ; my revenge 
 Shall be so great, I ask no other heaven. 
 
 Silence, we do not suffer roistering here ; — 
 Here comes a grave and stately gentleman. 
 
 JftepStstopSeto, 
 One of those things they call Philosophers, 
 Wise in their speeches, fools in very deed, 
 Like noodle Anaxagoras, who preferred 
 A grain of wisdom to a ton of gold : 
 Or that old numskull Chrysippus the Wise, 
 Who held that fathers should espouse their daughters, 
 And the cold bodies of the dead be eaten 
 In place of being buried. He it was 
 Who died of laughter when he saw an ass 
 Eating ripe peaches from a silver plate. 
 At eighty years the sage should have known better. 
 
 (Sharon. 
 When Cicero was crossing here, the fellow 
 Said one good thing, while whining o'er his head, 
 Which he brought with him in a greasy napkin : 
 Nihil tarn absurd e diet potest, 
 Quodnon dicaiur ab aliquo philosophorum. 
 Since such are wise men, I will mate with fools. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 155 
 
 Heaven, how I thank thee for this boon divine 
 
 Of death, that frees me from the chains of life, 
 
 And sends my spirit like an eagle forth, 
 
 To soar into stupendous worlds, with gaze 
 
 Fixed steadfastly upon the sun of Truth. 
 
 How have I prayed for this eternal change, 
 
 At morn, at noon, and in the silent night, 
 
 When my thoughts wandered to the burning stars, 
 
 And I grew purer, nobler, better, wiser, 
 
 By gazing on them, till my spirit leapt 
 
 In fancy up, and walked amid their light. 
 
 Freedom — the boundless freedom of the mind 
 
 Henceforth is mine for ever, and I live 
 
 With those whose souls were my soul's worshipped idols ; 
 
 Socrates, Shakspere, Plato, Dante — all 
 
 Who trod the earth like gods, to make men gods. 
 
 Eternity of Rapture, to behold 
 
 Their spirits daily, hourly, wandering free 
 
 Beneath the ambrosial heaven, and in the scenes 
 
 That make Elysium rival Paradise ; 
 
 Beauty, repose, light, music, perfume, joy. 
 
 Reverently bent to catch from their bright lips 
 
 The words of wisdom^ virtue, faith, and truth, 
 
 That lift their natures almost up to God's. 
 
 The jarring strife that forms the daily world 
 
 Of man, his bickerings, passions, vices, crimes, 
 
 Removed for ever from my aching sight, 
 
 Were bliss itself ;— but commune such as this, 
 
 With the sublimest souls that earth e'er saw, 
 
 Makes my soul drunk with rapture, and I feel 
 
 All heaven within the sphere of my glad thought, 
 
 J&epijtstopfjete. 
 I know that fellow, Charon, very well ; 
 
156 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 He passed his life in reading and in moping : 
 I tempted him for several years in vain. 
 
 ©Jaron. 
 
 These bookmen seldom fall into your nets, 
 Unless, like your stout friend there, they abjure 
 The priesthood Nature gave them, and fall down 
 Before the grinning idols, Wealth and Power. 
 
 Well, it is pleasant when they do recant, 
 
 And worship me as George Buchanan worshipped. 
 
 There is a famous English bard at present, 
 
 My Poet Laureate, whom you'll see some day 
 
 Snug in the Hell of Arch-Apostacy, 
 
 With several of his brethren. Who comes here ? 
 
 fwst 
 
 A reverend priest ; I died in sanctity ; 
 St. Paul himself is not more sure of bliss. 
 
 (Sharon* 
 I'm glad to hear it, holy sir ; I hope 
 You were most tolerant to your erring brother. 
 
 I should indeed despair, sir, if I thought 
 That those who held a different creed from mine 
 Had any chance of mercy ; my religion 
 Alone is right, all others damned deceits. 
 
 Jft*p$fetopf)eU*. 
 
 Charon, for my sake let that spirit pass ; 
 I find from what he says that he is mine. 
 
 ©fjarotx. 
 >Tis very true,— he bears your lordship's badge. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 157 
 
 ftoat. 
 For Pluto's sake, old master mine, 
 
 Take in no more, my sides are cracking ; 
 My bottom's breaking, and the brine 
 
 Of Styx my way-worn ribs is racking. 
 I'd not complain if 'twere good wine, 
 
 But this stale bilge is worse than blacking. 
 I've several thousand souls on board, 
 
 Who'll sink me to the river's bottom ; 
 I ne'er before conveyed a horde 
 
 Of souls so very foul — Od rot 'em. 
 
 (Sharon, 
 Be quiet, Baris, you must bear 
 The burden meekly ; this great lord 
 Must cross, although, upon my word, 
 I scarce can stow him anywhere. 
 
 J^tepijtstopfjeUs. 
 
 Oh, as for me, I easily can pass ; 
 
 My friend here was a worshipper of kings, 
 
 And will not like perhaps to sit astride 
 
 That mighty monarch's shoulders ; but I see 
 
 No other place for him in your well-crammed boat. 
 
 Ittng. 
 What ! that old brawny fellow sit on me ! 
 
 hangman. 
 Be silent, friend, or you shall taste this cat ; 
 It has not nine tails, but 'twill make you smart. 
 
 €D*javrm. 
 I really don't see how the man can cross. 
 Hilloa, are you dumb ? 
 
 fftepfjtstoptjeks. 
 
 He's paralysed with fear. 
 
158 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 ©fjarcm. 
 Well then we'll keel-haul him across ; there is 
 No other way. 
 
 Jftepijtstopfjeles. 
 No, Charon, that won't do ; 
 Keel-haul this priest, — the fellow's greasy paunch 
 Usurps the place of two, and this my friend 
 Was in his time a very noted man, 
 And even in death more worthy than this guts. 
 
 (Sharon, 
 
 Your lordship's wish is mine ; the priest is gone — 
 
 I've pitched him overboard, and tied him neck 
 
 And heels to the helm ; there's space now for your 
 
 friend.— 
 But who is here ? What beautiful Shape is this ? 
 
 f&epfjtetopfjelea. 
 This is the spirit of his earliest love, 
 Whom he forgot, despised, and wronged, but who 
 Comes even now from Heaven to plead for him. 
 We'll have a merry trial, Master Charon. 
 See, she is there already — the grim Judge 
 Grows genial in her presence. Row away, 
 We have no time to lose. How very bad 
 This river smells — our priest has made it worse. 
 
 (Sharon. 
 The fellow will look sulky by the time 
 We get to shore. 
 
 P:ep5tstop!)eles. 
 But w T here's your pretty troop 
 Of choristers, who warble from the slime 
 Of Sty x ? — I mean the frogs. 
 
 Charon, 
 
 Oop, oop, oop, oop ! 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 159 
 
 JFvogs. 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax ! 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax ! 
 
 O Father Charon, to your call 
 
 Your children come, and croak and squall; 
 
 We heard your " oop" in the innermost marsh. 
 
 And here we are with our sereamings harsh. 
 
 Coax, coax. 
 Swimming in millions around your boat, 
 Each in his speckled brown great coat ; 
 With lantern jaws, and shining eyes, 
 And purse-like mouth that gapes for flies. 
 
 Coax, coax. 
 
 ££Up{)tstopf)des. 
 
 O musical children of the lake, 
 
 Ye speak as if 'twere an angel spake. 
 
 Come, let me rub your beautiful backs, 
 
 As soft as velvet, or the rose 
 
 Of light that in purple Psestum glows ; — 
 
 Oh, once again your warblings wake. 
 
 JFVogs. 
 Brekekekex, coax 3 coax, 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 The strain, methinks, is smooth as flax, 
 
 fftepi) tetanies. 
 
 Talk of the Cherubim that play 
 Their harps in heaven's symposiacs, 
 They never poured forth such a lovely lay. 
 
 JFtogs. 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
160 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Prate of Apollo's enchanting lute, 
 
 The booby who did were an ass-eared brute ; 
 
 Its notes compared with these were clacks. 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 Orpheus was skilled in the harp 'tis true. 
 
 The minstrel had three or four knowing knacks, 
 
 But he never could wake such hymns as you. 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 J^TtpJjtstopijeUg, 
 The lyre of David was certainly sweet, 
 And preserved King Saul from the fiend's attacks, 
 But it never gave me such an exquisite treat. 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 When Arion escaped on the dolphin's tails, 
 By the force of song from the thievish packs, 
 Compared with these, his were ganders' cacks, 
 Rivalling gold-necked nightingales. 
 From Adam to Pilate and Marshal Saxe, 
 Such notes were never heard save from quails. 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax, 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax, 
 Our voices are exquisite, soft and clear, 
 Our songs are melody — these are facts : 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES 161 
 
 To Phoebus, the Nine, and the Seraphim dear — 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 Itfng. 
 This horrible croaking makes me sick. 
 
 hangman. 
 
 If you whine any more, you shall feel some whacks 
 Of my one-tailed cat— take that, my chick. 
 
 JFfogs. 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 13allatutortter. 
 Good Gods ! I never heard noise like this ; 
 ; Tis worse than a drake's discordant quacks. 
 
 fHepijistopfjeUs. 
 'Tis sweeter than airs from the Land of Bliss. 
 
 JFnigs. 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 O Charon — Charon — spare us, Charon ! 
 
 ©fjaron. 
 Silence, you critical Jills and Jacks. 
 
 Seberal (frfjosta. 
 This grunt, like a bag-piper's wheezing, makes us — 
 
 JFnigs. 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 fHepf)tstopf)eIes. 
 Ah, me ! the beautiful beasts are going ; 
 Won't they swim to these billowy tracks? — 
 Back to their marshes see them rowing. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Brekekekex, coax, coax. 
 
 33alla&*hmter. 
 
 Would we could hear the music of a nightingale, 
 After this horrid hubbub. 
 
 ©fjaron. 
 
 Do you wish it ? 
 Warble, ray pretty poet of the woodlands. 
 
 fltgfttmgalr, 
 
 Tiouou, Tiouou, Tiouou, Tiouou. 
 
 Shpe, tiou, tokou, 
 
 Tio, Tio, Tio, Tio, 
 
 Kououtio, Kououtio, Kououtio, Kououtio, 
 
 Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, Tso, 
 
 Tso, Tso 
 Tsisi si, Tosi si, si, si, si, si, si, si. 
 Tsatn, Tsatn, Tsatn, Tsatn, Tsatn, Tsatn, Tsatn 
 Dlo, dlo, dlo, dla, dlo, dlo, dlo, dlo. 
 Kouioo trrrrrrrrtzt. 
 Lu, lu, lu, Ly, ly, ly, Li, li, li, li. 
 Kouio didl li loulyli. 
 Ha guour, guour, koui, kouio, 
 Kouio, Kououi, Kououi, Kououi, Koui, Koui, Koui, 
 
 Koui. 
 Glii, Ghi, Ghi. 
 
 Gholl, Gholl, Gholl, Gholl, Ghia, hududoi, 
 Hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, 
 
 Hets, hets, hets, hets. 
 Tourrho hostehoi, 
 
 Kouia, kouia, kouia, kouia, kouia, kouia, kouia, 
 Kouiati ! 
 
 i5alia&*torttn\ 
 What, sir, is this the angel of the night? 
 Your name is Merry, sure you're jesting with us. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 163 
 
 Merry ! — I ne'er was graver in my life : 
 If you wont credit me, consult Herr Bechstein 
 The well known ornithologist, who'll swear 
 By Styx, if you like, they're Philomela's notes. 
 
 Uoires {from the River). 
 
 Mercy, Gods, forgiveness, pity, 
 Unto us who writhe and shiver 
 Buried in this noisome river, 
 Dark and deep and fiery-burning, 
 Boiling in its waves of flame, 
 That our secret sins proclaim : — 
 Still we sigh for that Blest City, 
 From its shores our spirits spurning. — 
 Mercy, Gods, forgiveness, pity. 
 
 Ye are doomed and damned for ever ! 
 Down, Seducer, Drunkard, Glutton, 
 Ye who revelled in the waters 
 Foul of your own beastly passions, 
 Tempting virgins to destruction ; 
 Purchasing a moment's pleasure 
 By a maid's undying anguish ; 
 Giving up your souls to brutish 
 Lusts and longings that debased it 
 Lower than the lowest creatures, 
 Toad or viper • dare ye murmur ? 
 Dare ye hope to reach that City 
 Where the pure and sunny-hearted 
 Only enter ? Never — never ! 
 
 Fours (on the River). 
 
 Mercy, Gods, forgiveness, pity, 
 Unto us who float in terror 
 On this river's frightful mirror ; 
 Where we read, in lightning written, 
 
164 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The black pictures of our vices, 
 Till we groan with anguish smitten. 
 Still we look to yon Blest City, 
 Which in rainbow grandeur rises, 
 Where our souls may never dwell. 
 Mercy, Gods, forgiveness, pity ! 
 
 Ye are doomed and damned for ever, 
 Weavers of deep schemes, and artists 
 Of deceits and frauds and ruins. 
 Lo ! — while tossed upon these waters, 
 Black and deadly as the plottings 
 Which in life employed your spirits, 
 Ye behold the horrid symbols 
 Of that wickedness so fearful, 
 Which seemed then all clean and honest. 
 Dare ye hope to reach that City, 
 Where the crystal-hearted only 
 Knock and enter? — Never— never ! 
 
 Uotces. 
 Mercy, Gods, forgiveness, pity, 
 Tortured phantoms of these waters, 
 Oh, condemn us not for ever. 
 
 Ye are Hell's own sons and daughters, 
 
 Exiled from that Holy City 
 
 By your crimes — Hope — never, never ! 
 
 HYMN OF THE LOST SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Pilgrims of life are we ! 
 We have trodden our toilsome path through tears, 
 
 We have walked amid thorns and flowers ; 
 We have lived in a world of hopes and fears, 
 Bleak wilds and beautiful bowers. 
 Misery, oh, misery ! 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 165 
 
 Impassioned desires and dreams, 
 
 And the paradise-glimpses of bliss, 
 Were ours, for an instant ours ; 
 
 Who thought of no night like this. 
 But they faded away like the fabled streams 
 Of the desert, and mocked us with falsest gleams ; 
 And we woke to wander thus hand in hand 
 In the Still and Shadowy Land. 
 
 "Misery, oh, misery I 
 Sorrowing Pilgrims of Life are we, 
 
 Who flit by this gloomy shore, 
 Despairing, like one on a boundless sea, 
 
 Without helm, or sail, or oar. 
 Darkness, cloud, and terror 
 
 Still hang o'er these solemn isles, 
 On whose misty coasts the gliding ghosts 
 Still dream of the past and gone, 
 Dreaming and dreaming on, 
 
 In a night that sees no day, 
 To illumine its horror with smiles, 
 But is darkness still alway. 
 Ever we wander, 
 Ever we ponder, 
 Cursing the madness that tempted astray. 
 No sunlight to gladden our eyes, 
 
 No rose to delight with its breath ; 
 No lute to wake with its silver sighs 
 The thoughts that are lulled by death. 
 Misery, oh, misery ! 
 Sunshine and garden and dulcet strain, 
 Oh, shall ye never be ours again ? 
 Sparkling goblet and violet band, 
 Smile ye not here in the Shadowy Land ? 
 
 No ; Beauty and Bliss have fled 
 From the Pilgrims of Life, alas ! 
 Like the shapes in a wizard's glass 
 
166 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 O'er the cold hard souls of the Dead. 
 
 Bright thoughts of their bygone pleasures pass, 
 Till Despair effaces 
 The rosy traces, 
 As lightning withers the vernal grass ; 
 And sorrow and darkness reign 
 
 In our silent souls for ever, 
 That wildly desire to regain 
 
 What the Destinies yield them never. 
 And we wander about, like accursed and banned, 
 In the Dark and Silent Land ! 
 
 Pilgrims of Life are we, 
 But sons of Eternal Night ; 
 The Future that looms in the distance afar 
 Of remotest times and ages opes 
 No heavenly vista of cheering hopes, 
 That a day may come when the stain and blight 
 
 That darken us now, oh, misery ! 
 May vanish, and each shine out like the Star 
 Of Morning washed in the emerald sea. 
 No — no, 
 Woe! Woe! 
 We are Despair's 
 Unhoping heirs ; 
 Souls of the Dead for ever lost, 
 On our own anguish tempest-tossed, 
 Cursing the ever existing flames 
 
 Of God's great essence that glow within, 
 Bearing wherever we go hot Shame's 
 Deep-set brands as the Sons of Sin. 
 Oh— oh, 
 Woe ! woe ! 
 Ever and ever we wander wailing, 
 
 Such is the just Divine Command ; 
 Grief for the Past is unavailing, 
 When we are once in the Shadowy Land. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 167 
 
 This river Styx is like the Thames at London, 
 
 That every day grows dirtier and more stinking. 
 
 Quick, Charon — lose no time — row quick, and quicker, 
 
 I feel inclined to faint, my pulse is sinking. 
 
 Oh, that I had a flask of strongest liquor, 
 
 Such as they sell at Auerbach's in Leipsic, 
 
 Which many a time has saved me from being gripe-sick. 
 
 Row on, you rogue. — Why, Charon, you seem thinking, 
 
 Rapt in a reverie — a thing uncommon 
 
 In one of your hard nerves. 
 
 Cijaron. 
 
 I don't deny it. 
 Do you remember to have seen a Phantom, 
 Lovely and young, beside the river weeping, 
 As we put off from shore ? 
 
 J$Upf)tsttipf)eIes. 
 
 I recollect her, 
 She seemed a very charming sort of spectre ; 
 She sought the boat, and for a time stood by it, 
 But did not enter. 
 
 Charon. 
 Does your Highness know her ? 
 
 JftUpfn'stopJjeles. 
 I cannot say I do ; she moved me greatly, 
 A thing that's rarely done by any woman. 
 Seldom indeed I've seen such sweet eyes steeping 
 Their starry light in tears that spake more sadness. 
 Deep must have been the grief could thus affect her. 
 
 33alla&=tormn\ 
 I think I know the story of her madness. 
 
 Qfyaxtm. 
 Do you, Sir Minstrel ? — tell it. 
 
]68 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 33 allafc*foriter. 
 
 Sir, with pleasure, 
 'Twill entertain us on our gloomy voyage ; 
 And yet it is a tale of truth and sorrow 
 Might make the stoniest-hearted melt in pity ; 
 For she was stung to death by a base viper, 
 Whose name was something like the river Jordan. 
 
 ffijarim. 
 Out with it, quick — we want no further prologue ; 
 And if it pleases me, I'll speak to Minos 
 To overlook the fact that you're a Poet ; 
 For that alone in these discerning regions 
 Is proof presumptive that you are a knave, 
 And well deserve damnation sevenfold. 
 
 ISallatr-hm'ter. 
 Nay, sir, but why condemn all poets thus ? 
 Poets are God's interpreters on earth. 
 They soar aloft as if on angels' wings, 
 They bring us tidings of eternal things ; 
 They mould our souls to beauty, goodness, truth, 
 And train them for their new ethereal birth 
 In that star-world where dwells unfading youth. 
 Dreamers of dreams, divine and pictured scenes 
 Of heroes, love, the knightly sword, the lance, 
 Sports in the greenwood, faerie, ladies fair, 
 Enchantment, sylvans ; all that Queen Romance 
 In olden tomes of legends rich and rare 
 With rainbow pencil paints, the Poet gleans. 
 Whate'er with skilful hand the Bard portrays, 
 Forth like quick life, the perfect pictures stand, — 
 Genius that gifts and guides his well-trained hand 
 In all her splendid hues each scene arrays. 
 Angels themselves attend his high career, 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 169 
 
 Prompting him ever thus. — Awake, arise ! 
 Evoke the voice of song, that sleeping lies 
 In the gold lute, and charm heart, spirit, soul, and ear. 
 
 Ojavou. 
 Do they indeed ? I never knew an instance ; 
 You'll find it rather hard to humbug Minos. 
 He hates all poets, as they say the Devil 
 Hates holy water— nathelesse I'll befriend you, 
 And save you from some years of Purgatory, 
 Provided what you tell is worth the hearing. 
 
 fHrpljtstopijeUs. 
 Nay, we can't hear this nonsense, 'twere a bore 
 As bad as Druso's, the rich stupid poet 
 Who forced his debtors when they could not pay him 
 To hear and praise his tedious compositions* 
 
 Ojavmt. 
 
 Pardon me, my good lord, the way is long, 
 The journey melancholy, and this fool 
 Will joyously buffoon the weary hour, 
 Provoking laughter at himself or theme. 
 
 *3aIIatr=toriter, 
 
 Most humbly, sir, I thank you for your kindness, 
 And thus commence the Story of the Ladye, 
 W r hose name was no true omen of her life. 
 
 STORY OF THE LADYE. 
 
 There late lived One, a fair and wondrous creature, 
 A being all enchantment, from whose soul 
 
 Flashed such' a beam as lighted up each feature 
 With mind's pure essence • like the stars that roll 
 Over the heaven when the solemn stole 
 
 Of night hath wrapped it. She was young and fair, 
 And in her heart, like some white virgin-scroll, 
 
170 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Dwelt nymphal Innocence ; and still where'er 
 She turned Delight was near, and round her, like the 
 air. 
 
 'Twas said the Muses danced about her cradle, 
 
 And played on their gold harps their sweetest lays ; 
 
 Apollo fed her from a diamond ladle, 
 
 While Love stood by, and fixed his rosy gaze 
 Eight on the Infant slumbering in the blaze 
 
 Of glittering sunshine and Hymettian flowers ; 
 And, oh, be mine the welcome task, he says, 
 
 To watch and tend this crescent born for hours 
 
 Of love, and innocent joy, and blest Idalian bowers. 
 
 Venus herself came down from heaven, and brought her 
 
 The charm-conferring cestus that she wore ; 
 And take, she says, this magic gift, my daughter ; 
 
 Take it, and all who see thee shall adore ; 
 
 The sleeper's marble limbs she bound it o'er, 
 Till, like a sunbeam in a shady place, 
 
 Or Hesper imaged on the glassy floor 
 Of the broad ocean, when the sky's embrace 
 Hath veiled the Moon, appeared the Infant's form and 
 face. 
 
 The Mountain-nymphs, the Fauns and Dryades, 
 Zoneless and golden-sandalled, and rose-crowned, 
 
 The blue-eyed train of Thetis from the seas, 
 
 The white-armed Naiads, with their locks unbound 
 And rustling in the Zephyrs, flocked around ; 
 
 And silver-shafted Dian from the plains 
 
 And leafy valleys where the streams resound 
 
 Brought her bright nymphs — those beauty-breathing 
 trains, 
 
 While sweet Euterpe played, and Phoebus sang his 
 strains. 
 
 And fiower-encinctured Dreams, and Visions golden, 
 With stars for eyes, and lips more red than rose, 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 171 
 
 Such as from high Olympus to the olden 
 And god-like Poets, wandered to disclose 
 The thought divine, whose burning splendour glows 
 
 Still in their songs ; all these were there, beside 
 The woodland bed whereon, in soft repose, 
 
 Reclined this favoured babe, her thoughts to guide 
 
 Up to the heavenly homes to which she was allied. 
 
 Beside her stood the snowy-bosomed Graces 
 
 With arms enwreathed, and smiled upon her sleep ; 
 While Faunus made a thousand gay grimaces, 
 
 And wild with mirthfulness was seen to leap. 
 
 Meanwhile the Infant on a fragrant heap 
 Of violets, roses, and green eglantine, 
 
 Slumbered as in some dream radiant and deep, 
 And ever and anon, like sweet sunshine, 
 A laugh lit up her face, which seemed indeed divine. 
 
 And light-winged birds, and humming honey-bees, 
 
 And wandering echoes catching all sweet sounds ; 
 And flowers and fruits are there, and emerald trees, 
 
 Olive and myrtle on their grassy mounds ; 
 
 A babbling stream from rock to rock that bounds, 
 Making delicious music in its way ; 
 
 An atmosphere like perfume, that surrounds 
 This sacred spot ; an ever-living ray 
 Of heavenly light dwells there, and changes night to 
 day. 
 
 Thus passed her infancy, 'mid happy scenes, 
 p Companionship divine, and sweet delight ; 
 
 Years roll on year, and girlhood intervenes ; 
 And then the W r oman steps serene and bright 
 Forth to the world, nor dreams of aught to blight 
 
 The blissful visions that her youth beheld : 
 A voice came down from heaven — Beloved, write 
 
 The things that thou hast seen and known of eld ; — 
 
 Then proudly flashed her eye ; her beauteous bosom 
 swelled. 
 
172 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And then she did obey the great behest, — 
 
 This heaven-eyed Lad ye touched her sounding lyre ; 
 Songs flow like sunbeams from her throbbing breast, 
 
 While her looks glisten with celestial fire ; 
 
 Lo ! with what ecstacy her tones inspire 
 The hearts of old and young ; how sweetly fall 
 
 The swanlike harmonies that never tire, 
 The breathing words and burning thoughts that all 
 Who stand within their spell, like magic straight enthral. 
 
 Her soul was Music's temple ; it was filled 
 
 With all ethereal, all enchanting lore, 
 With dazzling thoughts and pure, as if distilled 
 
 From morning sunshine : still and evermore 
 
 Her spirit mused on deeds and days of yore ; 
 Goodness and gentleness their starry veil 
 
 Of brightness round her threw ; like golden ore 
 Her eloquent discourse, or like the gale 
 That blows o'er groves of spice, and bids their sweets 
 exhale. 
 
 And to this soul was given a fairy form, 
 
 Fawnlike in lightness ! fawnlike were her eyes ; 
 
 A beauteous rainbow shining in a storm ; 
 A star that glitters in tempestuous skies 
 Could scarcely win more wonder and surprise 
 
 Than this fair Woman in a stormy world, 
 
 Still in her own pure radiance 5 Frauds and Lies 
 
 Came forth like toads, and their vile venom hurled, 
 
 Still like a Star she shone, with light undimmed, 
 unfurl'd. 
 
 The faerie-dreaming Painter from whose hand 
 Falls splendour, poesy, and breath, and thought, 
 
 The Bright, Sublime, the Beautiful, the Grand, 
 Into his canvass like quick life enwrought, 
 Came, and unto her shrine his offering brought ; 
 
 The Scholar skilled in many an ancient tongue 
 With reverent feet her classic altar sought ; 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 173 
 
 The Northern Minstrel his wild garland hung 
 Above her head, and wept, while sadly still she sung. 
 
 And hers were songs of other scenes and lands — 
 
 The Golden Violet, the Chivalric Vow, 
 Proud knights and frowning forts and armoured bands 
 
 And kings and empires, all departed now ; 
 
 Till Glory came, and o'er her laurelled brow 
 Shed rays immortal ; and the wondering throng, 
 
 The Wise, the Virtuous, and the Great that bow 
 Before the priestess of so sweet a song 
 Her praises like wild echoes still and still prolong. 
 
 And love was in her hymns, undying love, 
 
 Spirit and heart-absorbing, passionate, wild ; 
 Such as Immortals feel in realms above, 
 
 Such as on earth, alas ! but seldom smiled. 
 
 In dreams like these her lone hours she beguiled ; 
 For sorrow dwelt within her soul, and when 
 
 Her laugh, like the clear laughter of a child, 
 "Was loudest and most silvery, even then 
 A cloud came o'er her thoughts, and made her weep 
 again. 
 
 Much had she struggled from her ripening years, 
 
 With the cold world and worldly wants and cares ; 
 Her path to fame had been a path through tears, 
 
 The flowers that round her grew were choked with 
 tares : 
 
 But Genius never falters or despairs ; 
 But like a King wends onward in its march ; 
 
 Immortal lightnings in its hand it bears, 
 Seas that oppose, or deserts wild that parch, 
 It braves, and wins at length triumphal bust and arch. 
 
 And it was so with her ; the world that first 
 
 Hailed her with, welcome and delight and praise, 
 Now frowned upon her ; like hot thunder burst 
 
174 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Its angry voice, while sadness and amaze 
 Consumed that heaven-eyed Ladye many days; 
 Her soul, her clear bright soul must never more 
 Shine out in all its primal strength and blaze ; 
 Never again shall pass from her heart's core 
 The vulture Grief that now her inmost vitals tore. 
 
 For there was one on whom that Ladye's smile 
 
 Of innocence had fallen. O wretch accurst 
 Of God and Man ; hell-doomed — thou viper vile, 
 
 Spawned from foul poison, on foul poison nurst ! 
 
 The chasms of hell that for thy carcass thirst 
 Never before received, nor ever again, 
 
 Shall they receive within them, since their first 
 Pale, cowardly tenant, murder-spotted Cain, 
 A baser, bloodier wretch — well matched the miscreant 
 twain. 
 
 With glozing tongue, true copy of Iscariot, 
 This lewd and cogging villain, like a fiend 
 
 Whispered away her fame ; on foot, in chariot, 
 On winged steed, the festering falsehood gleaned 
 From his foul lips and heart with lies obscened, 
 
 Rushed through the multitude, from one to one, 
 And thence to thousands ; at its outset screened 
 
 In secresy, and seeming light to shun, 
 
 It grew apace, and then — the heaven-eyed was undone. 
 
 Oh, weep ! oh, weep ! the sharp envenomed shaft 
 
 Of vilest slander hath been foully shot: 
 A wound whereat the very devils laughed, 
 
 To see their latest child in hell begot 
 
 So deftly weave and wind his fiend like plot ; 
 The caves of Erebus resound with glee; 
 
 The triple-headed dog to bark forgot, 
 And thought a pleasant thought in his heads three : 
 This is a man indeed after mine heart, quoth he. 
 
TARTARUS OF HADES. 175 
 
 Oh, weep ! oh, weep ! oh, what a wound was there ! 
 
 The graceful, glorious creature sits and weeps ; 
 Ah me ! that grief should torture one so fair; 
 
 She hath sown beauty, blight and death she reaps : 
 
 She sits alone and lonely ; Sorrow steeps 
 Her spirit-lighted eyes in briny tears ; 
 
 Her breaking heart its maddened vigil keeps: — 
 This honest world believes whatever it hears, 
 Except the truth ; it hails the lie that blasts and sears. 
 
 Her heart is broken — time and tide move on; 
 
 The slander lives, the slanderer is gay ; 
 Pining alone still sits that weeping one, 
 
 Her heart is broken now ; to dust and clay 
 
 All her bright hopes are turned ; her hair is grey : 
 Oh, weep ! oh, weep ! sweet Heaven, to see thine own 
 
 Thus done to death by boasts and lies that slay ; 
 All her fair hopes to madness turned or flown, 
 Her rose-like beauty crushed ere it was fully blown. 
 
 Where are her gentle dreamings? gone for ever! 
 
 Her innocent hopes and wishes ? gone, all gone ! 
 A rainbow imaged on a crystal river 
 
 Was not more frail— it shines — and now has shone. 
 
 Present and Past seem blended into one, 
 So quickly faded happiness away : 
 
 Such is thy life, poor walking skeleton 
 That callest thyself Man. Alas the day ! 
 And thou wilt smile, and wed, and war, and kill, and sway. 
 
 And years roll on, and she hath given her hand 
 To one who wooed her ; but no heart she gave ; 
 
 Her heart was dead within her ; her own land 
 She leaves, and o'er the dark and boiling wave, 
 To where Lione's crags the ocean brave, 
 
 The heaven-eyed Ladye goes — three short months pass, 
 And she is sleeping in her lonely grave ; 
 
176 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And there are tales abroad — the poisoned glass, 
 
 And wild revenge, and hate, and scorn, and death — alas ! 
 
 She sleeps on Afric's shore ; the purple billow 
 
 Dashes its crest beneath her silent tomb ; 
 And the bright stars smile o'er her earthly pillow ; 
 
 But no fresh flowers about her bud or bloom ; 
 
 No rose from her own land sheds sweet perfume 
 Over her mouldering beauty ; all is bare, 
 
 Arid, and tinged with some funereal gloom, 
 Like her own dark career of grief and care ; — 
 Sad fate reserved for one so innocent and fair. 
 
 The wandering night winds o'er her head that blow 
 
 Make mournful music like a spirit's wail ; 
 Alas ! to the bright heart that sleeps below 
 
 How little can such requiem avail ! 
 
 Many have wept who hear her tragic tale, 
 And thousands yet unborn for her will weep ; 
 
 The eyes drop tears, the cheek grows ashy pale, 
 And icy shudderings o'er the spirit creep — 
 Who sent her beaming youth to its eternal sleep? 
 
 Thou, Murderer, 'twas thine envenomed lips ) — 
 
 Thou by thy villainous falsehoods didst the deed ; 
 To thee we owe this beauteous star's eclipse ; 
 
 'Twas thou who mad'st her heart and spirit bleed ; 
 
 Suffer for it thou shalt, thou and thy seed 
 Unto all generations ; like red flame 
 
 The memory of the Dead shall leap and feed 
 About thy slanderous spirit, and thy name 
 Become to after-times the synonyme of Shame. 
 
 O thou Eternal God, in thunder throned, 
 
 Look down from heaven, and with thy vengeful wrath 
 
 Pursue this leprous villain — cursed, disowned, 
 And howling let him die \ make smooth his path 
 To flame eternal ; if he daughters hath, 
 
PHLEGETPION. 177 
 
 Let Infamy and Want sit by them ever ; 
 
 Plunge them accursed into the fiery bath 
 Prepared for Satan and their sire ; and sever 
 Their triple serpent-spirits never, never, never. 
 
 Scene XIII. 
 PHLEGETHON. 
 
 An impenetrable gloom. Will-o'-the-Wisp rises, and, after 
 some fantastic flutters in the air, sings. 
 
 Helter-skelter, how they're running, 
 Devils cruel, old, and cunning, 
 Headlong down the banks of Styx to Charon's vasty 
 
 barge ; 
 Like wing-footed English racers, 
 Like wind-pinioned steeple-chasers. 
 Why does Minos let such wicked demons run at large ? 
 Up, Will-o'-the-wisp ! 
 
 From your dense morass, 
 And see the pageant 
 
 Of Pluto pass. 
 Up, Will-o'-the-Wisp ! 
 
 In your flickering dance, 
 And light my lords 
 
 O'er the air's expanse. 
 Chamos, Moloch, Adramelech, 
 Arza, Meni, Anamelech, 
 Nergal, Orimasda, Rimmon, Remphan, Thartak, Baal, 
 Asteroth, Esch, Saturninus, 
 Asdod, Dagon, Nechustinus, 
 Chunos, Benoth, Draco, Chium whirling on the gale. 
 Some on steeds of fleetness borne, 
 Which they rein with brazen bridles ; 
 
178 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Some on cars like sunbright morn, 
 Painted with exulting idols. 
 Some with heads of sheep or peacocks, 
 Some like wild goats, some like mules, 
 Some like horses, griffins, pheasants, 
 All like knaves, and none like fools. 
 These are the} 7 whom Greeks, Sidonians, 
 Persians, Medes, Philistines, Jews, 
 Ammonites, and Babylonians, 
 Worshipped in their holy stews. 
 Here are Succubi — grey women ; 
 Incubi, like satyrs, riding 
 On red foxes, otters, badgers. — 
 Here the Lemures are striding 
 Through a roar that drowns the roaring 
 Of the wildest hurricane, 
 When it lashes the vexed main 
 And the waters loud are snoring. 
 See, Bellona fight-rejoicing, 
 
 Heaver of the glowing thunder ; 
 Whirling on three azure dragons, 
 
 How she cleaves the clouds asunder. 
 Frown the skies with mighty winter, 
 
 And the elements with wonder. 
 Hell seems shrinking back in fright ; 
 
 Lo ! Abaddon, saffron -mantled, 
 
 Gnashing loudly like a tiger, 
 Driven from the field of fight. 
 Spirits, waving brazen bucklers, 
 Ride in thunder, on black eagles, 
 Mighty-taloned and snake-braided, 
 Followed fast by Hell's red beagles, 
 Python, Beelzebub, Belial, 
 
 Mounted on fire-breathing coursers : 
 
 Sin-delighters, truth-efforcers, 
 Bearing bale in many a vial ; 
 Ploughing through the boundless ocean 
 
PHLEGETHON. 1 7 ( J 
 
 Of vain phantoms, which are shrieking 
 Curses born of mad emotion. — 
 
 Mark sly Maimon softly sneaking, 
 Like a sycophant and traitor, 
 Vulture-footed, reptile-eyed ; 
 
 Wrapping up his narrow shoulders 
 In a panther's spotted hide. 
 Yet his soul is like a crater 
 
 Of hot hate to all beholders ; 
 Even the devils turn aside. 
 Here's Canopus and Nseapus ; 
 Here's one rides an unicorn, 
 Lifting up his giant horn 
 With a laugh of snorting scorn. 
 Who is he ? It is Priapus, 
 Brandishing a forky trident, 
 While he goads the monster strident. 
 Hollow-sounding winds rush after, 
 Curses, groanings, mocking laughter, 
 Blood-red thunder, deep-toned lightning : 
 
 Croaking ravens, chilling showers, 
 
 Iron mist that grimly lowers ; 
 Ignes-Fatui still brightening 
 Hell with gleams that make it dimmer, 
 So terrific their pale glimmer. 
 And the stars their light have hidden, 
 Like young stag-hounds, beaten, chidden : 
 And the planets have grown pale, 
 
 Muffling up their heads in shade. — 
 
 Ah ! — by Styx, The Renegade 
 Comes himself, upon a whale, 
 
 After his confused brigade. 
 Horror follows, 
 Fury hollas, 
 
 While her Titan torches swale. 
 And the fierce Lucifugi 
 In the rattling midnight fly. 
 
180 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Owls and vultures, spectre-faced, 
 
 Sweep along in clouds coal-black, 
 And grey-pinioned, witch-like foxes 
 
 Bark in chorus pick-a-pack. 
 Helter-skelter — how they hurry 
 
 To give welcome to the ghosts ! 
 Won't the strangers feel a flurry 
 
 When they land upon our coasts? 
 Greetings such as these will give them 
 
 Will do aught but stir up mirth ; 
 Yet they were, and I believe them, 
 
 Their best friends upon the earth. 
 
 Scene XIV. 
 THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. 
 
 Chatterton under a beautiful tree, playing on a golden lyre, 
 and singing, 
 
 I dreamed a dream 
 
 As fair — as bright — 
 As the star's soft gleam, 
 
 Or eyes of light. 
 At the midnight hour 
 
 The Queen of Love, 
 From her faerie bower 
 
 Of smiles above, 
 With Cupid came, 
 
 And with grace divine 
 Kissed me, and whispered, 
 
 " Henceforth be thine 
 This little child 
 
 Whom I bring thee here, 
 A willing pupil 
 
 To minstrels dear. 
 
THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. 181 
 
 Teach him to sing 
 
 The strains thou hast sung ; 
 Like a bird of spring 
 
 O'er its callow young." 
 She vanished in light, — 
 
 That witching one, — 
 Like a meteor of night, 
 
 That shines and is gone. 
 The Sprite of the skies 
 
 Remained by me, 
 His deep blue eyes 
 
 Radiant with glee. 
 His looks were bright 
 
 As roses wreathed ; 
 A wild delight 
 
 From his features breathed. 
 Legends I taught him 
 
 Of nymph and swain ; 
 Of hearts entangled 
 
 In love's sweet chain. 
 Fables that charm 
 
 The soul from sadness ; 
 Stories that warm 
 
 The coldest to gladness ; 
 Songs all glowing 
 
 With passion and mirth, 
 Like music flowing 
 
 From heaven to earth. 
 Such were the treasures 
 
 Of wit and thought 
 I gave : yet dreamed not 
 
 My task was nought. 
 Cupid listened, 
 
 And clapped his hands, 
 And his wild eyes glistened 
 
 Like burning brands. 
 Fanning the air 
 
182 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 With snow-white wings, 
 He seized my lyre, 
 
 He swept the strings : 
 He looked, he glittered, 
 
 Like golden morn, 
 As he chaunted the loves 
 
 Of the heaven-born. 
 His voice was sweet 
 
 And perfume-laden, 
 And light as the feet 
 
 Of dancing maiden. — 
 " Hearts there are 
 
 In Heaven above 
 Of wild desires, 
 
 Of passionate love. 
 Hearts there are 
 
 Divinest of mould, 
 Which Love hath among 
 
 His slaves enrolled ; — 
 Love hath been, 
 
 And ever will be : 
 The might of Heaven 
 
 Shall fade ere he." 
 Then the Boy, 
 
 Nearer advancing, 
 The Spirit of Joy 
 
 In his blue eyes dancing, 
 Told me such secrets 
 
 Of Heaven as ne'er 
 Were before revealed 
 
 But to poet's ear ; 
 Eevealings of beauty, 
 That make the soul 
 Like the stars, that on wings 
 
 Of diamond roll. 
 In song — in splendour, 
 The god departed ; 
 
THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. 183 
 
 The spell was o'er, 
 
 From sleep I started. 
 Thoughts like sunbeams 
 
 Around me hung, 
 And my heart still echoed 
 
 What Love had sung. 
 Oh ! what could Heaven 
 
 Deny to us, 
 To whom it hath given 
 Its secrets thus ? 
 
 Pausing. 
 Well, I think Minos was extremely just. 
 The Devil's Advocate was too severe ; 
 He pressed the case as if he were Attorney 
 For Hell, and not for Truth. The Judge said well ; 
 " Man's life is to be judged 
 Not by his deeds alone, 
 
 But by the circumstances, times, and seasons 
 Which do accompany those deeds. 
 Nor should we contemplate it but in halves, 
 But as a whole, 
 A great and wond'rous whole ; 
 Contrasting light with dark, 
 As in some picture old, 
 And gathering thence sound knowledge of the entire. 5> 
 
 Aristophanes. 
 Why, my bold younker, do I find you musing ? 
 What mighty speculation moves your thoughts ? 
 Tell, if 'tis not a secret. 
 
 ©Ijatterton. 
 
 Ah ! my Grecian, 
 With the three lovely Graces in your bosom, 
 You are almost the only Spirit here 
 I should have cared to meet just now, except 
 That madcap wag of Meudon ; such a trial 
 As I have witnessed seldom's seen in HelL 
 
184 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Aristophanes. 
 A trial ! — before Minos, I suppose ? 
 
 CDfjatterton, 
 Minos was judge ; the culprit an old poet 
 Of whom we've heard so much from German critics, 
 Who swear in hendecasyllabic oaths, 
 Dormer und Mitzen, Heaven, and Earth, and Hades, 
 He was the greatest wit the world e'er saw, 
 Forgetting Rabelais, Swift, yourself, and me, 
 Cervante3, Butler, Fielding, and Voltaire. 
 
 Aristophanes. 
 This must have been their clay eidolon, Goethe, 
 Whose fanatic worshippers have split our ears 
 For the last forty years with senseless praise 
 Of what was commonplace, obscure, and stale ; 
 Prepared to prove by fists, and cufFs, and clubs, 
 Since Homer stole his plot from old Corinnus, 
 The earliest minstrel of the Trojan War, 
 This Frankfort rhymer was earth's greatest son. 
 
 ©fjatterton. 
 The same. — We've all indeed been sadly bored 
 With eulogies on him, as once we were 
 With goose Du Bartas, surnamed the Divine, 
 Cowper, the mad translator, Aretino, 
 Boileau, Phil. Sidney, admirable Crichton, 
 And creatures of that class, who had their day 
 On earth, but who, to ears polite or witty, 
 Are never mentioned now except in jest. 
 
 ^rtstopljanes. 
 What was this trial that amused you so ? 
 
 CDfjattnton, 
 Come, sit with me beneath this golden vine, 
 
THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. 185 
 
 Clustered all o'er with purple grapes, that bring 
 To memory Attica's delicious suns, 
 And landscapes rife with beauty, music, love, 
 And pastoral life ; thus, while we breathe at ease 
 The Elysian atmosphere of rosy light, 
 Melody, fragrance, bliss, and splendour blent, 
 I'll tell you (if I do not change my mind) 
 All that I saw of this new comedy. 
 
 ^rtstopSanes. 
 'Twill pass a pleasant hour away ; content. 
 Sit you beneath the vine, while I stretch here 
 Upon this mossy bank with violets starred. 
 
 eijatterton. 
 So many years have passed since last 1 saw 
 Charon and Styx, that in a rnerry mood 
 To-day I ventured through the black abyss 
 Of fire and mist that separates this place 
 From Tartarus. The several dangers passed, 
 I stood at last upon the river's brink, 
 Where gaped a multitude of expectant souls 
 Waiting to see the new arrivals land. 
 
 &rtstopi)3tt£S. 
 Man still is man, wherever he may be, 
 The same strange motley and inquisitive fool. 
 
 ©tiatterton. 
 When the boat came it bore a curious group, 
 All naked ; nothing could I learn of those 
 Who filled it, whether kings, or slaves, or knaves. 
 
 Waste not your breath ; the last comprises both. 
 
 ^atterton. 
 But there were two who struck me very much : 
 
186 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 One was that devil, Mephistopheles, 
 
 The merriest, bitterest, most outspoken Elf 
 
 I've ever passed an hour with. 
 
 ^rtstopfjattes. 
 
 Was he there ? 
 I wish you had brought him hither; His an age 
 Since I've conversed with one that pleased me more. 
 
 ©Jatterton. 
 I could not tempt him to these classic quarters ; 
 He had important business with the shade 
 Of Goethe, who accompanied him from earth. 
 
 &ratop!)attes. 
 Ho ! — ho ! — I see ; — these were the two new comers, 
 By whom you were attracted from the first. 
 
 ©gattnton. 
 They were. Mephisto, calling me aside, 
 Told me to slip into the crowd, and pass 
 Unnoticed into court, where I should hear 
 A very curious trial. Goethe prisoner, 
 The Devil's Advocate, accuser, and 
 A certain lady counsel for the accused. 
 I mingled with the crowd, and by the aid 
 Of Mephistopheles stole in ; and there. 
 Beside the Judge, radiant in heavenly light 
 That far outshone the diamond's blinding blaze, 
 Stood One, whose beauty w 7 as a Paradise 
 Of all and every thing that bears the form 
 And soul of splendour, loveliness, and youth; 
 I'll not describe her — even you would fail ; 
 Not all the roses that you ever spoke 
 Could equal her in freshness, light, or charm. 
 
 The comedy began : stern Minos rose, 
 
 And in ten minutes sentenced some ten thousand 
 
THE ELYSIAN FIELDS. 187 
 
 To several torments : only one proved pure, 
 
 A Ballad-writer, whom they starved on earth, 
 
 As they did me in Brook Street, near Gray's Inn. 
 
 Then Goethe was brought up. The Advocate, 
 
 A small thin devil, with a sharp shrewd brow 
 
 And sensual mouth, hyena's eyes and laugh, 
 
 That seemed to chuckle with contempt of God, 
 
 Rose up, and saddling on his short cocked nose 
 
 A pair of spectacles, and sneering much, 
 
 Laid Jack's life bare ; recounted all his deeds, 
 
 Committed and omitted : such a list 
 
 Of accusations has not been delivered 
 
 'Gainst any man of literary note 
 
 Since Chancellor Bacon or since James the First 
 
 Was damned ; 'twas such as poets seldom have 
 
 To answer ; selfishness extreme, disdain 
 
 Of all things human, save the few that tended 
 
 To his own pleasures : Men, the devil said, 
 
 Should be like stars whose beams illume each other ; 
 
 But this man's whole existence from his birth 
 
 Had centred only in his worshipped self. 
 
 His life, if marble smooth, was marble cold ; 
 
 His songs were rhyme, but in their moral bad ; 
 
 His maxims were made up of farce and hate. 
 
 His cold flirtations and sere heartlessness 
 
 To women were unveiled, and vain confessions 
 
 Of the frail many who believed his vows. 
 
 Gretchen, Annette, Lucinda, Frederica, 
 
 Emily, Charlotte, Lilli ; a fair list, 
 
 As long as Leporello's in the play, 
 
 Of women duped, and then held up to laughter. 
 
 And when he might have served the human race 
 
 He would not, but preferred to pass his time 
 
 Musing on carrots, analysing dungs, 
 
 Playing the lacquey and the lickspit to 
 
 The paltry court of Weimar and its Log. 
 
188 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 What followed ? 
 
 This — the Poet was reprieved. 
 
 gfrtstopfjanes. 
 Reprieved ? — how mean you ? Was there no defence ? 
 
 efjatterton. 
 Oh, yes, a very splendid speech by Gretchen ; — 
 And a most Minos-like amazing judgment, 
 Which I forget — 
 
 &tfstopf)anes. 
 Nay, you are jesting with me. 
 
 Cfjattertcm. 
 Of course I am — the whole thing is a jest; 
 It came to me through Virgil's ivory gate. 
 And if 1 am not owl-eyed, there is Virgil 
 Reclining yonder by the sparkling waters. 
 If you desire to hear the rest, why, faith, 
 You'll have a run for it, dear Aristophanes. 
 
 Scene XV. 
 THE COURT-YARD. 
 
 An open space in front of the Judgment- Seat of Minos. 
 
 0bti Spirit. 
 Villain, knave, dolt, rascal, donkey ! 
 
 JSebtTa gtobocate. 
 How now ? — how now, gentle nunky ? 
 
 i 
 
THE COURT- YARD. 189 
 
 ©btl Spirit. 
 Scoundrel, stinkard, ruffian, booby ! 
 
 BrbtTs &&borate. 
 Spoil not those ripe lips of ruby. 
 
 @bii Spirit. 
 Dunghill, coward, dunce, rascallion ! 
 
 jDebil'a &&borate. 
 Why, you're rampant as a stallion. 
 
 €£bil Spirit. 
 Vagabond, beast, goose, and blackguard ! 
 
 EebiFs E&borate. 
 Truty, lad, you do attack hard. 
 
 €rbil Spirit 
 Atheist, sot, thief, Jew, Turk, Papist ! 
 
 53ebil's &&borate. 
 Why, you'll call me soon red-tapist. 
 
 £btl Spirit. 
 Swindler, liar, jolthead, bully ! 
 
 33ebil's E&borahn 
 Nay, have done, you crippled cully. 
 
 <&M Spirit. 
 Traitor, wretched craven, pig-head ! 
 
 jOebiTs gl&bocahn 
 I shall have to punch your thick head. 
 
 mil Spirit. 
 Own that you're a miscreant shabby. 
 
190 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Bebil'a ^trbocate. 
 As there's in Westminster Abbey ? 
 
 mil Spirit 
 Hypocrite, quack, carrion, rebel ! 
 
 Faith ! you're wise as Madam Sybil. 
 
 e&Ci Spirit 
 Cutpurse, sloven, drunkard, brawler ! 
 
 Will none stop this caterwauler? 
 
 €£bii Spirit 
 Mountebank, cheat, bravo, vermin ! 
 
 JBebU's ^dbotate. 
 Here's respect to robe and ermine. 
 
 ebil Spirit. 
 Snip, bullbeggar, tosspot, schemer ! 
 
 jBebil's &fcbocate. 
 Gad, your tongue wags like a steamer. 
 
 mil Spirit 
 Pimp, buffoon, clown, rat, louse, felon ! 
 
 Sybil's ^fcibotate. 
 All my choicest virtues tell on. 
 
 €cbii Spirit. 
 Lunatic, base mooncalf, noodle ! 
 
 ©ebil's &&bocate. 
 Cockadoodle, doodle, doodle. 
 
THE COURT-YARD. 191 
 
 ebtl Spirit. 
 Wretch ! I'll grind your soul to powder. 
 
 Debtl's ^tiborate. 
 If you do, you'll bawl no louder. 
 
 6MI Spirit 
 
 Then I'll thrust you into blazes. 
 
 BebtTs ^borate. 
 Well — I'd like to know its mazes. 
 
 ebtl Spirit. 
 Gulligut, boor, filthard, bardash ! 
 
 Bebtl's ^bbotate. 
 Why your fceces thus like tar dash? 
 
 <5btl Spirit. 
 I will tear your heart to pieces. 
 
 Debit's &&borate. 
 All this trash your bile increases. 
 
 €*bii Spirit 
 I will scrape your nasty eyes out. 
 
 BebtTs ^trbocate. 
 Sir, you're pouring all your lies out. 
 
 ebti Spirit. 
 I will fry your wicked liver. 
 
 Bebil's ittfborate. 
 The rich fat would make you shiver. 
 
 ma Spirit. 
 I will roast your brains by inches. 
 
102 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 JBebil's &&bocate. 
 I will grind you in hell's winches. 
 
 ma spirit* 
 
 I will crucify you, gabbler ! 
 
 3BebiTs ll&borate. 
 I will hang you up, old babbler ! 
 
 €£bii Spirit. 
 Mangy glutton, drunken royster! 
 
 BebtFs ^borate. 
 You're well suited for a cloister, 
 
 ®M Spirit 
 Druggel, lubbard, lout, and varlet ! 
 
 IDebtTa ^borate. 
 This is wrangling like a harlot. 
 
 ma Spirit. 
 Cozening fox, calf-lolly, milksop ! 
 
 IBebtFa ^tibocate. 
 Cease your flouting, blockish bilk's lop. 
 
 0b il Spirit. 
 Nincompoop, lusk, scoffing braggard ! 
 
 Debit's ^borate. 
 Goosecap, jobbernol, and raggard ! 
 
 €£bil Spirit. 
 Lobcock, loon, slabberdegullion ! 
 
 kbit's ^itjbocate. 
 Son of a scavenger and scullion ! 
 
THE COURT-YARD. 193 
 
 0*0 Spirit 
 Let me near him, — I will thrash him. 
 
 33ebtTs &&borate« 
 Friends, hands off, — I want to smash him. 
 
 ©bii Spirit 
 I will drink your blood, vile fellow ! 
 
 Bebil's Efcbocate. 
 I will thump you black and yellow. 
 
 mil Spirit. 
 I will chop you into thunder. 
 
 BebtTs &&borate. 
 I will saw your bones asunder. 
 
 ebii Spirit 
 I will flog you ten times over. 
 
 Bebtl's ^Dbocate. 
 I will flay you, goblin-drover ! 
 
 ©bil Spirit 
 I will hang and roast you, noddy ! 
 
 Bebil's &tibocate. 
 I will cut you into shoddy. 
 
 <&M Spirit 
 I will spur you like a pony. 
 
 BebtTs ^ItJbocate. 
 You're a pretty Macaroni. 
 
 CEbil Spirit. 
 I will pull out all your bowels. 
 o 
 
194 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 ©ebtVs ^fcbocate. 
 I will prick you well with rowels. 
 
 €£bii Spirit 
 I will turn you into tinder. 
 
 3SebtTs ^fcbocate. 
 I will roast you to a cinder. 
 
 &M Spirit. 
 I will scalp you and devour you. 
 
 'Pon my life, the dose will scour you. 
 
 ©bil Spirit. 
 Clodpole, oaf, grub, ragamuffin ! 
 
 IBebtTs EtJborate. 
 Ne'er knew I you had such stuff in. 
 
 ®M Spirit 
 Pig-face, driveller, sneak, imbecile ! 
 
 ©ebirs &&bocate. 
 Now you're gravelled — now you guess ill. 
 
 $bii Spirit 
 Diddler, looby, wittol, schemer ! 
 
 IBebtTs &&bocate. 
 Your invention's failing, dreamer. 
 
 @bii Spirit. 
 Bugbear, humbug, empty bladder ! 
 
 IBebtTs ^ttibotate. 
 Never was a March hare madder. 
 
THE COURT-YARD. 195 
 
 0b il Spirit. 
 
 Idiot, lickplate, Jack-a-dandy ! 
 
 BebtTs 'gUJbocate. 
 Names as sweet as sugar-candy. 
 
 0b il Spirit, 
 Pinchgut, swindler, blackleg, blockhead ! 
 
 Btbil's ^borate. 
 Save us from your tongue's foul pocket. 
 
 0b il Spirit. 
 Dunderhead, botch, jail-bird, scarecrow ! 
 
 IBebtTs ^tJbocate. 
 Worse did cock on dunghill ne'er crow. 
 
 0b tl Spirit. 
 Dare deny that you're a bungler. 
 
 JBebtl's gtiborate. 
 Yes — as much as you're a jongleur. 
 
 0bii Spirit 
 What induced you thus to flounder ? 
 
 BebtTs ^borate. 
 Now your w T isdom 'gins to founder. 
 
 0bil Spirit. 
 Is he not reprieved, vile caitiff? 
 
 BebtTs ^borate. 
 Yes, he is, of Hades native. 
 
 0bil Spirit. 
 Was it not your stupid 'peaching? 
 
196 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 HBebtr» ^borate. 
 No — 'twas Peg's confounded screeching. 
 
 <5fofl SpCrft. 
 Get away, to Hell, you ninny. 
 
 IBebil'a &&bocate. 
 And the same to you, ray hinnie. 
 
 Scene XVI. 
 
 THE HALLS OF MINOS. 
 
 <&ntfytr\, 
 
 Alas, sweet hours, 
 Sweet olden hours, 
 
 For ever and ever 
 
 Farewell, sweet hours. 
 
 And thou, fond vision 
 
 Of love and light, 
 Art quenched in gloom, 
 
 And all is night. 
 
 In earth's dim moments, 
 In heaven's pure zone, 
 
 My dream of sweetness 
 For ever flown. 
 
 Like a star in tempest, 
 
 A smile in grief, 
 A tear in rapture, 
 
 That one belief. 
 
 Alas, sweet hours, 
 Sweet olden hours, 
 
 For ever and ever 
 
 Farewell, sweet hours. 
 
THE HALLS OF MINOS. 197 
 
 My heart a harp 
 
 Of love and gladness; 
 The strings are broken, 
 
 All is sadness. 
 
 My heart a harp 
 
 Of silvery song ; — 
 The harp is shattered 
 
 Long and long. 
 
 Alas, sweet hours, 
 
 Sweet olden hours, 
 For ever and ever 
 
 Farewell, sweet hours. 
 
 My soul is a-weary, 
 
 Dark with woe ; 
 My wild, thoughts wander 
 
 To and fro. 
 
 My eyes are streaming 
 
 Full with tears ; 
 And art thou gone, 
 
 Dear dream of years ? 
 
 And art thou vanished, 
 
 Thou mine own ? 
 And am I for ever 
 
 Left alone ? 
 
 Alas, sweet hours, 
 
 Sweet olden hours, 
 For ever and ever 
 
 Farewell, sweet hours. 
 
198 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scene XVII. 
 THE RIVER LETHE. 
 
 J&qjin'stopfjeUs. 
 
 Baffled, duped, tricked, deceived, outwitted, swindled. — 
 
 By snow-browed Morning, by immortal Day, 
 
 And by the boundless Air that clasps the earth 
 
 Within its dewy arms ; by Hecat ? gray, 
 
 By Cerberus the eternal foe to Mirth, 
 
 I swear I am a most ingenious devil ; 
 
 My master should reduce me to the level 
 
 Of lowest imps who masque as tabbies brindled, 
 
 And deal with only aged women and witches ; — 
 
 What ! — can it be that I who had fresh kindled 
 
 The prettiest fire for this old Wag of Weimar, 
 
 And almost felt his twinges, aches, and twitches, 
 
 When put down fresh upon the broiling coals, 
 
 Should now be laughed at by all waggish drolls 
 
 Who see me schemed by a Parnassian chimer, 
 
 Skilful in prating, powerless in speaking ; 
 
 And a sly thing from t'other side, who pitches 
 
 Such heaps of nonsense into Justice Minos 
 
 (Now grown as silly as the ass-eared judge) ; 
 
 The doting fool is flattered by the fudge, 
 
 And with those sprites to curry favour seeking, 
 
 Declares forsooth, the sentence is postponed ? 
 
 What could JAH mean, when he would thus assign us 
 
 A magistrate who should have been dethroned ? 
 
 The thing is monstrous — I protest against it ; 
 
 It is a shame — a desperate shocking scandal 
 
 Upon all truth and justice. — Goth or Vandal 
 
 Never pronounced such nonsense, or dispensed it 
 
 In form of law. Postponed ! For what? Or why ? 
 
 For whom ? To when ? How ? What is the reply ? 
 
THE RIVER LETHE. 199 
 
 Why this — it is his will; — and we must bow ; 
 
 And then he turns us out of court, and calls 
 
 Some other ghosts before his worshipped brow, 
 
 Looking like mustard, or like pungent sauce, 
 
 Or cayenne pepper, at his piafraus, 
 
 And damns them all despite their squeals and squalls. 
 
 How dare he make exception in this case? 
 
 The exception is deceitful, harsh, and base. 
 
 I wonder was he bribed by this mad girl ? 
 
 These devilish women will do any folly 
 
 For men — except live chastely and die holy. 
 
 From this day forth I'll hate the look of pearl. 
 
 I feel inclined to drink a brimming draught 
 
 Of Lethe, and so wash away the bother 
 
 Entirely from my brains ; the liquor quaffed, 
 
 Goethe goes free, and I must seek another. 
 
 No — that would prove me stupid, mad, or daft; 
 
 To lose him now would sully my past glory, 
 
 And offer endless food for fun to chaps, 
 
 Devilkins of the smallest rank in Orcus, 
 
 Who envy me, and would parade this matter 
 
 (As ravens croak against the lordly eagle) 
 
 From east to west, -where'er Fame's trumpets clatter ; 
 
 Till Satan's rage would prompt him to pitchfork us 
 
 Into some place unknown to charts and maps ; 
 
 Where in the thunderbolt's eternal flame, 
 
 I might at leisure chew the cud of shame. 
 
 I've acted somewhat like that crowned curmudgeon, 
 
 The mighty king of I forget what nation, 
 
 Who marched with a great armament of soldiers, 
 Elephants, camels, horses, princes, lords, 
 Into the mountains — merely to take physic, 
 Where he might have the benefit of fresh air. 
 O fool, O mooncalf, jolthead, dolt and gudgeon ! 
 By Satan, I deserve his thickest bludgeon, 
 For being thus bamboozled after years 
 
200 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Of thought, and months of arduous preparation, — 
 The unreposing wheels of Vengeance seize me 
 If I don't smite this Judge who dares to teaze me. 
 
 He's here — I see him coming — sadly, lonely, 
 A noble form, in all his primal vigour. 
 Styx makes amazing changes ; fifty years 
 At least have been lopped off since here he came, 
 And he looks now as brave and stout as ever 
 Man in his summer's prime. I feel ashamed 
 Of my base calling, and could hate the hour 
 That saw me fall, as I do Him who framed 
 This Universe and us, and Him who tempted, 
 And all my brethren. Hate, Revenge, fell Hate, 
 Are my sole pleasures now : Evil my god, 
 Overwhelming Vengeance, Scorn, Crime, Fraud, my 
 
 being. 
 By holy Pluto, I could wish 'twere granted, 
 To wrap all Nature in a robe of darkness, 
 And, armed with fire, to play some eftish tricks 
 With men and angels, stars and heaven itself. 
 
 Eternal Spirit of the Universe, 
 
 Boundless, All-Seeing, All-Ordaining God, 
 
 I humble me before Thee ; grant me peace, 
 
 Or hurl me into deep oblivion's waves, 
 
 For my soul walks in darkness. O'er the Past 
 
 I turn my eyes, and shrink dismayed, abashed, 
 
 As one who gave up heaven within his grasp, 
 
 And bent to earth, and ought his pleasures there. 
 
 All are departed — all are lost for ever; 
 
 One only joy remains amid the wreck 
 
 Of my lost Paradise — my early love. 
 
 For vicious pleasures die even in the instant 
 
 That gives them being. Virtuous moments live 
 
 Immortal in the soul, and bloom for ever, 
 
THE RIVER LETHE. 
 
 201 ' 
 
 As brightly as when springing into birth. — 
 The first being joys of sense, but these of soul. 
 
 ©M Spirit. 
 Ha ! — ha ! — ha ! my moraliser, 
 Whereas the good of sage reflection ? 
 This methinks is disaffection 
 To our King, and leaves no wiser 
 Jack, albeit his genuflexion. 
 Virtue ! — you had sense to prize her 
 When you strutted in dress coat, 
 Bag and sword and powdered hair, 
 Riband, star, and solitaire. 
 But you gave her not a groat, 
 Nor would heed her seraph air. 
 All is lost — despair — despair ! 
 
 &aetf)e. 
 Some unknown, unseen influence clouds my soul 
 With a new horror, and a voice that seems 
 To breathe HelPs accents whispers me despair. 
 Is there no hope ? A moment since my soul 
 Felt a new ray of comfort, light, and strength, 
 Now she shrinks back, and sits in gloom and fear. 
 
 ©bt'Z Spirit 
 
 I thought that my mission would work some effect, 
 
 I thought this Old Humbug was going too fast 
 
 On the road of repentance ; so, true to my sect, 
 
 I breathed on his spirit one desolate blast 
 
 Of the airs that we cherish in Hell. 
 
 Despair — despair — despair — you are lost ; 
 
 You can barter your soul at a very small cost, 
 
 To our master who values you well. 
 
 Though you and your leman would fain have escaped 
 
 By the juggles of eloquence, pathos, and tears, 
 
 And the Orphean artifice here would have aped. 
 
202 
 
 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 You have failed — you have fallen. We greet you with 
 
 jeers, 
 And we clamour despair — despair — despair! — 
 You have slipped like a boobikin into our snare. 
 
 my lost love, my Gretchen ! have I then 
 Beheld thee but to lose thee evermore ? 
 Reft of thee during life, does Death too part 
 Our souls w r hich I had fondly hoped w 7 ere one. 
 Yet, no — she comes ; her rosy presence fills 
 The air with sunshine ; from her snowy plumes 
 Such splendour is diffused, as when the Star 
 Of Morning rises in the twilight dim, 
 
 And beauty flashes from his beaming eyes ; 
 Sweetly she smiles, yet sadly, like the music 
 Of an enslaved old nation, that reveals 
 The soul of sorrow in its liveliest songs. 
 
 €rbti Spirit. 
 Speak of the devil — they say he is present ; 
 Speak of a woman — that moment she comes ; 
 Here flies this silly one — this is unpleasant ; 
 
 1 must go hide myself, biting my thumbs. 
 
 While she is with him there's Paradise round him, — 
 
 Half of my labour she'll crumble to bits ; 
 
 While we are near, all his follies confound him, — 
 
 Would she were off to her heavenly chits. 
 
 I must away to my dear Mephistopheles, 
 
 Bidding him part them as soon as he can, 
 
 If he still hope to make this German offal his, 
 
 Or he'll be choused by this chaste courtesan. 
 
 Once more we meet — once more mine own sweet love, 
 I feel in soul as in those early hours, 
 When wandering blest beside thee, life seemed love, 
 And, Margaret, thou wert all the world to me. 
 
THE RIVER LETHE. 203 
 
 ©retcfjen. 
 We meet, alas ! to part. The moment comes 
 Which the judge gave thee for this sad farewell ; 
 And the dark Tempter will be here anon 
 With myriad plottings to seduce thy soul 
 In the strange pilgrimage to thee allotted. 
 Alas ! alas ! that we should part, and thus ! 
 
 (Soetlje. 
 Nay, do not weep, my soul is now herself: 
 Tempt as he may, the Tempter shall not triumph. 
 
 <&xttttyn. 
 Marked you the madness that suffused his brow 
 And glowed in his hot eyes when Minos waved 
 His golden wand, and the decree postponed 
 Which, as he hoped, would give thee to his realms ? 
 
 I saw it ; Hell methought stood there, not he. 
 
 Never before was rage so dire expressed 
 
 In aught created ; rage, revenge, and hate, 
 
 Orcus itself grew darker as he frowned, 
 
 The Manes shuddered, and the Dead fell stricken 
 
 With pallid fear, as if that awful trump 
 
 That sounds the general judgment, and the end 
 
 Of all things had sent forth its piercing blast. — 
 
 But what is this strange sentence ? Bodes it good 
 
 Or fatal evil ? 
 
 t&xttfytn. 
 Nay, I cannot know. 
 Whether it be to fright thy soul with scenes 
 Of such dread horror as no brain conceives 
 Till eye hath seen them, and increase thine agony, 
 (Would that 'twere mine to bear it for thy sake !) 
 Or whether Minos knows that on thy way 
 Some strange blest chance may free thee from the toils,, 
 
204 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Some beam of mercy lift thee into heaven ; 
 Or whether the False Tempter hath permission 
 To mock thee by the wizard arts of Satan, 
 And try thee further, who can say ? — it may be 
 That one of these is written, and thy soul 
 Be spared, and rise triumphant o'er his plottings. 
 
 Heaven grant it for thy sake ; for mine, no hell 
 
 Could give me tortures more acute than those 
 
 I feel for having squandered life, God's gift 
 
 For purposes exalted, in a maze 
 
 Of vice that fills me with unhoping woe. 
 
 O Gretchen ! would to heaven we ne'er had parted, 
 
 My soul had drawn such virtuous strength from thine, 
 
 That Vice, though giant-limbed, had failed to bow 
 
 Or break me to his side. That thou and I 
 
 Had dwelt together in some country bourn, 
 
 Under a straw-thatched cottage, rose-entwined, 
 
 And nestling amid trees ; few friends around, 
 
 A hedge of thyme to tempt the humming bees, 
 
 An orchard purple with autumnal fruits, 
 
 Blue mountains circling us, the sky above, 
 
 Our innocent children prattling at our knees, 
 
 Our hearts all innocence, content, and peace, 
 
 Love our sole thought and heaven our final hope. 
 
 (Brretcljen. 
 Happier indeed a life like this had been 
 Than all the gilded follies of a palace. 
 But see, the Tempter comes ; a mocking smile 
 Lights his dark features and his fiendish eyes ; 
 His mighty wings o'ershadow the bright suns 
 That shine around us ; black and vast and dense 
 As the thick clouds that rush upon the sea, 
 Whelming affrighted ships, eclipsing heaven, 
 Bearing destruction in their sullen wombs, 
 That howl and howl and howl till all is lost. 
 
THE RIVER LETHE. 205 
 
 &oetf)e. 
 Farewell — a long farewell : remember me. 
 
 Grctcfjen. 
 Remember me and hope. I fly to heaven 
 Prostrate before The Elohim ; time itself 
 Shall end ere I despair of winning grace. 
 
 Gortije. 
 She's gone — she's gone ! Shall we not meet again, 
 O beautiful Spirit of my only love ? 
 
 TTtoitt {in the distance). 
 Farewell, dear love ; remember me and hope. 
 
 fHrpIjtstopfjelts. 
 'Tis time that we should enter on our journey ; 
 The way is vast, the regions without number. 
 And though we travel faster than the earth 
 Whirls round in space — some seventeen miles a second — 
 Yet is it fit to waste no moments here, 
 Uselessly moaning by this sluggish river. 
 Confess now, didst not think these things were myths ? 
 That Pluto, Zeus, and Hermes all were fables ? 
 That old Mythology was incongruous fiction? 
 That all the ancient poets were smart liars? 
 Thou seest it is not so, but all is real. 
 There is no fantasy in minstrel's dreams, 
 They are revealings from the spheres of heaven. 
 Nay, don't be angry with thy red-clocked friend. 
 
 Aside. 
 This solemn mood of his will never do — 
 
 I'll rouse him by some merry antic joke, 
 To fling aside his philosophic mask. 
 There are some naked witches dancing yonder 
 About a Phallos lately brought from Ireland. 
 I'll take him thither, and with friendly hand 
 Get him a draught will make him fool again. 
 
206 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scene XVIII. 
 THE EMPYREAN. 
 
 The guardian angel and gretchen meeting. 
 
 (fruarfctan &ngel. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit, clothed in sunny splendour, 
 
 Musing so sadly through the golden air, 
 Why art thou pining ? Can thy sister render 
 
 Aught that will charm away thy fixed despair? 
 Sorrow upon me too has ploughed its traces, 
 
 Tears have but lately streamed from my full eyes. 
 Turn to me, fold me in thy fond embraces, — 
 
 Whence the deep secret source of those quick sighs ? 
 
 <&xt\fyt\x. 
 Angel, star-pinioned daughter of delight, 
 
 In whose mild looks such gentle love is throned, 
 
 I see thy soul of virtue all unzoned, 
 And hide me in thy bosom soft and white, 
 That throbs to mine responsively with love. 
 Comfort me, loveliest spirit, for such sorrow 
 Weighs on my wounded soul as words can paint not. 
 Strength from thy counsel gladly would I borrow. 
 
 dftuartnatt ^ngei. 
 Counsel and love I'll give thee, sister ; faint not ; 
 Sympathy binds us, for the night of woe 
 
 Is round me, and but late my lot seemed anguish, 
 For I have seen a bright star's overthrow, 
 
 A star beloved by me : — I pine and languish, 
 Weeping its fatal fall from highest heaven 
 
 Unto the hell to which it turned its light, 
 Even as the olden angels, when sin-driven, 
 
 They mixed with Seraphim in mortal fight. 
 
THE EMPYREAN. 207 
 
 But thou — why weepest thou, fair trembling dove ? 
 
 Why pants thy breast so wildly against mine ? 
 Why does thy gaze from those blest realms above 
 
 To yonder mournful mansions still incline ? 
 Tell me, oh, tell me, while thus hand in hand 
 We soar where heaven's bright portals wide expand. 
 
 ©retdjrn. 
 
 The home where I was born, the German home 
 Of truthfulness and love, lies far away 
 Amid the mountains, in that grand and gray 
 Old world that shines the nearest to the moon. 
 And there, until my fourteenth year, 1 dwelt 
 Delightedly, while every month seemed May, 
 Or that sweet time of flowers, bewitching June. 
 And when the vesper hour o'er hill and vale 
 Descended, and the stars shone, and the calm 
 Of blessed peace was in the heaven, I knelt 
 Before the blessed image of God's Mother, 
 Who smiled on me serenely, with her pale 
 And gentle face, whose beauty was like balm 
 To wounded wayfarers. To her, no other, 
 I gave my prayers ; and so my faith grew strong, 
 And my young soul was innocent and. pure. 
 They said that I was beautiful, some praised 
 My shape, my eyes, my hair ; and many gazed 
 W x ith looks that did not, as 'twas said, belong 
 To heaven ; but I was virtuous and secure 
 In conscious modesty that knew no wrong. 
 So, till my fourteenth summer, passed the time ; 
 But happiness did never yet endure 
 Within that fated sphere. It happened then 
 My darling mother died. The bell's sad chime 
 Pealed o'er her loved remains, and I was left 
 Alone in that deserted woodland home, 
 An orphan, poor, and weeping sadly, when 
 An uncle, who had known us ere bereft 
 
208 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Of my dear father, came, and said our cottage 
 
 Was his, and his alone, and I must go 
 
 Forth on the wide world to seek out my bread, 
 
 As many a better one had done before ; 
 
 Idleness was a crime, and milk and pottage 
 
 Were things that virtue could not conjure ; so 
 
 He said, and turned me from my mother's door ; 
 
 And would not let me pluck one little flower 
 
 Which we had sown together, she and I, 
 
 One morn in spring preceding : she was dead, 
 
 And I was friendless. Yet I did not weep : 
 
 My heart had been relieved by that sweet shower 
 
 Of tears that never came, I know not why. 
 
 I prayed for them ; they came not — parched and dry 
 
 Were those poor fountains which you late saw streaming 
 
 With agony and love, I turned and sought 
 
 The road that led to Frankfort, rapt in thought 
 
 And terror, ere the morning star was beaming, 
 
 The Pastor of our village was my friend, 
 He gave me letters, and, ere many days 
 Had passed, I had a home, where one might spend 
 Contented hours. The toil was slight, my heart 
 Was strong with faith ; the Virgin- Mother's gaze 
 Of love divine seemed printed on my being. 
 I worshipped her in silence and apart. 
 It seemed as 'twere she now fulfilled the place 
 Of my own darling mother, and I never 
 Looked on that mild, angelic, heavenly face, 
 That radiant seemed with love undying ever, 
 Without remembrance of the dead and gone, 
 In my enraptured fancy once more seeing 
 Her who lay hidden 'neath the cold hard stone 
 That shrouded that once warm and throbbing breast, 
 - Infancy's, childhood's, girlhood's dearest nest ; 
 Alas ! 'twas then I felt indeed alone. 
 
 I was sixteen, and then I met with one 
 
THE EMPYREAN. 209 
 
 Who was my fate. He saw me, and 1 knew 
 
 'Twas love that like swift lightning darted through 
 
 My spirit ; ere I thought, my heart was won, 
 
 Spell-bound to bis for ever and for ever 
 
 By ties that not Eternity could sever. 
 
 His father was a burgher, rich and proud, 
 
 In the free city of imperial towers ; 
 
 And sooner would he see him in his shroud 
 
 And coffin cold, than smile on love like ours ; 
 
 For I was very poor and friendless still, 
 
 And had no gold, nor any hope of gold, 
 
 And he was wealthy, haughty, high of rank, 
 
 And saw men bow to his unbending will. 
 
 Love he believed not, starving merit stank 
 
 In his nice nostrils ; worthless, vain, and cold, 
 
 A connoisseur of art I think they said 
 
 He was, which means — I scarce know what it means, 
 
 But it has always less of heart than head, 
 
 And coins, intaglios, and prints it gleans 
 
 From several sources ; while, as I've been told, 
 
 Its human feelings all are stark and dead. 
 
 We loved — oh, never tongue could aptly tell 
 Our happiness, our rapture, our delight ; 
 It was a Paradise of sweetest joy, 
 A sphere of sunshine never clothed in night, 
 A world of golden scenes without alloy. 
 And when we wandered through green grove and dell 
 Under the stars, or silver moon, at eve, 
 Or in the glittering noontide, or at morn, 
 Poesy could not paint, or thought conceive, 
 Such ecstasy of bliss as fused our souls 
 Into one burning spirit ; both seemed born 
 In the same hour beneath one star of beauty. 
 Such was our love, fair sister, still it knolls 
 Like a sweet bell of heaven within my frame, 
 Making such musical thought, allegiance, duty, 
 
 p 
 
210 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Unto the Highest for a time seem drowned 
 
 In that o'erwhelming trance of transport; shame 
 
 Awakes anon, and I arise confused, 
 
 As one from visions deep ; so strange the swound 
 
 In which my spirit for that moment mused. 
 
 This did not last : the fatal moment came 
 That saw us parted ; 'twere a tedious tale 
 To hear, and sorrowful indeed to speak. 
 He whom I loved alone on earth, with love 
 Such as is seldom felt, more seldom seen, 
 Left me, sweet sister. Why? — his heart was frail 
 And young, and there were those who dared assaij 
 His constancy with frauds, nor blushed to wreak 
 Revenge on me. He raised his thoughts above 
 The sphere in which I moved, a humble maiden 
 Dowered with only truth, and some sixteen 
 Innocent summers ; had my purse been laden 
 With gold, perhaps a different fate had been 
 Ordained for me. But so it happed — we parted, 
 And never met again. He trod the road 
 Of wealth, rank, power, renown ; with kings abode, 
 Lived in the sparkling round of w 7 orldly pleasure ; 
 Draining enjoyment's sweet but poisoned measure, 
 Heedless of me, absent and broken-hearted. 
 
 I left fair Frankfort; wandered much, and wept, 
 
 And sought my native village ; the old pastor, 
 
 Who loved me from my cradle upward, slept 
 
 In the churchyard beside my mother dear. 
 
 I knelt upon the grave, and sob and tear 
 
 Fell from me like a blinding rain. Meanwhile 
 
 The news was spread of this my sad disaster, 
 
 And calumny was rife, and many a jest 
 
 And bitter scoff were hurled at me. My breast 
 
 Had not grown hard or cold ; the bad and vile 
 
 Said I was like themselves — Heaven knew my truth 
 
THE EMPYREAN. 211 
 
 And purity ; but I endured it still. 
 
 Perhaps, sweet sister, all was for the best ; 
 
 And fit it was to change my stubborn will, 
 
 And bow it down before the only shrine 
 
 Where peace on earth is found — the shrine of Christ. 
 
 I sought it there, and found it ; a divine 
 
 And heavenly feeling bathed my soul in light, 
 
 And shewed what idols had my heart enticed 
 
 From the fair walk of heaven wherein I walked, 
 
 When with my mother dear I sat and talked 
 
 On the carved bench beneath the spreading vine, 
 
 That wreathed above our porch its clusters bright. 
 
 With this delicious feeling came another — 
 Forgiveness of the past ; I calmly scanned 
 The state of him I loved ; I sought to smother 
 Within me all that wounded anger fanned ; 
 And 1 succeeded. A bewitching calm 
 Stole o'er my spirit*, and I knew 'twas fate 
 Divided us, not coldness, falsehood, hate, 
 Or faithlessness in him : and so my old 
 True love came back. I prayed for him all day, 
 His image lit my dreams ; encrowned with palm 
 And laurels of renown, outglittering gold, 
 His name was seen : I shared his joys, was gay; 
 Old times returned, and all my life was May. 
 
 My life at length was at its end — I died ; 
 
 My last fond prayer was breathed to heaven for him, 
 
 And God had mercy on me ; I was sent 
 
 To yonder star where happiest spirits bide 
 
 In sunshine, everlasting, and in bliss 
 
 Whose heavenly splendour never may grow dim. 
 
 Then came the sadness of my discontent. 
 
 On earth I knew not what was false or true, 
 
 But lived in dazzling mist as millions do ; 
 
 Thinking what men call good was very good — 
 
 Alas ! the word 's on earth misunderstood, 
 
212 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And then I knew my lover was misled 
 
 Like others, placing his sole happiness 
 
 In what was truly evil, though it wore 
 
 The robe and visor of ambrosial truth ; 
 
 I saw that even in life he was as dead, 
 
 Poisoned by Pleasure's vile and cankered tooth ; 
 
 I saw, and anguish wild my spirit tore. 
 
 He died — I sought the burning thrones of God, 
 
 And asked for pardon. The Elohim gave 
 
 Permission to cross o'er that gloomy wave, 
 
 And plead for him. I came ; through Orcus trod, 
 
 And gained brief respite from the Judge sublime, 
 
 Who sternly told him that his deeds had been 
 
 A slander on the soul he bore. I climb 
 
 Once more to heaven to intercede with tears ; 
 
 For never can I my fond spirit wean 
 
 From his, to which alone 'tis firmly knit. 
 
 Hence I lament, from this my sorrow springs. 
 
 Come, sweetest sister, mount with me on wings 
 
 Of love, and where The Elohim grandly sit 
 
 On thrones of thunder, supplicate with me. 
 
 The Powers will bend when suppliants twain they see, 
 
 And Goethe be restored to heaven and me. 
 
 ©ttaririan &txgel* 
 Didst thou say Goethe ? 
 
 €*rettfjrtt. 
 
 Such the name he bore. 
 
 (fruartrtan %lnqtl 
 Alas ! I fear thine errand will be vain. 
 
 <&xtttf)tn. 
 How canst thou tell ? 
 
 (frttarfctan &ngel 
 
 His angel stands before 
 Thv wondering eyes. 
 
DARKNESS. 213 
 
 dfrtetrijen. 
 What thou? 
 
 ©ttarfctan &ngd. 
 
 I do not feign. 
 I was his Angel Guardian, and beheld him 
 Wilfully treading Error's devious ways. 
 
 Gxttttyn, 
 Thou shouldst, methinks, have sternly then withheld him 
 Ere he was blinded by the Gorgon's gaze. 
 
 (Hjttav&fan &ngel. 
 I tried and failed ; I wept as well as thou ; 
 
 Fruitless were all my efforts ; to the end 
 I persevered ; hope still ; and even now 
 
 Will join thee in thy way and counsel lend. 
 
 Scene XIX. 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 Mephistopheles and Goethe. 
 
 Is this the Hell of which you spake so much ? 
 
 f^UpJtatopljHes. 
 
 By no means, friend ; the road to hell is downwards : 
 We are ascending a bare mountain gorge. — 
 I mean to shew you a most dainty spectacle. 
 
 €>oett)*. 
 With excellent intentions, as you'll swear. 
 
214 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 I fear Pve missed the way ; hilloa! hilloa ! — 
 Did you not hear a voice reply to mine? 
 Or was it fancy, or a mocking echo ? 
 
 I heard a voice that mocked you much indeed ; 
 And here comes one who seems its mocking owner. 
 
 Jftepfn'stopfjeles, 
 Who is this fellow ? Surely I should know him. 
 Hilloa! you, sir, who are you? what's your name ? 
 What do you here ? mousing for moor-hens, eh ? 
 
 I once was a god, dwelling high in Olympus, 
 My father was Somnus, some say he was Nox, 
 I do not care which, but I grew like a fox, 
 
 Waggish and tricksy, as cunning an imp as 
 Ever sang la, lalla, la, la. 
 
 I laughed at old Juno, I tripped up young Cupid, 
 I limped, and made faces at Vulcan the smith, 
 I flirted with Venus and nymphs of her kith ; 
 
 I told all the husbands whom Zeus nincompoop-ed 
 In masquerade, la, lalla, la, la. 
 
 I mocked at the house built by Pallas Athene, 
 Because it was not upon wheels to remove, 
 When it got among neighbours one could not approve, 
 
 Till the vinegar virgin grew snappish and spleeny, 
 And called me a la, lalla, la, la. 
 
 I went up to Neptune, and nicknamed him noddy, 
 Because in the bull which he made, it was clear 
 He could much better butt, had his eyes been more 
 near, 
 
 His horns to direct when he struck at a body \ — 
 The simpleton, la, lalla, la, la. 
 
DARKNESS. 215 
 
 I swore at stout Vulcan, and dubbed him a donkey, 
 Because, when he fashioned a mortal of clay, 
 He had shut up his breast from the light of the day, 
 
 ' Stead of placing a window there ; brainless and drunk y 
 He must have been, la, lalla, la, la. 
 
 I made a foul jest of the nude goddess Venus; 
 Her lily-white loveliness tinged with the rose 
 Shewed nothing at which I could turn up my nose ; 
 
 So I told her, her manner of gait was obscene as 
 A harlot's, with la, lalla, la, la. 
 
 At last for my truth-telling tongue I was tumbled 
 One day from Olympus and pushed into space ; 
 And here I am now with a mask on my face : 
 
 For many a long year at my downfall Fve grumbled, 
 But uselessly, la, lalla, la, la. 
 
 And now that you've heard all my pitiful story, 
 I think that you may as well peacefully pass ; 
 For never before did I see such an ass, 
 
 Like an open-mouthed, ugly-eyed, grinning John Dory. 
 So pass, Ass, lalla, la, la. 
 
 This fellow answers you in your own vein. 
 
 JftepfjtstopfjeUs. 
 So much the better ; mockery and I 
 Are ancient comrades, and will never fight. 
 Pardon, Sir Momus, but I knew you not ; 
 I did not hope to find you in these wilds. 
 
 Nor I to meet Sir Voland at this hour. 
 
 But whither go you with your courteous friend ? 
 
 He looks like some young scholar of the Muses. 
 
216 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 J&epfjfetopfjrteg, 
 I wish to introduce him to the Witches 
 Who hold their orgies somewhere in these hills ; 
 But 'tis so long since Fve been to these quarters, 
 I scarcely know the route. Can you direct me ? 
 
 Turn to the right — then down to the left, 
 
 Then up to the centre, where ten roads converge ; 
 
 If you choose the right road, and omit the wrong nine, 
 
 Through a chasm of twelve chasms you'll quickly 
 
 emerge, 
 Where the witches are dancing and drinking witch wine. 
 
 This Grecian god can juggle like yourself; 
 The road he speaks of seems extremely clear. 
 
 ;Pt?p5tstop!)eles, 
 I see a wandering gleam of pale blue fire 
 Cresting yon craggy peak, and can discern 
 Dark phantoms whirling in the Bacchant dance. 
 These are the ladies surely — hence, away. 
 
 Well — it can be no harm to see the farce 
 Before the tragedy ; but schemes are useless— 
 You shall not dupe me. 
 
 JfttepfjtstopfjeUs. 
 
 Nay, upon my honour, 
 I don't intend to use the slightest cunning. 
 I'll treat you in the friendliest possible way ; 
 And while I go sweet music shall escort us, 
 Making us think we're not in Hell but Heaven. 
 
 As they ascend the mountain, a Syren, invisible to Goethe, 
 
DARKNESS. 217 
 
 sings the following song, accompanied by delicate music. 
 Naked Nymphs, of extreme loveliness, and in tempting 
 attitudes, seem floating in the atmosphere around both. 
 
 A Spirit with starry eyes and wings 
 
 Comes to me oft in dreams ; 
 Her face is as fair as the sweet young spring's, 
 
 Her laugh like sunshine gleams. 
 Her cheeks are a garden of flowerets rare, 
 
 Sweet music is in her sighs ; 
 Her smiles illumine the golden air, 
 
 And heaven is in her eyes. 
 
 A pause — music. 
 
 Her beautiful neck and breast of snow 
 
 Are as bright as the milky way, 
 When its thousand stars shine forth, and shew 
 
 A lustre exceeding day. 
 Her dark-brown tresses and little hands, 
 
 And feet of exquisite mould, 
 Make her seem, as she walks on the silver sands, 
 
 Like sea-born Venus of old. 
 
 A pause — music. 
 
 She treads the earth as angels tread 
 
 The bowers of bliss above ; 
 And such beauty and goodness are round her shed, 
 
 That I think she's the Spirit of Love ; 
 But ah ! when she ought to be warm, I find 
 
 That she's colder than winter snow ; 
 How can she look so winning and kind, 
 
 And tease a poor dreamer so ? 
 
 The naked phantoms hover around Goethe, wreathing him 
 with garlands, fragrant and splendid, courting and tempt- 
 ing him with the most bewitching movements. Young 
 Cupids, waving torches and pelting each other with roses, 
 flutter in the air. 
 
218 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 These are words of gems and flowers. 
 Wouldst thou wish to hear another ? 
 
 Do no fig-leaves flourish here ? 
 
 Lonely on the vernant side 
 Of the crystal-springing Ide, 
 Gazing on the towers of Troy, 
 Lay the princely Shepherd-boy. 
 
 On a bank with flowers o'ergrown, 
 Carelessly his pipe was thrown. 
 Like a singing-bird asleep, 
 When the stars their vigils keep. 
 
 Though around him sunshine lay, 
 Little heeded he the ray, 
 Or the fragrance of the rose, 
 On whose lips the bees repose. 
 
 Though a fountain murmured near, 
 With a music soft and clear, 
 Little recked he its sweet sound, 
 Buried in his thoughts profound. 
 
 Love alone was in his dreams, 
 Tincturing with Elysian gleams 
 All the fancies fair that roll 
 Through the amorous Shepherd's soul. 
 
 While thus rapt in golden thought, 
 On a beam of sunshine wrought, 
 Four Immortals from the skies 
 Wafted were before his eyes. 
 
 On the flowers descended there, 
 Juno, Pallas, Venus fair,— 
 
 Aside. 
 
DARKNESS. 219 
 
 Stately all, and bright of blee, 
 Each a very galaxy. 
 
 Hermes fourth was in the band, 
 Bearing in his godlike hand 
 A gold apple — the bequest 
 Destined for the loveliest. 
 
 From the green and dewy lawn, 
 Like a startled forest fawn, 
 Jumped the boy in mute amaze, 
 Dazzled by the heavenly blaze. 
 
 But before a word he spoke, 
 Winged Hermes silence broke — 
 " From our own Olympian home, 
 Shepherd, to thy fields we come. 
 
 Zeus has sent us unto thee, 
 Beauty's happy judge to be ; 
 From this gentle choir select, 
 As thine eye and taste direct. 
 
 This fair gift of brightest gold 
 For the loveliest behold — 
 Take it, and bestow it where 
 Centre charms beyond compare." 
 
 Thus he said, and vanished straight, 
 Like the stars when Morning's gate 
 Opes, and young Apollo speeds 
 On with lightning-footed steeds. 
 
 Then the goddesses prepared, 
 Each with snowy bosom bared, 
 By the longing youth to pass 
 As he stretched upon the grass. 
 
 First came Juno, Heaven's queen, 
 Rivalling the sun in sheen ; 
 
220 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 In her eyes was Power enshrined, 
 On her brow imperial Mind. 
 
 " Thrones and empires shall be thine, 
 If thou mak'st this apple mine." 
 Speaking thus, along she passed, 
 Like a trumpet's mighty blast. 
 
 Next Athene came, blue-eyed, 
 With that mild and gentle pride 
 Which on Wisdom always tends, 
 Elevates, yet ne'er offends. 
 
 " Knowledge, which is Power," she cries, 
 " Shall be thine, if mine the prize!" 
 Like some old delicious song, 
 Gracefully she moved along. 
 
 Lastly Aphrodite came, 
 With an eye of sapphire flame, 
 With a cheek which rosy hues, 
 Lovelier than the Morn suffuse. 
 
 With a breast more lustrous far 
 Than the glittering Evening star, 
 And a form than snow more white, 
 Sleeping in the cold moonlight. 
 
 " At my feet the apple throw, 
 I'll on thee a Nymph bestow, 
 Whom all hearts confess to be 
 Only less divine than me." 
 
 Gaily on the Goddess moved, 
 In her hand the prize beloved ; — 
 Who would not for Beauty bright, 
 Crowns and Wisdom gladly slight? 
 
DARKNESS. 221 
 
 fftrpijtstopfjeles. 
 
 I spare no pains, you see, to give you pleasure, — 
 
 The flowery accents of sweet song, the light 
 
 Of stars divine that gem the Olympian air 
 
 Through which we're treading to soft music's measure, 
 
 The Dorian lute's enchantments, that invite 
 
 To dreams, like those that honey-breathing sleep 
 
 Wafts through the frame, and when we reach the end 
 
 Of this fine tour, I'll treat you to a feast 
 
 Of nectar-dropping cups, more rich than any 
 
 The dome sublime of Father Zeus contains. 
 
 Goetfje. 
 By heaven, I feel once more a man. 
 
 iSUpijtstopfjeles. 
 
 Of course 
 You do ; the nonsense that they preached has passed, 
 And like the swiftly-dying race of mortals, 
 Leaves nought behind it but — I'll show you scenes 
 Where my own favourite children such as you 
 Pass very happy hours, as blest as gods ; 
 They know no night ; an ever-gleaming Sun 
 Shines o'er their homes; the sunbright meads are green, 
 And damasked o'er with roses, fragrant, red, 
 And w 7 hite, like the rich breasts of Aphrodite. 
 The land is shaded with thick groves of trees, 
 Glittering with gold and rick with fragrancy ; 
 And there they wheel the chariot o'er the plain, 
 Or tame the prancing steed, or strike the lyre 
 When blue-eyed Dian's light illumes the eve ; 
 The ocean breezes fan those blessed isles, 
 Where flow T ers of gold glisten from emerald trees. 
 While jocund plenty blooms all round, and perfume 
 Is scattered from the altars of their gods, 
 That blaze for ever with star-glancing fires. 
 
222 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And all these glories shall be thine for ever, 
 If thou wilt but fall down and worship me. 
 
 Aside. 
 If this poetic nonsense don't subdue him, 
 I know not what will make his wine-bag mine. 
 
 More music — let me hear the voice of song, 
 And the flute's sweetly-flowing breath again. 
 
 Behold two lovers seated on that hill, 
 A youth and female ; she is violet-tressed, 
 And purple-zoned, and in her milky hand 
 She holds a silver beaker ; they are those 
 Of whom the Voice invisible late hymned ; 
 He courts her to his arms — I think, indeed, 
 If we but listen, we shall hear his. strain. 
 
 THE SONG OF PARIS TO HELEN. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, and sit by me, 
 Under the shade of the greenwood tree ; 
 I've a secret, Dearest, to murmur to thee, 
 
 On those twin lips dewy and tender ; 
 And thus while I sit, to thy bosom prest, 
 With all thy love in thy look confest, 
 Oh, wonder not if I feel more blest 
 
 Than kings on their thrones of splendour. 
 
 Thy voice has a music to stay the hours, 
 
 Thy smiles are as sweet as those garden bowers, 
 
 When broidered by May with the rosiest flowers 
 
 That summer skies ever beamed on ; 
 And in those eyes, as the morning bright, 
 Is sitting a Cupid — a sunlike sprite, — 
 Oh, never hath Bard, in vision of light, 
 
 A lovelier Image dreamed on. 
 
 The books, the songs, I loved so well, 
 The evening walk in the leafy dell, 
 
DARKNESS. 223 
 
 The midnight planets, whose radiant spell 
 
 Could cheer my solitude lonely, 
 Are changed — and no more their joys impart 
 When thou art away, who my angel art, — 
 There stands a Temple within my heart, 
 
 And thou art its idol only. 
 
 A Phantom of Beauty, more bright than May, 
 Flits round me like sunlight, and gilds ray way — 
 Her smiles, her glances, wherever I stray, 
 
 Like showers of roses fall o'er me ; 
 Come tell me, dearest, come tell me true, 
 The name of this Phantom that meets my view, 
 Or need I declare that while sitting by you 
 
 The Real of this Phantom's before me ? 
 
 fftepfjistopfjeles (aside). 
 The acrid poisons of dark human passions 
 Dye the white soul so deeply, that it grows 
 Even of their own nature; and when death 
 Resolves it from the body, still desires 
 The idols which it worshipped in the flesh. 
 So he, who for so many years has dwelt 
 In contemplation on mere worldly things, 
 Or if he mused on heaven, mused on it 
 Only as theme for curious speculation, 
 Still is enticed away, as in his life, 
 From the ideal-lovely to the actual. — 
 Sing on, again, my pretty wanton Syren. 
 
 To Goethe. 
 See, the young Shepherd courts his love again ; 
 While archer Cupid lies in both their looks, 
 Ready for mischief. Ah, poor Menelans, 
 I'd pity you, but that I shake with laughter. 
 
 Jjpmt (still invisible). 
 Those tresses, soft and beautiful as morning ; 
 
 Thy teeth that with the pearls may vie in whiteness; 
 
224 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The rosy buds thy milky cheek adorning ; 
 
 Those sweet fond eyes, insphering sunny brightness, 
 Shall not be always so, Beloved ! — but render 
 Up to the grasp of Time their dazzling splendour. 
 
 Go, seek the garden in the time of roses — 
 Of Beauty, m her prime, a type portraying ; 
 
 Pace it again, when Winter there reposes, 
 And the once lovely flowers are all decaying. 
 
 So shall it be with thee, when Time shall scatter 
 
 Years o'er thy head, and all thy roses shatter. 
 
 Swifter than hinds, along the meadows flying, 
 
 Fleeter than pards from hounds and hunters leaping, 
 
 Time rushes onward, in pursuit undying, 
 
 His track of death with stricken mortals heaping ; 
 
 Will he who crumbleth monarchs, warriors, nations, 
 
 List to a gentle woman's supplications ? 
 
 No ! — fierce, relentless, blood-stained, on he hasteth, 
 Gorged to the throat with spoil of youth and beauty ! 
 
 Ere then, Beloved, thy gentle charms he tasteth, 
 Hearken — oh ! hearken unto love's sweet duty ! 
 
 Fondly thine arms of snow around me twining, 
 
 Enjoy thy May of life while May is shining. 
 
 <&otfyt. 
 Will she consent ? 
 
 pUpijistopfjeUs. 
 
 Did Helen e'er refuse ? 
 See — she is folded in his arms ; away, — 
 The scene grows rather warm ; methinks a cloud 
 Of roses should spread o'er their happy transports. 
 
 Aside. 
 Thus am I fooling him — he gives consent 
 By silence to my promises : methinks 
 When he has seen the comical sights of Hell, 
 And is, in turns, abused, cajoled, or laughed at, 
 Now scornfully repulsed, and now stroked down, 
 
A RAINBOW-CLOUD. 225 
 
 As they stroke cats, this brass- cheeked brandisher 
 
 Of the Phcebean lyre will sign the deed, 
 
 And, to escape a fancied Hell, fall in 
 
 To one that's anything but fanciful. 
 
 But till he sees the Witches, the strong magic 
 
 With which I magnetise him will not work ; 
 
 Virtue and Vice are fighting in his heart, — 
 
 I rather think poor Virtue's faint already. 
 
 As they depart, the Phantoms, and the ideal scene, 
 vanish, and the place is again enveloped in horrible 
 darkness. 
 
 Scene XX. 
 A RAINBOW-CLOUD. 
 
 &rt>i. 
 The cloven-footed Imp forbids my presence, 
 Lest I may turn the heaven-born Child to truth. 
 But I can sing, and warn him from the danger 
 By an old fable. — Will he grasp its meaning? 
 
 Sings. 
 Lightly through the forest glancing, 
 
 Like an arrow sharp and fleet, 
 Flies a Doe of milk-white beauty, 
 
 With black eyes and twinkling feet. 
 O'er the glades that laugh in sunshine, 
 
 Through the dells that sleep in shade, 
 Darts the Doe of milk-white beauty, 
 
 Trembling like some frighted maid. 
 
 Quickly rose Fingal the mighty, 
 Calling loud his faithful hounds 
 
 Bran and Sgcelan, and they hurried 
 
 When they heard the well-known sounds ; 
 Q 
 
226 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Through the fores t, far outspreading, 
 In pursuit the monarch hies, 
 
 While the milk-white Doe of beauty 
 Still before him onward flies. 
 
 Oh ! the morning sun shone sweetly 
 
 When the wond'rous chase began, 
 Yet the evening sun descended, 
 
 While still followed dogs and man ; 
 Through the many woodland windings, 
 
 O'er the forest's grassy floor, 
 While the milk-white Doe of beauty, 
 
 Flashed before them evermore. 
 
 Till they came to old Slieve Guillin, 
 
 The white Doe before them flew ; 
 When they came to old Slieve Guillin, 
 
 Then she vanished from their view. 
 East and west looked anxious Fingal, 
 
 North and south the monarch gazed, 
 Sweet and broken was the baying 
 
 By his sad hounds wildly raised. 
 
 From the deep heart of a valley, 
 
 By a silver-bosomed lake, 
 Strains of plaintive sorrow wander, 
 
 And the forest echoes wake ; 
 Wild and mournful was the music 
 
 As it struck the monarch's ears, 
 And the voice to which he listened 
 
 Seemed a voice of sobs and tears. 
 
 By the still and gentle waters 
 
 Where the weeping willows twined, 
 
 He beheld a beauteous Ladye 
 On the lonely bank reclined ; 
 
A RAINBOW-CLOUD. 227 
 
 From her wild blue eyes of sweetness 
 
 Fell the big tears of despair, 
 And adown her neck of lilies 
 
 Swept her long dishevelled hair. 
 
 Like the ear of morning sailing 
 
 O'er the ocean's glassy breast, 
 Like the rosy light of evening 
 
 When the sun is in the west, 
 Like a freezing star of brightness 
 
 When the heavens are fair to see, 
 Was the sad and beauteous Ladye 
 
 As she sang beneath that tree. 
 
 And, " Oh, say, thou beauteous Ladye," 
 
 Thus outspake the noble chief, 
 " Whence proceeds thy great affliction? 
 
 And whence comes thy song of grief? 
 Hast thou wandered in this wild wood — 
 
 Hast thou wander' d from thy way ? 
 Or can knightly succour aid thee, 
 
 O enchanting Ladye, say V\ 
 
 Then outspake the lovely Ladye, 
 
 Smiling through her tears of woe, 
 " Gentle chieftain, noble chieftain, 
 
 Since my sorrows thou would 'st know, 
 In the deep well of yon lake there lies 
 
 A jewel rich and rare, — 
 A ring of gold with diamonds set, 
 
 Which once my ringer ware. 
 
 A ring of gold more dearly loved 
 
 Than I do love mine eyes, 
 A ring which more than aught on earth 
 
 My foolish wishes prize. 
 
228 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Since rose the morning sunlight 
 
 I have wept the lake beside, 
 Gazing like a maid distracted 
 
 On its waters deep and wide. 
 
 Gentle chieftain, valiant chieftain, 
 
 Wilt thou find my ring for me ? 
 Wilt thou dive beneath the sleeping waves 
 
 And search them curiouslie ?" 
 Scarcely spake the beauteous Ladye, 
 
 W T hen the brave and noble king 
 Plunged beneath the shining waters 
 
 Of the lake to find the ring. 
 
 On the sands that beamed like crystal 
 
 Lay the jewel glittering bright, 
 And it shone as shines a golden star, 
 
 Or gleams the moon at night ; 
 Gladly seized the gem the monarch, 
 
 And he clutched it in his hand, 
 O'er the sparkling azure waters, 
 
 Swimming fleetly to the land. 
 
 And alas, alas ! what languor 
 
 Seizes on the monarch's limbs, 
 His brawny shoulders shrivel 
 
 In the moment that he swims ; 
 He crawls into the valley green 
 
 With footsteps faint and slow, 
 His eyes grow dim and glassy, 
 
 And his hairs as white as snow. 
 
 Far away that lovely Ladye 
 
 Hath departed, far away, 
 And beside the magic waters 
 
 Sits the monarch old and gray. 
 
A RAINBOW-CLOUD. 229 
 
 Ah, the cursed spell of sorcery ! 
 
 That fate like this should fall 
 On Erie's noblest warrior, 
 
 On her chief, the great Fingal. 
 
 In the Hall of Spears at Alwin 
 
 There is festal joy and mirth, 
 The wine-cup sparkles brightly, 
 
 Brightly shines the blazing hearth : 
 Oh ! where tarries our brave monarch 
 
 From the feast of cups and shells ? 
 And why stands his gold chair vacant 
 
 While the harp's proud music swells ? 
 
 Sadly rise his noble chieftains — 
 
 To the wild wood forth they wend, 
 Where the green and drooping willows 
 
 With the lake's blue waters blend ; 
 In the valley, bent and withered, 
 
 Still the sorrowing king repines ; 
 Like a famished way-worn wanderer, 
 
 His weak limbs he reclines. 
 
 And, "O weak and weary wanderer! — 
 
 Oh, hast thou seen to-day 
 A mighty king with two fleet hounds 
 
 Come coursing by this way ? 
 A milk-white Doe of beauty 
 
 Through these glens the monarch chased, 
 And we follow in his footsteps 
 
 O'er the lonely wooded waste." 
 
 Deeply sighed the stricken monarch 
 
 As he saw his chieftains bold, 
 To their wondering ears his story 
 
 With slow faltering tongue he told : 
 
230 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Long they cursed the vile Enchantress, 
 As their much-loved king they bore 
 
 On their well-bound golden bucklers 
 To the Witch's cavern-door. 
 
 For three whole nights they laboured, 
 
 Till they burst the living tomb ; 
 For three whole days they clamoured, 
 
 Till they pierced the deadly gloom. 
 In the middle of the caverned rock, 
 
 Upon her fiery throne, 
 Frowned the crafty vile Enchantress, 
 
 Sitting balefully alone. 
 
 Loudly shrieked the vile Enchantress 
 
 As the chieftains all rushed in, 
 With clanging spear and falchion, 
 
 And with fiery javelin. 
 From her throne of magic terror 
 
 She descended, trembling, pale, 
 Shivering like a frighted spectre 
 
 On the gloomy northern gale. 
 
 Then she moved unto the monarch, 
 
 Bearing in her snowy hand 
 A Cup of strange Enchantment, 
 
 Which he drank at her command ; 
 The spell passed off like darkness, 
 
 And the monarch stood confessed, 
 In the light of all his beauty 
 
 And his former splendour dressed. 
 
 In the olden lay I sing thee 
 Lives a lesson wise and deep, — 
 
 It would teach thee, it would rouse thee 
 From thy dull voluptuous sleep. 
 
ANOTHER PART OF HADES. 231 
 
 It would warn thee of the fearful 
 
 Magic net that waits thee there, 
 Where thou'rt wending, — oh, distrust it, 
 
 Though most seeming mild and fair. 
 
 £HrpijtStopW*S (aside). 
 Beware, beware, Ariel ; I say, beware ! 
 
 What is this music ? 
 
 i^tepl)tstopi)des. 
 
 Some concealed deception. 
 I hate this place, it is so full of falsehood . 
 
 Scene XXI. 
 
 ANOTHER PART OF HADES. 
 
 Darkness, occasionally streaked with vivid flashes of lightning. 
 The P hallos surrounded by tv)elve brazen caldrons. Dance 
 of the Witches around the Phallos. Mephistopheles 
 and Goethe. 
 
 jl&epf) (stocks. 
 
 Ah, methinks you're looking better, 
 
 Merrily round the Witches dance ; 
 It is like that gay French letter, 
 
 Which they worship so in France. 
 See that young one how she wriggles, 
 
 See that old one how she grins ; 
 How that hairy beldam jiggles, — 
 
 Pluto save us from her sins. 
 
 Merrily round the Witches dance. 
 
232 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Midnight dark as in the ark, 
 
 When the beasts were housed with Noe ; 
 Stink and gloom as in the womb 
 
 Where mad Jonah slept, while blowy 
 
 Winds disturbed the ocean snowy. 
 Merrily round the Witches dance. 
 Now they kick their heels lascivious, 
 
 Now they shake their horrid dugs, 
 Playing nasty tricks, oblivious 
 
 Of wild shame as slugs or bugs. 
 How they caper — how they tumble 
 
 Head o'er heels, and heels o'er head, 
 Sorely must the Apostles grumble, 
 If they ever chance to stumble 
 
 Where these naked witches tread. 
 Merrily round the Beldams dance. 
 I could almost love them for it ; 
 Were a saint here he'd abhor it, 
 Like a noddy, goose, or doddy, 
 As those are who feed on porret, 
 Thinking more of soul than body. 
 ^ Merrily round the Witches dance. 
 
 CDam'tria, 
 
 Once there was a jolly Pope, 
 
 With a hey ho nonny, nonny ho ! 
 Dressed his monkey in a cope, 
 And crowned him with the triple crown, 
 
 Hey ho nonny, nonny ho ! 
 Then made his cardinals bow down, 
 And kiss the monkey's sacred toe ; 
 While loud he laughed, ha, ha ! ho, ho ! 
 Before him danced, sans shift or gown. 
 His harlots, whereat none dared frown. 
 
 Hey ho nonny, nonny ho ! 
 Oh, never was St. Peter's chair 
 More aptly filled than then I swear, 
 
ANOTHER PART OF HADES. 
 
 When Monkey his toe gravely gave 
 To every purple-stockinged knave, 
 And looked like God's vicegerent ho. 
 Hey ho nonny, nonny no ! 
 
 Was it to shew me Satan's Saturnalia 
 
 You brought me hither? I am sick to loathing ; 
 
 You should have left me on the Idaean Hills. 
 
 fftepfn'stopfjdes (aside). 
 And yet I think I see your wisdom fleeting. 
 
 ItOttttg S2Etitf) (extremely beautiful). 
 
 Ah, come here, you pretty fellow, 
 Wondrous sights Fll shew you 5 charms 
 
 Such as ne'er, since earth was mellow, 
 Stooped to any mortal's arms. 
 
 €>o*tf)e. 
 Can'st thou read the hidden Future ? 
 If thou canst, and wilt expound it— 
 
 fftepJ)tstop?)eUs. 
 This is nonsensej man, confound it, 
 
 Do not ask her — 'twill not suit your 
 Purpose ; — be advised by me. 
 
 $l& OTttC?) (aside). 
 
 Artfully Sir Voland acts it, 
 Feigning anger to excite him. 
 
 Yes, I know it ; will your lordship 
 Let me shew what must delight him ? 
 
 J$Upf)tstopf)eles» 
 Since he presses, I agree. 
 
 233 
 
234 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 louttg WLilty. 
 This is the sole true art of divination, 
 Taught to us by Pythagoras of Samos. 
 
 J$Up!)fetopt)£ta. 
 
 Whose Romish doctrine of the Transmigration, 
 Makes his name here, as in Crotona, famous. 
 
 She takes a mirror, which she inscribes with blood; and bid- 
 ding Goethe stand behind her, she shews the mirror to the 
 Moon, which appears cresting the distant mountains. Goethe 
 looks steadfastly, and perceives his own name written on the 
 Moon's disk in characters of blood, and a motto, importing 
 that, act as he mag, his soul is now eternally lost. 
 
 :Ptepj)t8top5*I*S (aside). 
 
 'Pon my word, this witch has finely 
 Done the very thing I wanted ; 
 Where in hell she got the Moon though, 
 Even without a nomine Domini, 
 I know not— the fool's enchanted. 
 This will sure destroy his visions 
 Of Miss Peggy and of Aden, 
 And persuade him to make any 
 Bargain with me while he's able. 
 Fal, lal, lal, resume your dancing, 
 
 Merrily round the Witches dance — 
 Nay, Old One, restrain your prancing, 
 Trust me, that 'tis not enhancing 
 
 Perfect charms like yours, which never 
 
 Can require the least endeavour 
 To fill all with love entrancing. 
 
 Merrily round the Witches dance. 
 
 flrfltifc 
 
 This Phallic dance is singularly quaint. 
 
ANOTHER PART OF HADES. 23-5 
 
 I thought it would amuse you ; you're not downcast. 
 If you're indeed condemned, I'll make the matter 
 Most easy to you, if you will but worship. 
 
 Aside. 
 His eyes are riveted on the scene, for some 
 Of these sweet witches brighter are than angels ; 
 And Paris did not gaze on more enchanting 
 Creations of fine beauty than are now 
 In naked witchery set before our minstrel. 
 Arise, false form and shape deceitful, rise, 
 With unreal splendour mock his dazzled eyes. 
 
 A phantom -picture ascends from the caldrons, stretching 
 away to a great distance in airy splendid colours. The 
 whole atmosphere seems illumined with sunshine. He be- 
 holds the Garden of the Hesperides. 
 
 A Garden prankt with flowers of loveliest hues 
 And fragrance is before me. Who are these 
 Three wondrous goddesses, with charms all bare, 
 Who bring me this gold apple, and entreat 
 That I may give it to the fairest one ? 
 
 fftepfn'stop^les. 
 Know you not Venus, Juno, and Athene ? 
 They come from Zeus to you, as erst they did 
 To Alexander in Mount Ida's dells ; 
 Begging you to bestow the golden gift 
 Upon the loveliest ; see, it is inscribed 
 In graceful Greek. 
 
 ©oetf)*. 
 Then, Venus, it is thine. 
 
 i#Up$t8top*)d*8. 
 The Aphrodisian goddess thanks you much, 
 
236 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And will bestow in recompense for this 
 Immortal apple one ambrosial kiss. 
 
 O Gods ! I dream — an ecstasy of madness 
 Seizes me as I fold within my arms 
 The cestus-bearing Queen. Away — away ! 
 Another moment — press me — press me yet. 
 
 :Ptep$tetopf)Hes. 
 Come, sir, I wait you. 
 
 Soetlje. 
 
 Wait me ? how now, fool ? 
 Was it to mock me, then, you brought me hither ? 
 
 Jfttpfjfetopfjeles. 
 Mock thee, indeed — I'd rather die than mock thee ; 
 But there are certain matters which thou knowest 
 Preface the Paradise I promised thee ; 
 For instance, thou must first fall down and worship. 
 
 Worship ! I will not — 
 
 J&epfjtstopfjelea. 
 Then Pm very sorry 
 But I must do my duty, and escort thee 
 To the Abyss, and through it. 
 
 <&otfyt. 
 
 Nay, but pause : 
 Is there no other way ? 
 
 iftepfjistopfjelea (fiercely). 
 
 There is not, fool ; 
 And though there were I would not now bestow it, 
 Nor would I take thee. Hence, away, away ! 
 Thou hast refused the proffered boon of heaven ; 
 My heaven which I would then have given thee. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 237 
 
 Aside. 
 
 I were a rascal, shame to all my tribe, 
 If I allowed thee to play fast and loose. 
 
 I have him sure. I swear it by the Goose 
 
 Of Socrates, and that anserian bird 
 
 On which wise Lacidas the Cyrenian sage 
 
 Bestowed a funeral, whose trappings vied 
 
 With those of kings ; the sot is drunk already 
 
 With the mad honey from the witch's lips ; 
 
 The frenzy seizes him. Avaunt! mild Wisdom, 
 
 This disappointment will but whet him more ; 
 
 And I've another little witchery waiting 
 
 To crown the bent of these ensnaring potions. 
 
 Gretchen, methinks thy prayers are idle air. 
 
 Now to the hells I'll shew him fire and smoke, 
 
 Caldron and pit and ocean, rack and wheel, 
 And with fine promises, such as lovers swear 
 To credulous maids by moonshine, win his soul, 
 And mock old Minos when we meet again. 
 
 Scene XXII. 
 THE ABYSS OF HELL. 
 
 Mephistopheles and Goethe. 
 J^UpSfstopfjeleg, 
 The ancients thought that it was the same distance 
 From heaven to earth as 'twas from earth to hell ; 
 Greatly they erred ; but they had not the assistance 
 Of an Apocalypsej so could hardly tell \ 
 Vulcan, although he met with no resistance, 
 Took ten whole days when down from heaven he fell ; 
 Whereas I've seen some millions, nay, have reckoned, 
 Who, dead on earth, were here within a second. 
 
 I've known it take five thousand years to get 
 
 To heaven from earth — nay, more. The greater part 
 
238 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Of saints do not reach sooner ; even yet 
 
 I don't think Adam's there, with all his art 
 
 Of magic, though his heart on heaven was set. 
 
 \iyou could back from this to Weimar start, 
 
 'Twould occupy a space of time, I fear, 
 
 Very much more than that which brought you here. 
 
 The tiling's a miracle beyond explaining, 
 Why people should come here so very quickly, 
 And go so slowly hence ; I'm not complaining — 
 I leave it to the sentimental sickly ; 
 But strange it is that Virgil, who, in feigning, 
 Confined himself to facts and fiction strictly, 
 Makes the remark, descent to hell is facile, 
 Ascent is difficult for the most gracile. 
 
 We'll not dispute, however, on the matter, 
 Enough for you and me that we are here ; 
 I'll shew you things that might suggest a satire, 
 Could you get back again to your own sphere ; 
 But as you can't, and as you love to chatter, 
 And above all, at man to laugh and sneer, 
 You'll find rich food for mirth in this our journey, 
 Provided for you by Hell's Baron Gurney. 
 
 Passing these Iron Gates, that like twin Titans 
 Bise up in front of us, and frown like night, 
 We come to Acheron, no stream for Tritons 
 To sport, or blow their horns of margarite ; 
 I wonder whether Cleobis and Biton's 
 Fond mother lost her sacred appetite, 
 When she reflected 'mong what noisy neighbours 
 Her sons were sent for their fine filial labours. 
 
 We saw this river when we first descended, 
 Or part of it, at least ; upon its banks 
 Poplars and platans planted thick protended, 
 While scritch-owls howled in chorus and in ranks : 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 239 
 
 Its waters bear so many poisons blended. 
 Disease comes here to fill her numerous tanks 
 With the corruptions which on earth she rains 
 On town-bred bucks, who scorn the rustic plains. 
 
 I know not if you've heard that all diseases 
 That sweep your hapless race from life to death 
 Ascend from hell, winged on the poisonous breezes 
 That roar along this blasted Stygian heath, 
 But so it is ; there's not an old hag wheezes, 
 Or patient young who skips to Satan eath, 
 That has not for some crime inhaled a blast 
 From hence, and thus to dogs and birds gets cast. 
 
 Styx you've already seen ; its course lies yonder : 
 I should not like to swear by it, for those 
 Who do, and break their oaths, are sent to w r ander 
 A hundred years, through which they writhe in woes 
 And soul-consuming pangs ; a vagabonder 
 And sorrier crew ne'er put on shirt and hose, 
 Or crawled about more desperately despairing, 
 Than those who're exiled thither for false swearing. 
 
 Styx leads directly down into Cocytus, 
 
 Another river which we've crossed already, 
 
 Tenanted chiefly by the Jews whom Titus 
 
 Hanged, crucified, or starved, to make them steady ; 
 
 There also dwell such drunken sots as Clitus ; 
 
 The cold rank waters keep them from growing heady ; 
 
 Irish, Scotch, English, Russians, Danes, and Dutchmen, 
 
 Who drink too hard are there — 'twas made for such men. 
 
 We're standing now upon the threshold dark 
 
 Of very hell and its ten thousand mansions ; 
 
 The harpies scream, snakes hiss, and bloodhounds bark 
 
 In chorus not so musical as scansions 
 
 Of Homer's verse ; the fires roar up and chark 
 
 The soul to cinder, curbing its expansions, 
 
240 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And making it a very squalid " fragment 
 
 Of air divine/- such as the ancient wag meant. 
 
 <£raet(*, 
 
 But how can fire material harm the soul, 
 Which is immortal— an ambrosial air ? 
 
 Jftepfjtatopf^les. 
 You think it can't be crisped into a coal ; — 
 That was the nonsense talked by old Voltaire ; 
 A sophism sly, contemptible and droll, 
 Worthy of sages smart and debonnaire, 
 And always shallow ; but I think you'll feel 
 Yourself ere long that even souls can squeal. 
 
 'Tis not for me to expound to you theology, 
 Or chemistry, or cards, or divination ; 
 Or preach the recent theories on geology, 
 Which carry back so far the world's creation, 
 Proving by proofs well founded on conchology 
 That Moses drew on his imagination ; 
 This, Baron most renowned, is not my business ; 
 The very thought has made me feel a dizziness. 
 
 Nor will I meddle with frail Eve or Adam, 
 The Arian or the Athanasian creed, 
 Abel or Cain ; — and why their parents had 'em 
 Outside of Aden — not within : a deed 
 Regretted much by every man and madam ; 
 Or why the Jews were not allowed to feed 
 On wholesome ham ; or by what odd command 
 The sun that does not move was made to stand. 
 
 How old was Abel when his brother slew him ? 
 
 Whether fifteen, or fifty, or five hundred ? 
 
 When Eve conceived by Adam? where she knew him ? 
 
 How often, when he named the beasts, he blundered ? 
 
 Was he an androgyne ? Did God imbue him 
 
 With several sexes ? If so, why they sundered 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 241 
 
 To two ? What means the rib Jehovah took 
 From Adam ? and was Eve a clever cook ? 
 
 Or whether the vast ocean called Atlantic 
 Flowed froai her tears for hapless Abel's fate ? 
 (If so her eyes must have been most gigantic,) 
 "Whether Cain struck him in the guts or pate? 
 Was't jealousy or envy drove him frantic? 
 Did widow Azrun marry him, or wait 
 Till Eve produced a husband for her? these 
 Are Gordian knots 'twere vain for us to feaze. 
 
 I'll not deny omnipotence, like Paine, 
 
 By saying an island can't be made without 
 
 Water around it ; nor waste time in vain 
 
 By reasoning which might make a baby doubt ; 
 
 The Origin of Evil and of Cain 
 
 Are not such themes as I intend to spout ; 
 
 My mission simply is to shew you Hades, 
 
 And name its tenants, gentlemen and ladies. 
 
 For you and your vile race I feel such scorn 
 As souls like mine, the Sons of God, must feel 
 For creatures who, like toads and apes are born, 
 Fit only to be trampled under heel ; 
 You doubt of God — poor worm — and would suborn 
 The intellect He gave, your hearts to steel 
 Against Him, and rise up in fierce denial — 
 Pray tell me, don't you merit wrath's full vial ? 
 
 We pamper you on earth to this conceit, — 
 Pride and revenge compel us to these things ; 
 But when we have you here our work's complete, 
 We let you loose from all false-leading strings : 
 Blasphemy here is dull and obsolete ; 
 We tried it once against the King of Kings, 
 And failed — We want not here such imitators, 
 Enough for us that, living, you were traitors. 
 
 R 
 
242 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 He conquered us— the day was his ; but ours 
 Has been revenge indeed ; the world he made 
 For you has left his worship for The Powers 
 Infernal ; we alone are there obeyed. 
 If the great soul I bear stoops, crawls, and cowers 
 Before your race, 'tis that it may degrade 
 You — them, and all, beneath the vilest beasts ; — 
 We do so — on your souls our vengeance feasts. 
 
 On earth we did your work, and were your slaves, 
 Here, in our own dominions, we are lords, 
 And rule supreme ; the cheated fools and knaves 
 Who form our prey, despised and bondaged hordes, 
 Tremble beneath our bloody swords and glaives : 
 The game is won — things rule with us, not words ;— 
 Truth, Mercy, Justice, God we fight, scorn, hate, 
 But to deny is not allowed by Fate. 
 
 Therefore, my dear companion, 'tis no use 
 To be a sceptic here, — we're all believers ; 
 The devil who doubted were indeed a goose, 
 Or mad as men when raving in brain fevers. 
 I love a little laughter — no abuse 
 Of what's above us ; I and mine are weavers 
 Of pleasant mockery, jibes, and jests, and jokes, 
 Which we play off upon terrestrial folks. 
 
 Well, certainly for one who lately bragged 
 
 So much about his temper, it is funny 
 
 To hear tirades like this ; had you been dragged, 
 
 As I have been, from scenes and gardens sunny, 
 
 You might have roared with reason ; but unsagged 
 
 At present, as you are, with lots of money, 
 
 And nought to anger you but one sly jest, 
 
 You cannot say your temper's of the best. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 243 
 
 But I'll keep mine untouched, and eke unroused ; 
 Proceed, Herr Voland, with your smart description 
 Of the poor devils whom you here keep housed, 
 Like prowling beasts by old and long prescription ; 
 You never hinted, when the fools caroused 
 On earth, that o'er their cells the drear inscription, 
 All hope abandon ye who enter here. 
 Should burn in fire — never to disappear. 
 
 fftrpjtstopSeles, 
 It makes me glad to see you bear damnation 
 So pleasantly, Herr Baron, but I think 
 Until you've gone through the first mild probation, 
 And found yourself so tough as not to shrink, 
 You may as well defer your jubilation ; 
 For my part, I'll rejoice to see you wink 
 And hold your iron out, mine ancient Pistol, 
 Trampling the flames like some suspected Vestal. 
 
 I think, however, ere I've shewn you over 
 
 These fruitful plains, which you must know will be 
 
 The future home of such a wayward rover 
 
 As you have been, you'll sign and seal with me : 
 
 You could not always hope to live in clover, 
 
 Worshipped with such insane idolatry 
 
 As wise Egyptians lavished upon cats, 
 
 Crocodiles, monkeys, weasels, worms, and rats. 
 
 I told you, nay, my Paradise I disclosed, 
 Although I did not shew you all its stages, 
 That is a duty which IVe not imposed 
 Upon myself until I get my wages ; 
 Had you agreed to what I then proposed, 
 You should have lived there pleasantly for ages 
 In pastime grave or jovial, wise or learned, 
 Better by far than this mere wild-goose errand. 
 
244 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 But since you would not bargain, why you know 
 My mind, that's all ; I don't mean to deceive you, 
 Or under falsehood work your overthrow ; 
 The Furies very quickly will relieve you 
 From my companionship ; I'm not your foe, 
 Nor did I ever while you lived aggrieve you ; 
 I hate all men — but you, who are my friend, 
 And therefore 'twas I wished some aid to lend. 
 
 If you're still bent on dreaming that some stroke 
 Of Fate or Fortune waits us when we reach 
 Our journey's end — dream on : I will not joke 
 Or interrupt you by sarcastic speech. 
 I have you firmly like a pig in a poke, 
 However you may scold or Peggy preach ; 
 And so we'll re-commence our dismal tour — 
 The scene grows blacker than a blackamoor. 
 
 Here are the jaws of Orcus ; Griefs, Diseases 
 Horrent, cadaverous, spectral, black and pale, 
 Famine with wolfish fangs that garbage seizes, 
 Mad Discord howling in her iron jail ; 
 And squalid Want whose icy aspect freezes, 
 And viper-folded Madness breathing bale, 
 And Murder robed in blood, and ghastly Fear, 
 And Nightmare scattering portents far and near. 
 
 Here also is the frightful prodigy Fame, 
 Than whom no fouler breathes the infernal air ; 
 Pigmy at first, she hides her head in shame, 
 Anon she swells to size beyond compare, 
 A million watchful eyes encase her frame, 
 Which seems indeed all eye, but that where'er 
 She turns her gaze, a million tongues and ears 
 Drink in, and spread hopes, frenzies, lies, and fears. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 245 
 
 She whispers — nations tremble and bow down ; 
 She shouts — an empire totters, swoons, and dies 5 
 From this she robs — to this she hands a crown, 
 Her voice enwraps the globe and fills the skies ; 
 Restlessly gadding on from town to town, 
 Sleep binds no golden fillet o'er her eyes, 
 Nor labour tires her tongues, nor noise confounds 
 Those ears that gape for all deceitful sounds. 
 
 Near her sits Envy, skeleton-limbed and pale, 
 Covered with eyes that ne'er look straight ; a scowl 
 Grins on her brows ; an ear for every tale 
 Of Calumny, a tongue those tales to howl ; 
 Black clots of poison mark her gall-dewed trail ; 
 She never smiles but at some treason foul, 
 Such as her darlings plan when she instils 
 The self-tormenting hate that beauty kills. 
 
 She has a nook in every human breast, 
 Till Virtue drives her out ; the statesman grave 
 Receives her in his holy heart a guest ; 
 The lawyer feasts her, and the soldier brave 
 Wears her at times upon his waving crest ; 
 The reverend priest, whose soul no sins deprave, 
 Takes her at church-hour to that hallowed shrine, — 
 " And, oh, that yonder greasy stall were mine !" 
 
 The atmosphere all round is thick with Cares 
 
 And wild Suspicions ; Vengeance stained with gore, 
 
 And deeply gashed with wounds ; black Hate that tears 
 
 Even her own vitals ; Avarice clothed o'er 
 
 With gold that looks like blood ; fierce Lust that rears 
 
 His savage front ; Ambition — Falsehood hoar, 
 
 And many-changing Malice with snake-smile, 
 
 Anger blood-venomed and fair-seeming Guile. 
 
246 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And mixed with these are Spectres without number, 
 Not to be named and nameless ; black and hideous, 
 Such as on earth pollute the sick man's slumber, 
 Eendering the sleep that should refresh him tedious 
 And horrible ; false Phantoms that encumber 
 The waking reveries of the mad religious 
 With maniac vision and confused sorites, 
 Making such things as Southcote and Stylites. 
 
 Dreary vacuity, never-ending gloom, 
 And pestilential clouds of thick obscure, 
 Hot copper-coloured mists that dimly loom, 
 Like dark miasmas from a wide-spread moor ; 
 A charnel- vapour, worse than aught the tomb 
 Exhales, of all that's odious and impure ; — 
 Such is the general aspect of this quarter 
 Where we roast fools who soul for body barter. 
 
 Terror and Horror, deadliest Melancholy, 
 Forgetfulness of life, disgusts, and dread, 
 Vague nightmare fancies, phantasms wild, unholy, 
 And blasphemous distract the heart and head 
 Of each descending ghost ; the herb called Moly 
 Would be a blessing to these maniac dead ; 
 But none grows here, and opium is not sold, 
 To lull their ravings dark and manifold. 
 
 The massive gates of bronze that frown all round, 
 Lifting their mighty arches mountains high 
 And oceans wide ; clanging with brazen sound 
 As the damned droves within their shadows fly, 
 To sleep henceforth in flame and gloom profound, 
 Are graven each in fire that blinds the eye : 
 Lust carved on this, on that Ambition ; there 
 Gluttony, Gaming, Theft in lightning blare. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 247 
 
 All the sweet vices which you mortals practise, 
 Have each a separate gate and separate road, 
 So that when any conies no doubts distract his 
 Clear brain how he may reach his new abode ; 
 It burns in flame before him ; and the fact is, 
 They never do mistake — the way is strowed, 
 As you may see, with thousands in distress ; — 
 You and I pass through this marked Selfishness. 
 
 I once supposed we'd pass through gate Ambition, 
 
 The gate of Infidelity, or Meanness, 
 
 All of which lead to the same goal — perdition, 
 
 By several long dark alleys of unclean ness ; 
 
 But since you've stood before our Inquisition, 
 
 I've scanned you with such eyes of eagle keenness, 
 
 I entertain no doubt the gate Fve named 
 
 Is that which your own instincts would have claimed, 
 
 Right in our pathway fronting yon dark Cavern 
 
 Stands Cerberus, the horrid dog of hell ; 
 
 Courteous as some spruce waiter at a tavern 
 
 To all who're entering in, but fierce and fell 
 
 To those who would go out ; he casts his slaver on 
 
 Their sneaking souls, which makes them leap and yell, 
 
 Like Pantaloon in horseplay pantomimes, 
 
 Or readers of good taste o'er Twaddle's rhymes. 
 
 The dog has fifty sharp-fanged heads you see, 
 With which he's ever gaping for fresh food. 
 
 Goetije. 
 He has, and greatly it perplexes me 
 To see him, for I always understood 
 That Cerberus had never more than three, — 
 Bards are such barefaced liars. 
 
 i^Upfjistopfjdes. 
 
 Doa't be rude; 
 
248 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 We all knew that before ; say something new, 
 'Tis scarcely fair to hear such words from you. 
 
 The dog has fifty heads, no more no less, 
 
 And fifty brazen throats through which he bawls, 
 
 And fifty double rows of fangs to mess 
 
 On such stray game as to his portion falls, 
 
 With fifty serpent necks of ugliness, 
 
 Maned with fierce snakes,' whose hissing sense appals- 
 
 A worthy whelp of Erebus and Nox, 
 
 And more destructive far than great Pethox. 
 
 Virgil and Ovid, Sophocles and Horace, 
 
 Four sons of — drabbisli Muses, who ne'er saw him 
 
 (The dog, not Pethox), aut domi autforis, 
 
 Which means in earth or hell, presume to draw him 
 
 Only with three snake-heads ; Fd wage the orris 
 
 With which my cloak is fringed, that if we jaw him, 
 
 He'll tell us in dog-language how the lie 
 
 Arose, and who invented it, and why. 
 
 Hesiod's the only tell-truth — his theogony 
 Relates the fact as with your eyes you see it ; 
 The fine old Ascrsean scorned to do the dog any 
 Harm, nor would bate a single head, albeit 
 Others who knew no more than my mahogany 
 How the thing was, yet ventured to decree it 
 At three instead of fifty, which was doing 
 The beast a wrong, and leaves themselves a-rueing ; 
 
 For scarcely had these minstrels set foot here, 
 
 And come within the Cerberean grapple, 
 
 When they were seized, and spite of groan and tear, 
 
 And even our Lady, of Loretto's chapel 
 
 (Who was in heaven perhaps about a year 
 
 Before the three from Italy), mishap ill 
 
 Befel them in the shape of sundry bitings, 
 
 As punishment for their deceitful writings. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 249 
 
 Horace and Ovid have not yet recovered, 
 
 But limp about on crutches ; Virgil, who 
 
 Seems by some heavenly light to have discovered 
 
 The birth of Truth which made his gods look blue, 
 
 And seen The Immaculate Word of Heaven that hovered 
 
 Brightly on earth, and sang its splendours too, 
 
 Was almost well when he escorted Dante, 
 
 And by this time has grown young, brisk, and janty. 
 
 Cerberus. 
 
 Ough ! Ough ! Ough ! Ough! what news from earth, 
 
 old Rabbi? 
 What ragamuffin's that with coat all rusty, 
 Who roosts upon your tail ? Ough ! Ough ! 
 
 JftepStstopfjelrs. 
 
 Sweet babby, 
 Don't bark so loudly ; this my friend's a trusty 
 And faithful one, who, though his air be shabby, 
 And his soul's odour rather rank and musty 
 To heavenly nostrils, is resolved, from love 
 Of you and me, to quit the realms above. 
 
 Cerberus. 
 
 Ough ! Ough ! Ough! Ough! we've rogues and scamps 
 
 enow ; 
 Our realms are chockfull. Ough ! 
 
 iptepfustcpijeles. 
 
 They are indeed. 
 Cerberus. 
 
 'Twas scarce worth this one's while to come, I trow, 
 So far to see 'em. Was he of the breed ? 
 
 PtepStstopJjeles. 
 
 He was a Poet, on whose broad bald brow 
 His countrymen stuck bays-— -a worthless weed. 
 
250 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And starved him ? 
 
 J&epS tstopfjeles. 
 
 No ; he sold his soul for money, 
 Even as your dogship might for cakes of honey. 
 
 (Perform 
 Well, he did right ; for godlike mortals treat 
 Their bards so badly, that they're fools indeed 
 To spend so many years with nought to eat, 
 Contented, like wild beasts, with abject need. 
 
 JftepJ) (stopples. 
 They live like Irish, happy if roast meat, 
 Once in their time, supplies a first, last feed ; 
 The greatest of their minstrels, old blind Homer, 
 Was all his life a beggar and a roamer. 
 
 Menander drowned himself in proud despair; 
 Dogs tore Euripides ; the Ascrsean sage 
 Was murdered ; Socrates drank poison ; fair 
 And lute-souled Sappho felt the public rage ; 
 Theocritus was hanged ; the mighty pair, 
 Demosthenes and Tully, in old age 
 Died one by poison, one by steel ; the knife 
 Cut Lucan, Brutus, Seneca from life. 
 
 Empedocles and Pliny burned in flame 
 Volcanic, and the Stagy rite self-drowned ; 
 Hannibal poisoned ; Naso sent with shame 
 To Tomos ; Galileo blind and bound 
 In chains by knaves who dare themselves proclaim 
 God's viceroys ; pure Lucretius, rainbow-crowned, 
 Struck by his own right hand — such things as these 
 Shew how Fate loads the best with agonies. 
 
 Plautus and Terence were unhappy slaves ; 
 And so was iEsop ; sage Boetius died 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 251 
 
 In gaol ; Camoens, whose Parnassian staves 
 
 Are his accursed nation's only pride, 
 
 Begged in her streets ; o'er Tasso's, Dante's graves — 
 
 Massinger's, Dryden's, Chatterton's, have sighed 
 
 Thousands, who on past ages bawled out " Shame !" 
 
 Then went their way and did the very same. 
 
 Butler and Savage, Spenser, Goldsmith, Lee, 
 Cervantes, Mario w, Otway, Drayton, Forde, 
 Chapman and Shirley, Fletcher, a bright Three 
 On eagle-wings to heavenly heights who soared ; 
 Burns whose great soul outshone the galaxy 
 
 In splendour lived and starved, and died abhorred, 
 
 Or what is worse, despised by human things 
 Who scorn the gods, and worship lords and kings, 
 
 Who own that Genius is the Child of Heaven 
 
 Sent down to earth to beautify its ways ; 
 
 Like living Revelations born and given. 
 
 How does Man hail it? Like a fiend, he prays 
 
 Upon its loveliness. While some are driven 
 
 Into despair, and stalk in Frenzy's maze ; 
 
 Others are crucified ; the murderous Jews 
 
 Of old, could they come back, would greatly muse 
 
 To see good Christians walking in their shoes. 
 
 Rome trampled Scipio ; Florence trimmed the stake 
 For Dante ; Cork its weeping Curran scorned ; 
 London expelled its Byron ; Bristol brake 
 The soul of Chatterton ; Rousseau, pain-thorned, 
 Was hissed from France ; base England like a snake 
 Scung Shelley : thus the world wags ; while adorned 
 With fame and fortune move the hell-born tribe 
 Whose names upon our books the Fates inscribe. 
 
 But time spurs on. 
 
 Thecates? 
 
252 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 I've brought you plenty ; 
 Here's a full packet moist with virgins' sighs 
 Breathed forth in forests green for rakes of twenty, 
 Seasoned with widows' tears and lovers' lies, 
 Made up besides of the most choice frumenty, — 
 Pluto ne'er tasted more delicious pies- — 
 
 ©n-foertis, 
 Ough! Ough! Ough! Ough ! gob, gobble, gobble, 
 gobble. 
 
 Heavens ! how his jaws and belly swag and wabble. 
 
 Never before saw I such monstrous cramming, — 
 His fifty throats like air-blown bladders swell ; 
 I've seen artillerymen with ramrods ramming 
 Thirty-six pound shot down a cannon's well ; 
 I've seen fat bishops skilled in cant and shamming 
 Gorging green fat through throats as deep as hell, 
 But ne'er before in things of fact or fiction 
 Dreamed I of jaws with such a power of friction, 
 
 Or gullets with such mighty force of swallow, 
 Or belly capable of such distension. 
 
 Jftepf) (stopples. 
 
 I thought you'd stare — the beast delights to wallow 
 
 Thus in a slough of gluttony ; invention 
 
 Were dull to find his like ; he beats out hollow 
 
 All the gross eaters whom the poets mention 
 
 In veritable history, or the sages 
 
 In their fat lists of stuff-guts of all ages. 
 
 He's sleeping now, and so we'll pass him by 
 Quickly and quietly. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 253 
 
 Nay, I'm rather vext 
 You dosed him off so soon. 
 
 i^qrfjtstopljeles. 
 
 Pray tell me why ? 
 
 ffioetfje. 
 He might have solved a doubt that much perplexed 
 Me in my youth about the Delta Lie. 
 
 Jj&epJtstopJjeies. 
 The Delta Lie ! 
 
 Yes, sir, the doubtful text 
 That posed me could be cleared by him alone, 
 For which I'd give the beast a mutton bone. 
 
 J¥tepSfetopljeZes. 
 The Delta Lie, my dainty, doubting friend, 
 Is one that puzzled wiser beasts than this ; 
 Though he had heads, and brains withouten end, 
 He could not drag it from the deep abyss 
 Of mystery, humbug, scheming, that defend 
 It round about, as pins defend some miss 
 From man's embraces. What of dark divinity 
 Could the dog know, or baptism, or Infinity ? 
 
 Little cares he for Adam, John, or Moses, 
 The Witch of Endor, transubstantiation, 
 Nor is it likely when the savage dozes 
 He dreams of Shem, or of the world's formation; 
 Nothing he thinks of Slawkenbergian noses, 
 Less of the Flood, and Jonah's navigation : 
 He cannot solve the mystical Delta Lie, 
 Nor any other— so we'll pass him by. 
 
254 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Well — since you say it must be so, so be it ; 
 This and the Psyche of the Ovarian Bottle 
 We'll learn elsewhere. 
 
 ffcep!)istop$eta&. 
 
 May all the Gods decree it. 
 Meanwhile look here ; the soul of Amos Cottle 
 Changed to a tadpole spitting venom ; flee it ; 
 Not all the nostrums known to Aristotle 
 Could cure you, if a drop of what he spews 
 On all who're near him should your skin suffuse. 
 
 Here at this Gate is seated One in white, — 
 A Saint I think — we'll not inquire his name ; 
 Beside him stands a black and sneering Sprite, 
 Whose nostrils vomit a Tartarean flame. 
 One of the mouths of hell opes to the right, 
 Beady to gulp down deaf and blind and lame, 
 Ancient and youth, as children swallow plums, 
 For ail is grist that to our millers comes. 
 
 A nicely-balanced scale is swung between, — 
 
 The Saint has weights of gold, the Devil of lead ; 
 
 Soon as a trembling soul's approaching seen, 
 
 Shrinking back like the coward letter Z, 
 
 His deeds are weighed : the Saint and Imp, as keen 
 
 As rats about a piece of bacon-shred, 
 
 Watch how the tongue inclines, and save or damn 
 
 Quicker than you could pen an epigram. 
 
 This landscape's not enchanting ; mountains, hills, 
 Bocks, caverns, chasms, great whirlpools, and deep dens, 
 With thick brown marshes fed from putrid rills, 
 Exhaling the worst odours of worst fens ; 
 Smoke, flame, mists, soot, and all the other ills 
 The damned are heirs to in these ghastly pens, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 255 
 
 Where Pluto folds his flocks like some good shepherd, 
 Or butcher rather, till they're burned and peppered. 
 
 The dens and caverns hide these savage beasts, 
 Whose whole delight in life was lust or blood ; 
 Such as the Nero's or the Italian Priests, 
 Such as Tiberius formed of gore and mud, 
 As Theodorus said ; their feats and feasts 
 Are masques of madness, like Deucalian's flood, 
 When frantic millions raged against each other, 
 Sire against son, and sister against brother. 
 
 Those who sojourn here seldom wish to stay 
 For any length of time ; an hour or two 
 Is quite sufficient ; few would spend a day, 
 Fewer a week, and none a twelvemonth through. 
 The bore is this — they cannot get away, 
 Although they labour for't with much ado ; 
 Our emperor likes their company so well, 
 He won't consent that they should go from hell. 
 
 Sometimes they take to flight with hopes to 'scape 
 Their term of torture, scampering many a mile, 
 But all in vain ; to elude the devil's chape 
 Is hard indeed, however versatile 
 Their talents — demon-dragged by heel and nape 
 They soon return with looks of bitter bile, 
 Cursing the moment of their late vagary 
 Instead of praying to the Virgin Mary. 
 
 Our catalogue of punishments is endless, 
 Frying-pans, spits, great worms with poisonous fangs, 
 Stink baths of pitch and sulphur, which offend less 
 Than the steel traps which give such awful bangs ; 
 Added to which each ghost feels sad and friendless, 
 For tal king's not allowed among the gangs. 
 The silent system borrowed from the Yankees 
 Prevails — for which they've got our hearty thank ye's. 
 
256 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Our thieves are punished by beholding jewels, 
 Sardonyx, diamond, emerald, heavens of light 
 Within their reach — they grasp them : helPs worst fuels 
 Of hottest tire they grasp, not treasures bright. 
 Drunkards drink boiling lead and water, gruels 
 By no means pleasing to their appetite ; 
 The tongues of liars are cut off with shears, 
 And hypocrites weep molten brass, not tears. 
 
 Though I had several thousand iron tongues 
 To prate untired through lips of hardest steel, 
 And numerous bodies filled with brazen lungs, 
 And were moreover red with burning zeal, 
 To speak in language drear as Parson Young's 
 The penalties undying which we deal 
 Upon our damned disciples, I should never 
 Get through the list, what time I took soever. 
 
 Those whom we ne'er forgive are unjust judges, 
 Like JefTreyes, Mansfield, Buller, Norbury, Scroggs ; 
 Scoundrels who act on earth as devil's drudges, 
 Wallowing in filth too foul for sottish hogs, 
 Who wreak, in form of law and justice, grudges, 
 Envies, and hates, when bid to't by King Logs, 
 Or King Log's basest lacqueys, called prime ministers, 
 Whose friendship is a prize that always sinister ? s. 
 
 Their features once demure, grow black and direful, 
 And void of life, like those of corpses ; some 
 Pimpled and ulcered, whose expression ireful 
 Would fright the boldest knight in Christendom ; 
 Some have no face at all ; see yonder pyre full 
 Of howling dicasts, a large hecatomb, 
 Who've neither form nor shape, — a tortured heap 
 Of bone and hair and worms that never sleep. 
 
 W T hat light gleams yonder, like a star of gold, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 257 
 
 Amid the encircling darkness ? Does it move ? 
 Or am I dazzled by what I behold ? 
 
 fftrpfjistopijelea. 
 
 By no means, Jack ; I'm glad your eyes improve : 
 That is the Ram of which such tales are told, 
 The Golden Ram of Phryxus and his love, 
 Who gave a name to Hellespont — the beast 
 Is, as you see, indeed superbly fleeced. 
 
 This Ram renowned, the pride of ancient story, 
 Galloped amid the crystal heavens so well 
 The winds could not o'ertake him ; so his glory 
 Has been the theme of many a poet's shell ; 
 Who sang his fame in flights as high and soary 
 As those he took, when beauteous Helle fell 
 From his gold back, and sank into the Ocean — 
 A fair- faced thief, who robbed her sire Boeotian. 
 
 Phryxus, more lucky than his sister, landed 
 At Colchos, being advised by the sage Ram, 
 And locked his treasure up ; then basely handed 
 The gallant beast on which through air he swam 
 Up to the priests, who burned him, but demanded 
 The gorgeous fleece ; they gave it with a damn 
 And looks ill-omened. The ungrateful miser 
 "Was murdered ; thus was Nemesis chastiser, 
 
 Of an abandoned wretch whose thirst for pelf 
 Made him commit a vile and treacherous deed. 
 The gods, who loved the Ram and loathed the Elf, 
 Threw Phryxus to him as a worthless weed. 
 Aries since then has well avenged himself, 
 And tears the wretch as wild wolves tear some steed 
 That wanders from his herd, and sees too late 
 The wolfish pack with eyes and fangs of hate. 
 
258 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 What has become of Helle is not known ; 
 
 She dwells no doubt with other thieving wenches, 
 
 Where she pours forth her melancholy moan 
 
 Mid fires and devils, worms and snakes and stenches ; — 
 
 The Ram's a bachelor still, and lives alone, 
 
 His sole amusement the terrific wrenches 
 
 He gives his former rider through the air, 
 
 And thus you have the story of the pair. 
 
 (Soetfje. 
 O ruthless Avarice, blindest thirst for dollars, 
 Guineas, Napoleons, banker's books, and notes, 
 Who taintest all the world save priests and scholars, 
 And wearest such a multitude of coats ; 
 Now throned in castles, hiding now in sollars, 
 Now with the youth, and now with him who dotes, — 
 The king, the soldier, lady fine, and flirt, 
 In turn are thine. What giv'st thou them ? mere dirt. 
 
 J¥lepf)tstop!)ele35. 
 
 O noble, godlike Avarice, whose coffers 
 
 Are lined with gold and silver, gems and plate, 
 
 Diamonds and pearls and amethysts ; let scoffers 
 
 Rail at thee as they may, because they hate ; 
 
 Smile upon me — I'll not reject thy proffers, 
 
 But take thee willingly to be my mate — 
 
 Kings, queens, popes, emperors bow to thee, and why, 
 
 My Frankfort moralist, should not you and I ? 
 
 Cash rules the world, and Avarice gathers cash ; 
 But for that thrifty lady there were none. 
 To say the least of it, 'twas strangely rash 
 In you, whose fate it never was to run 
 From bailiffs, thus the potent dame to lash — 
 You'd have thought otherwise had bum or dun 
 Ever pursued you ; then you'd own perhaps 
 That Avarice is a real true friend to chaps. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 259 
 
 But you know nought of this. You ne'er were schooled 
 By grave Adversity— a worthy dame, 
 Whose terror many a trembling dunce has fooled, 
 But who, in fact, is dreadful but in name. 
 
 Gotfije. 
 Dare you deny that those by Avarice ruled 
 Are wretches void of honour, truth, and shame ? 
 
 fHepStstopftrles. 
 I don't ; but when I heard a spirit damned 
 Like you cry out on vice, I thought you shammed. 
 
 But moralise, pray, preach — 'tis useless all, 
 
 You never can escape the devil's clutches ; 
 
 To see you now a late repentance drawl, 
 
 Awed by the hellish flame that burns or smutches 
 
 Whate'er we see, provokes my very gall, 
 
 And makes me splenetic as Marlborough's Duchess ; — 
 
 You're damned — that's clear, but I am open still 
 
 To any honest bargain if you will. 
 
 What think you of this place? a pit it seems, 
 In length and breadth like some outspreading sea, 
 But deep as hell, for so the ascending gleams 
 Of flickering flame would make it seem to be ; 
 Boiling up from beneath in scorching streams 
 That roar and howl like devils at jubilee ; 
 While the broad flanks of this infernal vale 
 Are lashed by storms of deadly snow and hail. 
 
 The summit towers amid the clouds ; dark, deep, 
 And terrible is the valley down its side ; 
 Girt in by naked rocks which form a keep, 
 Where thick as locusts the stark shadow's hide ; — 
 Lo ! the volcanic fires that blaze and sweep 
 Tumultuously along with angry tide 
 Of red-hot lava, spouting, fuming, stinking, — 
 Even at this distance I can see you shrinking. 
 
260 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The sides are covered o'er on left and right 
 With screaming myriads of damned human souls, 
 On whom the hurricane, like some withering blight, 
 Descends, till o'er them a fierce whirlpool rolls 
 Of coldest ice j from such an awful plight 
 They ask of heaven a peck of blazing coals, 
 And heaven grants their wish, and flings them down 
 Deep in the flaming pit to kick and drown. 
 
 Engulfed within the seething waves of fire, 
 They wish once more to feel the dreaded cold, 
 And heaven most kindly yields to their desire, 
 Flinging them back to their ice-haunts of old ; 
 Scarce are they shivering in that frosty mire, 
 When love, more fierce than the fierce love of gold, 
 For their late lodgings in the burning pit 
 Seizes them next, and heaven grants them it. 
 
 Thus are they tossed for ever, from hot flame 
 Into as burning oceans of sharp ice ; 
 And then from ice to fire : — a pleasant game 
 For those who hold the reins in Paradise : 
 No interval of rest have they ; the same 
 Quick alternations come as fast as dice 
 Leap from the box in some experienced hand, 
 In, out — out, in — in this the promised land. 
 
 The pit itself abounds with hungry caymen, 
 
 Exhaling fire accursed from tristful jaws, 
 
 Their monstrous throats gorge clerics, monks, and 
 
 laymen, 
 As rapidly as whirlpools swallow straws ; 
 Malicious demons whip them on like draymen, 
 So that their scythe-like grinders never pause, 
 But still chop chop, they snap up souls, chop chop, 
 Faster than winter raindrop follows drop. 
 
 ^oetfje. 
 But who are they on whom this horrible fate 
 Has fallen, and what their mortal sin in life? 
 
THE ABYSS 0E HELL. 261 
 
 fftepfjtstopljeles. 
 Oh, waverers merely — those who hold debate 
 Between the good and bad ; — in constant strife 
 Whether they'll pass the broad or narrow gate 
 To hell and heaven ; their souls like man and wife, 
 Though one in name, are generally two, — 
 Half loves the False — the other seeks the True. 
 
 And so they live in a perpetual squabble, 
 
 Not knowing how to choose, or when, or why ; 
 
 Now right, now wrong, now midway — thus they hobble 
 
 Along the road with feet and hearts awry ; 
 
 Vainly the priests attempt their souls to cobble, — 
 
 Masses and prayers are useless — so they die; 
 
 And having been on earth the slaves of doubt, 
 
 Are punished thus, and tumbled in and out. 
 
 Englishmen, who are strange but knowing fellows. 
 Call folks of this kind, trimmers — that means knaves ; 
 They hang suspended, as old legends tell us 
 The tomb of Mahomet does in Mecca's caves, 
 Between the earth and heaven — the Gods get jealous 
 Of such divided 'legiance in their slaves, 
 And in ill humour ram them down in hell, 
 A thing which pleases me and Pluto well. 
 
 We do our best to please them, blowing hot 
 And cold, and hot and cold, and hot again ; 
 But neither satisfies — the scalding pot 
 Of fire displeases ; so does ice and rain ; 
 Creatures so discontented w r ith their lot 
 I never met ; you see they still retain 
 Their ancient fickleness, as much as ever, 
 Though Pluto use for them his best endeavour. 
 
 Chief among these is Marlborough's famous duke, 
 A compound strange of avarice and cunning ; 
 Behold his .w T ell-patched coat and old peruke, 
 And vulpine eye, your eye so slily shunning ; 
 
262 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 True to no side, but deaf to all rebuke, 
 Between two similar schemers, Shaftesbury, Dunning, 
 His grace is chained ; howling for blood and gold, 
 His gods, while in the alternate torrents bowled. 
 
 Down in yon fiery trap is Jupiter's eagle, 
 Condemned for taking off the Dardan boy. 
 
 fiotfte. 
 
 He should have disobeyed the mandate regal, 
 Nor done a deed disgraceful to old Troy. 
 
 J^epfjtetopljeles. 
 Here's Warren Hastings, Britain's bloody beagle ; 
 And here's your friend, forced by his lady coy 
 To Luther's maxim, in his country villa : 
 Si nolit uxor veniat ancilla. 
 
 Here's Figg the prize-fighter ; here's Mary Blandy, 
 The English poisoner ; Tofts, the rabbit-breeder : 
 Captain Macleane, the highwayman ; Scotch Sandy, 
 A very celebrated Northern pleader, 
 Hanged up for forging, at which he was handy ; 
 Here's Bamfylde Moore Carew, the beggar-leader ; 
 With Mormonites and Muggletonians, brothers 
 In blasphemy, whom righteous Pluto smothers. 
 
 Read here their names whom God ordains to swing 
 
 Some few years hence ; Courvoisier, Maria Manning, 
 
 Greenacre, Rush ; — the Eleusinian string 
 
 Of Ketch is spun for these, all murder-planning, 
 
 And cursed felons ; in the self-same ring 
 
 With these, and such as these, most fitly clanning 
 
 You can observe a pit for Sir John , 
 
 A wretch who spent his life in Satan's service. 
 
 One of the Locusts brought a nasty knave, 
 Francisco hight, whom once the Jesuits hoped 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 263 
 
 To make one of themselves ; but found the slave 
 So like a slippery pig, whose tail was soaped, 
 There was no holding him to gay or grave, 
 Or true, or decent ; even though you roped 
 And chained him up, the sot reverted still 
 To blasphemy, until he had his fill. 
 
 He lived 'twixt Rome and London, being a spy 
 For Pope and Palmerston ; but he sold both ; 
 You might as well call spirits from on high, 
 As hope to bind the villain by an oath. 
 At last he died, and here you see him lie, 
 So chancred, that the very demons loathe 
 The brimstone oven which his soul pollutes, 
 And where he herds with slander-loving brutes. 
 
 jFVanctsto. 
 
 stranger, stranger, shew some mercy to me, 
 
 Dip but thy finger's tip in cooling water, 
 
 And moisten my swoln tongue, still black with lies, 
 
 Obscenity, and blasphemy's pollution, 
 
 For lo, I am tormented in this flame. 
 
 Goeflje. 
 You speak unto the winds ; down, hell-brat, down, 
 There's a great gulf between us ; roar in hell ; 
 A place too good for you. 
 
 Jftepfltstepltleg. 
 
 You've answered well. 
 
 Here is that man of most capacious swallow, 
 Jacobus de Voragine ; — don't faint, 
 You are not destined to fill up the hollow 
 Within his gullet ; here's Gennaro Saint ; 
 Here is the grave Yon Helmont, who saw wallow 
 His soul within him, luminous like blue paint, 
 In size and shape a perfect Lilliputian — 
 So sages lie from Leibnitz back to Lucian. 
 
264 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Here's your friend Faustus, who, you see, is burning 
 
 In quarters not so very cool or pleasant 
 
 As those you gave him in your fictions, turning 
 
 The moral into nonsense ; like a pheasant 
 
 The cooks here roast him, your inventions spurning ; 
 
 I should lament to see" you thus at present, 
 
 Or any future time ; for fires red-hot 
 
 No mercy have, nor ever shew a jot. 
 
 Here is Abdallah, called the Hypocrite, 
 
 Who on his deathbed humbly asked Mohammed 
 
 To let him have his shirt (a shroud unfit 
 
 For such a rogue, who always used to sham it). 
 
 The prophet stripped, and lo, he lies in it ; 
 
 It saves him not, however close he cram it 
 
 Round his red carcass, as if it were armour — 
 
 Dalilah's near him, Samson's treacherous charmer. 
 
 <&oefyt. 
 What ! is that Twaddle roasting there ? — the Judge 
 Has shewn the drunken ermined beast no pity ; — 
 
 :pUp5tstopfjeIes. 
 The sniveller looks as if he longed to budge, 
 But can't — he'll swill no more in London city. 
 The sot's fine sentiments were artful fudge ; 
 Hearken, dear Jack, unto the blackguard's ditty — 
 
 Filth, Envy, Meanness, Drunkenness, Avarice, Lies, 
 The Devils I worshipped — 
 
 iftepfjtstopfjelea. 
 
 Keep you in their sties. 
 
 Here comes a splendid steed in strength rejoicing, 
 Whose mane like lightning glitters on the blast, 
 Pawing the air in pride ; his neigh outvoicing 
 The thunder's boom ; his neck and shoulders vast ; 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 265 
 
 Armed with white wings, his motion equipoising, 
 He flashes on with swiftness unsurpassed 
 By any horse since Pegasus or the Griffin, 
 Which bore Rogero when he flew sans tiffin, 
 
 Or lunch, or dinner, to the silver moon, 
 
 In search of some one's wits ; but what seems queer, 
 
 This beast has human feet — a wondrous boon, 
 
 Whose use, however, does not seem so clear. 
 
 Ceres o"ertaken one hot afternoon 
 
 By lusty Neptune, when no help was near, 
 
 Produced, some ten months after, this brave horse, 
 
 Which caused that virtuous woman great remorse. 
 
 Bursting with shame she hid herself; the earth 
 At once grew barren as old Sarah's womb : 
 Mankind were perishing in the awful dearth ; 
 The sterile globe seemed one huge yawning tomb, 
 Till Pan told Zeus, who, in no mood of mirth, 
 Saw his lank shrines without an ox or coombe 
 Of corn ; and Zeus the solemn Parea? sent, 
 Who changed her mind by force of argument. 
 
 The horse had several masters — first his father, 
 Whose chariot wrought with pearl he drew with speed 
 O'er the crystalline seas, producing lather 
 So thick, a cook might from it puddings knead ; 
 Copreus — then Hercules — but you would gather 
 But little pleasure were I to proceed 
 Enumerating names ; suffice 't to say 
 Anon (that's his name) came here one day. 
 
 His sister Proserpine has given strict orders 
 That none molest or mount him ; so he roams 
 At will along regardless of the sworders 
 And desperate ruffians who have here their homes. 
 Their shrieks, like songs of flutes and soft recorders, 
 Delight the beast, who calls them dolts and monies 
 For hoping to ride one of such high family, 
 Too grand to fall into their shackles trammely. 
 
266 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The Lsestrygons, who fed on human flesh, 
 
 Are here : I think they must have been quack doctors, 
 
 Surgeons, or critics, who like food that's fresh, 
 
 And have as brazen bowels as tithe-proctors ; 
 
 We set the livid cannibals to thresh 
 
 Statesmen arid princes, who being war-concoctors, 
 
 And fond of spilling blood as if 'twere naught 
 
 But worthless water, by our imps are caught. 
 
 Here's beauteous Lais, Corinth's courtesan, 
 Who loved Diogenes, dirtiest dog of all 
 The ancient sages — more a beast than man : 
 But female fancies always make me squall. 
 Here is De l'Enclos flirting with her fan, 
 And thinking of a new intrigue or ball ; 
 Here are the mistresses of England's Kings, 
 All fat and frowsy porpoise-looking things. 
 
 Here's that Right Honourable man, Earl Nelson, 
 The clerical swindler of poor Lady Hamilton, 
 A shabby weasel from the deck to kelson ; 
 Here is the family depraved of Campbelton, 
 Here's Cobbler Gifford, whom we've christen'd Hell's son, 
 Shelley's base slanderer : and here's that sham Milton, 
 Sir Richard Blackmore ; here lies Sir John Hawkins, 
 Without, as in his epitaph, shoes or stockings. 
 
 Here is Macpherson, whom they surnamed Ossian, 
 Because he forged some rhapsodies ridiculous, 
 The fellow tends Alecto's dogs Molossian, — 
 Beside him whimpers Diodorus Siculus. 
 Here are some preachers from the towns called Goshen 
 In the United States — they seem vermiculous: 
 No wonder that they should, for 'twas their creed 
 That saints of soap and water have no need. 
 
 The Larvae, those grim ghosts or apparitions 
 Which come from graves at night in flowing sheets, 
 And brimstone eyes, and horns ; and raise seditions 
 In people's bowels, till they make retreats 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 267 
 
 Far off" from these accursed inanitions. — 
 Those creatures dwell in yonder misty streets, 
 "Where they hang out their grinning masks all day, 
 To frighten curious travellers away. 
 
 "We pass this region now, and reach another, — 
 A vasty interval of darkness this ; 
 Rises a sulphurous stench enough to smother 
 An angel crossing o'er the foul abyss. 
 Luckily few come here ; the Blessed Mother 
 Keeps the sweet babes from danger ; so they miss 
 The desperate chance of getting nicely stifled, 
 Besides the certainty of being rifled. 
 
 For there are rascally demons in these quarters, 
 "Who shew no mercy to a seraph strayed ; 
 Sometimes they pound. them in gigantic mortars, 
 Sometimes the males from malehood they degrade, 
 Sometimes they serve them as the Khan of Tartars 
 Serves those who fall into his ambuscade, 
 And send them back with circumstance disgraceful, 
 "Weeping such tears as Fve seen fill a casefull. 
 
 Thick globes of murky flame from yonder chasm 
 Ascend, like bubbles from a schoolboy's pipe, 
 Each bearing in its sphere a shrieking phasm, 
 Held firmly bound within its fiery gripe. 
 Lo ! how it writhes, as if in deadly spasm 
 Beneath a terror-breathing Fury's stripe, 
 They rise and sink again like exhalations, 
 And much, methinks, against their inclinations. 
 
 Here's Peter Are tine, surnarned Divine, 
 
 "Who libelled every man on earth below, 
 
 But spared his God, because — so runs the line — 
 
 His God, the blackguard said, he did not know^ ; 
 
 Here's Julio Romano in the brine 
 
 Of thickest fire that folds him round like dough ; 
 
268 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And while he welters in the flame, the brood 
 Of grinning goblins hand him filth for food. 
 
 Here is the Jesuit Aler, who first wrote 
 The Gradas ad Parnassum, which the Nine 
 Must often curse, for setting verse afloat 
 As rugged as the gruntings of hoarse swine; 
 Here is the Vicar of Bray, who changed his coat 
 So often ; here that famous Florentine, 
 Salvino degP Armato, who invented 
 Spectacles, looking rather discontented. 
 
 Here are the Three Impostors, who have fooled 
 
 The sons of men since men had silly sons, 
 
 And bowed the neck to caitiffs devil-schooled, 
 
 Whose preachings have slain more than swords or guns ; 
 
 Empires have worshipped what these scoundrels stooled, 
 
 Taking for gods the merest poupetons. 
 
 We laugh and dance while every day brings troops, 
 
 Or millions rather of their frenzied dupes. 
 
 Like a fierce wind that scatters burning embers 
 
 In clouds of smoke along the dusky air, 
 
 The demons tear them, severing limbs and members, 
 
 Deaf to their cries of terror and despair ; 
 
 Each in his terrible torment well remembers 
 
 (It flashes on him with a lightning glare,) 
 
 The evil deed done in his days of flesh ; 
 
 The limbs rejoin — they torture him afresh. 
 
 Their greatest worry is the devilish laughter 
 Of mockery and spite, contempt and hate, 
 With which the imps salute their misery, after 
 They did their utmost while in mortal state 
 To serve them ; bad ambition, lust, theft, craft, or 
 Hypocrisy, have brought them to this fate 
 Of fire, dismemberment, and choking vapours, 
 And well the rogues deserve it for their capers. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 269 
 
 Sometimes they tear the wretches into pieces, 
 And stick the quivering limbs on fiery prongs ; 
 Sometimes they strip them of their skinny fleeces, 
 Beating them all the while with leathern thongs ; 
 Sometimes — for there's no end of their caprices — 
 They make them sing obscene or comic songs, 
 In which they took delight when clothed in flesh, 
 Nor thought them baits for Satan's iron mesh. 
 
 Sometimes they melt them as if they were metal ; 
 The melted fragments reunite once more ; 
 Sometimes they stew them in Megara's kettle, 
 Until with agonies intense they roar; 
 Sometimes they whip them with a Stygian nettle, 
 That makes the blood gush out at every pore. 
 Ho — ho — well punished ; ye with souls like sewers, 
 Or, dirtier far, like Quarterly Reviewers. 
 
 Mercy, they cry ; have mercy, spare us, Lord ! 
 They may as well be silent — He'll have none ; 
 I don't see why He should ; in deed, thought, word, 
 The Knaves did all the vice that could be done ; 
 The angels whose sad task 'tis to record 
 The courses which my dear disciples run, 
 Have prayed more earnestly than any priest, 
 From such disgusting work to be released. 
 
 Murder, adultery, scandal, perjury, rape, 
 Swindling, theft, arson, blasphemy, frauds, lies, 
 Seduction, killing men by law or grape, 
 Pimping for lords through whom one hopes to rise ; 
 Playing the wolf, the jackal, or the ape, 
 Defying heaven for some three-farthing prize, 
 Are crimes of every^-day occurrence 3 which 
 Must make these angels' books as black as pitch. 
 
 So that I do not wonder they petition 
 The Gods to whom they bend their seraph knees 
 For new employment, or complete dismission 
 From labour, where they've not a moment's ease ; 
 
270 A NEW PANTOMIME, 
 
 'Tis quite enough to drive them to sedition, 
 
 Particularly as they get no fees, 
 
 But are obliged to toil by law and duty ; 
 
 We've no such taskwork here with wronged Old Sooty. 
 
 See how these demons gallop o'er their bodies, 
 Trampling them with their red-hot hoofs to jelly — 
 *Tis pitiful to see the knaves and noddies 
 Kicked, mauled, maimed, cuffed, and tomahawked so 
 
 felly; _ 
 You are a disbeliever, and your god is 
 What English bishops venerate, the belly, — 
 What do you say to this, Herr Baron ? you know 
 On earth you swore 'twas all as false as Juno. 
 
 In yonder boundless lake of blood, behold 
 Those things called " heroes" by the sons of earth, 
 Csesars and Alexanders, murderers bold ; 
 Thurtell, Napoleon, Frederick, hell's own birth 
 Cast in the self-same fiery bloody mould, 
 Sent on the world to make the devils mirth, 
 Not cursed, but worshipped by insane mankind, 
 Who seem to pride themselves on being stone blind. 
 
 The fathomless ocean of red gore in which 
 
 They swim, is that which while on earth they shed ; 
 
 The common stabber in the street or ditch, 
 
 The grand assassin for whom millions bled, 
 
 Conqueror, bravo, bandit, poor and rich, 
 
 The wretch in rags, the villain with crowned head, 
 
 Are classed together in the ensanguined sea, 
 
 With a sublime contempt for pedigree. 
 
 The dazzling Corsican whose word seemed fate, 
 The Turk whose arm aspired to shake the world, 
 The Gaul who fulmined at the Roman gate, 
 The Greek who saw his flag o'er Ind unfurled, 
 The Egyptian king-drawn in his throne of state, 
 The Persian, Roman, Tartar, Frank — all hurled 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 271 
 
 Down in the waves of human blood, lie stretched 
 Mixed with the shabbiest creatures e'er Jack Ketched. 
 
 The Macedonian madman and the Swede, 
 
 Jonathan Wilde, the bloodhound "Wall en stein, 
 
 Timour the Tartar, the all-conquering Mede, 
 
 With several cut-throats from the yellow Rhine, 
 
 Lie in one bloody sewer. Could Adam's seed 
 
 Now living see what meets your eyes and mine, 
 
 They'd form a strange but true idea of glory, 
 
 " Conquerors" and " heroes" who shine forth in story. 
 
 The Powers sublime enthroned on countless stars 
 Judge men by motives ; conquerors who win 
 Empires by blood, and drive their fiery cars 
 Of death o'er millions, sons of hell and sin, 
 And thieves, who, braving handcuffs and jail-bars, 
 Prig watches, fogies, — a gold ring or pin, 
 Are all the same to them, whose eyes divine 
 Between the guilt of each discern no line. 
 
 To them a watch and kingdom are as one, 
 The world itself is but a mote in space, 
 A drop of sweat thrown from the central sun ; 
 So small, I wonder that it holds a place 
 In thought Omnipotent — I don't mean fun 
 Or jest, so smooth your courtly faithless face ; 
 The Godhead in these men no difference sees, 
 Xo more than you in million lice or fleas. 
 
 A pound of Stilton cheese o'errun with mites 
 W T ould seem an atom in a Titan's hand ; 
 Yet these, like men, feel love and love's delights, 
 And some obey, and some too have command. 
 Hatred and gluttony, and feasts and fights, 
 They have in that immense and boundless land ; 
 Think you the mighty Titan sees one shade 
 Of difference 'twixt their Ceesar and their Cade ? 
 
272 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Lo, where the Centaurs ride in troops, like towers 
 Of moving brass, and trampling as they come, 
 Half horse, half man ; as pitiless lightning scours 
 The affrighted earth, and men and beasts lie dumb, 
 They hurry onward ever ; Vengeance lowers 
 In every eye ; the devils themselves succumb 
 Before those marvellous children of old time 
 Clothed in thick darkness, magic, might, and crime. 
 
 Conquerors and conquering, forth they go, commanded 
 To wreak God's vengeance upon tyrants slain, 
 The heroes brazen-hearted and steel-handed, 
 Csesars, Napoleons, Tillys, in whose train 
 Famine and Fire and Plague and Hell were banded, 
 Are ranged before them on yon murky plain, 
 Fettered like wolves. — The Centaurs charge — behold, 
 The chained are crushed to atoms ere His told. 
 
 This is the daily torture of these scoundrels 
 
 Whom your mad simial race exalt to fame, 
 
 To thrones, and why '( because they can propound drills 
 
 And teach new stratagems in war's dread game. 
 
 The labouring hind who channels through his ground rills 
 
 Of water, to support himself and dame, 
 
 And toils with sweating brow and horny hand, 
 
 Is nobler than the lord of serried band. 
 
 Here's Attila the Hun ; there's Zinghis Khan, 
 Urban the Second, Charles the Fifth of Spain, 
 Saint Bernard's ruffian rabble, who o'erran 
 The East with Lust and Murder, to regain 
 The Holy Temple. — Genseric, the ban 
 Of God, with Bajazet and Tubal Cain, 
 Peter the Hermit, Herod, hangman Ketch, — 
 All charming subjects for an artist's sketch. 
 
 Here's fiery Sylla, tortured till he's mad 
 With agony ; here's Xerxes madder still ; 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 273 
 
 Here is Pizarro, worst of all the bad 
 
 Bold brutes whose deeds the heart of manhood chill. 
 
 Here's Charlemagne, in flame undying clad ; 
 
 Marius, Philip, Crassus — names that thrill 
 
 The hardiest with disgust and dire abhorrence ; — 
 
 How well they grace the hot ensanguined torrents ! 
 
 How handsomely they look when right arrayed 
 They stand in order for the Centaur's charge ! 
 In Are and thunder-cloud the cavalcade 
 Shoots down upon them — a convenient targe 
 The wretches offer for the stern brigade, 
 Who 'mind them of the past, when laurels large 
 Adorned their brows, and idiot millions bowed 
 To thieves who gave them glory — and a shroud. 
 
 Amongst the other tenants of this lake 
 
 Is Serpent Py thon, born of muddy slime, 
 
 But quite deserving place and rank to take 
 
 With the most regal reptiles of all time. 
 
 His conduct's good, albeit I've seen him make 
 
 His dinner on his comrades in red crime ; 
 
 But this slight sin is pardoned for this reason, 
 
 They're all devoured as each seems most in season. 
 
 And so there's no complaint : 'tis funny too 
 To see how jovially the lads are swallowed 
 Down those gigantic jaws, that ne'er eschew 
 Bravo or conqueror with glory collowed ; 
 The Gods themselves must laugh to see him screw 
 The heroes- who in human slaughter wallowed, 
 While they must praise the beast as most impartial, 
 Gorging a cut-throat or a laced field-marshal. 
 
 The rascal race of conquerors moves your anger 
 More, as it seems to me^ than they deserve. 
 T 
 
274 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 They do not. — I would creep from this to Bangor 
 Upon my knees the ruffians to preserve, 
 They do our work so well. We'll bide nae langer 
 Among them, but salute these men of nerve, 
 And take our leave. — I think you've seen enough ; 
 So— come down here, my pretty chirping chough. 
 
 Who are these ugly creatures with boar's ears, 
 The wings of dragons, human arms and feet, 
 Grim female features, which red gore besmears, 
 And bellies like a festering winding-sheet? 
 
 Nay — don't be angry with the pretty dears, 
 But let them cheerfully their dinners eat : 
 They're feasting on a famous English parson, 
 Whose madcap life religion was a farce on. 
 
 They are called Harpies — virgins of renown, 
 
 Who figure handsomely in old mythology ; 
 
 The perfume that they shed would knock you down, 
 
 Even though surrounded by a whole anthology. 
 
 A curious compound they — black, white, red, brown, 
 
 And many-limbed, like nothing in zoology ; 
 
 Their talons are like scythes, and these they dig 
 
 Fondliest through those who've fattened on tithe pig. 
 
 Ocypete, Coeleno, and iEello, 
 
 Daughters of Neptune and of Terra, famed 
 
 In ancient myth ; that burly brutal fellow, 
 
 Zeus, who was always bent on mischief, named 
 
 The creatures his she-dogs ; they bark, and bellow, 
 
 And clap their claws, which thousand souls have maimed, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 275 
 
 And spurt pestiferous breathings through Hell's full pit, 
 As bad as any from Jack Calvin's pulpit. 
 
 Their favourite food is, as I said, fat clerics, 
 Whom pride, ungodliness, and gluttony nursed. 
 I've laughed myself at times into hysterics, 
 Seeing how they lacerate the knaves accursed, 
 Who come to hell crammed to their mesenteries 
 With fat enough to make a lord mayor burst ; 
 Fat gleaned from hungry curates and poor clerks, 
 Through which they dig their teeth as sharp as dirks. 
 
 Have they got any special predilections 
 
 For priests, monks, parsons, friars, or Scotch saints ? 
 
 fftepStstopSeles. 
 Oh, no — they all have share in their affections, 
 And all as idly make their pious plaints. 
 
 Goettje. 
 When the last trumpet sounds, and resurrection's 
 Wonders begin, and Satan's Grand Attaints, 
 'Twill be a puzzle to .find out each relic 
 Of flesh digested by these birds angelic. 
 
 fftepijtstopfjeles. 
 Here is a party fastened over flames 
 Of burning brimstone by hot iron chains, 
 Heels up — heads down ; — to tell you half their names 
 Would waste a year, and quite confound your brains, 
 The multitude's so great of knights and dames ; 
 You might as well expect to count the grains 
 Of sand on the sea-shore, as count these spirits 
 Who're hanging here, rewarded for their merits. 
 
 Others suspended are by arras and hands, 
 Some by the hair above the brimstone steam, 
 
276 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Hot iron hooks through those — through these steel bands, 
 That chain them firmly, loud as they blaspheme. 
 With whips of fire and serpent-wreathing bands 
 My people lash them, while they yell and scream, 
 Like frightened rats, confined in iron traps, 
 That see grimalkin lick her ravenous chaps. 
 
 Look on this red-hot adamantine wheel, 
 Whose spokes are like some giant's awful chisel, 
 Crammed o'er with howling souls that seem to feel 
 The torture run through artery, bone, and gristle ; 
 Each, as you see, is wriggling like an eel 
 Skinned by a cook ; His paying for one's whistle 
 A rather costly — don't you think so?— price 
 For practising on earth one's favourite vice. 
 
 The flame of brimstone bubbling from below 
 
 Grievously roasts them, while the imps, with bars 
 
 Of iron, something like a miner's crow, 
 
 Except that they are sharp as scymitars, 
 
 Keep the wheel still revolving ; screams of woe, 
 
 Such as Tydides drew from wounded Mars, 
 
 Resound on every side, and pierce the skies 
 
 (But there are none) ; — the demons mock their cries. 
 
 The monster wheel of flame revolves so rapidly, 
 
 You only see a fire — a whirling mass, 
 
 But can't distinguish a soul there ; and vapidly 
 
 The rolling furnaces burn as on they pass. 
 
 Fixed and dead heat it seems ; nor sweet nor sapidly, 
 
 But like the stench from some most rank morass, 
 
 Smells the thick savour of the roasted souls, 
 
 Who're frying, hissing, wriggling here in shoals, 
 
 Yonder you see at least ten billion spits, 
 
 With souls whom devils baste with boiling metal ; 
 
 They kick like men in fierce convulsive fits, 
 
 And there are none to cure them when they get ill. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 27 7 
 
 Turn to the right — you see the imp that sits 
 Astride upon the funnel of that kettle. 
 Which, fifty thousand times as large as Athos, 
 Holds twice ten hundred millions in its bathos. 
 
 A horrid darkness looms within ; the creatures 
 Confined have human life, and swim about ; 
 Each in the other sees an enemy's features, 
 Whose stare is far more hateful than the knout ; 
 They fight with rancour, heedless of the Preacher's 
 Trite saw that "all is vanity ;" — the rout 
 Is ended by a hydra swimming up 
 And crunching both, as caymen crunch a pup. 
 
 And very soon they are disgorged again, 
 
 To swim and flounder, dive, and fight new fights, 
 
 With the same happy termination : vain 
 
 Are all their strivings at escapes and flights. 
 
 A den of serpents famished and insane 
 
 Would shew a lot of very curious sights ; 
 
 But, if you'll take my word, not half so pleasant, 
 
 Because not half so deadly, as the present. 
 
 For what are serpents', tigers', wolves', hyenas' 
 Passions compared to men and women's? What 
 Order of horridest beasts for blood so keen as 
 Man for his brother's when his rage is hot ? 
 Trace back his history hence until Mecaenas, 
 And thence to Adam, who the race begot ; 
 Men are such brothers as was Cain to Abel ; 
 That part of Holy Writ is fact, not fable. 
 
 Their mutual hate is worse than hell itself: 
 
 Its hydras, boiling water, pitch, and smoke ; 
 
 Its lakes of fire, its strife of elf with elf, 
 
 Which can inflict the most tormenting stroke ; 
 
 Its wheels and racks more merciless than the Guelph 
 
 Who strove the sun-born eaglet's wings to yoke 
 
278 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 To the foul chariot where the tyrant squatted, 
 And drained the life-blood from his slaves besotted. 
 
 In these steel ovens there are several millions 
 Baked till their brains boil out through their skull- 
 bones. 
 Here are about ten thousand imps — postillions 
 Who sit upon the dead like huge millstones 
 Around their necks ; — this novel sort of pillions 
 Amuses them, so, maugre kicks and groans, 
 They spur them on along a pathway bristling 
 With lances for a pavement, gaily whistling. 
 
 The first are bakers, who are baked with us 
 Because on earth they never gave good measure ; 
 The next, the headstrong fools who storm and fuss, 
 Making damnation round them 'stead of pleasure : 
 Here we bestow on each an incubus, 
 Who makes him curse his stiffnecked pride at leisure, 
 Giving him moral lessons — with steel spurs 
 That pierce him through whenever he demurs. 
 
 I scarcely need point out those monstrous caldrons, 
 With liquid copper, pitch, and sulphur filled ; 
 The fire beneath exhausts some million chaldrons 
 Of coal, supplied by gnomes, an ancient guild 
 To whom we're much indebted : it would scald one's 
 Liver to see how those within are grilled, 
 And so you'll take my word, of all who died 
 On earth than these are none more hotly fried. 
 
 Some of them, as you see, are rammed downright 
 
 Into the bowels of the lava liquor, 
 
 Having a load of sins which ears polite 
 
 Were never made to hear ; these sink much quicker 
 
 Than those whose necks and breasts and knees you 
 
 might 
 Discern, if you were near enough : the vicar, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 279 
 
 For instance, does not sink so deeply down 
 As master dean or him in lawn-sleeve gown. 
 
 But thus for ever they must lie immersed, 
 
 Crying and howling in infernal chorus ; 
 
 From morn till night, from night till morn, a cursed 
 
 And horrid gang whose owl-like screechings bore us. 
 
 The only thing amusing is at first 
 
 To see the new comers w T ith tears implore us, 
 
 Like Dives, for a drop of water, which 
 
 We hand them scalding hot from the next ditch. 
 
 We sometimes send one of our archest imps, 
 Tricked out with snowy wings and mild blue eyes, 
 Like angels ; when these howlers catch a glimpse 
 Of the sly rogue, with desperate haste they rise 
 To catch him ; not so zealously do pimps 
 Pursue young maids as these to grab the prize ; 
 Who, after teazing them a thousand ways, 
 Flies off, and leaves the germs of awful frays. 
 
 For after he has vanished, there begins 
 
 A sanguinary battle between those 
 
 Who thought be came to rescue them from Sin's 
 
 Close stocks, and would have, had not some, their foes, 
 
 Stood up to claim a chance ; from kicking shins 
 
 They come at last to rounds of bloody blows, 
 
 And tear each other's quivering limbs to atoms, 
 
 As I've seen Walpole by a speech of Chatham's. 
 
 These are Egyptian priests, whose life was but 
 A motley mass of lying and blaspheming, 
 Cowardice, lewdness, ribaldry, and smut, 
 Gluttony, bestial appetites, and scheming. 
 For these pure pranks the hierophants are put 
 Into these pots ; and you can hear them screaming 
 Loud to Osiris, Apis, Pan, and Isis, 
 In whose high names they practised all the vices. 
 
280 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 'Tis a strange thing, and 'funny too, to find 
 Men from the earliest age to this, the best 
 And purest ever seen among mankind, 
 Committing deadliest crimes with purest zest, 
 When they can o'er them throw a holy blind, 
 Which they call true religion ; north, south, west, 
 And east we see them in the name of God 
 Doing the DeviPs dirtiest work — 'tis odd. 
 
 Tell me a crime that has not been committed 
 Under the heavenly sanction of God's name ; 
 Shew me a wretch that has not been acquitted 
 By men and devils, both being much the same, 
 If he could prove his guilty deeds were fitted 
 To advance his church to wealth or power or fame, 
 Whether for mosque, or triple crown, or mitre, 
 Or lama, or plain gown, he played the smiter. 
 
 I'll not particularise — 'twould be invidious ; 
 I'll name no names — Mahometan, Pagan, Jew, 
 Christian, Chinese ; there are no more religious 
 On earth but who belong to either crew; 
 But this I say, that there is nought perfidious 
 Which some of their most holy would not do 
 For sect or creed's sake — pity in return 
 Nor sect nor creed can save from hell's hot bourn. 
 
 Phsea, the savage sow which long infested 
 
 The lands of Crornion, slaughtering, like a Turk 
 
 Or Frenchman, all who crossed her path detested 
 
 Is here at last after life's fitful work ; 
 
 Her iron bowels millions have digested 
 
 Of holy hypocrites, whom, like fat pork, 
 
 She mashes underneath her brazen tusks, 
 
 As hungry ploughmen grind delicious rusks. 
 
 Her rider, as you guess, is Harry Tudor, 
 
 Who wages war with popes, priests, nuns, and monks, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 2S1 
 
 Than whom a beastlier, falser, grosser, lewder 
 
 Battalion breathed not in your world ; pimps, punks, 
 
 Bawds, procuresses, catamites, (prohpudor!) 
 
 And pathics, swell their tribes, whom our old hunks, 
 
 Having a very eagle eye for such, 
 
 Selects, and throws into his good beast's clutch. 
 
 In his fat hand he holds the rod that Moses 
 
 Wielded in land of Egypt, which discovers 
 
 The game he hunts ; a single touch discloses 
 
 The secret vices of those sacred lovers : 
 
 However fraud conceals, or force opposes, 
 
 Avails them nought ; he knocks them down like plovers, 
 
 Fattening his furious sow, and laughter shaking 
 
 His swollen paunch till every limb is aching. 
 
 This kingly butcher had been damned indeed, 
 With Nero and the rest, in fire eternal, 
 But that his hunting of the piggish breed 
 Won favour for him with The Powers supernal ; 
 And as he little cared for church or creed, 
 And spurned the scarlet matron's kiss maternal, 
 Preferring mine, they backed him to this sow, 
 To do the work we see him doing now. 
 
 There is an old and popular tradition, 
 
 That when the Devil fell down from heaven he fell 
 
 In England's isle, and liking his position, 
 
 He vowed henceforth within that land to dwell; 
 
 If he e'er roams abroad, to take cognition 
 
 Of other lands and isles who serve him well, 
 
 He always comes back to its capital city, 
 
 Where he dwells with its wicked, wealthy, witty. 
 
 You've never been to London — 'twas a fault 
 Immense : you'd there have learned the newest ways 
 Of Sin ; all other cities limp and halt 
 Behind this modern Babvlon in its maze 
 
282 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Of wickedness ; a planet all of salt 
 Would not keep off' corruption, which so preys 
 Upon its vitals, that I greatly wonder 
 Why Pan so long is idle with his thunder. 
 
 If he knocked down Gomorrah, fit and fair 
 It were to tumble London into Styx ; 
 If he destroyed Jerusalem, I swear 
 He should not let this stand upon its bricks ; 
 If he smote Nineveh, and Tyre, and Cair' 
 Of Egypt, I'm amazed he don't transfix 
 This worse than all their bagnios put together, 
 Or why he lets it have such sunny weather. 
 
 But since he does, of course he has his reason : 
 We'll not pry into what is deeply hidden, 
 Like the veiled nymph of Sais ; 'twere high treason, \ 
 For which, perhaps, we gapers might be chidden, 
 Though I've no doubt he'll knock it down in season ; 
 Till then we'll wait. — While prating thus we've ridden 
 In clouds across that chasm where England's glory 
 And our choice child hunts clerics green and hoary. , 
 
 Come, and ascend this mountain. What a rabble 
 Of naked men and women here are waiting ! 
 What is it for ? They gibber, grin, and gabble, 
 Like monkeys when they're solemnly debating ; 
 It brings to mind the nonsense talked at Babel, 
 When every man in different tongues was prating : 
 They seem in dreadful terror of some awful 
 Impending fate which fills with groans each maw full. 
 
 Scarce have I said the words — a pestilent blast 
 Of fiery whirlwind folds them in its clutches, 
 Bearing them quick as lightning to a vast 
 And stinking lake, whose waters whoso touches 
 Ulcers enough to make God look aghast 
 Break out upon him ; nightman, slave, or duchess, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 283 
 
 Washed in these noisome streams of Stygian colour, 
 Could scarcely have increase of rage and dolour. 
 
 The devils you see first plunge them deeply down, 
 So that no inch of flesh escapes being wetted ; 
 And when they rise they crack them on the crow r n, 
 And sink them in once more, albeit much fretted — 
 But where's the use of anger here or frowm ? 
 At these choice sports they play till, w r holly fetid, 
 The souls emerge, encased in ulcerous clothing, 
 Which fills the most conceited with self-loathing. 
 
 These are the dandies, belles, and pretty fellow 7 s, 
 Coquets and coxcombs, fops and dancing-masters, 
 Whose only care on earth, old legends tell us, 
 Were paints, cosmetics, ribands, wigs, court-plaisters, 
 Paddings, and perfumes — yet they never smell us 
 In these fine toys, nor dream they are Alastor's 
 (That is the Greek name of their demon), till 
 They find themselves thus pitchforked from the hill. 
 
 Descending now into the plains, we come 
 Right on this stinking flame, which from a well 
 Steams up : the sight's enough to make one dumb, 
 The nose rejects the vile infernal smell. 
 Here are some spirits suffering martyrdom, 
 But with no hope of martyr's crown to tell 
 How r valiantly they battled for the right, 
 And died to kill their torturers with spite. 
 
 I say these are no martyrs — would they were ! 
 But we have none in these outlandish places ; 
 I'd not regret if Heaven would here transfer 
 A few, to teach our youthful imps some graces, 
 To guide them to the right path when they err, 
 As jockeys put young coursers through their paces : 
 'Twould be a charity in Heaven to send 'em, 
 I will not say to give, but only lend 'em. 
 
284 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Those in the stinking steam you see, quite nude, 
 Red-hot, and baked, are shot up like sky-rockets 
 From out the infernal well ; completely stewed, 
 They tumble down again like heavy blockheads 5 
 These were all politicians — 'twould be rude . 
 Perhaps to class them with low-bred pickpockets, 
 But after long experience of them both, 
 To name the greater rogue I should be loth. 
 
 Imprimis, common thieves are seldom liars, 
 A statesman tells ten thousand lies a day ; 
 Thieves run the risk of being tried by triers, 
 The other's safe although in guilt grown grey ; 
 The first filch handkerchiefs — the last are buyers 
 Of human souls, which used, they fling away 
 Remorselessly, as though they were but trash, 
 And scarcely worth the sum they cost in cash. 
 
 Look at these wretches lying on their backs, 
 And made soft cushions of by fiery dragons, 
 Who tear them with their teeth as sharks tear blacks ; 
 Toads perch on others huge as farmers' wagons, 
 And stick their beaks into them like an axe, 
 Sucking their black blood out like wine from flagons j 
 Round others snakes are coiled, and with their fangs 
 Fixed in their vitals, cause unpleasing pangs. 
 
 Wise politicians these, who played their parts, 
 Vicious and criminal, in Virtue's mask, 
 Veiling in smiles of beauty hellish hearts, 
 Like poison in a finely-painted flask ; 
 The next are those who, good by fits and starts, 
 Sometimes receive relief from their worst task, 
 And are put here to make the torment greater 
 Of their next neighbours in the boiling crater. 
 
 Phorcy's and Ceto's white-haired monster daughters, 
 The Grsese, or the Empusse, serpent-bodied, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 285 
 
 With breasts and bosoms bright as crystal waters, 
 And faces splendent as the glorious Godhead, 
 Are here ; 'twere hard to find their friends or fautors, 
 Although we searched among the most tomnoddied ; 
 So ravenous are the vile stench-hissing witches, 
 One would not take them with their weight in riches. 
 
 They are four sisters, Enyo, Pephrado, 
 
 Dono, and Eryto ; one tooth, one eye, 
 
 They have for each and all \ a camisado 
 
 By Perseus made, that warrior stout and sly, 
 
 Destroyed them ; — magic art or barricado 
 
 Availed them not, they merely bawled out, "Fie V 7 
 
 And were squ abashed ere you could number three ; — 
 
 Since then the lovely females live with me. 
 
 When they were on the earth the food they liked 
 Was children's flesh — we've none to give them here ; 
 We therefore put into their jaws tooth-spiked 
 A wild beast called a workhouse overseer, 
 Indigenous to England ; those who piked 
 The babes on Saint Bartholomew's feast of fear, 
 And hoped to extirpate in fire and blood 
 Christ's word, we give the witches for their food. 
 
 Their forms and features change so very quickly, 
 The gazer can't believe his eyes : a lynx, 
 A lion, bear, a wolf, with glances sickly, 
 A snake disgorging blood, an ape, a sphinx, 
 A fell hyena clothed in bristles thickly, — 
 They wear all shapes, and while the eyelid blinks, 
 They pass into a class of new mutations, 
 Leaving him bothered by their transformations. 
 
 When Alcibiades to hell descended, 
 These crones, who liked that dazzling blackguard har- 
 lequin, 
 As fickle as themselves, their grace extended, 
 And took him to their haunts. The heaps of garlic in 
 
286 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 His soul, however, their nice beaks offended ; 
 And though the handsome traitor was a carle akin 
 To them in many things, they gave him over 
 To the fell Harpies, who still keep the trover. 
 
 Their present pets are Rochester the Poet, 
 
 Wharton the duke, Wilkes, Ashley, Spencer Perceval, 
 
 And several more ; a list — 'twere vain to shew it— 
 
 Of damned, to whom, I fear, they're most unmerciful. 
 
 Wharton will 'scape them soon, — I chance to know it, — 
 
 He died a monk ; — Peter and Paul disperse a full 
 
 Litany daily in his favour ; so 
 
 The ladies will be forced to let him go. 
 
 You'd scarce believe the influence of St. Peter 
 With those above, — that saint's indeed a trump ) 
 He prays all day and night, in prose and metre, 
 For all true Roman Catholics in a lump. 
 Had you been one, your soul would smell much sweeter 
 Than now it does, and would have mounted plump 
 To heaven, instead of being condemned for ever, — 
 A wretched fate for one so mighty clever. 
 
 It suited you to mock the Church of Rome ; 
 The scoff made Weimar's duke laugh ; 'twas a silly 
 And rascally part you played in deed and tome ; 
 That Church yet stands, sublimely, grandly, stilly, 
 Compounded not of earth's but heavenly loam, 
 As you shall yet confess — ay, willy nilly ; — 
 Your other sins might be forgiven — this 
 Will never be — you're doomed to the Abyss. 
 
 So you had better bargain with me ere 
 
 It be too late. I'll give a capital price 
 
 For your no chance of getting hence elsewhere ; 
 
 Do it — I'll take you with me in a trice 
 
 To a green maze built by those witches fair 
 
 Whom you so leered at ; — your besetting vice 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 287 
 
 (If vice it be) you can fill full ; — you frown 
 Refusal — nay, you need not knock me down. 
 
 You're scarcely worth the pains sincere I take 
 
 To lighten your damnation ; but I'll not 
 
 Get angry — you are doomed to fire, and stake, 
 
 And flaming dragon, and the seething pot ; 
 
 That's quite enough — I won't arouse the snake 
 
 That never dies to wound you more. Your lot 
 
 Is cast, and if you had a grain of sense, 
 
 You'd close the bargain, and say, Bear me hence. 
 
 And so I would to Paphian groves and places, 
 Where with the witches you might pass your time 
 Unknown to Minos, all your past disgraces 
 Effaced from memory even like your own rhyme ; 
 Or join the charmers in their grave cinque paces 
 Round the tall Phallos, or its summit climb : 
 If you fall down and worship me, 'tis done. 
 You won't — a sillier mooncalf ne'er was spun. 
 
 Aside. 
 I would not like to bet a heavy wager 
 That he'll not change before ten minutes more. 
 'Tis hard to fathom such a hackneyed stager, 
 But I can see he shudders o'er and o'er ; 
 And when I shew him Sphinx, that spirit-eager, 
 I'm sure my work is ended — he'll adore, 
 However now he may pretend he won't, 
 From affectation, sham, or mauvaise honte. 
 
 Aloud, 
 And here, as we have wandered far and wide, 
 
 And half our hellish task's not yet complete, 
 
 I've no objection for an hour to bide ; — 
 
 There is a very cosy, cool retreat 
 
 Hidden in yonder star, to which I'll guide 
 
 Your baronship, if you'll but risk the feat ; 
 
 The Witch of Endor lives there — it looks distant, 
 
 And so it is, but I am your assistant. 
 
288 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And leaning on my arm our flight will be 
 Immediate to that flashing orb of fire. 
 
 I won't object where'er you carry me, 
 Provided you and she do not conspire. 
 
 ;Ptepfjtstopfjeles. 
 Pooh, pooh, dear sir, do cease this raillery, 
 I thought you knew me for a faithful squire ; 
 I've had you now with me for several hours, 
 And brought against you no infernal powers. 
 
 Come, then, the lady will be glad to see us, 
 She has not seen a man like you since Saul ; 
 I will not promise that she'll dine or tea us, 
 But she'll be flattered by our evening call. 
 Perhaps we'll see Calypso ; be as free as 
 You possibly can shew yourself. . Don't fall, 
 But cling to me. Hey 1 — presto ! — we are there ; 
 A very handsome mansion, I declare. 
 
 Aside. 
 More and more wavering this minstrel grows, 
 I look within and through him, though he bears 
 No glass-case o'er his bosom to disclose 
 The thought- jh-."r work, and fill him deep with cares ; 
 Calypso's beaSty, breast* aii*d golden hairs, 
 Will mesh his spirit ; the bewitching rose 
 Of mild persuasion, bright Armida's smiles, 
 Will certainly ensnare him in my toils. 
 
 Will he withstand her ? No. — Were I a man, 
 
 I solemnly declare at once I'd yield, 
 
 And put myself with pleasure under ban 
 
 Or bale of grim St. Peter and his guild. 
 
 Courage, Mephisto ! that and those I wield 
 
 Will be enough to win him from wise Pan. 
 
 Aid me, oh, aid me, then, ye erlish Powers. — Aloud. 
 
 Welcome, dear comrade, to Dame Endor's Bowers. 
 
the witch's star. 289 
 
 Scene XXIII. 
 
 THE WITCH'S STAR. 
 
 Mephistopheles and Goethe. 
 &oetf)e. 
 A strange and shadowy place it seems, but full 
 Of marvellous beauty, of departed worlds, 
 Mysterious wonders, and Thessalian magic. 
 
 Qffiittfy of mtoor. 
 
 Hail, Mephistopheles ; young stranger, haiL 
 
 f*tepi)tstopf)eUs. 
 Who have you with you ? Any one, my Venus ? 
 
 WLitfy of ©nfcor. 
 Only Calypso and rose-cheeked Armida. 
 
 ^qjijistopjeles. 
 
 Then bring them hither; this young spark of Frankfort 
 Longs to behold their beauty. 
 
 WLitti) of ©ntfor. 
 
 As you please. 
 Mephistopheles and the Witch converse apart, 
 
 Who comes here with Bacchal train, 
 Waving his vine-circled thyrs ? 
 
 JHepin'stopSetaj, 
 Comus, Comus, tipsy Comus, 
 A most noble boon companion. Aside. 
 
 These will teach our gallant finely. 
 U 
 
290 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Beauteous nymph with virgin face, 
 Why refuse my fond embrace? 
 Art thou not my bosom's queen ? 
 Wert thou made but to be seen ? 
 Amalthsea's horn divine 
 Wakes no longings in my mind ; 
 In one smile, Beloved, of thine 
 I a world of plenty find. 
 All the years and all the state 
 Of the throned Olympian King 
 Would not make me so elate, 
 As to kiss thee, little thing. 
 
 Pipe-music by a Faun 
 
 I sent thee late a flowery band 
 Of roses culled with cunning hand : 
 The paleness of the moon-white rose 
 Thy lover's wasted features shews ; 
 And in the red rose thou may'st see 
 *A type of how he burns for thee. 
 
 Chorus of Sylvans. 
 
 iFaun. 
 
 If 'twere mine thine eyes to kiss, 
 Honeyed eyes that well with bliss, 
 Ten thousand times I'd kiss them o'er, 
 And kiss again, and sigh for more ; 
 Nor be content until I'd drawn 
 From thine eyes, softer than the dawn, 
 More numerous kisses, long and sweet, 
 Than th' ears in a crop of yellow wheat. 
 
the witch's star. 291 
 
 Dance and Song of Fauns and Satyrs. 
 
 A beauteous flower was blooming 
 
 In the fields in summer blithe ; 
 A wanderer passed and saw it, 
 
 And dipt it with his sharpened scythe. 
 My heart was like that beauteous flower 
 
 That brightly blushed in sunny May ; 
 And Fortune like that wandering hind, 
 
 Cut, used, then threw my heart away. 
 
 A Dance of Cupids. 
 
 Pile up the grapes and peaches, 
 
 The luscious honey cake, 
 The wine, in golden beakers, 
 
 Our summer thirst shall slake. 
 And then, like some young lutanist, 
 
 A song of love I'll play, 
 "While thou shalt smile and kiss me — 
 
 Thus glide my hours away. 
 
 Soft voluptuous Music, 
 
 jFatm. 
 "Wreaths of lotus-flowers around 
 Their white breasts the women bound, 
 And the men twined chaplets three; — 
 One the leaves of Xaucraty, 
 And the other two were made 
 Of roses fresh from Psesturn's glade ; 
 While a young Hebe, blushing bright, 
 
 Poured from a shining crystal urn 
 Wine that laughed with crimson light, 
 
 And served each smiling guest in turn. 
 
 He drinks. Flute- music. 
 
292 
 
 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 I stole two rosy kisses 
 
 From Phyllis wantonly; 
 I suffered for my blisses ; 
 
 She stole my heart from me. 
 When I drink wine, 
 
 Gladness fills tny soul, 
 Methinks I see the Muses 
 
 Dancing round the bowl ) 
 When I drink \yine, 
 
 Fly my cares away, 
 Sad thoughts and grave thoughts 
 
 To the winds fiy they. 
 When I drink wine 
 
 Bacchus bold untwines 
 My spirit, and he tosses it 
 
 On flower-scented winds. 
 See — the youths present the draught, 
 
 Hail, glorious Bacchus ; 
 See, the winds our sorrows waft 
 
 While we pledge I'aechus. 
 Where he bideth sorrow flies, 
 
 Gladness lights up weeping eyes, 
 Darkness veils the future up, 
 
 Hail, mighty Bacchus; 
 Life's uncertain — fill the cup 
 
 Once more to I'aechus. 
 With the women let me dance, 
 
 Whose star-eyes around me glance. 
 
 Dancing and drinking 
 
 £atpr. 
 
 Friends, behold within this glass, 
 Sparkling clear the ruddy wine ; 
 
 Let Mankind, that o'ergrown Ass, 
 Fight, so long as Myrto's mine. 
 
the witch's star. 293 
 
 By her side with wine like this, 
 
 I my destiny fulfil ; 
 In her eyes perpetual bliss, 
 
 Rapture in the rosy rill. 
 
 ©OtttttS {The scene described passes in panoramic show). 
 Fill freely up the nectar cup — 
 
 The lily-kirtled Spring's at hand, 
 And stretched on flowers enjoy the hours, 
 
 While Wit and Mirth your brows expand. 
 
 With garlands crowned we'll dance around, 
 
 Our ringlets floating in the breeze, 
 To winds we'll fling our cares, and sing 
 
 Like nightingales in sweet rose-trees. 
 
 To forests wend, my faithful friend, 
 And drink the daughter of the vine ; 
 
 From urns of gold, whose bosoms hold 
 Rose-bright Delight and Joys divine. 
 
 Behold this rose whose purple glows — 
 To-morrow comes, its beauty fades ; 
 
 So life flits by — then gaily lie 
 
 On rosy beds with laughing maids. 
 
 fftepljtstopljetes, 
 Here's another boon companion, 
 
 JSt'UttUS {with a goblet of wine). 
 Bring us the purple liquid 
 
 Oi sweetly smiling wine, 
 And bring us cups, and crown them 
 
 With clustered leaves of vine ; 
 The grape alone the passions 
 
 Of wild youth can assuage, 
 And shed a charming lustre 
 
 O'or the miseries of age. 
 
294 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The wine it sparkles brightly, 
 
 As shines the sun in June ; 
 The silver goblet glitters, 
 
 As beams the gentle moon. 
 Fill up the silver goblet — 
 
 It and the wine shall be 
 Like sun and moon commingling, 
 
 And shining gloriously. 
 
 As thus we scatter round us 
 
 The glowing sparks of wine, 
 We seem like brave enchanters 
 
 Of some ethereal line ; 
 If roses fade in winter, 
 
 No care corrodes our souls, 
 A thousand liquid roses 
 
 Float in our silver bowls. 
 
 The nightingale sings sweetly, 
 
 But when she flies away, 
 Our clinking cups breathe music 
 
 Sweet as her sweetest lay — 
 Hence with lament or sadness, 
 
 Let sorrow's voice be mute ; 
 Or, should it wander hither, 
 
 We'll drown it in the lute. 
 
 Sleep sits upon our eyelids 
 
 Like some refreshing clew, 
 Fill up the magic goblet, 
 
 And court kind sleep anew. 
 Delightful is the madness 
 
 From brimming bowls that flows, 
 And blest the sweet oblivion 
 
 Of life's eternal woes. 
 
 Renew our crystal beakers 
 With rosy wine once more, 
 
the witch's ST AH. '295 
 
 And bring us flowery chaplets 
 
 Like those we had before ; 
 If wine-cups be forbidden, 
 
 Or lawful, what care we? 
 We'll revel until daybreak 
 
 In wild ebriety. 
 
 (£ttpttr. 
 What shall I do, my pretty Psyche ? 
 
 I burn in heart and soul for thee ; 
 I know not how, or when it happened, 
 
 But feel how fierce love's flame can be. 
 I scarely dare to gaze upon thee ; 
 
 Those bright eyes kill me while they shine ; 
 My heart itself has proved a traitor, 
 
 And, sweetest Psyche, now is thine. 
 
 How shall I act, my pretty Pysche ? 
 
 My soul for comfort flies to thee ; 
 I fear a no — for yes I'm longing, 
 
 Ah, well a day ! which shall it be ? 
 Am I deceived ? — or, heart, oh, tell me, 
 
 Dwells not sweet pity in her eyes ? 
 Oh, yes ! and cruel tyrant coldness 
 
 Far from her gentle bosom flies. 
 
 Wilt thou not speak, my pretty 7 Psyche ? 
 
 Oh ! wouldst thou love as I love thee ; 
 Tell me, oh, tell — nor leave me wretched, 
 
 Pining, still pining anxiously. 
 Quick— quick — or soon my soul, despairing, 
 
 Will sink beneath its weight of woe ; 
 See, how I pant and shake all over — 
 
 Speak to me, dearest, yes or no. 
 
 Goetfje. 
 Sooth ! these gentlemen are merry. 
 
296 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 So are all who dwell with me, sir. 
 
 CDomtts. 
 Whither, sweet light o' love, this early morning? 
 Whither, away, thou sunshine of mine eyes ? 
 Not yet Thaumantia, her white steeds adorning 
 With roses, wheels along the opal skies. . 
 I spake — the nymph replied, Thou'st heard the crowing 
 Of Chanticleer, and from Tithonus' bed 
 The goddess hath arisen, light bestowing — 
 I must away — our happy hour is sped. 
 While she thus sighed, the morning dawned in splen- 
 dour : 
 Alas ! alas ! I sighed, in low sad tone ; 
 Light to mankind, mild goddess, thou dost render 
 Midnight to me — for Aphrodite's gone. 
 
 Music and dance. 
 CDupttJf. 
 Now the Rose has unveiled her beautiful head, 
 Come hither, come hither, sweet choir of pleasures ; 
 Ere Youth and its time of delight be dead, 
 Let the dance and song and bowl be our treasures ; 
 And wine, wine, nectar-like wine ; 
 Oh ! better by far than priest or shrine. 
 
 Send me hither the maiden with laugh of light, 
 And eyes — fond eyes like my wine-cups glowing, 
 To kiss me, and fold in her arms milk-white, 
 While the zephyrs are softly around us flowing. 
 And the lyre — the sweet-voiced lyre, 
 Oh ! better by far than bead or friar. 
 
 The Rose is the queen of all flowers o' the field, 
 Wine quenches at times the torch of passion ; 
 O bird of night, be thy voice unsealed, 
 Sing forth once more in thine angel fashion ; 
 
the witch's star. 297 
 
 The roses — my lute — and glass, 
 
 Oh ! better by far than monk or mass. 
 
 Chorus q/" Nymphs and Cupids. 
 
 Bathe your sorrows in the bowl, 
 Brimming o'er with laughing wine, 
 
 Or when moonlight gilds the pole, 
 In some rosy grove recline ; 
 
 Stealing raptures from the maids 
 
 Who frequent the leafy glades. 
 
 When the nymph with footsteps light, 
 
 Dances o'er the meadows fair, 
 Bind a garland, golden bright, 
 
 Round her hyacinthine hair ; 
 Cupid sometimes sits inside 
 Roses thus for maidens tied. 
 
 When the softly-sounding lyre 
 Breathes its music sweet and low. 
 
 To some flowery cave retire, 
 Where the silver waters flow : 
 
 Lulled in happy visions deep, 
 
 There securely rest asleep. 
 
 Purple spring brings joys like these, 
 
 With its laughing atmosphere ; 
 Oh ! be mine Elysian ease, 
 
 In this season of the year. 
 All the joys for which I've prayed, — 
 Wine-cup, cave, and dancing-maid. 
 
 Dance of Com us, Nymphs, and Cupids. 
 
 fftepfjtstopSeles. 
 
 Now shalt thou, such priceless treasures 
 Of rare excellence beholding, 
 
298 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Own that I'm of friends the truest. 
 Eyes whose glances are bright heaven, 
 Breasts, whose roses hold all pleasures, 
 Arms in whose embrace enfolding, 
 Live the true Elysian raptures ; 
 Words more sw T eet than Lydian measures ; 
 Charms like these are rarely given, 
 Nymphs like these one rarely captures, 
 Lo ! a wind like lovers' breathings, 
 Wafting here Sabcea's richness. 
 See, the first is bright Calypso, 
 Ireland's Queen of spell and faerie, 
 Known as golden-tressed Cleena 
 In that mystic Isle of Sadness, 
 She it was who loved Ulysses 
 In Ogygia's lonely island 
 (So was Erie known to Homer). 
 She it was, whose magic ringlets 
 Twined around his heart like jesses : 
 From her eyes the stars drink lustre, 
 As the Ind bird drinks the moonbeams ; 
 Blest is he who, by her ringlets, 
 Draws her to his glad embraces. 
 Blest is he who in her sweetness 
 Vermeil-tinctured tastes enjoyment. 
 O'er her queenly robe translucent 
 Shines her neck like brightest sunbeams, 
 Her red lips are rowan-berries, 
 Brilliant, melting, warm, and dewy ; 
 And her teeth are showers of pearls ; 
 Or like pure white honeycombs : 
 Branching hair with beryls braided ; 
 Did an Anchorite behold her, 
 He might take her for the Virgin ; 
 But she's not the Queen of Heaven, 
 For she wears the cest of Venus. 
 Wilt thou dwell with her for ever ? 
 
the witch's star. 299 
 
 See who follows — 'tis Armida, 
 The rose-smiling Fay of Tasso; 
 On whose lilied breasts Rinaldo, 
 Lapped in love as in some bower 
 Of red roses and white hyacinths, 
 Felt on earth the bliss of heaven. 
 O'er the asphodels she gambols. 
 Since my kinsman Angel Gabriel 
 Greeted lovely Lad ye Mary, 
 Ne'er saw spirit finer creature. — 
 Witching woman like this wonder 
 Won the angels erst from heaven. 
 If such fell — why we should pardon 
 Mortals who do nothing blacker. 
 'Tis a wise man's act to gather 
 Roses when they grow around him ;— 
 Or to pluck the melting vine-grape, 
 When it lies across his pathway. 
 Wilt thou dwell with her for ever ? 
 
 Beauty — Beauty ! I am dumb with wonder, 
 
 fHepijtstopfjeles. 
 These ambrosial nymphs are better 
 Than the fires we late stood viewing ; 
 Even the kiss of melting Venus, 
 When you handed her the apple, 
 Was not half so spirit-thrilling 
 As. the violet eyes and ringlets 
 Of the green-robed Queen of Erie, 
 Floating Cleena or Calypso. 
 See, in young Armida's eyelids, 
 What a naked Cupid trembles : — 
 How he shoots their magic throitgh you ! 
 Blithe his laugh of silver cadence; 
 
300 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Don't you feel these contemplations 
 More delightful than the rigid 
 Stoic nonsense you would have me 
 Think you're bent upon — I wonder 
 You have not quite soured my temper ; 
 But I learned from Job true patience, 
 When I saw my master Satan 
 Kick him out upon the dunghill, 
 
 Who is this stranger whom you would present. 
 
 Ah, voluptuous Ladye Cleena, 
 
 Through thine Emerald Home I've sought thee 
 
 Many a time, from fair Knock Greine, 
 
 Knock-na-Rae, and green Ben-Bulbin, 
 
 Keis-Corainn to wild Ben-Echlann, 
 
 And Lock Daen and steep Slieve Guillin, 
 
 Thence to Mourne and bold Slieve Donard, 
 
 Ballachnery and Knock-na-Feadala — 
 
 All these haunts to thee were sacred. 
 
 I have asked the swans and salmon, 
 
 And the silver-singing blackbirds, 
 
 And the flute-voiced bright-eyed thrushes, 
 
 And the larks whose chant Elysian 
 
 Is of heaven's soft airs the echo, 
 
 And the cuckoo whose sweet cooing 
 
 Bids rejoice the waving forests, 
 
 And the honey-making clusters 
 
 Of gold-girdled bees that rifle 
 
 Flowers and fruits of their choice essence ; 
 
 And the red-robed Faerie People, 
 
 Where to find thy viewless dwelling ; 
 
 But till now I never saw thee, 
 
THE WITCH'S STAR. 301 
 
 Golden Cleena, Queen Calypso. 
 Has The Witch revealed ?— 
 
 Calppso, 
 
 I know thee. 
 
 'Tis Lord Sathan's secretary. 
 
 Yes — he tells me all his wishes, 
 Secrets and sublime ambitions. 
 Know my friend — a German statesman, 
 Wise as your old flame, Ulysses, 
 W T hen you hid him in green Erie. 
 
 glrmttra. 
 Well, he seems a knightly gallant. 
 
 ntttcQ of G?ntron 
 Saul himself looked never nobler. 
 
 • J^epljtstopfjeles. 
 
 We have come, enchanting ladyes, 
 To sojourn awhile, and revel 
 In these bowers far outshining 
 The six heavens of Mohammed, 
 Or the sunbright spheres of Vishnu, 
 Or the Gardens of Adonis, 
 Or' the viewless Bowers of Irim, 
 Or the fine Mosaic my thus, 
 Or the fair Elysian flower-land, 
 Or the clashing halls of Odin, 
 Or the cyclop-orbs of Brahma, 
 Or the marble realms of Siva, 
 Or the grandly proud Walhalla. 
 
302 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 OTU'tcf) of 0ntror. 
 
 We shall be indeed delighted 
 Such fair travellers to welcome. 
 Lo ! — I wave my wand of magic, 
 And a banquet spreads before ye. 
 These young Cupids crowned with roses 
 And with lilies, in whose eyelids 
 Shines the softness of the moonlight, 
 And with wings of gold and purple 
 Waving melody, will serve ye. 
 Sit, brave sir, beside this lad ye — 
 On this bank of fan-like flowers. 
 You, Sir Voland, couch beside me ; 
 While we banquet sweet Calypso 
 Will with magic lays enweave us 
 In a rosy spell of rapture. 
 
 ©alppso. 
 
 Nay, I will not : I would rather 
 
 Thus with arms en wreathed embrace him. 
 
 i^UpIjtstopfjeles. 
 Well, I think you shew your wisdom. 
 
 He drinks magic from her bosom. 
 
 Mitti of €*ntror. 
 Well then, let us hear the Graces ; 
 Golden sisters, wend ye, wend ye, 
 Dance and sing around the Fountain. 
 
 f&epSfetopSeles. 
 This surpasses all my magic, — 
 Who comes first? — Euphrosyne, 
 With her sparkling crown of lilies, 
 And red tulips trickling dew-drops. 
 
 A aide. 
 
the witch's star. 303 
 
 Goetije. 
 Tall and snow-bright, she shall sing us 
 Into dreams of Paradise ; 
 From her tresses breathes Arabia, 
 And her pace is moonlike Dian's 
 When she hunts amid the welkin, — 
 Who comes next? 
 
 Mini) of ©n&or. 
 
 Rose-lipped Aglai'a 
 With a violet band enwreathing 
 The pure moonlight of her temples. 
 After her Thalia, blooming 
 Like an ever-vernant garland. 
 
 €DaIgpso. 
 
 Now they dance around the Fountain, 
 Winds of Paradise enfold them ; 
 As they dance they gleam more freshly 
 Than the May with flowers encinctured. 
 
 GoetJje. 
 Blushing faces like the morn 
 Where day breeds, yet ne'er is born, 
 Or like gardens rich with roses, 
 When the sunshine opes their bosoms ; 
 How their silver limbs entwining, 
 Make the lustre round more lustrous, 
 How their eyes and speaking features — 
 
 Don't you think them pretty creatures ? 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby. 
 
 £al2pso* 
 Now they bring thee from the fountain 
 Silver vases crowned with water, 
 
304 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Purer than the Nauplian streamlet , 
 Which renewed the bloom of Juno. 
 
 gtrmtDa. 
 
 Now they pluck the dewy flowers, 
 Sprinkling with their light its margin, 
 And they weave them into crownets 
 For the strangers — now they crown them. 
 
 Wlittl} of 0nfcor, 
 
 Lovely sisters, lovely Graces, 
 Why trip thus in silent beauty? 
 Waken song's bewitching accents, 
 Breathe delicious minstrelsy. 
 
 J&epin'stopfjHes. 
 
 They but waited your high wishes ; 
 We shall hear the lovely Three. 
 
 SONG OF THE GRACES. 
 
 O pure and limpid fountain, 
 What snow on Alpine mountain 
 
 Sparkles like thee ? 
 While on thy turf reclining, 
 Our features, soft and shining, 
 
 In thee we see. 
 The Zephyrs flitting o'er thee, 
 O fount ! methinks adore thee, 
 
 And linger still, 
 With winglets light and tender 
 O'er thine eyes of splendour, 
 
 And drink their filL 
 
 A thousand sunny flowers 
 Their fragrance, like rich dowers, 
 
the witch's star. 305 
 
 Around thee shed ; 
 And through the woodbine branches 
 No breeze its coldness launches 
 
 On thy calm bed. 
 Sunshine upon thee slumbers, 
 As if thy rills' sweet numbers 
 
 Lulled it to rest ; 
 The stars of night and morning 
 For ever are adorning 
 
 Thy crystal breast. 
 
 About thy banks so fragrant 
 That little rose- winged vagrant, 
 
 Cupid, is seen ; 
 And in thy silvery waters 
 Bathe the mild Goddess-daughters 
 
 In beauty's sheen. 
 The Dryads robed in brightness, 
 With feet of fawnlike lightness, 
 
 The Graces Three, 
 Beneath the golden glances 
 Of Hesper, weave their dances, 
 
 O fount ! round thee. 
 
 Pan leaves his rosy valleys, 
 And by thy brightness dallies 
 
 All day, and wakes 
 Echo — the forest-haunting — 
 Up with the notes enchanting 
 
 His wild pipe makes. 
 Here, too, at times, resorted 
 Fair Venus, when she sported 
 
 With amorous Mars. 
 Their hearts with passion beating, 
 And none to view their meeting 
 
 But the lone stars. 
 
306 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Play on, thou limpid fountain, 
 Eternal as yon mountain 
 
 Olympus-crown'd : 
 Gush on — in light Elysian, 
 As Poet's shape-filled vision, 
 
 Or Apollo's round. 
 The smiles of Heaven above thee, 
 And the stars to love thee, 
 
 Fount, thou shalt glide 
 From thy crystal portal, 
 Strong, beauteous, and immortal, 
 
 Whate'er betide. 
 
 J^tepStstopfjHeg, 
 Well, I think the trifle's pretty. 
 
 So, I'm sure does Master Jacky. 
 Will he this time disappoint me, 
 As before with those vile Witches ? 
 No — the dose is hotter, stronger, 
 Fiercer, and more love-provoking. 
 Phantoms may be scoffed, derided, 
 But the fire-enkindling Cleena 
 Is not easily o'ermastered ; 
 And the philtre kiss of Venus 
 Still is on his lips like frenzy. 
 
 Music, music, song and music. 
 
 S2aittf) of ©ntior. 
 Thou, Armida, wilt thou sing us 
 Some of thine Italian triumphs ? 
 
 JllepfjistopSelea. 
 Nay, my much respected Madam, 
 Let Armida talk to me ; 
 
the witch's star. 307 
 
 'Tis a century, I'm certain, 
 Since I drank such honied kisses. 
 
 2Httt|i of ^noor. 
 What ! will none oblige me ? am I 
 Slighted in old age, Sir Voland ? 
 Must I sing a song myself? 
 
 fftepfjtstopfjeles (aside). 
 Dis forefend it ! (Aloud) Nay, sweet Venus, 
 For my part I'd sooner look at, 
 In their sweet dishevelled beauty, 
 The past heroines of story, 
 Than hear melodies at present. 
 This my friend his tastes are classic, 
 Such a spectacle will please him 
 Better than if Syrinx warbled, — 
 Bring them hither, Witch all-powerful. 
 
 W&ittfy of en&or. 
 You have but to name your wishes, 
 And at once behold them granted. 
 
 As she waves her wand the Phantoms pass. 
 
 ©alr-pso (to Goethe). 
 See fair Helen, like the bow of heaven 
 When its lovely head is rayed with sunshine. 
 
 See Briseis breaking like bright morning 
 O'er the dewy hills when spring is flowering. 
 
 See the queenly stepping Bride of Carthage, 
 
 Like the world's great Pharos throned in grandeur. 
 
 Sappho, with a morn of bright carnations, 
 Breathing love and fire from her rich features. 
 
 And Poppsea, Nero's queen, like Venus 
 When in Vulcan's brazen net caught blushing. 
 
308 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And love-eyed Bianca di Capello, 
 
 All her world-entrancing charms revealing. 
 
 And Roxana, Alexander's empress ; 
 In her form the purple light of beauty. 
 
 See fair Rosamond, whose naked shoulders 
 Glitter like the starry beams of sunshine. 
 
 And Campaspe, laughing and entwining 
 Hyacinthine ropes to wreathe her dancing. 
 
 See the silver-footed Atalanta 
 
 Maid, as sweet and pure as pearly rose-dew. 
 
 See the grand Andromache, an eagle 
 Soaring up to heaven on flashing pinion. 
 
 See Hesione like lightning leaping 
 From a bowering sky of rose and lilie ; 
 
 And Andromeda, with mouth of roses, 
 Like a swan in limpid waters floating. 
 
 And the naked Phryne, whose dark flowing 
 Ringlets wave upon the fragrant zephyrs- 
 
 And Erminia, whose celestial brightness 
 Far outshines the cheek of blushing summer. 
 
 And the iris-hearted Cleopatra 
 Waving onward in a cloud of cupids. 
 
 ffioetf)*. 
 Nay r , but I see not any half so lovely 
 As thou, fair daughter of the Isle of Destiny. 
 
 Well— thou shalt see one, lo ! Blanaid the fated, 
 Summer seems sitting in her eyelids sweet. 
 
the witch's star. 309 
 
 (froetfte. 
 
 Beauteous indeed she moves ; but thou to me 
 Art lovelier than all others. Was she Greek, 
 Persian, or Spanish, as her sweet eyes say ? 
 
 One of my countrywomen. Dost not know 
 The storied legend of that Ladye's woes? 
 
 I know them not, nor knew of her till now. 
 
 Where's the Bard, renowned Cennfaeladh, 
 Festive son of Garbh the glorious, 
 From the conquering son of Alii, 
 Victor o'er the stern Ultonians, 
 In a princely line descended ? 
 
 S&ttcf) of ©n&or. 
 
 Well thou knowest he's in Flathinnis, 
 Throned upon his throne of gold. 
 
 CDalppso. 
 Yet the Queen of Erie calls him, 
 And I know he will obey me ; 
 If I dream not, here he comes. 
 Starry-souled Cennfaeladh, welcome ; 
 Sing a Lay of Ancient Erie ; 
 Well I know its hallowed music 
 Lives within thy shell-like spirit. 
 
 ©ennfaelatii). 
 Shall it be, swan-bosomed Ladye, 
 One of the three weeping Legends ? 
 
310 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Yes, awake your golden harp-strings, — 
 Sing the sorrows of Blanaida, 
 Who this moment flitted by us, 
 
 ©ennfaela&f). 
 
 THE STORY OF THE FAIR BLANAID. 
 
 The princely chief, Cuchullain, 
 
 Our chief renowned of old — 
 Erom frowning tower and fortress 
 
 He calls his warriors bold ; 
 Prom frowning tower and fortress, 
 
 With broadsword blue and shield, 
 And lance and spear, athirst for blood, 
 
 They march into the field. 
 
 Many a valiant bowman, 
 
 And many a swordsman brave, 
 Thronged where his floating standards 
 
 Along the hillocks wave. 
 His star-bright floating standards 
 
 Like pillars tall were seen, 
 The Yellow Lion rampant 
 
 Upon a field of green. 
 And with these brawny archers 
 
 A cloud of spearmen came, 
 With tufted beards and warlike brows, 
 
 And deep dark eyes of flame. 
 
 These fierce and fire-eyed soldiers, 
 These men of old renown, 
 
 For three whole days within their tents 
 Of scarlet cloth sat down. 
 
 Like shining stars in winter, 
 Or waves that lash the strand, 
 
THE WITCH'S STAR. 311 
 
 In splendour, strength, and number, 
 
 Beseemed that iron band. 
 And loud their war-cries sounded, 
 
 And shrilly neighed their steeds, 
 And proudly panted old and young 
 
 For strange heroic deeds. 
 
 Then outspake brave Cuchullain — 
 
 "Ye Red-Branch Chieftains, hear, 
 We've shared in many a battle-field, 
 
 And conquered far and near. 
 We've crumbled many a haughty fort, 
 
 And many a captive led, 
 And side by side, o'er land and tide, 
 
 We've stoutly fought and sped. 
 Where are the chiefs in Erie 
 
 Of hardier heart and hand ? 
 Or breathes there on this broad earth, 
 
 Who dares your might withstand ? 
 
 " But now our spirit slumbers, 
 
 Our broadswords sleep in rust, 
 Our polished spears are blunted, 
 
 Our war-vests mould in dust. 
 Our bards sit down in silence, 
 
 Or vainly sing the lays 
 Of deeds and men long past and gone, 
 
 Our sluggish souls to raise. 
 For ten long months of idlesse 
 
 We've wiled the time away, 
 Inactive — nerveless — drooping — 
 
 By feasting spoiled, and play. 
 Up — up — nor rest ignobly, 
 
 Like women still at home — 
 Up — up— to fields where Glory points 
 
 And bids the Red Branch roam. 
 The antlered deer and brown wolf 
 
312 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Too long have been our game; 
 Once on a time the Red-Branch Knights 
 
 Pursued some nobler aim. 
 The game of war with foemen, 
 
 The strife with gallant men, 
 These be our ends — Then up with me, 
 
 And share such game agen. 
 
 He spake — and from his stout thigh 
 
 His broadsword blue he draws, 
 Outbursts from all those chieftains round 
 
 One shout of wild applause ; 
 The listening vales re-echo 
 
 The loud and glad hurraws, 
 And on their blades those chieftains 
 
 A solemn oath devise, 
 To follow still their leader 
 
 To deeds of great emprise. 
 From rank to rank, like lightning, 
 
 Ran on one fierce accord ; 
 They clashed upon their iron shields 
 
 With brazen spear and sword. 
 
 Then spake once more Cuchullain — 
 
 " In Alba's isle there stands 
 A fortress strong and mighty 
 
 With spoil from many lands. 
 Piled up with Asian plunder, 
 
 And Afric's choicest wealth, 
 Prom olden times collected 
 
 By labour, force, and stealth. 
 With bright and priceless jewels 
 
 From Orient empires brought, 
 And store of sparkling wonders 
 
 By magic hands enwrought ; 
 Large drinking-cups of silver, 
 
 And golden cauldrons bright, 
 
the witch's star. 313 
 
 With shining rings, and linen coats, 
 
 Of scarlet and snow-white. 
 Sleek dark-grey steeds of swiftness, 
 
 With aureate housings stoled, 
 Bucklers with equal portions mixed 
 
 Of silver and red gold ; 
 Broad-bladed spears and standards, 
 
 And swords for knightly thighs, 
 With daggers and war-axes 
 
 Of temper, strength, and size. 
 But brighter still, and brighter, 
 
 And destined for our prize, 
 There dwells within this castle's walls 
 
 A maid of soft blue eyes. 
 Blanaid, the rarest ladye 
 
 That heaven did e'er behold ; 
 Be mine that rarest ladye, 
 
 Be yours the wealth untold." 
 
 Loud shouted all those chieftains 
 
 With quick and glad assent ; 
 And soon the news w 7 as spread about, 
 
 Like fire from tent to tent. 
 And all those mighty soldiers 
 
 Swore to the bargain made — 
 For them the wealthy fortress, 
 
 For him the fair Blanaid. 
 
 Now there was one — false Conrigh— 
 
 A knight renowned was he, 
 In fiery plain and ladye's bowser 
 
 Gallant as knight could be. 
 Fierce in the flaming conflict, 
 
 With martial strength of nine ; 
 His swelling soul of battle 
 
 Shewed in his haughty eyne. 
 
314 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 But skilled in arts of magic 
 
 And wizard schemes of hell, 
 He swore to win that ladye fair 
 
 By sorcery and spell. 
 
 He rose and left his castle walls, 
 
 And donned his robe of gtey, 
 A robe whose might the stars of light 
 
 Must bow to and obey. 
 In his grey magic mantle 
 
 The Red-Branch camp he sought, 
 In garb a common soldier, 
 
 A conquering prince in thought. 
 The Red- Branch troop he found thern, 
 
 Upon the white sea- beach ; 
 They hailed the stranger-soldier 
 
 With welcome looks and speech. 
 
 They launched their hollow galleys, 
 
 Their bending oars they plied, 
 And night and day with might and main 
 
 Rowed o'er the waters wide. 
 The waves rushed round their black prows, 
 
 The winds blew loud and long, 
 And over the boiling billows 
 
 They passed with shout and song. 
 They passed — and now their footsteps 
 
 Are on that fated land, 
 And Alba's warriors arm with speed 
 
 To meet Cuchullain's band. 
 And there are war-cries sounding, 
 
 And shrilly neighing steeds, 
 And bosoms panting proudly 
 
 For strange heroic deeds. 
 
 In Alba stands a fortress, 
 
 With mighty walls and towers, 
 
the witch's star. 315 
 
 But over its brows a threatening cloud 
 
 Of mist and darkness lowers. 
 A fierce and haughty fortress, 
 
 A fierce and haughty band, 
 Well skilled in war, and bristling all 
 
 With dagger, spear, and brand. 
 And in that rock- built fortress 
 
 The Lord of that lone isle 
 Stood stoutly girt with wizard aid 
 
 And serried rank and file. 
 His Magi stood around him, 
 
 His armoured guards before, 
 His flag waved stern defiance 
 
 To those who thronged his shore. 
 
 Crowned with a muttering tempest 
 
 Of cloud and fire and rain, 
 The towers rose up before them, 
 
 And frowned with dark disdain ; 
 The towers rose up before them, 
 
 Like giants grim and grey, 
 Whose bloodshot eyes and hoary brows 
 
 Breathe terror and dismay. 
 The battlements and bastions 
 
 Seemed filled with magic life ; 
 The very walls seemed raging imps, 
 
 Let loose for murderous strife. 
 
 Right in the fiery gateway 
 
 Whirls an enchanted wheel, 
 Ten thousand dark and shadowy shapes 
 
 Were round it seen to reel ; 
 Ten thousand dark and shadowy shapes 
 
 Of shapeless fire and cloud, 
 And blazing fronts and flickering heads, 
 
 That hissed and screamed aloud j 
 
316 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And belched their furious blasts of fire 
 Down on the Red -Branch Knights, 
 
 Who sorely winced and paled, I ween, 
 Before those grinning sprites. 
 
 The Lord upon the ramparts broad, 
 
 With all his Magi stands — 
 " Why take ye not this fortress, 
 
 With wealth from many lands?" 
 With jestings lewd and jeerings 
 
 They taunt the Red-Branch Knights ; 
 With peals of hideous laughter 
 
 Sore mock the grinning sprites. 
 The sun looked black and bloody 
 
 Down on the mailed array, 
 And, like fierce wolves, the waters 
 
 Seemed gaping for their prey. 
 In front the mocking fortress, 
 
 The swollen seas behind, 
 Around them storm and darkness — 
 
 What succour shall they find? 
 
 Sore chafed the Red-Branch Chieftains, 
 
 Sore chafed Cuchullain brave, 
 While day and night, enchanted shapes 
 
 Of death around them rave. 
 " Beneitj thou battle raging, 
 
 Thou goddess of red war !" 
 In vain for aid they call her 
 
 Amid the spectral jar. 
 " Beneitj thou battle-raging r , 
 
 Come hither on thy clouds f" 
 She hears them not — in darkness 
 
 Her flashing form she shrouds ; 
 Till all those iron warriors, 
 
 Grew hourly more dismayed : 
 
the witch's star. 317 
 
 How can they sack the fortress strong ? 
 How win the fair Blanaid ? 
 
 Then outspake wily Conrigh, 
 
 Disguised in robe of grey — 
 " Methinks it were a deep disgrace 
 
 From hence to turn away. 
 Shame on the valiant warriors, 
 
 The recreants from the fight ; 
 Shame on the Red-Branch Chieftains, 
 
 If hence they take their flight ; 
 Dishonour dark on Erie, 
 
 If Alba sees us yield — 
 We've fought her on the wild wave, 
 
 We've fought her on the field ; 
 But never till this moment, 
 
 In land or sea attack, 
 Did Erie's meanest warriors 
 
 To Alba shew the back." 
 
 Then outspake brave Cuchullain — 
 
 " Sir Churl, thy tongue is rude ; 
 How canst thou dare on valiant knights 
 
 Thy tauntings vile intrude ? 
 Get hence, get hence, thou brawler, 
 
 Nor dare our deeds to scan ; 
 Canst thou surprise this fortress ? 
 
 Wilt thou lead on the van ?" 
 
 Then answered wily Conrigh — 
 
 "'All this I swear to do ; 
 The fort, though girt with fire and cloud, 
 
 I'll lead our soldiers through ; 
 The wheel that whirls with spectres 
 
 Shall fall before my hand ; 
 The frowning cloud of darkness 
 
 Shall fly at my command ; 
 
318 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The tower and all its treasures 
 Shall be — I swear it — thine ; 
 
 The choice of all the jewels 
 
 Shall be — but swear it— mine. " 
 
 He swore by his Hand of Valour, 
 
 By his Arm of Might he swore ; 
 He swore by the Winds of Heaven, 
 
 That sweep the mountains hoar ; 
 By the silver Shield of the Moon, 
 
 By the Sun and the Sacred Fire, 
 By the Ghosts of the Mighty Dead, 
 
 By the Ashes of his Sire. 
 
 Then outspake brave Cuchullain — 
 
 A mighty Oath he swore : 
 " By the viewless Winds and foaming Waves, 
 
 That dash on Alba's shore ; 
 By the circling Sun and Moon and Dew, 
 
 And all that men adore — 
 The choice of all the jewels 
 
 In yon proud tower shall be, 
 When taken by thy skilful hand, 
 
 Reserved alone for thee I" 
 And all the valiant warriors 
 
 Assented to the oath 
 Thus sworn, with due solemnity, 
 
 Of Heaven and Earth, by both. 
 
 (£al£pso (to Goethe). 
 How dost thou like this story of old faerie ? 
 
 J&epfjfeiopi)ete^ 
 
 Nay, he has ears and eyes for nought but thee. 
 
 Aside. 
 This and the Witch's kiss must needs entrap him. 
 
the witch's star. 319 
 
 (Eennfaela&f). 
 
 The morning sun shines brightly- 
 Above the Enchanted Fort ; 
 
 The wheel of fire still whirls about, 
 Still round it spectres sport. 
 
 And a noise like muttering thunder 
 Booms from the magic wall. 
 
 While yells and screams of anger 
 The stoutest heart appal. 
 
 Then up rose wily Conrigh, 
 
 He donned his robe of grey, 
 And, like a Spirit of Evil, 
 
 Full loud he laughed that day. 
 He raised his magic clarion, 
 
 And blew one mighty blast, 
 Whereat the fierce and frowning towers 
 
 Recoil with fear aghast — 
 A rending blast like thunder, 
 
 That sounded far and wide ; 
 And the black clouds that veiled the heaven, 
 
 In thunder-peals replied. 
 Straight from the Fort the pale ghosts 
 
 Passed like affrighted things, 
 Away, and away, for ever and aye, 
 
 They sailed on the tempest's wings. 
 The wheel of fire no longer 
 
 Revolved the gates before ; 
 It screamed like a ghost in torture, 
 
 And vanished for evermore. 
 
 Then outspake wily Conrigh — 
 
 " Ye Red- Branch Knights, advance, 
 
 Give to the breeze your sunburst bright, 
 And charge with sword and lance." 
 
 And onward still and onward, 
 Right through the open gate, 
 
320 A 1SEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 False Conrigh thundered onward, 
 
 With pride and hope elate. 
 Like a hawk on a troop of small birds, 
 
 False Conrigh led the van — 
 Of all that bold and battailous troop, 
 
 There flinched no single man ; 
 And the deadly fight seemed over, 
 
 Ere it had well began. 
 
 They met on the lofty ramparts, 
 
 With shield and sword and spear, 
 Those strong-armed men, with bull-like heart?, 
 
 That knew no thought of fear. 
 Loud clashed their brazen bucklers, 
 
 Bright shone their broadswords blue, 
 They heard no cries, they spared no man, 
 
 But still they slew and slew. 
 Like the fierce and rapid sledging 
 
 Of smiths on the anvil broad, 
 When blows descend like thunderbolts 
 
 Hurled by some angry god, 
 Were the quick and heavy crashes 
 
 Of sword on mail and bone — 
 Were the shrill and hollow Mendings 
 
 Of war-shout and death-groan. 
 Till, as the dark-red tempest 
 
 Some forest oak lays low, 
 The Chief of all was seen to fall 
 
 'Neath Conrigh's slaughtering blow. 
 
 They trampled clown the dying, 
 
 They trampled down the dead, 
 The groans that rose from friends and foes, 
 
 Ere the sad spirit fled, 
 They heeded not, but followed still 
 
 Where wily Conrigh led, 
 Until within the Fortress 
 
 The Knights victorious stood ; — 
 
the witch's star. 321 
 
 Ah, me ! it was a sight to see 
 The place run thick with blood. 
 
 Then rose the shriek of women ; 
 
 Their arms the men threw down ; 
 And the babe grew white with shivering fright 
 
 In the nook of its mother's gown. 
 The young and old they gave them 
 
 Up to the ravenous blade ; 
 For two whole hours those Chieftains 
 
 A deadly slaughter made : — 
 They only spared one captive — 
 
 The beautiful Blanaid. 
 
 Like the fair Star of Morning, 
 
 Or the sweet Orb of Night, 
 When shimmering forth in splendour, 
 
 O'er Gurrane Tual's lone height, 
 She clothes with silver silence 
 
 Valley and forest glade — 
 So looked that fair-haired captive, 
 
 The beautiful Blanaid. 
 
 Like a bright rainbow shining 
 
 Aloft in southern skies ; 
 Like a rich garden painted 
 
 With flowers of softest dyes ; 
 Like music in sweet Logh Lene, 
 
 By skilful minstrel played — 
 So looked that white-armed captive, 
 
 The beautiful Blanaid. 
 
 Her branching gold-bright ringlets, 
 
 Fell to her feet of snow, 
 Her eyes shed tears of crystal, 
 
 Her cheeks were wet with woe. 
 
322 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And over her heaving bosom, 
 Her lily-white hands she placed, 
 
 And gently, like a spirit of air, 
 Before the Knights she paced. 
 
 Bent was her moonlike forehead, 
 
 Her rosy lips close set, 
 She panted like a blackbird 
 
 Toiled in a fowler's net ; 
 Sadly she gazed around her, 
 
 Nor saw one friendly face : 
 Ah me ! — for the modest maid — 
 
 Gods shield her by their grace. 
 
 Oh ! weep, white-bosomed ladye, 
 
 Weep for thy lonely fate, 
 A captive in a foreign land, 
 
 Fallen from a high estate ; 
 Weep for thy loving kindred 
 
 That slumber round thee cold 5 
 Weep for the sweet days passed and gone, 
 
 The innocent days of old ; 
 Weep for thy sire departed 5 
 
 For thy gentle mother weep ; 
 Weep for thy noble brothers, 
 
 In death's cold arms they sleep ; 
 Weep for the loving music ; 
 
 Weep for the dear old songs ; 
 Weep for thy little fawn slaughtered ; 
 
 Weep for thine own sad wrongs ; 
 Weep for the haunts of childhood, 
 
 Where thy tiny footsteps strayed. 
 Ah me ! ah me ! I pity thee, 
 
 Thou lonely-hearted maid. 
 
 Away, and over the ocean, 
 The Red-Branch Champions speed, 
 
the witch's star. 323 
 
 A glorious capture theirs, I ween, 
 
 A bold and gallant deed ! 
 And they bore away in their galleys 
 
 The ransom often kings. 
 Success attend their galleys, 
 
 That float on the wind's black wings ! 
 
 Three hundred painted chariots, 
 
 Three hundred steeds of size, 
 Two chests of jewels gathered all 
 
 Beneath fair Orient skies ; 
 Breast-plates, all rough with garnets, 
 
 And glittering like bright stars, 
 With well-stitched leathern helmets, 
 
 Enwrought with golden bars ; 
 Six hundred scarlet mantles, 
 
 Of hunting spears ten score, 
 Stout hatchets of black basalt, 
 
 Full fifty pair and more ; 
 Two hundred silver bucklers 
 
 With red gold edged all round, 
 And gems for ear and finger 
 
 In white bright silver bound ; 
 Bracelets and torques and tunicks, 
 
 Lances with sharp stone heads, 
 Blue-coloured swords with ivory knobs, 
 
 And robes with golden threads ; 
 Long ashen pikes that glittered 
 
 Like moonbeams on the snows, 
 And thin swan-feathered arrows, 
 
 With quivers and bent bows ; 
 A hundred fire-eyed falcons, 
 
 Well trained to cleave the air ; 
 A hundred mares for breeding, 
 
 And rams with fleeces fair ; 
 Spear-heads of dark-grey granite, 
 
324 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Two hundred full they found, 
 With flint heads for long arrows, 
 
 And many a deep-mouthed hound ; 
 A hundred gold-fringed cassocks, 
 
 Ten brazen chandeliers, 
 With five score strong and shining reins 
 
 And five score sharp blue spears ; 
 And vast uncounted treasure, 
 
 The wealth of many lands, 
 Piled up within the castle's walls 
 
 By strong and skilful hands : 
 The mighty Red-Branch Chieftains, 
 
 The flower of Innisfoil, 
 Bore in their ships from Alba's isle 
 
 To Erie rich in spoil. 
 But brighter still, and brighter 
 
 Than gold or jewe-lled prize, 
 The fair Blanaid, the stolen maid, 
 
 With heaven in her soft eyes. 
 
 Away and over the ocean 
 
 The curved black galleys sped, 
 While wind and wave their thin keels drave, 
 
 And fast as hawks they fled. 
 Hurraw — Hurraw — for Erie ! 
 
 The voyage drear is o'er, 
 The valiant Red-Branch Champions 
 
 Leap proudly out on shore. 
 And now they range the prizes, 
 
 To choose as each one may, 
 When outspake wily Conrigh, 
 
 Clothed in his robe of grey. 
 
 " Hear me, ye Red-Branch Chieftains, 
 
 Ye valiant warriors, hear ; 
 And you, O great Cuchullain, 
 
 Who sware an Oath of fear, 
 
the witch's star. 325 
 
 Fallen is the mighty Fortress, 
 
 And by my hand it fell ; 
 Here stand the gorgeous treasures, — 
 
 Here I who broke the spell. 
 
 And now, ye noble Chieftains, 
 
 Remember what ye sware ; 
 The richest jewel of my choice 
 
 Is destined for my share. 
 By the Sun and Moon ye sware it, 
 
 By many an Awful Name, 
 By the viewless Winds and solemn Waves, 
 
 And by the Sacred Flame ; 
 And here, ye Red-Branch Chieftains, 
 
 The richest gem I claim." 
 
 Outspake the Red-Branch Chieftains, 
 
 Out spake Cuchullain wise, 
 " Choose as thou wilt, O stranger Knight, 
 
 Be thine the choicest prize." 
 Loud laughed the wily Conrigh, 
 
 He touched the blushing maid — 
 " This is the rarest jewel, 
 
 The beautiful Blanaid." 
 
 Red flushed the brave Cuchullain 
 
 With still and stern surprise, 
 His fiery soul, like lightning forked, 
 
 Flashed from his midnight eyes. 
 And all his valiant warriors 
 
 Stood round about amazed ; 
 But silent stood false Conrigh, 
 
 As on the maid he gazed. 
 
 Robed in the light of beauty, 
 
 And red and white by turns, 
 Her blushes seemed like roses 
 
 Budding o'er cold death urns. 
 
326 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 She stood like some sad marble. 
 By sculptor hands portrayed ; — 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! I fear for thee, 
 Thou beautiful Blanaid. 
 
 And still beside the maiden 
 
 False Conrigh, gazing, stands, 
 In his grey magic mantle, 
 
 With still and folded hands. 
 It was a sight of sadness 
 
 To see that silent pair ; 
 She like a spirit come from heaven, 
 
 He like a fiend of air. 
 
 Then from the brave Cuchullain, 
 
 These words like thunder burst : 
 " Avaunt, and quit the maiden, — 
 
 Avaunt, thou vile accurst I 
 Take all my richest treasures, 
 
 Gold, jewels, armour, take ; 
 All that thy false heart chooses : 
 
 The maid thou shalt not take." 
 
 Then outspake wily Conrigh, — 
 
 " O perjured prince, beware, 
 Before these Bed-Branch Chieftains 
 
 An oath of dread you sware. 
 And here I claim the maiden 
 
 To be my lawful prize ; 
 Accurst of gods and men be he 
 
 Who now my claim denies. 
 
 And I will take the maiden 
 
 From thee, false chief, perforce" — 
 
 He said, and placed the maiden 
 Right on his coal-black horse. 
 
 Away — away — Cuchullain 
 Bushed from his lofty throne* 
 
the witch's star. 3*27 
 
 But ere he reach' d the greensward. 
 The fair Blanaid was gone. 
 
 East and west, and north and south, 
 
 The "Red- Branch Knights pursued, 
 Through hill and vale, and lawn and dell 5 
 
 And sylvan solitude ; 
 Through shadowy glens they wandered, 
 
 And by the sounding shore; 
 Through the leafy gloom of the forests., 
 
 In vales and caverns hoar. 
 Night and day, and day and night, 
 
 In sunshine, storm, and shade : 
 But never more those Chieftains brave 
 
 Beheld the fair Blanaid. 
 
 ©alggao (to Goethe). 
 
 Lov'st thou these legends of trim magic, dearest ? 
 
 fftepi)tstopi)d*g. 
 
 The only answers that he gives are kisses; — 
 Alas, poor Maggy, thou art well away ! 
 
 <£ennfaela&5. 
 
 And wicked wily Conrigh 
 
 Bore off the maiden bright, 
 The rarest jewel of the fort, 
 
 The world's most lovely light. 
 Ah me ! ah me ! that maid so fair 
 
 Should feel his cursed spell, 
 That virgin innocence should mate 
 
 With hateful power of hell. 
 
 Twelve silver moons had vanished, 
 
 A year had passed and gone, 
 But still the brave Cuchullain, 
 
 The active chase kept on. 
 
328 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Thrice had he passed the island, 
 
 From bound to rocky bound, 
 But yet no welcome traces 
 
 Of fair Blanaid he found. 
 
 Twelve birds fiy over the ocean- 
 Twelve birds with coal-black wing's — 
 
 From the wild North Sea they are flying 
 Hither like ominous things : 
 
 Hoarse and harsh are their screamings, 
 Sharp and shrill they shriek, 
 
 They mutter and croak like guilty souls, 
 As they perch on a mountain's peak. 
 
 Then uprose brave Cuchullain, 
 
 He drew his elk horn bow, 
 And the string whirred loud as the arrow 
 
 Leapt at its winged foe. 
 And the twelve strange birds screeched wildly 
 
 As up in the air they rose ; 
 But home to the heart went the arrow, 
 
 And thick the life-blood flows. 
 
 Down to the earth the arrow 
 
 Fell with the stricken bird ; 
 Never a single groan he gave, 
 
 Never a wing he stirred. 
 Horribly shrieked his comrades 
 
 As they saw him tumble dead, 
 Up in the dark deep glens of the sky 
 
 With screams of woe they fled. 
 
 Then laughed the brave Cuchullain, 
 As the strange birds took their flight, 
 
 Clanked on his back his quiver, 
 
 While he followed them day and night — * 
 
the witch's star. 329 
 
 Day and night without ceasing, 
 
 Wherever the strange birds fiew, 
 Till he passed twelve fertile counties, 
 
 And in each a bird he slew. 
 And he rested in Momonia, 
 
 In a forest of old Srabh Bhrin ; 
 For three whole days the hero dwelt 
 
 Alone in the wild wood green. 
 
 On the fourth day Cuchullain 
 
 Rose from his sylvan lair ; 
 And whither and whither shall he go 
 
 In search of the absent fair ? 
 For twelve long months had he journeyed, 
 
 Yet never the nymph had found ; 
 Oh, lives she still on the happy earth? 
 
 Or sleeps in the cold black ground ? 
 
 A little bird sang in the forest, 
 
 Perched on the shaking spray ; 
 Sweetly the little bird chirped and sang 
 
 A musical roundelay. 
 The little bird lured the Chieftain on 
 
 Till the close of a summer's day : 
 " So follow me still, Cuchullain, 
 
 Nor be thy heart afraid ; 
 And I will shew thee the damselle, 
 
 The beautiful Blanaid" 
 
 Ify the sweet Fionghlais he wandered — 
 
 That river as crystal clear — 
 When he was aware of a soft sad voice, 
 
 That rose from an arbour near ; 
 A voice that like heavenly music 
 
 Stole on his anxious ear : — 
 And a harp's low gentle breathings 
 
 Were wafted upon the wind ; 
 
330 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And the song was a song of sorrow — 
 The plaint of a moaning mind. 
 
 He looked on a gorgeous palace 
 
 Of Orient diamond ; 
 It was built by the Prince of Air 
 
 At a wave of Conrigh's wand ; 
 More bright than the sun's pavilion, 
 
 When he sinks in the western skies ; 
 Ah me ! that a song of sorrow 
 
 In halls like these should rise ! 
 
 And it was a song of sorrow, 
 
 The lay of a broken heart, 
 Murmured to weeping music, 
 
 Artless and void of art. 
 Murmured to weeping music, 
 
 And blent with tears and sighs — 
 Murmured to weeping music, 
 
 That drowned in grief the eyes. 
 
 Oh ! who is the gentle damselle, 
 
 That sings such a moving song? 
 Oh ! who is the craven traitor 
 
 Hath done such damselle wrong ? 
 Out with thy brand, Cuchullain ! 
 
 Flesh well thy biting blade ! 
 The traitor he is false Conrigh — 
 
 The dame is the fair Blanaid ! 
 
 The pillars were made of crystal 
 As white as the whitest snow ; 
 
 They girded the magic palace round- 
 One hundred in a row ; 
 
 Of glittering gold the portals ; 
 The dome of emerald ; 
 
 The mangers were made of ivory, 
 Where fifty steeds were stalled ; 
 
the witch's star. 331 
 
 The lakes were of liquid silver, 
 
 On their breasts were golden boats, 
 And fountains of purest water 
 
 Gushed from the marble throats 
 Of gryphons and winged dragons, 
 
 Carved by enchanted hands — 
 And under a tree with her golden harp 
 
 The weeping damselle stands. 
 
 Then outspake brave Cuchullain, 
 
 As he fell on his bended knee : 
 " O ladye ! I am thine own true lord; 
 
 Smile gently down on me, 
 And fly with me from this traitor — 
 
 And fly with me from thrall — 
 And thou shalt sit in my palace, 
 
 And rule my chieftains all !" 
 
 Then spake the startled damselle : 
 
 u Grant Heaven, thou dearest knight, 
 That I were with thee on the saddle-tree, 
 
 Equipped for a speedy flight ! 
 That I were away from false Conrigh, 
 
 Whose love my soul detests " — 
 The tears they fell from her sweet eyes 
 
 Into her roseate breasts. 
 
 " Oh ! where is now my father ? 
 
 My mother that tended me 
 When I was a little innocent babe, 
 
 And nursed upon her knee ? 
 And where are all my brothers— 
 
 My brothers that loved me well ? 
 And where are my gentle sisters ? 
 
 All — all in the narrow cell !" — 
 Down on the grass the damselle fair 
 
 In swoon of sadness fell. 
 
332 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Then outspake brave Cuchullain : 
 
 " Mine own beloved Blanaid, 
 Fly hence with me this moment, 
 
 Nor stand thou thus dismayed. 
 Mine shalt thou be — mine only — 
 
 In gentle bower and hall, 
 With valiant knights to tend thee, 
 
 And wait on thy gentle call." 
 "No, no," quoth the damselle, weeping, 
 
 " Not now bethink of flight, 
 'Twere vain to 'scape false Conrigh, 
 
 Clothed in his magic might. 
 But hearken, dear Cuchullain, 
 
 Heed well the words I say — 
 Gather thy forces far and wide, 
 
 And, on the thirtieth day, 
 Encamped in yonder forest, 
 
 Watch well the river clear, 
 When its stream runs white with main and might, 
 
 Charge, as thou hold'st me dear, 
 For I will lull false Conrigh 
 
 To sleep in that same hour ; 
 And I will hide his mantle grey, 
 
 And sword of demon power. 
 Ten thousand of thy chieftains 
 
 Were vain against his charm ; 
 Ten thousand of thy chieftains 
 
 Would melt before his arm." 
 She said — and then stood silent ; 
 
 He kissed her lily-white hand, 
 And went his way rejoicing 
 
 To the king of all the land. 
 
 Thirty days have passed and gone, 
 
 And brave Cuchullain lies, 
 With a band of chosen Chieftains 
 
 Concealed from prying eyes. 
 
THE witch's star. 333 
 
 He lies in the oaken forest, 
 
 In the trees and tall thick grass 
 That grows in emerald richness, 
 
 Beside the clear Fionghlais. 
 
 Thirty days have passed and gone, 
 
 False Conrigh is in sleep, 
 And by his side the fair Blanaid 
 
 Doth anxious vigil keep. 
 She hath stolen his magic mantle, 
 
 She hath stolen his magic sword, 
 She pants for the happy moment 
 
 That will bring her soul's adored. 
 A little footpage then enters 
 
 Softly on tiptoe ; 
 And he gives her a golden token, — 
 
 " Thine errand well I know." 
 She spake, and swiftly gliding, 
 
 On the waters' brink she stood, 
 And over its banks she poured the milk 
 
 Till it whitened the clear cold flood, 
 And the Knight and his anxious Chieftains 
 
 Leapt from the- shaggy wood. 
 On like the rush of a tempest 
 
 The mighty warriors came — 
 On like the sweep of a tempest dark 
 
 With thunder girt and flame ; 
 Into the sleeping palace 
 
 Like some wild sea they roll ; 
 Cuchullain took false Conrigh's life, — 
 
 The demons took his soul. 
 
 They burned the magic palace, 
 
 They burned the magic books, 
 They left the crumbling towers and walls 
 To the wolves and kites and rooks. 
 
334 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 But the demon sword and mantle 
 
 Woven of dusky grey, 
 A flying dragon bore them 
 
 Up through the air away. 
 
 And now the brave Cuchullain 
 
 Hath carried his fair Blanaid 
 To his own good moated fortress, 
 
 And there the lovers stayed. 
 In a rosy dream of gladness 
 
 Their happy moments flow, 
 They heed not the coming evil, 
 
 The dark impending blow. 
 
 Feirceirtne, Conrigh's minstrel, 
 
 An oath of dread he swore, 
 That he would seek the damselle 
 
 Twelve times the island o'er. 
 And if he found the damselle, 
 
 He swore that she should die ; 
 Then mutter'd he low a wondrous spell, 
 And there were sounds of joy in hell, 
 
 And tears in heaven on high. 
 
 And over the beauteous island 
 
 Feirceirtne travelled long, 
 In the palace hall his harp he struck, 
 
 Or poured the bardic song. 
 To many a knight and ladye 
 
 The wandering minstrel played ; 
 But found not yet the one he sought — 
 
 The beautiful Blanaid. 
 
 Six times o'er the green-faced island, 
 The fierce Feirceirtne passed, 
 
 Sharp and sure wherever he went 
 His vengeful looks were cast. 
 
the witch's star. 335 
 
 Six times he missed the damselle, 
 
 Yet never he felt despair — 
 He followed her like a vulture 
 
 That snuffs the blood in the air. 
 
 Till, on a summer evening, 
 
 In the rich and golden light, 
 A gallant companie he spied, 
 
 On Rinchin Beara's height ; 
 A troop of fairest ladyes, 
 
 With many a princely knight, 
 And, shining midst these ladies, 
 
 As shines the queen-like moon, 
 Stood fair Blanaid — the minstrel, 
 
 Feirceirtne, marked her soon. 
 
 Like a fair courteous minstrel, 
 
 Feirceirtne climbed the height — 
 Like a fair courteous minstrel, 
 
 He played for dame and knight. 
 The strain was like the thrush's note, 
 
 Heard in sequestered Sgail, 
 Or like the blackbird's chorus sweet, 
 
 In Letter-legh's lone vale. 
 
 On the brow of the lofty mountain 
 
 Stood beautiful Blanaid, 
 Eapt in a trance of transport soft, 
 
 As false Feirceirtne played. 
 Slowly he moved to the damselle, 
 
 And lowly still he bowed — 
 So moves to a star of splendour 
 
 A thunder-laden cloud. 
 And now he stands beside her, 
 
 And now he clasps her tight ; 
 The damselle screamed as the minstrel 
 
 Leapt from the dizzy height. 
 
336 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The damselle and the minstrel, 
 
 They perished in that day, 
 Their bodies are dashed to pieces, 
 
 Their souls are passed away ! 
 
 ©algpso. 
 Gentle minstrel, noble minstrel, 
 Much I thank thee for thy grace. 
 
 (Sortie. 
 Who could e'er resist the music 
 Breathing from her heavenly face ? 
 
 J$Up?)fetop?)*k8. 
 
 What a sparrow is our German ; 
 
 When he folds her, how he fastens 
 
 His eyes on her ; fascination 
 
 Glides like poison through and through him, 
 
 Now she warbles, now she coyly 
 
 By receding woos him to her ; 
 
 Now she whispers something to him. 
 
 Touching with her lips of honey 
 
 The small ear that drinks her accents ; 
 
 Now she points to yonder arbour, 
 
 Woven thick with smiling jasmine. 
 
 " Well-beloved, thy lips are nectar." 
 
 Now, " How many kisses, cousin, 
 
 Are there — in a — — little dozen?" 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby ! 
 
 Ah, that kiss — by Dis, he trembles ; 
 He is speechless with love's rapture. 
 How she still enchains him, holds him ! 
 In her soft wild eyes flames beauty. 
 I were caught myself. Armida, 
 Clasp me still, entice him, fire him 
 With an Aphrodisian picture. 
 
the witch's star. 337 
 
 See that palace rising grandly, 
 Marble-columned, with its fountains 
 Shooting up in rainbow showerings. 
 Vines are clustered round the trellis, 
 Grapes as rich as Hebe's bosom 
 Courting the delighted pressure ; 
 And the winged train of Pleasures 
 Dance amid its thornless roses. 
 Balmy-scented flowers are wafting 
 Hither their transporting fragrance; 
 Nightingales with necks all golden 
 Warble in the branching foliage, 
 Odorous with voluptuous silence ; 
 Summer sheds its richest blooming 
 O'er its bowers, rocks, and w r aters ; 
 And a Spirit seems to haunt it, 
 At her love-thoughts sweetly blushing. 
 Evening gathers gently o'er it, 
 Stars light up their vestal cressets 
 In the purple domes of heaven ; 
 And the Moon walks forth in beauty, 
 Cloudless, tranced in virgin dreamings. 
 At yon lattice stands a Ladye, 
 While a Cavalier is stealing 
 Through the rich luxuriant myrtles 
 That grow underneath her window. 
 Plays the moonlight on the waters, 
 Glittering like sweet hope, when boyhood 
 Tn its verdure dreams sweet visions. 
 Who is that love-haunted Ladye ? 
 It is Estean Leonora. 
 Who the Cavalier so gently 
 Wooing her beneath that lattice ? 
 It is starry-thoughted Tasso. 
 z 
 
338 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 The waters are sleeping — the heavens are shining 
 
 In light, 
 And a planet-wrought crown the fair head is entwining 
 
 Of night. 
 The winds murmur music — and lo, from the roses 
 
 A breath, 
 Like the fragrance that hangs round a saint who reposes 
 
 In death. 
 On her hinds snowy-white the sweet Dian now flyeth 
 
 Through air ; 
 And than thee and thy bosom of light nought espieth 
 
 More fair. 
 My light boat is waiting, and longs to convey thee 
 
 Afar; 
 Descend, then, and hence with thy lover, I pray thee, 
 
 O star ! 
 
 I have twined, O my fair one, a garland of flowers, 
 
 Rose-bright, 
 Round my boat's silken aw ning, where pass shall our hours 
 
 Of flight. 
 I have brought thee a lute too, which, waked by thy finger, 
 
 Shall pour 
 A music like that which made mariners linger 
 
 Of yore. 
 With ruin those syren strains, flung o'er the water, 
 
 Were wreathed ; 
 In thine, love, life, beauty, sweet Italy's daughter, 
 
 Are breathed. 
 But than music or garland more valued one present 
 
 Shall be, 
 'Tis my heart, which is filled with devotion incessant 
 
 To thee. 
 
THE WITCH S STAR. 339 
 
 Oh ! canst thou those sweet days of sunshine and dances 
 
 Forget, [glances 
 
 When our souls, passion-fraught, sparkled forth in our 
 
 And met? 
 Or hast thou forgotten that moment of heaven, 
 
 Mine own, 
 When thou said'st that to me was thy virgin-soul given 
 
 Alone ? 
 Oh, no ! — by those smilings that mine thou'rt for ever 
 
 I know ; 
 And our current of love pure and bright as this river 
 
 Shall flow. 
 Then fly to me, dearest, ere Eos in splendour 
 
 Appear ; 
 Thou art come — O bright Venus, the lover's befriender, 
 
 Be near ! 
 
 &oetf)e. 
 
 Does she listen ? Yes, by Venus ! 
 She is folded in his kisses. 
 
 It is life's sole stingless pleasure. 
 
 ^rmiUa. 
 
 See— beside the purple waters 
 Of yon sparkling lake a cottage, 
 Nestling in the citron blossoms ; 
 Birds are singing sweetly round it, 
 Flowers en wreathe it, as Cythere 
 Wreathed Adonis to her bosom, 
 Laughing in their gamesome radiance, 
 Like the eyes of some fair infant 
 Filled with sweet and gentle meanings. 
 Floral Enna yields in beauty 
 To this nook in dream-light mantled. 
 
340 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Who is that fair woman standing 
 On the wrinkled sands of silver? 
 Does she wait a coming lover? 
 Hark the voice of passioned music, 
 Mingled with the night wind's perfume. 
 And he comes — his eyes are beaming 
 Like black grapes when dew is on them ; 
 And her eyes are Cupid -lighted, 
 And her heart beats quickly, wildly, 
 For she hastens to embrace him ; 
 And he sings, ere yet he twines her 
 In his warm and wild caresses, 
 A sweet song of simple nature. 
 How she listens — gladness glistens 
 In her large love-darting eyelids, 
 Tremulous with passion's music ; 
 And her bosom white and billowy 
 Heaves, as heaves the snowy ocean 
 "When the wooing wind compels it. 
 Listen to his mandoline. 
 
 I place not my heart in pomp or power, 
 In palace of marble or pillared hall ; 
 
 Such pleasures as these are the toys of an hour, 
 But treasures more exquisite far than all 
 Shall he ours if thou wilt he mine, love, 
 
 A rustic garden of roses fair, 
 
 A silver stream that glasses the sky, 
 
 The music of birds in the sunny air, 
 
 And bosoms that beat to their minstrelsy, 
 Shall he ours if thou wilt he mine, love. 
 
 And the murmured music of crystal floods, 
 And hillocks of verdure and valleys sweet, 
 
 And bowers of jasmine and shady woods, 
 Whose echoes thy songs of love repeat, 
 Shall he ours if thou ivilt he mine, love. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 341 
 
 And hopes and thoughts of most pure delight, 
 And the smile divine that beams in those eyes, 
 
 And the fragrant dawn and star-robed Night 
 And bliss like a picture of Paradise, 
 Shall be ours if thou zoilt be mine, love. 
 
 <£atopso. 
 
 Who is she ? 'Tis Fiametta, 
 And the minstrel is Boccacio ; — 
 See they blend in love delighted. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 Nay, I am thine ; for ever, ever thine, 
 O Love, O Wonder, O Immortal One ! 
 Take me to thee, and make me all thine own, 
 Ever, for ever, ever, and for ever ! 
 
 A blast of thunder — they disappear. 
 
 Scene XXIV. 
 
 THE ABYSS OF HELL. 
 
 Mephistopheles and Goethe. The F 'uries following far 
 behind. 
 
 Goetfje. 
 What horrible monster sweeps down yonder vale, 
 Half bull, half man, with horns of brass and fire, 
 And nostrils breathing flame and eyes that swale 
 And sputter lightnings ; madness, might, and ire 
 Clothe his huge neck ; a rider fierce and pale 
 And frenzy-stricken reins him, while a dire 
 And loathsome naked woman with red hair 
 Is tossed from horn to horn and looks despair ? 
 
342 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 IHepfjfgtopljelea. 
 
 That noble brute, sweet bard, is Minotaurus 
 
 A favourite animal of our czar ; the fool 
 
 Who rides him, much against his will, is Scaurus, 
 
 Whom King Tiberius sent to hell to school; 
 
 The woman, rather say the icthyosaurus 
 
 In female shape, that moves your ridicule, 
 
 Is Queen Elizabeth Tudor, a snake-fish, 
 
 As cold and bad as any in our dish. 
 
 Cruelty, lewdness, hate, pride, envy, meanness, 
 Treachery, intrigue, have sent the lady here, 
 Tied to the ancient prodigy of un cleanness, 
 Who hoists her like a skilful engineer ; 
 The ghost behind, whose devilish obsceneness 
 Shocked even Home, pricks on the human steer, 
 To toss his burthen still from horn to horn, 
 That curses the black hour that saw her born. 
 
 And so the Three are borne from hell to hell 
 Unceasingly, unrestingly for ev&r ; 
 Swift as a cannon-ball or fiery shell, 
 That wings along through startled air, wherever 
 The shock impels it ; right and left, pell mell 
 They drive, and make the affrighted shades assever 
 That bad as their own torturers have been, 
 Far worse attend her majesty the quean. 
 
 The grim and blood-stained Furies, called Eumenides 
 Because they are not amiable, are hurrying 
 Close on our heels ; unlike wise Epimenides 
 Who slept a hundred years apart from flurry in 
 A pastoral cave, and after lived for many days, 
 Until the unsparing Parcse made a foray in 
 His quarters; and he died ; — these dames, I say, 
 Unlike that Sage, sleep neither night nor day. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 343 
 
 Their wakefulness and labours are incessant ; 
 
 They send on earth wars, pestilence, dissensions ; 
 
 In hell they're always flogging : — prince and peasant 
 
 In turn corne in for their polite attentions ; 
 
 Their whip of scorpions when applied 's unpleasant, 
 
 The cleverest liar lays aside inventions, 
 
 And after one brief thwacking all confesses ; 
 
 They never fail even with adulteresses. 
 
 Serpents they have you see in place of hair, 
 In their hands burning torches, on their brows 
 Frown terror, paleness, rage, and black despair, 
 Like a man curtain-lectured by his spouse : 
 The rogues they most love to hunt everywhere 
 Are shaven monks who never kept their vows 
 Of eastigation ; but drank, raked, and fiddled, 
 Until by death's artillery fairly riddled. 
 
 And so they whip them to make up old scores, 
 Until the shavelings sink beneath the lash ; 
 Reviewers, pathics, pimps that guide to floors 
 Where modesty and merit starve, they slash 
 All who through falsehoods float, as boats by oars, 
 Are whipped and cut and hacked into mere hash ; — 
 Well for my friends they do not live in London — 
 Dickens and pimps like Jerrold then were undone. 
 
 Tall, beauteous, queenlike, with sweet sad blue eyes, 
 
 With lips of rosebuds, yet with such an air 
 
 Of sorrow as no living words comprise, 
 
 Agnes Sorel, of France, the mistress fair 
 
 Of Charles, before you in her torture lies ; 
 
 Beside her, filled with envy and despair, 
 
 The Queen who poisoned her and sent her here, 
 
 Whose limbs convulsed the imps with brimstone smear. 
 
344 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Here is the horrid empress Theodora, 
 
 With several geese about her — devils I mean ; 
 
 Here is the runaway stupid nun De Bora, 
 
 Whom Luther's heavenly influence could not screen 
 
 From punishment ; the Roman harlot Flora, 
 
 Who left the wealth amassed by ways unclean 
 
 To public use, was several centuries laid 
 
 Here, but some twelvemonth since was hence conveyed 
 
 To Purgatory by an angel, who 
 Declared her public spirit much atoned 
 For what she was so wicked as to do, 
 When her bright charms she publicly unzoned. 
 
 ^oetfje. 
 I thought there was no getting hence. 
 
 Jftepijfetop^Ua, 
 
 Pooh, pooh, 
 Nor is there for those sprites whom heaven disowned, 
 And damned to Everlasting Fire ; but many 
 Are purged with us, who do't as well as any. 
 
 Whether their sins are cleansed in Hell or Limbo 
 Matters not ; in this pit are seven Csesars — 
 We've seen some more beyond ; with arms akimbo 
 Moloch himself is here to teaze the teazers ; 
 The lapdog at his feet is Cardinal Bembo, 
 Who holds a sanguinary pair of tweezers, 
 With which they've just been torturing Heliogabalus, 
 The patience of whose subjects seems most fabulous. 
 
 Men are strange animals, most quaintly made ; — 
 
 For what is love, which poets praise so much, 
 
 But a mere filthy recreation played 
 
 O' the sly, when night, or wine, or passion, smutch 
 
 The brain with dark vagaries ; man and jade 
 
 Have nought at which the lowest beasts might grutch, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 345 
 
 Nay beasts are happier far — the} 7 feel no pothers, 
 Have no grim fathers and match-making mothers. 
 
 And all are subject to disastrous change ; 
 Beggars grow rich, and spend their wealth to hide 
 Their former pauperdom ; mad millions range 
 From clime to clime, for avarice, fame, or pride ; 
 And when they gratify them full, O strange 
 And lunatic chufFcats ! to the grave they glide 
 Without one thought of why The Elohim sent 
 Their souls to earth and for what purpose bent. 
 
 Fame and Opinion, two poor demons rule them, 
 For both they sacrifice the God of Truth. 
 
 Is it not dastardly in you, who fool them, 
 To mock them for being fooled ? 
 
 fftrpljtstopJjeUs. 
 
 Why, no, in sooth, 
 We do but work our work ; their parsons school them, 
 And tell them about Dives, Job, and Ruth ; 
 The cross of Christ without their doors they put, 
 And sacrifice within to groin and gut. 
 
 Blind fortune rules their destinies ; some climb 
 To thrones, and find the diadem a jest ; 
 Some strut as Popes, and own their joys mere slime ; 
 Some roll in riches, and find gold a pest ; 
 Some stalk as sages, some run mad in rhyme ; 
 But cares corrode them ; solace, sleep, or rest 
 They seldom know, until within the arms 
 Of Death they lie, secure from further harms. 
 
 Yet mark how rabidly they cling to life ; 
 More so indeed than any four-legged beast ; 
 They loathe death as grave Milton loathed his wife, 
 Or as sage Gibbon hated nun and priest. 
 
346 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Yet what life is, but a strange maze of strife, 
 In which the wickedest wins the largest feast, 
 I know not — but I know how wisely sung 
 Mimnermus old, " Whom the Gods love die young," 
 
 The Gods conceal from men the bliss of dying, 
 Lest they may all make haste to quit earth's sphere. 
 'Tis well 'tis so, or else we'd have them flying 
 To Styx in millions. — Charon's privateer 
 Would have to be enlarged, in size ont vying 
 Ark, or ship Argo :— in a single year 
 Methinks we'd free your globe of all who had 
 Souls in their bodies, leaving but the bad. — 
 
 I mean, the soulless sons of living clay, 
 
 The mere dull animal creatures whom I named 
 
 Before, who like poor asses have their day, 
 
 And die, and then, in stout oak coffins framed, 
 
 Fertilise the churchyard, and make fat hay 
 
 For the round parson's horse ; yet men are tamed 
 
 (Men who have souls of light) by those vile creatures 
 
 Who rule the roast by cannon, fraud, and preachers. 
 
 The many are ground down to feed the few ; 
 
 The few in splendour lead the life of ease; 
 
 The many toil from morn till evening's dew, 
 
 To cram the lazy drones with luxuries. 
 
 Millions in rags have scarce a crust to chew. 
 
 Sir Priest, my lord, and king have what they please. 
 
 If this be not a miniature hell on earth, 
 
 You'll own at least 'tis very tragical mirth. 
 
 As to those dreamers and disgusting boobies 
 Who talk Millennium, and think Man will grow 
 Better and wiser, I could curse the loobies, 
 But will not o'er their maniac spoutings crow 5 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 347 
 
 When geese can make from mud fine pearls and rubies, 
 I'll then believe in optimism. No — no, 
 ; Twill never be ; your race must grovel still, 
 Fools, rogues, and slaves, and heirs of every ill. 
 
 What Providence designed by your creation 
 I'd give a halfpenny to be told ; the fables 
 With which you're ruled are mere equivocation 
 To keep you bound in priests' and rulers' cables, 
 And well they work your perfect subjugation : 
 How are you better off than beasts in stables, 
 Spurred, ridden, whipped to death, to win the plate 
 For those who call themselves the "good" and "great ?" 
 
 Popes, cardinals, archbishops, emperors, kings, 
 What are they — nay, what have they ever been, 
 But wretches of the vilest, armed with stings 
 For men's destruction? yet your race unclean 
 Bows down before them, worshipping the things, 
 Making yourselves a mere o'er tasked machine, 
 W T hich, when their work is done, they fling with scorn 
 Away, and cram you full with chaff not corn. 
 
 This chaff is called "philosophy," and " patience," 
 " Destiny's will" — the " fate ordained for Man," 
 Earth is a place of suffering ; men and nations 
 Must all endure, and life is but a span ; 
 The world's a pilgrimage — such smooth orations 
 As these your race of doltish fools trepan ; 
 And so 1 feel no pity for your state, — 
 You are yourselves the makers of your fate. 
 
 The Gods from their high places in the ether 
 Look down, and think you most benighted fools ; 
 And so, in fact, you are ; their godships neither 
 Feel nor shew pity for you while you're tools : 
 If I said this on earth, I'd be called breather 
 Of treason, blasphemy, and bring the schools 
 
348 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Upon my head, in rage, because T say 
 
 What's proved in man's experience day by day. 
 
 So that 'tis well we're here, where no indictments 
 For treason are preferred, but thought is free 
 As air or light ; and the soul's fine incitements 
 Are not curbed down and clipped in slavery ; 
 With you 'twere dangerous to talk so, excitements 
 Are so eschewed by every dynasty 
 That tells its subjects safety lies in rest, 
 And robs and gags them with intentions best. 
 
 But I grow sick while musing on your follies, 
 Yours, my good friend, for this is meant for you, 
 Who would rule men as if they all were Mollys, 
 And marched rejoicing with the regal crew ; 
 Who treat their people as the Scotch treat collies, 
 Good, faithful beasts, but nothing more — 'tis true ; 
 And so we'll change our quarters and the theme; — 
 I'm glad you've heard me with such German phlegm. 
 
 You see that troop of demons red and tawny, 
 With hairy arms, bleared eyes, and sooty frames, 
 Bearing huge hammers on their shoulders brawny, 
 That oft have cooled the heat of well-fed dames ; 
 Stout are the thews of Paddy, John, and Sawny, 
 And each have held high place in Lady Fame's 
 Bright roll, but there's not one would dare to tell 
 His name to these, the hammerers of hell. 
 
 To hammer cruel landlords, an employment, 
 Which even the angels think a mark of honour, 
 Is their sole task ; it gives them great enjoyment ; 
 Woe to the soul, when they lay hands upon her ; 
 Stroke follows stroke ; heart-weariness or cloyment 
 They never feel, but like stout Bishop Bonner 
 Hunting new victims, hammer, hammer still, 
 From year to year with right good arm and will. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 349 
 
 Here is a Coliseum, grand indeed, 
 
 Massive and vast, to which Rome's Capitol 
 
 Is like a baby's toy, or as a weed 
 
 Is to a wilderness of oaks ; the wall 
 
 Lifts its proud front to heaven that dares impede 
 
 Its farther progress upward ; tower and hall 
 
 And portico and colonnade and dome 
 
 Shine, as if Gods had built it for their home. 
 
 Let's peep inside ; — by Plutus ! it is filled 
 "With millions nailed to steel chairs white w 7 ith heat ; 
 The place with solemn silence hushed and stilled, 
 They sit like corpses each within its sheet. 
 Voices they have not ; thus their torturer willed, 
 So they can neither shout, nor groan, nor bleat, 
 But cling immovably consumed with flame, 
 The women doubtless swelling w 7 ith big shame. 
 
 Never before did females hold their tongues, 
 Never before felt torment sharp as this ; 
 But 'tis the law — they cannot use their lungs, 
 Chatter or gibber, scream, scold, yell, or hiss ; 
 Meanwhile the imps, collecting devils' dungs, 
 Pelt them incessantly, and never miss ; 
 The place affords amusement to the dears, 
 Who grow from practice perfect cannoneers. 
 
 These are the odious race of scandal-bearers, 
 Who thus are plagued for all their lies on earth, 
 Mixed with them also may be seen false swearers, 
 Who are akin to slanderers by birth ; 
 Nothing delights us more than to see snarers 
 Of truth thus seated on Abaddon's hearth, 
 Where they must roast for several thousand y r ears, 
 Till their foul souls are washed snow white with tears. 
 
 Behold yon void — a vast and horrible chaos ; 
 Sulphureous smoke, stench, flame, and pitchy blackness, 
 
350 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Vultures more fierce than those on wild Imaus, 
 Imps who ne'er let the fires subside to slackness, 
 But stir them up as old Ennosigseus 
 Stirs the broad earth, when fierce demoniacness 
 Preys on his liver, and this King of Shakers 
 Produces earthquakes frightening sober quakers. 
 
 The Calydonian boar which angry Dian 
 
 Let loose, as God unfolds the monsoon's wing, 
 
 Roams through that mighty chasm ; INemsea's lion 
 
 Bore not such tusks or claws of mortal sting, — 
 
 The triple-headed ogre black Geryon 
 
 Bides the stern beast ; fit pastime for the King 
 
 Who fed his flocks on human flesh, and now 
 
 Urges the boar through yonder bloody slough. 
 
 The slough is filled w r ith human souls, a food 
 On which the hunger-starved wild boar regales, 
 Stuffing his famished maws with the base brood 
 Of those who ruled in human hells called jails, — 
 Policemen, warders, turnkeys, brotherhood 
 Of Beelzebub, whose kinship nought avails, 
 But who feels rather pleased to see the beast 
 Glut himself to the gorge with such a feast. 
 
 After him comes the Erymanthian sow 
 
 Bestridden by Goliath the bold giant, 
 
 Whose fate you read upon his bloody brow, 
 
 Hot pride still blazing in his eyes defiant. 
 
 The terrified wretches shriek and cringe and bow, — 
 
 He heeds them not, but tramples lord and client 
 
 Relentlessly beneath those claws of fire, 
 
 That hiss and smoke amid the moving mire. 
 
 In his huge hand he whirls a brazen mace 
 Large as a battering-ram, broad, thick, and rough, 
 With spearlike spikes — woe worth the hapless race 
 On whose bare backs descends the heavy cuff. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 351 
 
 Rage lights his red eyes, laughter swells his face, 
 And echoes in his curses cruel and gruff, 
 Like Churchill chuckling o'er the lines he wrote, 
 Or Johnson, when the bibliopole he smote. 
 
 Here's Julius Caesar, every scoundrel's wife, 
 
 And every woman's husband ; here's Pope Joan, 
 
 Here's Louis the Sixteenth, who lost his life 
 
 Because he was a very foolish drone. 
 
 Here's Dick of Gloster flourishing a knife, 
 
 And here's King John, who held his royal throne 
 
 And princely kingdom as my lord Pope's fief; 
 
 And here's Jack Sheppard, London's well-known thief. 
 
 Here is the Duke of Buckingham, who died 
 Between two common women at an inn ; 
 Here's Agamemnon, here is Colonel Pride, 
 Here's Tom-a-Becket, that arch Jacobin. 
 Here is Belshazzar, Xantippe the bride 
 Of Socrates, and here 's that harlequin, 
 The admirable Crichton, who, in fact, 
 Was nothing but an empiric half cracked. 
 
 Here is Joanna Southcote, John of Leyden ; 
 Here is Jack Wesley, here's Archbishop Cranmer, 
 Here's Ankerstom, who shot the King of Sweden ; 
 Here's Shakspere's worst of editors, Tom Hanmer ; 
 Here's Jacob Behmen, Handel, Arne, and Haydn ) 
 Here's Blucher, an old brute, was never man more ; 
 Here's Saint Helena's Cerberus, Hudson Lowe, 
 And here the infamous traitor French Moreau. 
 
 Here's Joan the Queen of Naples, who hanged up 
 Her husband Andrew for a curious cause 
 (See Bayle) ; and here is Moloch's dearest pup, 
 Pope Adrian, who, by a Papal clause, 
 
352 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Sold Ireland, which he could not sell ; his cup 
 Of torment never will be drained, his jaws 
 Are ever gulping down an odious draught, 
 At which the Irish here have always laughed. 
 
 Here's William Prince of Orange, Ulster's idol, 
 Whose " certain secret vice" (see Bishop Burnet), 
 Not to be named, and which he could not bridle, 
 Sent him to us, who've soused him like a gurnet 
 In sloughs of ordure and of virus. Sidle 
 With care along this ledge, and shun that hornet, 
 The Scotch Buchanan, traitor, bard, and scholar, 
 Who valued not his soul at half-a-dollar. 
 
 The gluttonous poet Alcman, he who died 
 
 Pediculose, is stewed in yonder pot ; 
 
 Here's Ananias, who so stoutly lied ; 
 
 Here is the scheming wizard, Michael Scot. 
 
 Here's Bishop Burnet ; by his courtly side 
 
 Mortimer, Villiers, Sporus, Vere, a lot 
 
 Of matchless ghosts, transformed to various shapes 
 
 Of rats, toads, lizards, monkeys, snakes, and apes. 
 
 Here's Prince Potemkin, Suwaroff, and Nero, 
 Three bloody butchers. Here is Messalina, 
 Here's Ali Pacha, Byron's favourite hero ; 
 Here's incest-loving Madame Agrippina, 
 Here's Marshal Saxe in jack-boots and montero ; 
 Here's Rupert, hangman Cumberland, and Mina, 
 And Irish Grrattan, who his country sold, 
 And Sarah Marlborough, an old snuffy scold. 
 
 Here is the robber Cacus, vomiting smoke 
 
 Pestiferous, and fire from his black throat; 
 
 As erst when Hercules began to choke 
 
 The scamp well shrouded in his craggy moat ; 
 
 Here are the crafty Cecils, each in cloak 
 
 Of burning brass. Here's Caiaphas, whose vote 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 353 
 
 Condemned Messias ; here is Pontius Pilate, 
 
 Whose well-washed hands our casuists here all smile at. 
 
 Here's Alexander Borgia, the hot Pope, 
 With his three handmaids (see Machiavelli), 
 Simony, Lust, and Cruelty ; the cope 
 Of hell contains no worse within its belly. 
 Here's Doctor Dodd, who felt the hangman's rope, 
 And here's the procuress who sold poor Nelly 
 (The monarch's mistress,) when she was fourteen; 
 And here's the wretch who bought her, a sly dean. 
 
 Here's Prior's Chloe — a mere frowsy drab; 
 Here's Peter Pindar, an obscene bufFoon ; 
 Here's the Pretender, all one cancered scab; 
 And here's Lord Clive blaspheming to the moon. 
 Here's Robespierre, as ugly as a crab, 
 And here is Marat, tiger and poltroon ; 
 And here's imperial Catherine of Russia, 
 And all the kings that ever reigned in Prussia. 
 
 What forms are these, one-eyed, boar-tusked, and fierce, 
 Their hairs entwined with snakes, their hands with brass, 
 Yellow-winged, serpent-scaled, with eyes that pierce, 
 And breathe an icy coldness as they pass ? 
 
 fftepijtstopWes. 
 You'd hardly wish to play at carte and tierce 
 With Nymphs like these, unless you were an ass, 
 And destitute of all the mental organs. — 
 Hats off, Sir Minstrel, and salute the Gorgons. 
 
 Stheno, Euryale, Medusa — sisters, 
 Daughters of Phorcys, very lovely ladies, 
 Who teach sour misses all's not gold that glisters, 
 But torture them when they descend to Hades, 
 
354 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Perseus, whose weapons sharper were than clysters, 
 Sent the three hither ; each of them a maid is, — 
 At least I've never heard of man or boy 
 Who wished their charms bewitching to enjoy. 
 
 Soetfje. 
 Naj r , pardon me, but Neptune ravished one, 
 Medusa, in Minerva's holy fane, 
 Who, being as chaste as any Roman nun, 
 And seeing it was her ringlets snared the swain 
 W r ho wields the trident, changed, by way of fun, 
 The lovely tresses to a snaky train, 
 Whose grisly horror straight transformed to stone 
 All upon whom their viperish frown was thrown. 
 
 J$Tepf)U5 topples. 
 Oh! — that was Ovid's lie — there's no pretence 
 For saying it had a syllable of truth. 
 That writer's powers of fiction were immense, 
 And here's a shameful instance of it ; youth 
 Might be misled by this, but men of sense 
 And years like you should be ashamed in sooth, 
 To trust a writer of such well-known flights 
 Of fancy, who tells lies in all he writes. 
 
 Pie was the first who libelled the sweet maid, 
 
 So Pluto sent him to her when he died. — 
 
 To tell you what she did I'm half afraid, 
 
 But I suppose I must as I'm your guide : 
 
 Short, sharp, and sure her vengeance, none bore aid,- 
 
 The bard was left unfitted for a bride, 
 
 As Abeelard was by that cruel canon 
 
 Whose niece the Church has never laid its ban on. 
 
 Which shews that poets should indeed beware 
 How they write fiction, how they publish slander ; 
 They never know what horrid kind of fare 
 Is cooking for them by our chief commander; 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 355 
 
 Naso is laughed at now by all aware 
 Of what has happened as a silly gander, 
 Who for the sake of framing one lewd lie 
 Bears a disgrace no time can mollify. 
 
 The hapless fellow pines in melancholy 
 That almost borders upon madness ; but 
 There's no redress ; all's o'er ; so sad and slowly 
 He wanders by the Styx and damns the slut 
 Who worked on him a vengeance so unholy ; 
 Or hides his head beneath a wooden hut, 
 Lent him by Pluto through the prayers of Isis, 
 Who with the mourning minstrel sympathises. 
 
 Goetfje. 
 
 In memory of her hapless lord, Osiris, 
 Who suffered similarly ? That was kind. 
 
 J^lepl)tstop!)eIes. 
 
 Since then we much respect this new Thomyris, 
 And scorn the sufferer, howsoe'er inclined 
 To grieve for one whose fancy was an iris 
 Of loveliness and light. 
 
 (ftoetfje. 
 
 The varlet whined, 
 I think, too mucli for one who was a true man ; 
 His Tristia are unworthy of a woman. 
 
 iftqrfjtstopJjeles. 
 
 Med usa's serpent-cinctured head, which once, 
 While she was breathing the bright upper air, 
 Turned into marble cold each gazing dunce, 
 Acts differently now on fools who stare 
 Upon its horrors ; body, limbs, and sconce, 
 Exposed one instant to its ghastly glare, 
 
356 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Are metamorphosed into fire ; — so turn 
 Your eyes another way, or you may burn. 
 
 Cold, icy-hearted villains, like King Charles, 
 
 Who laughed while men like Samuel Butler starved ; 
 
 Or Horace Walpole, that mere mass of snarls, 
 
 Or Lady B., that frigid humbug, carved 
 
 Of steel or mathematics ; souls like knarles 
 
 In toughed oak ; in hell unrobed, unlarved, 
 
 Are subjected to fires by Miss Medusa, 
 
 Hotter than those that scorched and killed Creusa. 
 
 Behold the cannibal birds surnamed Stymphalides, 
 
 With human faces dripping o'er with blood, — 
 
 Your limbs are trembling, and your aspect pallid is, 
 
 As if you feared these guardians of the flood ; 
 
 Fear not — while here, you shall escape all maladies ; 
 
 You're quite secure while joined with me you scud 
 
 Along the air, from every kind of vermin, 
 
 Harpies, snakes, Sirens, bears, bulls, hydras, mermen. 
 
 We're treading now upon the giant Typhon, 
 Whom Juno, jealous that her husband Zeus, 
 With whom she kept a constant round of strife on, 
 Could from his brain the blue-eyed nymph produce 
 Without the intervention of that syphon, 
 W T hich until then had been in general use, 
 And fearing women might be superseded, 
 Swore she'd beget as good a thing as he did. 
 
 She prayed to Heaven, she supplicated Earth, 
 And then invoked the gods, and begged the devils 
 Would kindly help her in her anxious birth ; 
 For which, she said, she'd ask them to her revels : 
 Pluto, who dearly likes infernal mirth, 
 Resolved, despite old Proserpine's grave cavils, 
 To aid her; Juno struck the ground, and lo ! 
 Typhon sprung up and shouted loud, Ho ! ho ! 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 357 
 
 A beautiful production seemed the chap, 
 
 And ten times taller than the mountain Andes; 
 
 Whene'er he liked he gave the stars a rap ; 
 
 He smote with fright Olympus and its grandees ; 
 
 His whisper w 7 as an awful thunder-clap ; 
 
 What he'd have done if fed on beef and brandies, 
 
 I do not know ; but when his right hand touched 
 
 The North, the South was in his left hand clutched. 
 
 A hundred dragons dangled down his shoulders, 
 
 A thousand vipers coiled around his thighs ; 
 
 His feathered body frightened all beholders, 
 
 And fierce volcanoes belched from his big eyes ; 
 
 His mother, once supposed the Queen of Scolders, 
 
 Was fairly conquered by this youth of size, 
 
 Who swore some blasphemous oaths that made hell 
 
 quake, 
 He'd have great Jupiter for a beef-steak. 
 
 A fiend so wild and horrible as this 
 
 You may be sure caused general hate and flight; 
 
 Yet there was many a matron and chaste miss 
 
 Who felt no apprehension of the knight, 
 
 But wished him theirs with all their soul ; the bliss 
 
 They sighed for did not come; the gods through spite 
 
 Conspired together, and with red-hot thunder 
 
 Struck him, and buried him this mountain under. 
 
 If he had lived, and if his goddess mother 
 Compassionating his monastic state 
 Had only made by similar arts another, 
 I mean a female Typhon, for his mate, 
 And they had bred young giants, one or t'other 
 Of these two things had happed despite of fate, 
 They would have swallowed the whole tribe of gods, 
 As easily as boys bolt down peascods. 
 
 Or else the gods would have devoured them all, 
 Father and mother, sons, and stal worth daughters, 
 
358 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Feathers, and snakes, and vipers, great and small, 
 And washed them down with wines and hot strong waters, 
 Ending the supper by a heavenly ball 
 Commemorative of the Typhon slaughters; 
 A festival I should have liked to see, 
 But one that now, alas ! can never be. 
 
 Some one proposed when Jove and all his gods 
 Resigned — that means, were kicked out of their places, 
 Or thrones in heaven, by One whose least of nods 
 Shakes every star that lights Creation's spaces — 
 That Zeus, then suffering sore from emerods 
 
 Contracted by devotion to horse-races, 
 
 Should follow Typhon to this gloomy cage, 
 Where the poor wretch still pined from age to age. 
 
 But somebody objected for some reason, 
 So he, and all his gods of Greek divinity 
 Were exiled to the Moon ; but what dark treason 
 That lady, noted for her staunch virginity, 
 Did to deserve this, I know not — a season 
 Elapsed, and several ogres, whose affinity 
 To Typhon was established, were sent down 
 To join him, men of size and old renown. 
 
 The exiled rogues were tortured there some years 
 In flames volcanic, till that hapless planet 
 Was burned away to ashes, as appears 
 To any one who through a glass will scan it ; 
 When fire had purged the Thunderer and his peers, 
 And each was cooked like a well-roasted gannet, 
 Deliverance came, and they now dwell at leisure 
 In Satan's palace, sentries o'er his treasure. 
 
 Hermes and Pallas, Vesta, Ceres, Dian, 
 The least abandoned of the Olympic rabble, 
 Were better treated ; modest Maia's scion, 
 Still as of old with ghosts is sent to dabble, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 859 
 
 And leads a pleasant life ; the star Orion 
 Received the ladies, where no doubt they gabble 
 Their time away, and pass the pleasant hours 
 In sweet repose unmixed with pains or sours. 
 
 Jupiter, Juno, Neptune, Venus, Mars, 
 
 Apollo, Vulcan, being the other seven 
 
 Who once were throned supremely on the stars, 
 
 And made a brothel of sublimest heaven, 
 
 We'll visit by and by, when Fate unbars 
 
 The glittering halls that to our czar were given, 
 
 Poor recompense for those we lost above, 
 
 When with Saint Michael we were hand in glove. 
 
 That perpendicular mountain, where you see 
 A headless man labouring with all his might, 
 Of muscular arm, bent back, and sinewy knee, 
 To roll a bleeding skull to the rough height, 
 The dreadful weight still struggling to get free 
 Draws gore in torrents from the groaning wight, 
 Was once reserved for Sisyphus, a knave 
 Who toiled there long till Christ the thief forgave, 
 
 And stuck Charles Stuart of England in his place, 
 Whom lying priestcraft dubbed a sacred martyr, 
 Though rogue more false, blood-thirsting, stern or base, 
 Ne'er lived among even those who've worn the garter ; 
 Cromwell, the hero who bore off the mace, 
 Taught him what Walpole called the Greater Charter, 
 Whipped him, and sent him dinnerless to bed, 
 For which the English sup still on calf s head. 
 
 The monarch was cut short, a lesson which 
 All regal humbugs ought to learn by heart ; 
 'Tis said, indeed, they feel an ugly twitch 
 About the vertebrae, which makes them start 
 When January the thirtieth, like a witch, 
 Comes round, and grins at them with visage tart, 
 
360 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And straight they swear to right the people's wrongs, 
 And silence them by justice, not by gongs. 
 
 The millstone which old Sisyphus was wont 
 To roll was given as a forget-me-not ; 
 The cunning Jesuit stomached the affront, 
 And humbly offered thanks for what he got ; 
 The headless Stuart, who looked like a runt 
 Without his topknot, blessed his lucky lot, 
 Thinking that there was nought for him to roll, 
 And feeling rather pleasant on the whole. 
 
 But here his majesty was much mistaken, 
 
 In place of stone, they gave him his own skull, 
 
 Filled with the souls of Wentworth, Laud, and Bacon, 
 
 Which served as ballast for the crazy hull 
 
 Of sacred bone ; since then such knocks have shaken 
 
 The four, I swear to ye, by the Grand Mogul, 
 
 That neither brains nor souls are worth a sou — 
 
 Fit destiny for the false-hearted crew. 
 
 Toiling and moiling still with might and main, 
 
 The headless corpse still strives to reach the summit, 
 
 Rolling before it with a world of pain, 
 
 The skull more weighty than the weightiest plummet, 
 
 Bock, fosse, steep, ridge, and gorge, his path restrain,—' 
 
 They're passed — one trench yawns still — can he o'er- 
 
 come it? 
 He mounts — he fails — the skull slips, rolls, and falls 
 Down to the base — the caitiff headlong sprawls. 
 
 See yon colossal wheel, a world of fire 
 
 Bevolving ever ; it was once Ixion's, 
 
 Who burned his father-in-law alive; the Sire 
 
 Of Gods and men, with an august defiance 
 
 Of what was due to justice, as a hire 
 
 For what he did, placed him among the scions 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 361 
 
 Of blest Olympus, where the murderer passed 
 A very pleasant period, till at last 
 
 He fell in love with Juno, Jove's own spouse ; 
 
 The god incredulous dressed up a cloud, 
 
 Ixion longing to adorn the brows 
 
 Of his fat friend, and not a little proud 
 
 To see the Queen of Heaven, sans shift or blouse, 
 
 Present herself before him, while he vowed 
 
 Ten thousand oaths of love, was taken napping 
 
 By Jove, who knew a trick or two of trapping. 
 
 Fired with revenge, he hurled him down to hell, 
 And tied him up to yonder wheel of snakes, 
 Where for more years than I have time to tell, 
 The knave was twisted into pains and aches. 
 At last, when Jove himself from heaven fell, 
 And went the way of all the Pagan rakes, 
 Ixion was released, and Judas, who 
 Sold Christ, succeeded him— behold the Jew. 
 
 With foxlike head, small eyes, and visage spare, 
 
 An aspect like a weasel's or an ape's, 
 
 The yellow traitor writhes ; a savage glare 
 
 Of ravenous avarice in his face, that gapes 
 
 For gold, amid the fiery, stifling air 
 
 Of hell itself; and see — the sparks he scrapes 
 
 With his long fingers, thinking them red gold, 
 
 And yells to find 'tis flame that they enfold. 
 
 Judas ! good heavens — why sure it can't be he, 
 
 Whom late divines have proved to be a saint ? 
 
 Did he not sell the Incarnate Deity, 
 
 To free him from the modest, mild restraint, 
 
 In which he wrapped omnipotence ? I see 
 
 How much they erred, who thus presumed to paint 
 
362 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The traitor, swearing hard the slave abhorred 
 Did it but to make manifest the Lord. 
 
 Visions of glory, loftiest aspirations, 
 Tempted him to the deed, not thirst of gold, 
 The grandeur of Messias, and his nation's 
 Sway o'er the earth, as had been long foretold ; 
 The legioned angels, bright as constellations, 
 The truth fulfilled, he panted to behold ; — 
 And when he saw the blighted, blasted hope 
 Sublime that filled him, used the friendly rope. 
 
 Hence they say Judas was a proper man, 
 
 And almost venture to make out he's saved, 
 
 As but for him had failed the heavenly plan, 
 
 Whereby the Word made Flesh blessed man enslaved : 
 
 To see him then on yonder caravan 
 
 Of rolling flame, persuades me that they raved, 
 
 As theologues most usually do, 
 
 When speculating about False and True. 
 
 ffiltp\)i&to$ty\tz. 
 
 General George Monk, first Duke of Albemarle, 
 Reynolds and Armstrong, hellish-hearted spies, 
 Sinon, the perjurer Oates, whose currish snarl 
 Frights cut- throat Castlereagh, by whom he lies ; 
 Julian of Spain, a vile rude-fashioned carle, 
 Traitors of every clime and time and size 
 Take rank round Judas, forming such a gang 
 Of villains as the Devil himself might hang. 
 
 The vacant corners, labelled as you see, 
 
 With names of destined owners, yet alive, 
 
 Will soon be filled — this gapes for Lady B., 
 
 That beacon unto all who wish to wive ; 
 
 Cold traitress, in whose heart, like the Dead Sea, 
 
 No warmth or life was ever seen ; this hive 
 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 303 
 
 Holds Shrewsbury's Countess, with a gang un reckoned 
 Of beauties from the court of Charles the Second. 
 
 The damned ones you see passing, herd in flocks, 
 But hate each other ; royal eunuchs these, 
 And those, vile demagogues ; see black-leg Fox, 
 Whose soul all over seems one foul disease ; 
 Sejanus next ; old Wharton, like an ox 
 In size, young Gracchus, Aristocrates, 
 Cleon, Wilkes, Hunt, Cade, Tyler, Burleigh, Bute, 
 Liverpool, Danton, growling like a brute. 
 
 Another friend of Jupiter's — his brat 
 
 By Madam Plota, Tantalus, I mean — 
 
 Was once the tenant of this verdant plat 
 
 Of moss, where much he suffered from the spleen, 
 
 Because he stole his father's favourite cat, 
 
 And looked on Ganymede with glance obscene, 
 
 And was a very saucy, blackguard fellow, 
 
 Whose petulant tongue seemed only made to bellow. 
 
 Admitted to the banquets of the gods, 
 He scorned all decency and shocked all eyes, 
 Spite of his father's friendly winks and nods, 
 He spewed forth oceans of such beastly lies, 
 As would disgust the dullest country clods ; 
 No wonder that they served him in this guise, 
 And sent him here to thirst and hunger doomed, 
 Mid food and drink ne'er meant to be consumed. 
 
 Trees loaded with the most delicious fruit, 
 Nectar, ambrosia, grape, and purple peach. 
 Waters that murmured like the Orphean lute, 
 And clear as crystal gushed within his reach, 
 But ever and anon a hellish hoot 
 Of laughter scared him, as he grasped at each, 
 
364 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And food and water vanished from his lip, 
 While he fell howling 'neath Alecto's whip. 
 
 At other times he saw a monstrous rock 
 Suspended o'er his head, and almost falling, 
 A sight that gave the wretch so dire a shock 
 That Hell's extremes re-echoed with his squalling ; 
 But yet it fell not — 'twas the fiend's arch mock 
 Placed it there, for he loved to see him sprawling 
 Low like a beast and striving to escape 
 The weight terrific toppling o'er his nape. 
 
 After long years of torment, respite came 
 At last, and he was suffered to go free : 
 I know not what blest company can claim 
 His presence now, or what is their degree. 
 He was succeeded in his seat of shame 
 By one of Sodom's sons — the wretch you see, 
 King James the First of England, note him well, 
 A fouler miscreant breathes not now in hell. 
 
 He strives you see to dip his burning tongue 
 Into the cooling wave, but as he bends 
 The jagged rock that o'er his shoulders hung 
 Down on his head with crushing weight descends, 
 Now he puts forth his scraggy hands among 
 The tempting fruit that sweetest odour sends, 
 But a grim Fury hales it from his gaze, 
 Or hands him poison in a bloody vase. 
 
 He drinks, he drinks, his entrails are on fire, 
 The murderer drains the poison that he mixed, 
 His eyeballs glare with more than fiendish ire, 
 His inmost life with madness is transfixed, 
 His bursting pores envenomed sweat perspire ; — 
 This beast is like a fool that falls betwixt 
 Two stools ; for whether agonised by thirst 
 Or quenching it ; he is completely cursed. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 365 
 
 ®oetf)e. 
 
 Do my eyes err, or do I really see 
 In yon tall phantom a familiar face? 
 Hofrath Huisgen ! by the gods 'tis he, 
 I never thought to find him in this place — 
 Naked he stands, bound to a cypress tree, 
 And locked within a massive chain's embrace, 
 While a small imp is flaying off his skin, 
 With many a waggish gesture, jump, and grin. 
 
 J&ep!) tstopfjeles. 
 
 You do not err, it is your friend, no less 
 
 A personage indeed ; he's suffering here 
 
 The punishment reserved for all who guess 
 
 Presumptuously of God and Heaven, nor fear 
 
 To combat Deity through foolishness ; 
 
 But, like smart Marsyas, prate, and flout, and jeer. 
 
 Yourfriend said " he found fault with God" — don'tstare- 
 
 If God found fault with him, and sent him where, 
 
 With sundry other similar folks, he's flayed, 
 Kneller the painter, Toland, Thomas Paine, 
 Enceladus, Scotch Hiime, who drove a trade 
 In atheist lore for sacred thirst of gain ; 
 'Tis not for unbelief that here they're laid, 
 For human thought is free and spurns the chain, 
 But for their brags which never did nor could 
 Do any human thing one grain of good. 
 
 These nine black acres of morass which once 
 The giant Titivus covered with his carcase, 
 When the wild vultures fed upon the dunce 
 Who grew as fast as eaten — (faith, a hard case,,) 
 Because it entered in his silly sconce 
 To strip Diana chaste to her cymar-case, 
 
366 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Are covered now with cardinals and popes 
 
 Tied back to back, and hand to hand with ropes. 
 
 Cormorants, vultures, hawks, and hungry owls, 
 
 Devour their sacred vitals, hearts, and livers, 
 
 Tongues, lungs, and other parts that fatten fowls ; — 
 
 See how they tear their flesh away in slivers, 
 
 They evidently have no fear of cowls, 
 
 Or else they'd hardly munch those sin-forgivers, 
 
 "Who having raked, raped, robbed, crammed, drank, and 
 
 lied, 
 Into owls' meat most properly subside. 
 
 The papists, when they come to hell, at first 
 Think what they see is all a base delusion, 
 And won't believe that popes in paradise nurst 
 And cardinals could come to such confusion ; 
 Fired with the sight for vengeance dread they thirst, 
 Till slowly by degrees, their brains' obtusion, 
 Or dulness rather, wears away, and then 
 They find their Holinesses were but men, 
 
 I wish to Styx you mortals would read history, 
 
 Sacred, profane, and eke ecclesiastical, 
 
 'Twould serve to clear up many a scheming mystery 
 
 That makes you act like knaves or dupes fantastical; 
 
 At present, all that's done in courts consistory, 
 
 Vaticans, churches, makes enthusiastical 
 
 Or mad the great majority of people, 
 
 Who think that God dwells only in a steeple — 
 
 Who think if men write Rev. before their names, 
 They're straight transformed from sinners into saints, 
 And that when nuns are made of giggling dames, 
 They're blessed virgins since they don't use paints; 
 Egad ! they little dream what waggish games 
 They play to make amends for some restraints, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 307 
 
 Dante, Erasmus, Rabelais, who knew well 
 Their wanton tricks, unscrupulously tell. 
 
 Atheists who made war with heaven lie here, 
 Crushed under mountains by the flaming bolt 
 Of God, as once the sons of Cselus were. 
 And just it is that he who thus writes dolt 
 Upon his brows, and meets with mock and sneer 
 The Omniscient Pan, should for his false revolt 
 Suffer as well as us who did no worse, 
 And bear the brands of The Eternal Curse. 
 
 Their horrid blood produces vipers, snakes, 
 
 And many other wormlike crawling things, 
 
 More nauseous than Fleet Ditch, or fever jakes, 
 
 Or than the souls of all the Stuart kings : 
 
 I see your face grow pale, your body quakes — 
 
 In all your voyages and. wayfarings 
 
 You ne'er such slimy monsters saw before 
 
 As these, produced from unbelievers' gore. 
 
 Where are the Titans ? where the lordly Giants 
 Who once possessed these regions? Is the race 
 Extinct, or exiled ? • 
 
 ^epljtstopfjeles, 
 
 No — where yon star lightens 
 The purple sphere, you'll find their dwelling-place; 
 As vulgar minnows do not rank with Tritons, 
 Or great leviathans consort with dace, 
 So — 'tis ordained, the pigmies of these times 
 Should dwell apart from them in separate climes. 
 
 The bridge close by, that arches o'er the river, 
 Whose whirling eddies, black and foul, roll on, 
 Till, lost in utter darkness, is receiver 
 Of many confident knaves, that tread upon 
 
368 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Its paths delusive, till they sink for ever 
 Into the boiling billows, and are gone 
 The way all spirits go who try to cross, 
 Forgetting that their souls are so much dross. 
 
 Under that river's bottom lies deep hell, 
 Over the river hangs the mystic bridge, 
 Thin as the weakest web that forms the cell 
 Of the poor spider ; weak, the smallest midge 
 Can shatter it to fragments ; strange to tell, 
 I've seen ten thousand spirits on its ridge, 
 Standing securely ; but they were of those 
 To whom not Lucifer's self dare shew his nose. 
 
 But the choice knaves whose fall I named at first, 
 Secure in pride, with faitli perhaps in masses, 
 Buoyed up too by their priests, whose lies accurst 
 Send here a number that belief surpasses, 
 Bushing across, with a most holy thirst 
 For paradise and pleasure, slip like asses 
 Into the murky gulfj and, shrilly squalling 
 For angels' aid, are caught by devils falling. 
 
 Here's a catastrophe most truly quizzical, 
 
 The rascals' rage is lost in their amazement ; 
 
 Nought in creation, spiritual or physical, 
 
 Can give you an idea of their abasement: 
 
 They talk at first, but suddenly get phtisical. 
 
 The brimstone stops their breath ; a kind of casement 
 
 Opes in the river, letting them drop through it 
 
 Into a fire that quickly melts their suet. 
 
 The daughters of Danaus stand before you, 
 Who killed their husbands on the wedding-night ; 
 But with the bloody tale 'twere vain to bore you : 
 The beldames blush at their disgraceful plight, 
 And look as if they would, but can't, implore you, 
 To free them from the toil which Hecat's spite 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 369 
 
 Imposes, to draw water in deep buckets 
 Bottomless, and for which they get no ducats. 
 
 They stand exposed to view upon a hill, 
 From which the water is discharged ; and never 
 Can they descend until their tubs they fill, 
 Which seems, in truth, a very vain endeavour; 
 However, 'tis commanded — they must swill 
 The bitter draught for ever and for ever ; 
 I wish some earthly wives were here, to take 
 A lesson, ne'er their husbands' hearts to break. 
 
 This is a very pretty punishment 
 
 For these, and for such ladies as infringe 
 
 The sixth commandment, who are likewise shent 
 
 With every vileness that can cause a twinge 
 
 In their lewd spirits ; madly they lament ; 
 
 The Furies with their horsewhips soundly swinge, 
 
 And urge them on to fill unbottomed tubs, 
 
 Protesting loudly their gallants were scrubs. 
 
 Here is the Lernsean Hydra, which Alcides 
 Slaughtered, well-armed with many a serpent-head ; 
 Here are the mares of Diomede (not Tydides), 
 All upon women, men, and children fed ; 
 Here's the wild bull of Crete, whose dearest pride is 
 To toss those souls of Mammon, and of lead, 
 Who pay no reverence but to gold and rank, 
 And scorn Messias' want of cash in bank. 
 
 Crossing this river, branching from the Styx, 
 And black and putrid like its parent stream, 
 We see an lbland, bright and shining; fix 
 Your eyes upon it — start not — 'tis no dream. 
 
 Goen>. 
 Mephisto, this is one of your best tricks. 
 
 B B 
 
370 A NEW PANTOMIME, 
 
 No trick at all, good sir. 
 
 A golden gleam 
 Plays on the water's surface from that isle, 
 Where three enchanting virgins sing and smile. 
 
 Their hyacinthine hairs in fragrance flow 
 Adown their necks, as silver pillars white ; 
 Their pouting bosoms outshine mountain snow, 
 Or lilies opening to the morning light. 
 
 jjftepijtstop^les. 
 
 Nay, my good fellow, turn your eyes below 
 Their waists, and see what meets your anxious sight : 
 A feathered belly, ending in a tail, 
 Large as a line-of-battle ship's foresail. 
 
 ; Tis false — I see a waist and tapering limbs 
 More dazzling white than ivory, or the moon, 
 When sailing in the purple heaven, she dims 
 The brightest stars ; the rosy light of June 
 Beams from their slightest motion ; heavenly hymns, 
 Breathed to the music of the sweet kanoon, 
 Salute my ravished ears — they smile, they sing; 
 Oh ! bear me hither, on thine outspread wing. 
 
 f$tepf)fetopf)£h>8. 
 'Tis certain, sin has mystified your eyes, 
 Or else you'd ne'er commit mistakes like these ; 
 The witches whom you thus would idolise, 
 And worship, doubtless, upon bended knees, 
 Are monsters, fed on blood, who thus disguise 
 Their bestial ugliness 'neath masques that please: — 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 371 
 
 They are the Sirens — oh, sweet sir, you start! 
 The blood runs frighted to your panting heart. 
 
 They live alone upon this barren island, 
 Seeming to sinners as they seemed to you, 
 Maids of immortal beauty ; shameful guile and 
 Besotted ignorance tempt the gazing crew 
 Of dead voluptuaries — they leave the high land 
 Where we now stand, ana* make for yonder stew, 
 Gloating already in a dream of rapture — 
 They wade across, and form an easy capture. 
 
 These gentle virgins, who have talons sharper 
 Than swords or halberds, welcome each new comer, 
 And clasp him round ; the one who acts the harper 
 Lays by her cithara, and, like a drummer, 
 Belabours him with blows ; the veriest carper 
 Against humanity must laud this thrummer 
 For using every art, and trick, and knack, 
 That torturers love in making her attack.^ 
 
 Next comes the gold-haired lady with the flute ; 
 She seizes the poor wretch, and so bethuraps 
 The shrieking booby, bent on amorous suit, 
 Instead of love he falls into the dumps ; 
 Meanwhile the third, that blue-eyed looking brute, 
 Sings merrily her song, and laughs and jumps, 
 And when the visitor is hacked to bits, 
 She simpers, and demands her perquisites. 
 
 ¥ou know, of course, the story of Ulysses, 
 Told by that wandering beggar, blind old Homer, 
 When he passed by those naked wicked misses, 
 They sang a song to win that wily roamer, 
 Inviting him to share their dainty kisses — 
 When he, whose name of " wise" was no misnomer, 
 Waxed his men's ears, and tied his body fast, 
 Both arms and legs, to the swift galley's mast. 
 
372 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And so he heard their beauty-breathing strain : 
 u Glorious Ulysses, honoured star of Greece, 
 Turn hither your light bark" — they sang in vain, 
 The charmers might as well have held their peace ; 
 Enraged at being thus treated with disdain, 
 The silly ladies soon threw up their lease, 
 And drowned themselves, and so descended here, 
 Where they're no better off, I igreatly fear. 
 
 Scylla, the ugliest prodigy of all 
 
 The monsters, male and female, we have seen, 
 
 Stands right before you, covered with the scall 
 
 Of leprosy, which Circe the venene 
 
 Infused into the crystal waterfall 
 
 Where the poor beauty bathed ; for, like a queen 
 
 Of loveliness, she trod the earth, until 
 
 Doctored by Circe's powerful poisonous pill. 
 
 Scarce had she leaped into the silver bath, 
 Letting the shining waters kiss her waist, 
 When she perceived her rival's mortal wrath, 
 Who feared she felt inclined to grow unchaste 
 With one she loved herself; to close the path 
 To such proceedings, and to keep straightlaced 
 Poor Scylla's modesty, from head to feet 
 She changed her to a monster most complete. 
 
 Her body was transformed to fierce black dogs, 
 Which barked incessantly with maddened jaws ; 
 Twelve legs instead of two, shaped like a hog's, 
 She then beheld, with nails as sharp as saws ; 
 Six heads grew next, each uglier than a frog's, 
 Protruding slimy serpents from their craws, 
 
 And hissing dreadfully their venoms round 
 
 Whereat dismayed, she plunged in, and was drowned. 
 
 Since then the lady helps to punish those 
 Who poison people through revenge or lust, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 373 
 
 Or avarice or hate ; her fury grows 
 Fiercer the more into her den we thrust : 
 When Circe fell into her last repose, 
 And came to hell, w r e gave her, as was just, 
 To Scylla, who dissected her all over, 
 More cruelly than any Smithfield drover. 
 
 Goetfje. 
 This punishment, Mephisto, seems unfair ; 
 Unhappy Scylla guiltless was of crime 
 But that of suicide in sheer despair. 
 
 ;Ptepljtstopf)eIesi. 
 And that is quite enough at any time 
 To damn for ever those who rashly dare 
 To rush unsummoned to the thrones sublime 
 Of Him who pardons not such reckless deed ; — 
 And therefore wisely have the Fates decreed, 
 
 That self-destroyers for a time should learn 
 
 They have no power of life and death ; the right 
 
 Belongs to God alone, who can be stern 
 
 As He in mercy is most Infinite ; 
 
 If you were pure, I think you might discern 
 
 From Scylla's looks a certain appetite 
 
 For certain vices, which I need not mention, 
 
 But which have brought about her long detention. 
 
 'Twas not her suicide alone that brought her 
 
 Into our clutches, and has kept her there 
 
 For all these centuries ; acts of mere self-slaughter, 
 
 Through hunger, terror, madness, love, or care, 
 
 Like Chatterton's, for instance, or the daughter 
 
 Of Cato, Portia, noble, wise, and rare, 
 
 Do not entail the miseries of damnation, 
 
 But take some years to bring about inundation. 
 
374 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Her body lay near Sicily many a year, 
 
 Gifted with horrid motion ; those who passed 
 
 The place, if vigilant helmsmen did not steer, 
 
 Were wrecked, or drowned, or (worse) were tempest-cast 
 
 Into her arms ; and, shrieking mad with fear, 
 
 Were torn by dogs, or swallowed down those vast 
 
 Six heads of woman, lion, gorgon, dragon, 
 
 Grampus, and dog, w T hile one might drain a flagon. 
 
 Her triple rows of shark-like teeth made quick 
 
 And certain execution of her men, 
 
 While her eyes flashed with fires as catholic 
 
 And hot as those they used in Lisbon, when 
 
 They burned lewd infidels ; but I grow sick 
 
 Even as I gaze upon her, and her den 
 
 Of yelping dogs, that shriek around her womb, 
 
 And growl and kennel in that living tomb. 
 
 How she came here I know not ; some say Peter, 
 
 Pitying the many holy Roman souls 
 
 Whom she devoured, became the chief entreater 
 
 Of Pluto, whom he bribed with good pistoles 
 
 To take her to himself; to make it sweeter, 
 
 He threw into the bargain several shoals 
 
 Of lazy mendicant monks ; the compact pleased 
 
 Satan, and travellers are no longer seized. 
 
 See Cardinal Bellarmine, who his soul bequeathed 
 
 One half to Mary and one half to Christ ; 
 
 Both shunned the legacy ; so the prince is sheathed 
 
 In yonder frozen lake, and gently iced. 
 
 Here is the emperor's consul-horse, enwreathed 
 
 In fire ; and here's himself, completely spiced 
 
 And stewed ; here groans poor Peter Vander Aa 
 
 Of Leyden, who wrote volumes every day. 
 
 Ascending farther up these slimy banks, 
 We stand upon a bleak broad ocean shore, 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 375 
 
 That stretches onward, outward ; shrilly twanks 
 The hoarse and sable wave, whose ceaseless roar 
 Resounds like wild hogs muttering in their franks ; 
 The strand is dense with poisonous hellebore, 
 Mephitic fumes boil up from the black waves, 
 That howl like she-wolves 'gainst those iron caves. 
 
 And myriad million boats of every size 
 And shape from Noah's ark to Nelson's ship, 
 Loaclen as thick with men as earth with lies, 
 Over its moaning billows tack or clip 
 In darkness ever ; winds blow, tempests rise, 
 And like lashed demons the deep whirlpools rip, 
 Letting their fury forth, and rather frightening 
 The pallid ghosts, who pray to heaven for lightning. 
 
 But lightning comes not, so they toss and toss, 
 Wrecked, sunk, o'erwhelmed, and frantic ; never 
 
 drowned, 
 They could no more be lost than the true cross, 
 Which, luckily for Christian Rome, was found : 
 These fellows form the very scum and dross 
 Of human kind, with which all creeds abound ; — 
 But 'twas not to see them I brought you here, 
 But two sea-monsters which are floundering near. 
 
 The first is that which, after having eaten 
 Some thousand ^Ethiopians, fixed his glance 
 At last upon Andromeda, to sweeten 
 The former dinners he had had ; but chance 
 Brought Perseus by, a hero never beaten 
 By any knight that wielded sword or lance, 
 Who changed the monster into a cold rock, 
 And hastened then the lady to unlock. 
 
 A formidable beast the creature seems, 
 Ten leagues in length his spiral tail extends, 
 Making amid the watery waste such seams 
 As Boreas does when from the north he bends ; 
 
376 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 From "his wide blowers tuns of brine he steams, 
 Which, when it on some hapless barque descends, 
 Upsets them right into the monster's throat, 
 Whose belly forms thenceforth their sole great coat. 
 
 How came he here, if he was changed to stone ? 
 
 A silly question — 'twas his flesh was changed. 
 
 How came you here ? Your muscle, blood, and bone 
 
 Are from your soul and spirit now estranged, 
 
 And lie in Weimar. Who said men alone 
 
 Lived after death ? All beasts, both sound and manged, 
 
 Have souls, and occupy their proper station ; 
 
 You doubt — go, sceptic, read the Revelation. 
 
 The other water-snake, with horrent main, 
 And eyes like furnaces, and brazen teeth, 
 Hooked like a huge and iron chimney crane, 
 And strong enough to grind a rock beneath 
 Their weight o'ervvhelming, was that beast profane 
 Who hoped the nymph Hesione to seethe 
 In his deep pot that yawned for savoury pelf, 
 Only that Hercules jumped in himself. 
 
 On a tall mountain jutting o'er the sea 
 Alcides stood ; and as the monster swam 
 Towards the fair maid in armour cap-a-pie, 
 He hurled himself as one might hurl a dram 
 Down the dry gullet ; much amazed was he 
 (The beast, not Hercules) with such a cram ; 
 But the bold hero tore him like a Turk, 
 Remaining three days in to do the work. 
 
 On the fourth day, like Jonas, he came out 
 The water- dragon soon gave up the ghost ; 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 377 
 
 The hero who was very glad, no doubt, 
 
 To quit the belly of his hydra host, 
 
 Married the maid to Telamon, his scout ; 
 
 Who took her home to Greece with many a boast 
 
 Degrading to the stately Trojan pride, 
 
 Which made rake Paris steal an Argive bride. 
 
 And so the siege of Troy from this took rise, 
 Which ended in there being an end of Troy ; 
 A price too dear for such an hackneyed prize 
 As Helen was to Ida's shepherd boy. 
 The beast remained with us to exercise 
 Its talents, to smell blood and eke destroy ; 
 And, with its comrade, now infests this ocean, 
 Hunting to death false traders in devotion. 
 
 A monster, sprung from Typhon, dwells not far 
 From this ; we'll take a short cut down the cave 
 To visit him. 
 
 These quarters smell of tar 
 And brimstone and the ordure of the grave. 
 
 iftqrfjfetopSelrs. 
 Pshaw ! here's some aromatic vinegar ; 
 I thought you were more dare-devil and brave, 
 Than thus to mind a very common stink, 
 No worse than what proceeds from any link. 
 
 Here stands the prodigy we came to visit — 
 Renowned Chimsera, vomiting flame ; three-headed, 
 A lion, goat, and dragon ; one might kiss it ; 
 I wonder how it came to be so dreaded. 
 
 Then seize the lucky moment — never miss it ; 
 You and the monster would look well if wedded. 
 
378 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 j^tepijfstopfjeles. 
 Nay, 'twas for you that pleasure I intended. 
 
 (Sottyt. 
 No, do't yourself— I shall not feel offended. 
 
 iftUpljfetopfjeleB. 
 Bellerophon was certainly a varlet 
 To kill so beautiful a beast, so mild 
 And gentle ; but from such a shameless harlot 
 As queen Eurymede, whom all defiled, 
 Nought good could come 5 the Woman clothed in 
 
 scarlet 
 "Was innocent as any little child 
 Compared with her ; and so Chimaara thought 
 When swallowing her, although a thing of nought. 
 
 I wish you'd touch the animal : he looks 
 
 As if he knew you, loved you ; prithee do ; 
 
 You can't believe how partial he's to books, 
 
 He reads the German authors through and through ; 
 
 He dives into their darkest, deepest nooks 
 
 Of mysticism, as one bores bamboo, 
 
 To turn it to some use ; and always finds 
 
 Some wonder worthy of Teutonic minds. 
 
 &oetp. 
 How you can hope this sycophantic prate 
 Will bend me to your purpose makes me wonder. 
 
 Jftepfjts topples. 
 Well — if you won't shake paws we shall not wait, — 
 I almost weep to tear such friends asunder; 
 You and Chimsera thus to separate. 
 Believe me, John, you've made a stupid blunder. 
 
 Sir, if I have, there's no one else will rue it. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 379 
 
 A loud. 
 
 fftrpJjtstopfjdea (aside). 
 Yes — but / will, who failed to make you do it. 
 
 However we sha'nt waste our precious time 
 By quarrelling on the matter ; — on then, on, 
 There is no arguing with you men of rhyme, 
 No more than with a haughty Spanish don. 
 
 What odious place is this knee deep with slime? 
 
 fftepfn'stopfjtles. 
 It leads us down to Cyclop Street, dear John, 
 Where you shall meet the giant one-eyed pack, man, 
 Brontes and Polyphemus and Pyracmon. 
 
 Steropes, Harpes, and some hundred others, 
 Tall as Norwegian pines, and stout, and fat, 
 Although in hell ; the huge Cyclopean brothers 
 Endure no punishment, but feed and chat ; 
 Exempt from care and all terrestrial pothers, 
 They have but one employment here, and that 
 Is to repress such spirits as might grow 
 Inclined to raise rebellion here below. 
 
 When Tyler, Cade, and patriots of that kidney 
 Came down to hell, they had not been here long 
 Ere they declared 'twas villainous to bid knee 
 Bend to The Pow r ers of Hell, they swore 'tw r as w 7 rong, 
 And would not do't ; Vane, Hampden, Pym, or Sidney, 
 Never declaimed as did this blatant throng 
 Who raised a furious rabble such as Peter 
 The Hermit led, described in Tasso's metre. 
 
 The off-scourings of all Hell's vilest alleys, 
 Pimps, prostitutes, pickpockets, burglars, bums, 
 Hangmen, assassins, monks, and slaves from galleys, 
 Of all the damned, the very dregs and scums 
 
380 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 They summoned to their side from caves and valleys, 
 And marched along with bagpipe^, fifes, and drums 
 To Satan's Palace, threatening fierce sedition, 
 Demanding freedom — or his deposition. 
 
 Satan, who knows a trick or two of fence, 
 
 Had learned by spies the nature of the movement, 
 
 Too wise to treat it with indifference, 
 
 But nobly scorning the proposed improvement, 
 
 He called the Cyclops, in battalion dense 
 
 They came — by no means to the great approvement 
 
 Of the base bragging demagogues who swore 
 
 'Twas tyrantlike to shed the people's gore. 
 
 The Cyclops, some five thousand, formed in line, 
 And charged with long terrific ashen spikes ; 
 The greasy rabble, like their kinsfolk swine, 
 Awed by the glittering of those bristly pikes, 
 Fled in dismay ere one could number nine ; 
 Their mangled bodies filled the streams and dikes 
 For miles around, and never since that day 
 Have they done aught but tremble and obey. 
 
 Satan since then his body-guard retains : 
 
 Behold the one-eyed warriors and bow down ; 
 
 These are the troops with which to make campaigns, 
 
 These are the soldiers to storm fort and town ; 
 
 Oh, for one hour of these on Poland's plains, 
 
 Or Ireland's or Italia' s, and a crown 
 
 The conqueror's prize ! a crown of light and glory, 
 
 For which I'd leave " the first Whig/' and turn Tory, 
 
 But I'll not chatter politics, we'll talk 
 
 Of something else : how Polyphemus eyes you, 
 
 As if you were a dove and he a hawk ; 
 
 Were you alone his conduct would surprise you ; 
 
 Taking you for some strayed and silly gawk, 
 
 He'd probably knock down and sacrifice you 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 381 
 
 To his dear belly, which he worships now 
 As much as when Ulysses bored his brow. 
 
 There's no use waiting further ; he's a neighbour 
 
 Whom it is rather dangerous to be near, 
 
 Especially since he assumed the sabre, 
 
 And o'er his giant troops 'gan domineer ; 
 
 He never dances now or plays the tabor, 
 
 Or flute, as once for Galatea dear, 
 
 But spends his time in flogging, swearing, drilling, 
 
 Reviewing, hunting rebels down, and swilling. 
 
 Besides, he is so very old a friend 
 
 Of mine, that if he asked me to give you 
 
 To him for lunch, I'd scarcely wish to offend 
 
 The general by refusing. What to do 
 
 I should be puzzled, for the gods intend 
 
 A different fate. — We'll cautiously slip through 
 
 This cypress grove, where all is drear and dark 
 
 And still, save echoes of the hell-dog's bark. 
 
 Continual quarrels, enmities, and blows, 
 Strifes, butcheries, robberies, and depredations, 
 Employ these spirits ; foes engage with foes 
 In deadlier fight than those of fiercest nations. 
 Hot lusts arm others when their frenzy glows, 
 And whirls them a on such strange untold stuprations, 
 As even I, with all my devil wit, 
 Would rather from my narrative omit. 
 
 Perhaps you'll ask me why it is The Elohim 
 Permit such monstrous scenes, or damn at all? 
 Such queries might become an Epic poem, 
 Lucretius-like, or Atheists when they scrawl. 
 The Eternal Powers — omitting further proem — 
 Cannot themselves the Destinies enthrall. 
 Necessity constrains them ; Sin and Crime 
 Must be atoned for somewhere, at some time. 
 
382 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Omnipotence itself is bound by laws ; 
 
 It cannot pardon hideous vice ; its soul 
 
 Is virgin pure ; and hence you trace the cause 
 
 Why of necessity it feels control. 
 
 It does not thrust those knaves to Hell's hot jaws, 
 
 They thrust themselves into the Hadean hole ; 
 
 The devils they worshipped while on earth they follow 
 
 From habit still, until they reach Hell's hollow. 
 
 God sends not any man to Hell, no more 
 Than Law sends desperate criminals to jail ; 
 Their own base natures send them — 'twere a bore 
 To lengthen further such a plain true tale. 
 We've now seen all ; 'tis time to make for shore ; 
 I'll shew you next, my Weimar nightingale, 
 The Palace of our Emperor; 'tis close by, 
 To which King Solomon's was -but a sty. 
 
 But ere we quit these quarters, one fair maid 
 Remains unseen, but whom we ought to see. 
 I don't propose that we should serenade, 
 Or ask her to come out with us to tea. 
 
 What is the name of this Tartaric jade? 
 
 Jftep^tstopSeles. 
 Be quiet, sir, she's of a dynasty 
 High and exalted in the roll of Fame, — 
 Here are her lodgings ; you can read her name. 
 
 Deep in this chasm of frowning rock the Sphinx 
 Burrows, and still propounds deceitful riddles 
 To whatsoever luckless Shadow slinks 
 Beside her cave. If answered well, she tiddles 
 The flattered ghost, but if the fellow blinks 
 The question, and tries artful tricks, and wheedles 
 To 'scape her, woe indeed to him ! He finds 
 He might as well attempt to catch the winds. 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 383 
 
 The savage seizes him, and sends him down 
 
 Her throat capacious ; so he lives in jail. 
 
 Her stomach now holds thousands, whose renown 
 
 In mathematics was of no avail. 
 
 Laplace himself, behaving like a clown 
 
 In tempting her, was swallowed head and tail, 
 
 And dwells in darkness, cursing the hard lot 
 
 That sent him wandering to the monster's grot. 
 
 Her head and breasts are like a virgin's fair, 
 Her wings are like a vulture's, black and broad ; 
 Her body, like a dog's, is shagged with hair ; 
 Her tail is like a serpent's, fanged with fraud ; 
 Her paws are lion-like, and well can snare 
 Unhappy he whom once their talons clawed : 
 Her voice is like a woman's, sweet and soft, 
 Or angel's, w T hich you poets hear so oft. 
 
 Dost wish to question her ? For if you do, 
 She's always ready with enigmas fine. 
 
 I'd rather leave that luxury to you, 
 
 Who have more cleverness than all the Nine. 
 
 What ! does your courage thus desert you ? pooh ! 
 Don't be so rude to one so feminine. 
 We'll talk to her — Ho, Madame Sphinx, come forth, 
 And give a specimen of what you're worth. 
 
 J5f$ttt£. 
 
 Who calls me ? 
 
 Goetfje. 
 Mephistopheles ! 
 
 fHepfn'stopijeUs. 
 
 No, no ; 
 'Twas you that wanted her, not I indeed. 
 
384 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 I beg your pardon Meph, you know 'tis so. 
 
 Split**. 
 
 I recognise Sir Voland. What ? s your need ? 
 
 Give us a riddle, ma'am, before we go. 
 And do it quickly. 
 
 Ay, with wit and speed. 
 
 gpfjtns. 
 
 Here is a riddle, which, until unravelled, 
 
 The credulous sons of Adam must be gravelled. 
 
 THE RIDDLE. 
 
 There was a smart Bastard of Folly and Lies, 
 
 Who rode a pale horse through the stars in the skies, 
 
 And traced on the moon words that puzzled the wise. 
 
 There was a dark Woman who guided a Snake 
 Across a wide ocean of waters, and spake ; 
 Then sank in the heart of a bottomless lake. 
 
 There was an old Dotard who sat on a throne, 
 
 Environed with dragons about like a zone ; 
 
 A She-wolf came in and transformed him to stone. 
 
 A pause. 
 There was a Black Lion who lived in a star, 
 That glittered ten millions of aions afar, 
 Who sought a new planet in eagle-drawn car. 
 
 The lightning-winged Coursers that prance through the 
 
 air, 
 Beheld his avatar with rage and despair, 
 And hurled the Black Lion and chariot — oh, where? 
 
THE ABYSS OF HELL. 335 
 
 Then rose a strong Angel and wept at his fall, 
 
 And he shouted ; the Steeds fell down dead at his call, 
 
 He descended to free the Black Lion from thrall. 
 
 A pause. 
 The Brightest of Stars was transfused into Three, 
 And a shower of red wormwood fell into the sea, 
 Which disgorged from its crystalline caverns a Key. 
 
 The Three were transfused to a Sun, in w r hose light 
 Vanished darkness and madness, and sorrow and blight, 
 When a Tiger came down, and the Kosmos was night. 
 
 The Key sank again in the ocean so deep, 
 
 There was silence and wonder more awful than sleep, 
 
 The white-robed sat down by their sweet harps to weep. 
 
 A pause, 
 A blast of red thunder, a shock of red flame, 
 Twelve Stars fell from heaven ; the Tiger grew tame, 
 The riders came forth with the might of The Name. 
 
 The scorpions were there, with the she-wolves and beasts 
 From the souths, from the norths, from the wests, from 
 
 the easts, 
 With wavings of banners and chauntings of priests. 
 
 But they perished— the Stars and the Sun shone once 
 
 more, 
 And the Planets knelt down at the feet of the Four, 
 The whole Universe circling around to adore. 
 
 Mephistopheles falls senseless. The Furies bear off Goethe 
 to the invisible Hells. 
 
 END OF ACT FIRST. 
 
 c C 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 CDlofon. 
 
 Bless me ! I never got so great a fright 
 
 In all my life, since I was whipped at school, 
 
 As when I viewed that horrid scene of Hell, 
 
 And saw the fire-breathed Furies bear him off 
 
 To places which 'twere blasphemy to name 
 
 To ears polite, like yours, my noble audience. 
 
 And certes, Vd be most extremely shocked, 
 
 Did I not hear our gentle Bard rehearse 
 
 This finest of all Pantomines on earth, 
 
 And learned from him, that when a cycle passed, 
 
 He would himself go forth to free the Master 
 
 From the embraces of those wanton women, 
 
 Who snatched him so ungraciously away. 
 
 As to Mephisto, he is tranced in dreams, — 
 
 I know not when he'll wake. Bejoice ye, therefore, 
 
 And go on sinning while he takes his nap ; 
 
 For ten to one you'll thus escape scot-free, 
 
 Without the slightest risk of being recorded 
 
 In the red-mantled gentleman's black books. 
 
 Make haste, then, sin away, and lose no time, 
 
 Each practising his fondest, wickedest vice ; — 
 
 Gentlemen, you — or Ladies, you begin ! 
 
 You pause — what matter if it be found out ? 
 You can repent when the dull farce is ended. 
 The worst of us, who're sorry for our sins, 
 Can hope to win quick pardon. Don't you know 
 That thieves and liars who repent when dying 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. ' t^87 
 
 Pass into heaven with a hop, skip, jump, 
 While noble sages, poets, heroes, thinkers, 
 If they believe not, tumble into Hades? — 
 A very proper ending for such dolts. 
 
 Well, if you will not take a fool's advice 
 
 On matters of theology like these, 
 
 Hearken at least to what I say on plays, 
 
 And more especially on this before you, 
 
 Which shall be henceforth called The Pantomine 
 
 Of Pantomines — the first and best of all. 
 
 Virtue alone is Beauty. He who dwells 
 
 With her and Truth, is god even while on earth. 
 
 Nature comes next. Worship her day and night 
 
 With the pure worship of an acolyte, 
 
 Who trains himself for scenes of heavenly bliss, 
 
 Where only shall he see her perfected, 
 
 And when the solemn hour by PAN appointed 
 
 Comes, and we mingle with the Gods, our souls 
 
 Shall then, attracted to those essences 
 
 Or attributes of Beauty which we followed 
 
 While in the flesh, remain w 7 ith them for ever, 
 
 True as the magnet .to the heavenly pole. 
 
 Some scamps there in the gallery — shabby fellows, 
 Begin to hiss, and blow their beastly catcalls, 
 Asking me sneeringly, Pray, what is Soul ? 
 I'll tell you what I think, but only listen ; 
 Or if you won't — hence to some stew or bagnio, 
 For that's the only place by which your spirits 
 Seem magnetised ; but those who stop w 7 ith me 
 Will hear some things 'twill do them good to hear, 
 Not the less useful because plainly spoken. 
 
 He who lives truly does not study life, 
 But rather something lovelier than life, 
 
388 THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 Which dwells apart from it, and far beyond, 
 For life is either sensual pleasure, such 
 As the great mass of human kind pursue 
 With wolf-like ardour, or a spiritual solace, 
 And therefore opposite to things of sense. 
 The Glutton and the Sage pursue two things, 
 Wide as the poles asunder ; one all grossness, 
 The other sphered in light, itself all light, 
 On which he meditates, for which he sighs. — 
 Which is the noblest object of the chase ? 
 
 The Glutton has on earth the heaven he seeks. 
 The Sage can ne'er attain his heaven on earth. 
 It, and mere mortal things, he views with scorn, 
 And weans himself the more the more he lives 
 From wants corporeal — in a word, from life. 
 Fine gardens, horses, raiment, cosily houses, 
 Things that conduce to evil, not to goodness, 
 Women and wine, and dainties of the taste, 
 Or touch, or ear, or eye, he covets not, 
 If he indeed be truly a true Sage. 
 His life is but a school wherein he studies 
 How he may die, or how may worthier grow 
 Of that fair spiritual Idea which beams 
 For ever o'er him like a beckoning Star. 
 
 The true pursuit in life is therefore that 
 Which cares for Spirit rather than for Senses. 
 Spirit is death, and Senses animal life, 
 Hence the true study of man's life is death. 
 
 Wisdom and Truth can never be acquired 
 
 While man is housed in clay. Even with our eyes 
 
 We see not accurately ; with our ears 
 
 We hear not perfectly ; and if sight, hearing, 
 
 Only deceive us, all our other senses 
 
 Must needs do likewise, they being all inferior 
 
 To eye and ear. The Soul then reasons best, 
 
THE PROSCEiMUM. 389 
 
 Is most removed from Ignorance and Error, 
 Best follows Truth, when it retires from flesh, 
 Which offers such impediments to its love, 
 And this retirement's only won by death. 
 
 Now what is death? Simply the separation 
 Of soul and body ; of the light from darkness ; 
 Of the true Beautiful from the rank Gross. 
 If wise men, all the days that they have life, 
 Study to win this object, with what rapture 
 Should they not hail the blessed hour that frees 
 The soul from its vile clay ; and thus endow it 
 With the rare power it sighed for long in vain, 
 To dwell in spiritual beauty far from Earth ? 
 
 Are Justice, Beauty, Virtue, Truth, and Love, 
 
 Something or nothing? Surely they are something; 
 
 Yet have we never seen them with our eyes, 
 
 Or held them in pur arms. But if to know them 
 
 Ever be in our destiny, we can 
 
 Attain and know them only when enfranchised 
 
 From the polluting clay which turns our souls 
 
 From things divine to things of grovelling flesh, 
 
 And therefore death must needs be the sole blessing 
 
 Which a true Sage can covet ; life the curse 
 
 From which he longs as from a chain to fly. 
 
 If he has hated and despised the body 
 
 All through his life, and longed for something better, 
 
 Which he can never know while in the body, 
 
 Blissful indeed must be the stroke that frees him 
 
 From his dull despot, bidding him seek Truth. 
 
 But does this dissolution lead to life ? 
 Methinks one says. Does Soul live after Death ? 
 Or is it not dispersed like smoke in air ? 
 Inquiries that must interest us all. 
 
 Nothing can be annihilated. It may change 
 Its shape, and pa:*s into some different form, 
 
390 THE PROSCENIUM. 
 
 But cannot be destroyed. The wood we burn 
 Passes in vapour and rejoins the elements 
 From which it sprang to life in the great forest. 
 Are we not conscious of some power within, 
 Some innate mystical power, of which we know 
 Nothing, but whose effects in life we trace ? 
 Does it love Truth, and all divinest things ? 
 It does. Then, if it loves, 'tis sentient, living, 
 And so exists. But that which once exists 
 Can never be destroyed. Nor can the Soul. 
 
 Material things grow element when resolved. 
 
 Is the soul matter ? Matter cannot love 
 
 Divine abstractions, but still clings to matter. 
 
 Yet even matter purer grows in that 
 
 Which is its death. Will not the soul grow purer, 
 
 By parity of reasoning, and pass 
 
 Into sublimer essence ? Does it dwell 
 
 By the mere force of its own lofty nature 
 
 For years, on Glory, Goodness, and great Heaven, 
 
 And thus refute what every day proclaims, 
 
 That nothing has been made in vain by God ? 
 
 Besides, its will is boundless. It desires 
 
 Immortal things ; its grand ambition soars 
 
 Into eternal space, and longs to be 
 
 Conjoined with it. Were these bestowed in vain ? 
 
 Things of mere flesh sate animals of flesh. 
 
 Man, who is nobler, pants for something new. 
 
 Has he innate ideas ? Sceptics say 
 
 He has not, but is taught all by his senses. 
 
 What senses teach him revelations grand 
 
 Of Justice, Truth, Love, Beauty, Virtue, God ? 
 
 None. Whence it follows that these are innate ; 
 
 And if within our souls even at our birth 
 
 They must have pre-existed and have known them 
 
 In some celestial ante-natal state. 
 
 And thus pure Reason 
 
THE PROSCENIUM. 391 
 
 Drinking Song of the Players, merry-making and carousing 
 in the green-rooms behind. 
 
 Fill, fill all your glasses ! 
 
 Pass the bright liquid around, 
 In the depths of the foaming cup 
 
 The pearls of pleasure are found. 
 Ne'er on a meeting like this 
 Gloom or his minions frown'd. 
 
 As the broad ocean sparkles 
 
 When the beams of the west, 
 Like orient jewels of light, 
 
 On his blue bosom rest, 
 So wine, sunny wine, 
 Brightens and cheers up the breast. 
 
 See, see, how it blushes ! 
 
 Like a nymph whose fond face glows 
 With a purple light, when Pan 
 
 Wakes her from sweet repose ; 
 Or the golden Venus of old, 
 When from the billows she rose. 
 
 A clapping and clinking of glasses heard. 
 
 CDIoton. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen -I beg your pardon ; 
 
 But if there be a thing i'the world I worship, 
 
 It is the grapy flavour of rich claret. 
 
 Ho ! call-boys, ring the bell — the second prologue 
 
 Ends in this place. Quick ! trumpets, drums, and 
 
 fiddles, 
 Waft this fair audience on the strains of music 
 To any Poet's Paradise they fancy. 
 
Act II. Scene I. 
 
 THE POET'S PARADISE. 
 
 Cei)tJT4eUt>. 
 
 As I lay on the yellow stream, 
 A-sailing down the lordly Rhine, 
 Came to me a beauteous Dream, 
 Clothed deep in starry shine. 
 And on the prow It stood alone, 
 Grand and silent, heaven-flown, 
 Till my boat appeared a throne. 
 
 It was in the purple eve, 
 When the autumn vintage flows, 
 And the village maidens weave 
 Wreaths of violet, vine, and rose ; 
 And the sounds of flute and song, 
 From the merry Bacchic throng, 
 Steal the echoing hills among. 
 
 Sweetly, slowly o'er the breast 
 Of the storied Rhine my boat 
 Wandered, like a spirit blest, 
 Through the stars in heaven that float ; 
 Sweetly, slowly, while the air 
 Kissed my eyes and temples bare, 
 As it were a fairy fair. 
 
 Like a vision seen in sleep, 
 When the soul is lapped in bliss ; — 
 Castled rock and crumbling keep 
 Frowning o'er the drear abyss ; 
 
the poet's paradise. 393 
 
 Forest, hamlet, garden, vale, 
 Ruined chapel, mountain, dale, 
 As in some old magic tale. 
 
 And, as I passed these splendours by, 
 And gave my soul up to the God, 
 The mystic Realms of Thought, that lie 
 (Like flowers divine within the pod) 
 Deep in that wondrous sphere of spheres, 
 The soul, were seen with Hopes and Fears, 
 Fancies and Loves, too bright for tears. 
 
 And I beheld the Fairy Things 
 
 Of ancient times, the Fays and Gnomes, 
 
 The Undines in their silvery springs, 
 
 The Oreads in their sylvan homes, 
 
 The Huntsman and the Serpent Maid, 
 
 The Sisters Proud, the Evil Shade, 
 
 Who spurs his stag through briar and glade. 
 
 The Seven Mountains loomed before, 
 The stars lit up their azure crests, 
 Silence enwrapped the haunted shore, 
 The birds were, in their leafy nests. 
 And then methought the Dream arose, 
 And with a voice more sweet than those 
 The bell-bird wakes 
 Amid the lonely Abyssinian lakes, 
 To me his purpose did disclose. 
 
 I come to thee from Isles of Light, 
 Where Beauty shines in may-day youth, 
 And where the gentle Infinite 
 Sits throned in Wisdom, Love, and Truth. 
 I come to thee, and tempt thy lips 
 With this gold cup, which whoso sips, 
 His soul puts off the dark eclipse. 
 
394 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 And disenthralled from earth and cloud, 
 Soars through the Universe of Thought. 
 Take it, and drink. — I rose, and bowed, 
 Before that Phantom-Shape who brought 
 The dazzling cup ; and when I drank, 
 The boat was gone — like Hope, it sank, 
 And I was on the river's bank. 
 
 The stately Dream was by my side, 
 
 It smiled on me a heavenly smile : 
 
 16 Thou hast done well," the Phantom cried, 
 
 " Yet linger still a little while ; 
 
 And thou shalt know why here I came, 
 
 To clothe thy spirit in the flame 
 
 Of thought, and what The Mothers claim. 
 
 There are Three Sisters, living from all time, 
 Star-crowned, star-robed, omniscient, ruling all, 
 The Moirai — shrink not — blench not — throned sublime 
 Above the Dominations ; at their call 
 Creation bows and trembles; Light grows dark 
 In their full presence, and the Powers of Air 
 Shrink into things of nought. Fate-chosen, hark 
 My words — nor shun the bidding that I bear ; 
 The mission that is thine is grand, exalted, rare. 
 
 These mighty Mothers of all things have heard 
 The prayers of One, who for a time, with tears, 
 Has prayed before the Thrones for him w T ho erred 
 And gave up to The Snake his primal years. 
 And they have chosen Thee to seek through Space, 
 Upon the steed divine, with wings of light, 
 Until thou find the Wanderer's torture-place, 
 Deep-fixed in realms of wide and endless night, 
 Whence Thou shalt him unbind, and throne him 'midst 
 the Bright, 
 
the poet's paradise. 395 
 
 In yonder mountains springs a crystal stream, 
 To which the immortal horse of heaven resorts, 
 When the fair Star of Morning sheds his gleam 
 O'er earth, and Ocean's smile of beauty courts. 
 Take thou this golden bridle, magic-woven, 
 And fling it o'er his proud and arching neck, 
 Straight shall the Realms of Space rent up, and, cloven, 
 Reveal the paths from which mere mortals queck ; 
 A Star of Heaven shall o'er thy splendid voyage beck. 
 
 The road divine leads through the upper air, 
 Safely the steed will bear thee, till thou reach 
 The throne of Uriel, the sun's Angel, where 
 Thou shalt receive a spear celestial ; speech 
 Would fail ere I could name its wondrous powers. 
 Armed with its might, securely may'st thou go 
 Where'er thy steed shall turn — Behold, the Hours 
 Of Night are past, and morning's opal glow 
 Will soon light up the mountains. Hence away, 
 The Star thou seekest glitters o'er the dell 
 Where flows the ethereal fount ; a brief delay 
 Were fatal to thee. Mortal, fare thee well." 
 
 The Dream departed like a mist, 
 It vanished in' the sunless air ; 
 Yet, ere it went, methought it kist 
 My lips, as I stood wondering there, 
 Like one upon a mighty sea, 
 Drifted by some casualty, 
 To the whirlpool on his lee. 
 
 But I rose, and looked aloft, 
 Where the light of God 'gan break 
 O'er the world, as sweet and soft 
 As the flower on infant's cheek ; 
 And I felt that I was strong 
 In the robe of truth, and wrong 
 Durst not hurry me along. 
 
396 A. NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 The stars they shone through Roland's pile 
 
 Sadly, lonelily, below, 
 
 Where his gentle lady's isle 
 
 Blooms and breathes of long ago; 
 
 And the Drachenfels was seen 
 
 In the twilight grey serene — 
 
 It is morning now I ween. 
 
 I climbed the mountain-paths, and gained 
 
 A valley sprent with dewy flowers, 
 
 By human footstep unprofaned, 
 
 Where the Rhine-Queen builds her bowers, 
 
 And the unseen music, played 
 
 By sweet elfin fingers, made 
 
 Eloquent the grassy slade. 
 
 One by one, the stars are gone ; 
 One by one, the streaks of light 
 Gild the heavenly arch ; then shone 
 Lucifer ; the air grows bright, 
 And the lucid fountain plays 
 Sweetly, while his emerald rays 
 O'er her lean with loving gaze. 
 
 A steed — a steed, a matchless steed, 
 Ten thousand stars are in his wings ; 
 His fetlocks shame the lightning's speed, 
 Or light itself, when forth it springs ; 
 His neck is clothed with thunder — fire 
 Gleams from his nostrils haught and bold ; 
 He shakes the skies ; and now, as nigher 
 He comes — 'tis Pegasus of old, 
 The steed of wonder, phantom-told, 
 For w r hose immortal flight I wait. 
 Oh ! bear me to the Sun's broad gate. 
 The golden bridle's here — behold ! 
 
the poet's paradise. 397 
 
 Scarce had I spoken, when he knelt 
 Before me on the velvet sod, 
 And, with bent brows and lowly neck, 
 Endured the magic reins that fleck 
 His snowy shoulders with gold hues ; 
 I sprang upon his back, and felt 
 Such giant longings thrill my soul 
 With rapture, as the Loves infuse 
 Into the spirit when admitted 
 First to the Palaces of God — 
 I pointed upwards to the goal, 
 Lighting the celestial air — 
 Like a comet's flash we flitted, 
 And were there. 
 
 Wondrously that diamond Palace 
 
 Rose before my eyes, 
 
 Flashing from ten thousand pillars 
 
 Lights that w r ould have paled the radiance 
 
 Of a Paradise. 
 
 Pearl and jasper, chrysolite, 
 
 Sapphire, opal, amethyst, 
 
 Emerald, ruby, crystal, gold, 
 
 In a heaven that seemed one rainbow ; 
 
 So divinely did unite 
 
 All the sunny hues of splendour 
 
 Into one transcendent glory. 
 
 In the sparkling air that clothed it, 
 
 Thrice ten million winged spirits 
 
 Robed in beauty, light, and grandeur, 
 
 Glittered like the snowy summits 
 
 Of the Alps when sun-reflecting. 
 
 Thrice three hundred thousand fountains 
 
 Gushed aloft from caves of coral ; 
 
 Thrice three million trees that blossomed 
 
 Thickly o'er with thornless roses, 
 
 Hyacinths, and purple jasmines, 
 
398 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 Bent and kissed the rippling waters ; 
 And the place was sweet with song, 
 And the voice divine of music 
 Melted forth from leaf and wavelet, 
 Universal, like the air, 
 Wandering wildly everywhere. 
 
 Once, and twice, and thrice, my steed 
 Neighed, and waved his starry wings, 
 Checked in his enchanted speed — 
 To the porch behold the king's 
 Herald comes — a spirit grand. 
 In his clasp divine he brings 
 Forth the diamond-flashing spear — 
 Son of Earth, I bring thee here, 
 As the Moirai have ordained, 
 Uriel's lance of heavenly proof. 
 It is thine, until thy mission 
 Be fulfilled, and nobly gained 
 The bright goal to which thou speedest. 
 All that's tangible in space, 
 Touched by this, shall yield and fall ; 
 Armed with it thou'lt vanquish all. 
 Wheresoever thy flight may tend, 
 To the blest, or the unblest, 
 Nought shall bar thy path divine, — 
 Truth and Virtue guard thee well. 
 Onward, onward, speed thy course ! 
 
 The sun-bright clouds are floating round, 
 Like wild swans through the silver air, 
 And music fills the deeps profound ; 
 The Universe seems cestus-bound 
 With beauty everywhere. 
 Onward in light my steed and I 
 Are borne amidst this dreamy sky. 
 Like brightly-flashing flame, that leaps 
 To birth — and then for ever sleeps. 
 
the poet's paradise. 399 
 
 The three-forked thunderbolt, enwrapped in fire, 
 
 Lags trembling as we pass ; 
 
 The starry shapes of Flame, Air, Earth, and Heaven, 
 
 Join in the love-enkindling dance, 
 
 And make a moving Paradise, 
 
 Amid the Eternal All that spheres us round. 
 
 Mountain-nymphs, Oreiades, 
 
 Mead-nymphs, Leimoniades, 
 
 Fruit-tree nymphs, Meliades, 
 
 Sylvan-nymphs, the Dryades, 
 
 Tree-nymphs, Plamadryades, 
 
 Fountain-nymphs, Limniades, 
 
 Water-nymphs, fair Naiades, 
 
 Flock-nymphs, Epimelian, 
 
 Valley-nymphs, Napsese wild, 
 
 Bright-locked, lily -voiced, cave-dwelling, 
 
 Light-born, white-browed, and smile-loving, 
 
 Gold-wreathed, star-limbed, magic-speaking, 
 
 Nectar-bosomed, sunny-pinioned, 
 
 Hyacinthine-haired, rose-armed — 
 
 thou heaven of queenly beauty ! 
 
 SONG OF THE NYMPHS. 
 
 We are born of the golden Sun, 
 
 Of the Star, of the Wave, of Air, 
 
 Of the Flowers of Light, that make earth bright, 
 
 As though it an Elysium were. 
 
 We soar in the wide serene, 
 
 We float o'er the eyes of earth, 
 
 We dance in the beam, or the flashing stream, 
 
 And sing round the Poet's birth. 
 
 From the magical days of old 
 
 Our souls draw heavenly light, 
 
 Which, like showers, we shed o'er the Poet's head, 
 
 Till his soul to the Gods takes flight. 
 
400 A NEW PANTOMIME. 
 
 In the gloom and the throng of life, 
 Where Passion and Hate abound, 
 We wrap his soul in the starry stole 
 Of Virtue and Truth all round. 
 
 We fold him in visions divine, 
 
 From earth and its dross away, 
 
 To the world, where dwells in song and spells, 
 
 The Beauty that mocks decay. 
 
 The soulless of earth and flesh 
 
 Pursue him with envy and hate, 
 
 But the Spirit of Love, from his halls above, 
 
 Gives the strength that makes him great. 
 
 When the rabble of hell conspire 
 
 To hunt the Divine to death, 
 
 Nor cross nor stake can his spirit shake, 
 
 That has breathed Elysian breath. 
 
 His soul, in the light of heaven 
 
 Enwreathed, their power defies ; 
 
 They trample him down — but Throne and Crown 
 
 Await him in yonder skies. 
 
 ^ere wtretf) tf)is ^Fragment of 
 
POEMS. 
 
 D D 
 
POEMS. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 <3n refotstting Srtm'tg College, after long Eftsenee. 
 
 Once more within these olden storied walls, 
 So dearly loved from boyhood's genial days, 
 With eager bound my glowing footstep falls, 
 With eyes suffused in joy around I gaze — 
 Once more I live, and move, and walk, and breathe 
 Within the dear remembered cloistered aisles, 
 Whose warm though silent welcomings enwreathe 
 My heart with rapture, and my face with smiles — 
 Once more I pause o'er each remembered scene, 
 In my soul's soul in brightest hues enshrined, 
 The pillared porch — the smooth and dewy green — 
 The stately halls — the trees with ivy twined — 
 The breathing busts — the books — the silence — all 
 Back to my heart its best and happiest hours recall. 
 
 ii. 
 Here in the sunny summer of my youth 
 My soul grew up, and drank the sacred streams 
 Of Wisdom, Knowledge, Virtue, Thought, and Truth — 
 Here my heart lived on bright and glorious dredhns 
 Caught from the Poet's or the Historian's page • 
 Homer and Horace, and the Mantuan lyre, 
 Plato's deep thoughts, and Pindar's epic rage, 
 The Ascrasan bard, and Lucan's words o fire — 
 
404 POEMS. 
 
 From morn till night, from night till morning came, 
 These and the stars my sole companions were, 
 Still burned my lamp with clear and vestal flame, 
 Still my mind fed on visions grand and rare ; 
 The Past was still before me, and its soul 
 Shone with the splendour of some heaven-descended 
 scroll, 
 
 in. 
 
 And wooed me on to scale the starry steep 
 Where Poesy — sweet Faerie Queen — sits throned ; 
 Beneath her feet the fiery lightnings leap, 
 But her fair brows with rainbows shine enzoned, 
 Round her the Muses sport the livelong day, 
 The Graces, young and laughing, dance and sing, 
 The bright-eyed Nymphs with rosy Cupids play. 
 Music wells forth from reed and shell and string ; 
 Phantoms of sunshine formed — the Bards of old, 
 Whose vernal thoughts make heaven of earth are there, 
 While songs and hymns in strains of wonder told, 
 Fill as with fragrance all the echoing air : 
 These are thy glories — these, Immortal Past! 
 On these my heart was fixed, my longing looks were cast. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Wild, the Grand, the Beautiful, the True, 
 
 Each an Enchantress with enchanted wand, 
 
 Flung o'er my soul their spells, until it grew 
 
 Entirely theirs, and sought no bliss beyond. 
 
 Its only world became a world unknown, 
 
 Of dreams fantasque and visions strange and quaint, 
 
 Within whose skies eternal summer shone, 
 
 And scenes that liveliest fancy scarce could paint ; 
 
 A wond'rous wild embodiment it seemed 
 
 Of things transformed to beauty — Titan shapes, 
 
 And Grecian deities, and seas that streamed 
 
 Through silver isles, and foamed on golden capes ; 
 
POEMS. 405 
 
 Forests and Nymphs, and Fauns, and Sylvans blent, 
 With Gothic scenes and spells, tilt, magic tower, and tent. 
 
 v. 
 And fabling Ovid, with soft eyes of fire, 
 Was by my side and coloured many a thought ; 
 And many a gay and many a fond desire 
 Unto my soul Verona's minstrel brought. 
 And Ariosto sang me curious strains 
 Of magic castles built on marble heights. 
 And gallant soldiers pricking o'er the plains, 
 And mail-clad steeds and antique-armoured knights, 
 And ladyes chaste that roamed through forests wild, 
 Pursued by giants and in dire despair, 
 Until some brave and angel-guided Childe, 
 Wafted perchance ten thousand miles through air, 
 Appeared before their wondering eyes to prove 
 His valorous arm in fight, and straightway fall in love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The magic of these old delicious songs, 
 The hours of silent reverie and thought, 
 The paradise-light that to past time belongs, 
 Dreams of Romance and Beauty all en wrought, 
 The early sunshine streaming o'er the glade. 
 The song of birds, the voice of some sweet flute, 
 The ancient trees with broad and leafy shade, 
 The moon that clothed the halls in silver suit, 
 The fire-winged stars, the solemn, silent night, 
 The lamps through many a latticed window seen, 
 The deep-toned bell for morn and evening rite, 
 The reverend gloom relieved by the moon's sheen — 
 All these come back upon my soul, like strains 
 Of native music heard on far and foreign plains ; 
 
 VII. 
 
 Filling it deep with sadness and with gloom. 
 Alas ! where are ye, dear past innocent hours ? 
 
406 POEMS. 
 
 The scythe of Time hath swept ye to the tomb ; 
 Yet in my soul ye still survive, like flowers 
 Round some sad mouldering shrine ; I sit and think 
 Of sweet old times, familiar faces passed 
 Away for ever ; friends, link after link, 
 Methinks move on, in faithful memory glassed. 
 Where are they now ? Some sleep in distant lands, 
 Some slumber in the ocean ; some remain ; 
 But the fond ties once twined by Friendship's hands 
 Are snapped, and ne'er may re-unite again. 
 Oh ! that once more I were a careless boy, 
 As when I first beheld these halls with pride and joy, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And wandered wild through portico and park, 
 Emparadised in Fancy's purple clouds ; 
 Heedless and happy ; dreaming not of dark 
 Tartarean worlds, like that which now enshrouds 
 This visible orb ; — to boyhood's laughing eyes 
 The Earth seems Eden ; everything looks bright ; 
 Life, a glad journey to the golden skies : 
 To manhood, all seems black as blackest night. 
 Why are we here ? What Power hath peopled earth ? 
 Why wend we in our pilgrimage of woe? 
 Whence have our souls derived their fiery birth ? 
 Unto what bourne is fated man to go ? 
 Why clings he still to life ? Why hug the chain 
 That eats into his heart, and turns his joys to pain ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Alas ! we know not — must not hope to know. 
 The Future looms far off in mystery veiled : 
 Present and Past are ours — but like the bow 
 Of heaven, still far the Future lies concealed, 
 Robed in enchanting colours, formed to fade 
 As the quick hour moves on. We live and die ; 
 In the same hour cradle and grave are made ; 
 
POEMS. 407 
 
 Monarch and slave in the same black earth lie; 
 And is this life? For this was man designed? 
 Was it for this the All- Powerful gave him store 
 Of hopes and thoughts sublime, and filled his mind 
 With longings after high and heavenly lore ? 
 A wise fine soul, a glory-loving heart? — 
 No — 'twas for mighty ends that thou shouldst play thy 
 part. 
 
 For mighty ends thy soul to earth was sent — 
 A mission grand and high, O man, is thine ! — 
 Work in the spirit of that great intent ; 
 Walk like an angel in the path divine. 
 Here, in these sacred walls, old, world-renowned, 
 The seat of learning, shall thy young heart swell, 
 Fired by the glories of the classic ground, 
 By the great memories that around thee dwell ; 
 Here shalt thou train thee for thy pure career ; 
 Wisdom and Knowledge like twin orbs of light, 
 Shrined in these hallowed temples, greet thee here, 
 And point the way to Virtue's star-crowned height ; 
 Onward, still onward from glad youth to age, 
 Here shall thy soul learn strength for every changing 
 
 Thoughts of great deeds and lofty acts be thine, 
 The mighty dead, the shadowy shapes of old. 
 Heroes and Bards — a starry-gleaming line 
 Of souls celestial, still before thee hold 
 Their glorious course, and beckon on thy soul 
 To tread the shining footpaths that they trod ; 
 Onward they marched, until they reached the goal 
 For minds of light like theirs prepared by God ; 
 Sages and Bards and Statesmen, on whose forms 
 Pictured on canvass, let thine emulous eyes 
 
408 POEMS. 
 
 Still gaze with rapture. What though winds and 
 
 storms 
 Break round his head who to Fame's palace flies, 
 The attempt is grand and noble, though he fall — 
 Conquer thyself, brave heart, and thou shalt conquer all. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Look on the pictured epics throned around — 
 Go to thy books, and study their career — 
 So shalt thou feel thy swelling spirit bound, 
 And cast aside, like chains, despair and fear ; 
 Learn from their thoughtful eyes and resolute brows 
 To nerve thy soul with stern resolve for fame ; 
 Heaven to the heart that works due strength allows, 
 And crowns her toil with an undying name. 
 Burke, Berkeley, Flood, Burgh, Avonmore, and 
 
 Swift,—* 
 Behold the men who shook or charmed the world : 
 Behold — revere — aspire — toil on— and lift 
 Thy soul to thoughts like theirs ; if haply hurled 
 From thine immortal flight by chance or fate, 
 Well hast thou clothed thy soul with noble thoughts 
 
 and great. 
 
 Trinity College, Shrove- Tuesday, 1846. 
 
 SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. 
 
 Like the young Moon when down from heaven she 
 
 came, 
 To court the slumbering shepherd as he lay, 
 Nooked in a dell amid the Latmian hills, 
 Filling the spot with an ambrosial flame 
 Of light ethereal from her silver ray : — 
 
 * Their portraits are in the Theatre and Dining-hall. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 409 
 
 So to thy soul comes Genius from the skies, 
 And such immortal splendours there instils. 
 As charm the young, and glad the old and wise. 
 O Venus-soul'd — Historian — Minstrel — Sage — 
 Weaver of dreams of light from olden lore, — 
 How shall I thank thee for the enchanted hours 
 Passed with thy spirit o'er thy golden page? 
 So Plato mused — so Shakspeare wrote of yore — 
 So dreamed of love Rousseau 'mid Claren's lakes and 
 bowers. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 A mystic Dreamer, blinded by the light 
 That flashed around from his own woncl'rous soul, 
 Like a seeled dove, his great thoughts bent their flight 
 To heavenly spheres — on, on from pole to pole, 
 Until he fell exhausted, faint, confused, 
 By the deep schemes whereon his spirit mused ; 
 Or like some Ancient Mariner, alone, 
 Sailing at night o'er ocean wilds unknown, 
 His eyes fixed full on heaven and its bright stars, 
 As if he longed to peer through those thick bars 
 Of clouds that hide God's glories from our eyes, 
 Careless to what dark gulf his galley flies ; 
 Dazzled by fiery splendours, heavenly gleams, 
 He sails and sinks — nor yet wakes from Olympian 
 dreams. 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 A voice like flowers and music sweetly blended, 
 A fragile form, but beauteous as Apollo's, 
 A soul of light by the three Graces tended, 
 Eyes like young Dian's when the deer she follows- 
 Over the emerald lawns and sylvan hollows ; 
 
410 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Such wert thou, Shelley, minstrel heaven-descended. 
 
 O incarnation of ethereal Truth, 
 
 O Sun of Beauty darkened in thy youth 
 
 By the foul mists of slander-loving men, 
 
 By the base exhalations from that fen 
 
 Of venom called man's heart — we lost thy light. 
 
 Spheres far removed enjoy thy beauty bright: 
 
 So do we ever with our things of price; 
 
 We help the Devil to kill the flowers of Paradise. 
 
 PLATO. 
 
 Oh ! that my heart were of clear crystal made, 
 
 There shouldst thou see as in a shrine displayed 
 
 An Image of thyself, to which I turn, 
 
 When with high hopes I feel my spirit burn ; 
 
 When my heart swells, and I would fain aspire 
 
 To rival those dead masters of the lyre 
 
 Whom Greece, Rome, England, and fair Italy, 
 
 Have set before the world its lights to be. 
 
 A Poet filled with heaven's divinest fire — 
 
 An Orator whose lightest words inspire — 
 
 A Scholar trained in all that books can teach — 
 
 A Statesman wise and just — the first in each. 
 
 Behold the image in my bosom shrined, 
 
 That fires my thoughts and renders pure my mind. 
 
 TO MRS. MOW ATT. 
 
 The spells divine of beauty that enfold thee, 
 Like rosy light in summer time ; the grace, 
 Like music, in thine eyes ; the eloquent face, 
 That win to worship those who still behold thee ; 
 
POEMS. 411 
 
 No — nor the h jacinth tresses, nor the voice, 
 
 Sweet as the rippling of the star-lit rills, 
 
 That break the silence of nymph-haunted hills ; 
 
 Nor thy glad smiles, or talk, could bid rejoice 
 
 That broken, cheerless, toneless lute, my heart ; 
 
 But when I knew thee, and could see enshrined, 
 
 Within that shape of loveliness, a mind, 
 
 Shedding around thee a perpetual youth, 
 
 Of purity, sweet innocence, and truth, — 
 
 Then was my soul near heaven, of which thou art, 
 
 Even while on earth with us, a bright immortal part. 
 
 TO ELOISA. 
 
 The crystal fountains of those eyes 
 
 Wherein Love wadeth ; 
 Those cheeks before whose purple dyes 
 
 The red rose fadeth ; 
 Those smiles wherein the blush of dawn 
 
 Seems opening brightly ; 
 All the sweet airs that round thee fawn ? 
 
 Like Graces lightly ; — 
 These only could not move 
 
 My soul to love. 
 
 What are they but a radiant veil 
 
 O'er the shrine's glory ? — 
 What do they, if they not detail 
 
 Thy heart's bright story ? 
 Oh ! dearer far than sunny look, 
 
 Or blush of roses, 
 The heart more pure than purest brook, 
 
 That veil encloses. 
 Ask ye then what doth move 
 
 My soul to love ? 
 
412 POEMS. 
 
 That gentle heart where virtue dwells 
 
 And meekness shineth, 
 Round which her fairest, loveliest spells 
 
 Religion twineth ; 
 Which seems like storied Paradise, 
 
 Always attended 
 By brightest angels from the skies 
 
 Newly descended, — 
 That heart it is doth move 
 
 My soul to love. 
 
 TO SOME WITHERED FLOWERS DEARLY 
 LOVED. 
 
 I hate a wreath — a withered wreath, 
 
 More dearly prized than gems or gold ; 
 Methinks the flowers still sweetly breathe 
 
 Of her who gave me them of old. 
 This faded rose was on her breast, 
 
 This in her soft white hand she bore ; 
 And this was with her bright hairs tressed — 
 
 Ten thousand times Fve kissed them o'er. 
 
 They bring to mind fair summer days, 
 
 And rosy eves, and starry nights ; 
 Sweet music, old delicious lays, 
 
 Fond words, fond dreams, serene delights ; 
 Enchanting smiles, and eyes that gleamed 
 
 Like mirrored stars upon the sea, — 
 How blest my fate, had they but beamed 
 
 With any ray of love on me ! 
 
 O wreath ! beloved for her fair sake, 
 Dear record of my happiest hours, 
 
 How many a golden thought you wake, 
 How many a hope entwined in flow'rs ! 
 
POEMS. 413 
 
 And yet how oft my spirit sighs 
 
 To think its fate like yours should be — 
 
 Reft of the heaven of her dear eyes, 
 Whose light gave life to you and me ! 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Take back the ivy-leaf 
 Which, once thy gentle bosom bore — 
 
 My soul is filled with grief. 
 Its rosy dream of bliss is o'er. 
 
 Yet as this leaf shall be, 
 Though sere and broken, green for aye ? 
 
 Thy image shall to me 
 Be always clothed V the light of May. 
 
 If e'er thou tread'st again 
 Those cloistered halls and pictured cells, 
 
 As once beside me, when 
 Thy smiles threw o'er my soul their spells, 
 
 Think of my spirit's bliss 
 While thy sweet nymph-like form beside ; 
 
 Ah ! did I dream of this, 
 That fate such hearts should soon divide ? 
 
 Think while these simple lines, 
 Traced by affection's hand, thou'lt see, 
 
 Of one who still enshrines 
 In his heart's temple only thee. 
 
 Think — though no more to meet — 
 How thou didst grow unto his heart : 
 
 In all his visions sweet, 
 The loveliest, dearest, purest part. 
 
414 POEMS. 
 
 Couldst thou but inly feel 
 Aught of my bosom's deep, deep woe, 
 
 Or watch the tears that steal 
 Down from mine eyes in ceaseless flow, 
 
 E'en thou mightst shed with me 
 One little tear that Fate should rend 
 
 Hearts twin in sympathy, 
 Hearts formed by nature's self -to blend. 
 
 Farewell — alas ! farewell — 
 That word of sorrow must be breathed ! 
 
 Every bright pleasure dwell 
 Round thee, and with thy life be wreathed ! 
 
 Give me a passing thought 
 At times — I ask no more. But thou 
 
 So with my soul art wrought, 
 I'll love thee always even as now ! 
 
 SIR AAGE AND ELSE. 
 
 It was the Knight, Sir Aage, — 
 
 Down the fair green isle rode he ; 
 He wooed maiden Elsebille, 
 
 And fair as gentle May was she. 
 
 He wooed maiden Elsebille, 
 
 All with jewels, smiles, and gold : 
 And on the Monday following 
 
 The Knight lay dead in the deep black mould. 
 
 It was maiden Elsebille — 
 
 Oh ! she drooped both night and day ; 
 And Knight Sir Aage heard her cry, 
 
 As in the black mould dead he lay. 
 
POEMS. 415 
 
 Uprose Knight Sir Aage, 
 
 His coffin upon his back took he, 
 So drew he nigh to her lonely bower, 
 
 Toiling much and sorrowingly. 
 
 He knocked at the door with the coffin-lid, 
 Gently, softly knocked the Knight ; — 
 
 " Now stand up, maiden Else, 
 Let me in, thou ladye bright." 
 
 Then answered maiden Else, — 
 
 " Sooth, Fll not unlatch my door, 
 Until you name the name of Jesus, 
 
 Just as you could do before." 
 
 " Now stand up, fair Elsebille, 
 
 Now unbar thy bower's door ; 
 I can name the name of Jesus, 
 
 Just as I could do before." 
 
 Up then stood proud Elsebille, 
 
 Tears upon her cheeks red flower, 
 Up she rose and let the Deadman 
 
 Into her lonely bower. 
 
 Then she took a comb all golden, 
 
 And she combed his lovely hair ; 
 For every hair the maiden combed, 
 
 A tear she shed of dark despair. 
 
 " Hear me now, dear Kidder Aage, 
 
 Dearest, truest sweetheart mine, 
 How is it in the black earth, 
 
 In that lonely grave of thine?" — 
 
 1 Whensoe'er thy heart rejoices, 
 
 When thy spirit's glad and light ; 
 Then is my cold and gloomy coffin 
 Filled with rose-leaves bright. 
 
416 POEMS. 
 
 Whensoe'er thy spirit grieveth, 
 And thy heart, sweet love, is sore, 
 
 Then is my cold and gloomy coffin 
 Filled with clotted gore. 
 
 Even now the red cock croweth ; 
 
 See the streaks of morning grey, — 
 To their graves must all the spirits, 
 
 And I must with them away. 
 
 Now, oh now, the black cock croweth, 
 Hark ! his call I must obey ; 
 
 Now the Gates of Heaven are open, 
 And I must away." 
 
 Uprose Knight Sir A age, 
 His coffin upon his back took he ; 
 
 And to the Churchyard straight he went, 
 Toiling much and sorrowingly. 
 
 This did maiden Elsebille, 
 
 Sad in heart, in spirit sore, 
 She followed her sweetheart's footsteps, 
 
 In the twilight dim and hoar. 
 
 When she passed the lone wood 
 Into the Churchyard old and grey, 
 
 Then Ridder Aage's gold-bright hair 
 'Gan to fade away. 
 
 When she passed the Churchyard 
 Into the Church's porch so grey, 
 
 Then Ridder Aage's rose-bright cheeks 
 'Gan to fade away. 
 
 " Now hear, proud Elsebille, 
 
 Dearest sweetheart mine, 
 Never more for thy plighted man 
 
 Let thy soul repine. 
 
POEMS. 417 
 
 Look up to the golden heavens, 
 And the fiery stars of light, 
 
 Look up, and say, sweet Else, 
 How goes the night. " 
 
 She looked to the golden heavens, 
 The green stars brightly shone ; 
 
 Into the earth the Deadman sank ; 
 She look'd — and he was gone ! 
 
 Home went maiden Else, 
 Sorrowful was she that day, 
 
 And on the Monday following, 
 She slept in the cold black clay. 
 
 To 
 
 May's sweet roses deck her face, 
 
 Angels listen when she sings ; 
 Round her flits each winning grace ; 
 
 Youth its charms about her flings. 
 Gentle are herstarry eye?, 
 
 Rich and soft her dark brown hair ; 
 Olden Greece had no such prize, 
 
 Venus was not half so fair. 
 Every soft attractive spell 
 
 Finds within her heart a goal ; 
 Loveliness and goodness dwell 
 
 Orb-like in her heavenly soul. 
 Oh, divine enchantress bright ! 
 
 Dare I love thy looks of light? 
 
418 POEMS. 
 
 EPITAPH FOR THOMAS MOORE.* 
 
 Here lies the corpse of crawling Tommy Moore ; 
 His lep'rous soul the Devil has, be sure. 
 The figures fiye that stand upon his grave 
 Are emblems of the foul and pandering knave. 
 Abhorred by God, but favoured by the Muse, 
 He lived and died Catullus of the stews. 
 
 Laureate of lust, bright Brinsley's covert foe, ^ 
 And skilled to slander, or to draw the bow. / 
 In youth a flatterer at the Regent's board, ) 
 And crawling parasite of Bowood's lord. J 
 
 His pen he used to lash the Wise and Brave, \ 
 And goad young Genius to an early grave. / 
 In age, a hypocrite without a cowl, 1 
 
 And, like the bird of night, obscene and foul. J 
 His books he gleaned to cram a wretched tome, ^ 
 And, like his namesake, cackled loud for Rome. ) 
 
 * Suggested by the following Greek epigram on a sepulchre^ 
 quoted by Madame Dacier : 
 
 M77 6afi$€L /jLacTTiya MTPOT 67ri (rrj/JLaTL Aevcrawv 
 TKavna, jSioj/, xapo7rcw X 7 1 va ) 0° au &Kv\aKa. 
 
 O'er Myro see the emblems of her soul, — 
 A whip, a bow, a goose, a dog, an owl. 
 
POEMS. 4U) 
 
 ©cfyone Sttarie** 
 
 '233 of) t Unn' > id) tint fcfjone Same— 
 
 >Btttft £u fte fcetn? 
 s 0?iarie tft tljc aettebtec 3Rame. 
 
 £>iite Sid) fctn! 
 9tttt 2Cugen nue cm £Kef> am SRanc 
 Sincu @ee tm Sttorgenfano, 
 grcCid; tatr 3 ct fte jttm ffiffen 
 Saitenfjnef mtt jai'tcn Suffcit 
 
 £itte £id£) fctn ! 
 
 Unt bie Scince audj tec .£(etnen— 
 
 aBiUft £n fte fcetn? 
 £aum fo meiS <Sdjneeffocfen foremen. 
 
 £ute Sid) fctn ! 
 (Sd)tagt fte auf tec Sttfcec gente, 
 Straiten fte nne r>eUe (Sterne ; 
 gltetyt fte ntdjt, mtt fyotcem £tft 
 £iifft fte, unt nod) etnmal fiifft. 
 
 §itte Sid) fetn ! 
 
 in. 
 
 33caune§ £>aat umwbtft tit %tint — 
 
 s 2Btflft 2>u fte fcetn ? 
 306 te cm Rwni oom (rcelftetne. 
 
 £iite £td() fetn ! 
 '$ ift urn Sid) gefdjefjen menn S\i 
 Sritcfft einen 3opf ten £uu?cn m, 
 
 * This translation of the " Song of a Milkmaid*' in Act I. 
 scene ii. is by William Lander, Esq. 
 
420 POEMS. 
 
 bittern 3Re| tie §aate akifytn 
 ^Becben ©tc fcaS §ec& umfctyleitfjen. 
 Siite £>itf) fein ! 
 
 %$m ©tfcne ette <pcad&t— 
 
 2Bittft£uftefccin? 
 SSBie tec 3D?ont in ftidec SRadjt 
 
 §ftte 2>id) fein ! 
 tint tec fd)5ne <8ufen fdjnxtft, 
 Scauf jwei 95Utmlein fmt aeftetft, 
 SQ3enn aud) gteiclj twfjutttfte ftnt, 
 SEBeiff id) todj ii>o f 5 art unt tint. 
 
 §itte £idj fein ! 
 
 %ud) am Sttunt fte Kjat jwei 9tofen — 
 
 223iaft£mftefcein? 
 SQSelj £>ir, wenn £u rcaaft $u fofen ! 
 
 §nte £>idj fein ! 
 233 enn tie Stppen £>u wicft fet>cn f 
 3d) wetf; £>u fannft nidjt nueterftefjen 
 <5ie &u fitffen 6i§ fte $tuf)t f 
 ©djnefl tod), fonft fte wict entfttelfjen. 
 
 §iite 2)ic^ fein ! 
 
 €uftia ift ta§ junae SBlut— 
 SBidft !Du fte frcitt? 
 
 £irtjn unt ftnnceidj ift ifyc SDhttfj. 
 
 §iite ^)id& fein ! 
 (Sdjonfyeit, gmmtlidjlfeit ueccinen 
 <5id) in§ 23ilt tec gotten £leinen f 
 Unt t^rc ceijente <#eftatt 
 2Bie eineS <SnaeB fd)i>tt aematt. 
 
 §tite CDic^ fein I 
 
POEMS. 421 
 
 Stttfict fie, fo fjbV md)t ut ! 
 
 SOBtllft £u fie fi'ctn?— 
 €ar^c(t ft'e, fo flidje £u! 
 
 £iite £tdj fein ! 
 £enfft JDu es tft nut* ein ©d&ecj ? 
 Scfjnetf bettorett ift ^ic fcae £ec5; 
 £offft S)u fte uute e§ sufitcfgefcen? 
 SRtematS fo tang £u mogft teben! 
 
 §iite £ttf; fctn! 
 
 THE END, 
 
 PRINTED BV LEVEE, RORSOX, AND FRAKKLTN, 
 
 Great New Street, Fetter Lane. 
 
ill 
 
 mm- 
 
 
 Unmif 
 
 wife. ' 
 
 ^•M&M^ 
 
 'Km 
 
^\^m 
 
 
 1 
 
 ■ 
 
 *mm 
 
 S-mm: 
 
 
 
 m