Verses and Translations
by C. S. C.
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"She was a phantom," &c.

In lone Glenartney's thickets lies couched the lordly stag, The dreaming terrier's tail forgets its customary wag; And plodding ploughmen's weary steps insensibly grow quicker, As broadening casements light them on towards home, or home-brewed liquor.

It is (in fact) the evening—that pure and pleasant time, When stars break into splendour, and poets into rhyme; When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine - And when, of course, Miss Goodchild's is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild!—Julia Goodchild!—how graciously you smiled Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child: When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb's instruction, And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction!

"She wore" her natural "roses, the night when first we met" - Her golden hair was gleaming 'neath the coercive net: "Her brow was like the snawdrift," her step was like Queen Mab's, And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb's.

The parlour-boarder chasseed tow'rds her on graceful limb; The onyx decked his bosom—but her smiles were not for him: With ME she danced—till drowsily her eyes "began to blink," And I brought raisin wine, and said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows, And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows; Shall I—with that soft hand in mine—enact ideal Lancers, And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers:-

I know that never, never may her love for me return - At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern - But ever shall I bless that day: (I don't bless, as a rule, The days I spent at "Dr. Crabb's Preparatory School.")

And yet—we two MAY meet again—(Be still, my throbbing heart!) - Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry tart:- One night I saw a vision—'Twas when musk-roses bloom I stood—WE stood—upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:

One hand clasped hers—one easily reposed upon my hip - And "BLESS YE!" burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild's lip: I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam - My heart beat wildly—and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.


Some vast amount of years ago, Ere all my youth had vanished from me, A boy it was my lot to know, Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.

I love to gaze upon a child; A young bud bursting into blossom; Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled, And agile as a young opossum:

And such was he. A calm-browed lad, Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter: Why hatters as a race are mad I never knew, nor does it matter.

He was what nurses call a 'limb;' One of those small misguided creatures, Who, though their intellects are dim, Are one too many for their teachers:

And, if you asked of him to say What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7, He'd glance (in quite a placid way) From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven:

And smile, and look politely round, To catch a casual suggestion; But make no effort to propound Any solution of the question.

And so not much esteemed was he Of the authorities: and therefore He fraternized by chance with me, Needing a somebody to care for:

And three fair summers did we twain Live (as they say) and love together; And bore by turns the wholesome cane Till our young skins became as leather:

And carved our names on every desk, And tore our clothes, and inked our collars; And looked unique and picturesque, But not, it may be, model scholars.

We did much as we chose to do; We'd never heard of Mrs. Grundy; All the theology we knew Was that we mightn't play on Sunday;

And all the general truths, that cakes Were to be bought at four a-penny, And that excruciating aches Resulted if we ate too many:

And seeing ignorance is bliss, And wisdom consequently folly, The obvious result is this - That our two lives were very jolly.

At last the separation came. Real love, at that time, was the fashion; And by a horrid chance, the same Young thing was, to us both, a passion.

Old POSER snorted like a horse: His feet were large, his hands were pimply, His manner, when excited, coarse:- But Miss P. was an angel simply.

She was a blushing gushing thing; All—more than all—my fancy painted; Once—when she helped me to a wing Of goose—I thought I should have fainted.

The people said that she was blue: But I was green, and loved her dearly. She was approaching thirty-two; And I was then eleven, nearly.

I did not love as others do; (None ever did that I've heard tell of;) My passion was a byword through The town she was, of course, the belle of.

Oh sweet—as to the toilworn man The far-off sound of rippling river; As to cadets in Hindostan The fleeting remnant of their liver -

To me was ANNA; dear as gold That fills the miser's sunless coffers; As to the spinster, growing old, The thought—the dream—that she had offers.

I'd sent her little gifts of fruit; I'd written lines to her as Venus; I'd sworn unflinchingly to shoot The man who dared to come between us:

And it was you, my Thomas, you, The friend in whom my soul confided, Who dared to gaze on her—to do, I may say, much the same as I did.

One night I SAW him squeeze her hand; There was no doubt about the matter; I said he must resign, or stand My vengeance—and he chose the latter.

We met, we 'planted' blows on blows: We fought as long as we were able: My rival had a bottle-nose, And both my speaking eyes were sable.

When the school-bell cut short our strife, Miss P. gave both of us a plaster; And in a week became the wife Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.

* * *

I loved her then—I'd love her still, Only one must not love Another's: But thou and I, my Tommy, will, When we again meet, meet as brothers.

It may be that in age one seeks Peace only: that the blood is brisker In boy's veins, than in theirs whose cheeks Are partially obscured by whisker;

Or that the growing ages steal The memories of past wrongs from us. But this is certain—that I feel Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!

And wheresoe'er we meet again, On this or that side the equator, If I've not turned teetotaller then, And have wherewith to pay the waiter,

To thee I'll drain the modest cup, Ignite with thee the mild Havannah; And we will waft, while liquoring up, Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA.


Year by year do Beauty's daughters, In the sweetest gloves and shawls, Troop to taste the Chattenham waters, And adorn the Chattenham balls.

'Nulla non donanda lauru' Is that city: you could not, Placing England's map before you, Light on a more favoured spot.

If no clear translucent river Winds 'neath willow-shaded paths, "Children and adults" may shiver All day in "Chalybeate baths:"

If "the inimitable Fechter" Never brings the gallery down, Constantly "the Great Protector" There "rejects the British crown:"

And on every side the painter Looks on wooded vale and plain And on fair hills, faint and fainter Outlined as they near the main.

There I met with him, my chosen Friend—the 'long' but not 'stern swell,' {15a} Faultless in his hats and hosen, Whom the Johnian lawns know well:-

Oh my comrade, ever valued! Still I see your festive face; Hear you humming of "the gal you'd Left behind" in massive bass:

See you sit with that composure On the eeliest of hacks, That the novice would suppose your Manly limbs encased in wax:

Or anon,—when evening lent her Tranquil light to hill and vale, - Urge, towards the table's centre, With unerring hand, the squail.

Ah delectablest of summers! How my heart—that "muffled drum" Which ignores the aid of drummers - Beats, as back thy memories come!

Oh, among the dancers peerless, Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! Need I say to you that cheerless Must my days be till I die?

At my side she mashed the fragrant Strawberry; lashes soft as silk Drooped o'er saddened eyes, when vagrant Gnats sought watery graves in milk:

Then we danced, we walked together; Talked—no doubt on trivial topics; Such as Blondin, or the weather, Which "recalled us to the tropics."

But—oh! in the deuxtemps peerless, Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! - Once more I repeat, that cheerless Shall my days be till I die.

And the lean and hungry raven, As he picks my bones, will start To observe 'M. N.' engraven Neatly on my blighted heart.


It was a railway passenger, And he lept out jauntilie. "Now up and bear, thou stout porter, My two chattels to me.

"Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red, And portmanteau so brown: (They lie in the van, for a trusty man He labelled them London town:)

"And fetch me eke a cabman bold, That I may be his fare, his fare; And he shall have a good shilling, If by two of the clock he do me bring To the Terminus, Euston Square."

"Now,—so to thee the saints alway, Good gentleman, give luck, - As never a cab may I find this day, For the cabman wights have struck: And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn, Or else at the Dog and Duck, Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin Right pleasantly they do suck."

"Now rede me aright, thou stout porter, What were it best that I should do: For woe is me, an I reach not there Or ever the clock strike two."

"I have a son, a lytel son; Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck's: Give him a shilling, and eke a brown, And he shall carry thy chattels down, To Euston, or half over London town, On one of the station trucks."

Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare, The gent, and the son of the stout porter, Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair, Through all the mire and muck: "A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray: For by two of the clock must I needs away." "That may hardly be," the clerk did say, "For indeed—the clocks have struck."


"The tender Grace of a day that is past."

The dew is on the roses, The owl hath spread her wing; And vocal are the noses Of peasant and of king: "Nature" (in short) "reposes;" But I do no such thing.

Pent in my lonesome study Here I must sit and muse; Sit till the morn grows ruddy, Till, rising with the dews, "Jeameses" remove the muddy Spots from their masters' shoes.

Yet are sweet faces flinging Their witchery o'er me here: I hear sweet voices singing A song as soft, as clear, As (previously to stinging) A gnat sings round one's ear.

Does Grace draw young Apollos In blue mustachios still? Does Emma tell the swallows How she will pipe and trill, When, some fine day, she follows Those birds to the window-sill?

And oh! has Albert faded From Grace's memory yet? Albert, whose "brow was shaded By locks of glossiest jet," Whom almost any lady'd Have given her eyes to get?

Does not her conscience smite her For one who hourly pines, Thinking her bright eyes brighter Than any star that shines - I mean of course the writer Of these pathetic lines?

Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter, "Time rolls his ceaseless course: "The Grace of yore" may alter - And then, I've one resource: I'll invest in a bran-new halter, And I'll perish without remorse.


Ere the morn the East has crimsoned, When the stars are twinkling there, (As they did in Watts's Hymns, and Made him wonder what they were:) When the forest-nymphs are beading Fern and flower with silvery dew - My infallible proceeding Is to wake, and think of you.

When the hunter's ringing bugle Sounds farewell to field and copse, And I sit before my frugal Meal of gravy-soup and chops: When (as Gray remarks) "the moping Owl doth to the moon complain," And the hour suggests eloping - Fly my thoughts to you again.

May my dreams be granted never? Must I aye endure affliction Rarely realised, if ever, In our wildest works of fiction? Madly Romeo loved his Juliet; Copperfield began to pine When he hadn't been to school yet - But their loves were cold to mine.

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest, Ere I drain the poisoned cup: Tell me I may tell the chymist Not to make that arsenic up! Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbing; And when, musing o'er my bones, Travellers ask, "Who killed Cock Robin?" They'll be told, "Miss Sarah J-s."

A, B, C.

A is an Angel of blushing eighteen: B is the Ball where the Angel was seen: C is her Chaperone, who cheated at cards: D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards: E is the Eye which those dark lashes cover: F is the Fan it peeped wickedly over: G is the Glove of superlative kid: H is the Hand which it spitefully hid: I is the Ice which spent nature demanded: J is the Juvenile who hurried to hand it: K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art: L is the Lace which composed the chief part. M is the old Maid who watch'd the girls dance: N is the Nose she turned up at each glance: O is the Olga (just then in its prime): P is the Partner who wouldn't keep time: Q 's a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers: R the Remonstrances made by the dancers: S is the Supper, where all went in pairs: T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs: U is the Uncle who 'thought we'd be going': V is the Voice which his niece replied 'No' in: W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight: X is his Exit, not rigidly straight: Y is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball: Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.


The night-wind's shriek is pitiless and hollow, The boding bat flits by on sullen wing, And I sit desolate, like that "one swallow" Who found (with horror) that he'd not brought spring: Lonely as he who erst with venturous thumb Drew from its pie-y lair the solitary plum.

And to my gaze the phantoms of the Past, The cherished fictions of my boyhood, rise: I see Red Ridinghood observe, aghast, The fixed expression of her grandam's eyes; I hear the fiendish chattering and chuckling Which those misguided fowls raised at the Ugly Duckling.

The House that Jack built—and the Malt that lay Within the House—the Rat that ate the Malt - The Cat, that in that sanguinary way Punished the poor thing for its venial fault - The Worrier-Dog—the Cow with Crumpled horn - And then—ah yes! and then—the Maiden all forlorn!

O Mrs. Gurton—(may I call thee Gammer?) Thou more than mother to my infant mind! I loved thee better than I loved my grammar - I used to wonder why the Mice were blind, And who was gardener to Mistress Mary, And what—I don't know still—was meant by "quite contrary"?

"Tota contraria," an "Arundo Cami" Has phrased it—which is possibly explicit, Ingenious certainly—but all the same I Still ask, when coming on the word, 'What is it?' There were more things in Mrs. Gurton's eye, Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

No doubt the Editor of 'Notes and Queries' Or 'Things not generally known' could tell That word's real force—my only lurking fear is That the great Gammer "didna ken hersel": (I've precedent, yet feel I owe apology For passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon For making this unwarranted digression, Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary's garden:- And beg to send, with every expression Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes, For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

There is a youth, who keeps a 'crumpled Horn,' (Living next me, upon the selfsame story,) And ever, 'twixt the midnight and the morn, He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie. The tune is good; the habit p'raps romantic; But tending, if pursued, to drive one's neighbours frantic.

And now,—at this unprecedented hour, When the young Dawn is "trampling out the stars," - I hear that youth—with more than usual power And pathos—struggling with the first few bars. And I do think the amateur cornopean Should be put down by law—but that's perhaps Utopian.

Who knows what "things unknown" I might have "bodied Forth," if not checked by that absurd Too-too? But don't I know that when my friend has plodded Through the first verse, the second will ensue? Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely Send the aforesaid book—and am yours most sincerely.


Now the "rosy morn appearing" Floods with light the dazzled heaven; And the schoolboy groans on hearing That eternal clock strike seven:- Now the waggoner is driving Towards the fields his clattering wain; Now the bluebottle, reviving, Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful: Wearily I stretch my legs, Dress, and settle to my plateful Of (perhaps inferior) eggs. Yesterday Miss Crump, by message, Mentioned "rent," which "p'raps I'd pay;" And I have a dismal presage That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood, Smoked through silver-mounted pipes - Then how my patrician nose would Turn up at the thought of "swipes!" Ale,—occasionally claret, - Graced my luncheon then:- and now I drink porter in a garret, To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened, And I doff my hat and gloves, No sweet bird is there to "cheep and Twitter twenty million loves:" No dark-ringleted canaries Sing to me of "hungry foam;" No imaginary "Marys" Call fictitious "cattle home."

Araminta, sweetest, fairest! Solace once of every ill! How I wonder if thou bearest Mivins in remembrance still! If that Friday night is banished Yet from that retentive mind, When the others somehow vanished, And we two were left behind:-

When in accents low, yet thrilling, I did all my love declare; Mentioned that I'd not a shilling - Hinted that we need not care: And complacently you listened To my somewhat long address - (Listening, at the same time, isn't Quite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolled O'er green lawns the whole day through, Not unpleasingly apparelled In a tightish suit of blue:- What a change has now passed o'er me! Now with what dismay I see Every rising morn before me! Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara, Through the world, as prowls the bat, And habitually wear a Cypress wreath around my hat: And when Death snuffs out the taper Of my Life, (as soon he must), I'll send up to every paper, "Died, T. Mivins; of disgust."


Now o'er the landscape crowd the deepening shades, And the shut lily cradles not the bee; The red deer couches in the forest glades, And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea: And ere I rest, one prayer I'll breathe for thee, The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams: Lady, forgive, that ever upon me Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams Linger on Merlin's rock, or dark Sabrina's streams.

On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray, And watch far off the glimmering roselight break O'er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake. Oh! who felt not new life within him wake, And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn - (Save one we wot of, whom the cold DID make Feel "shooting pains in every joint in turn,") When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne?

And years have past, and I have gazed once more On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue; And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before - For all awakened memories of you. Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry, (Flies in those parts unfortunately do,) Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry, And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!

O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme That ere drew dreamer on to poesy, Since "Peggy's locks" made Burns neglect his team, And Stella's smile lured Johnson from his tea - I may not tell thee what thou art to me! But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear, Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be, Would he but "do the duty that lies near," And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer.


"Dr. Birch's young friends will reassemble to-day, Feb. 1st."

White is the wold, and ghostly The dank and leafless trees; And 'M's and 'N's are mostly Pronounced like 'B's and 'D's: 'Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted, The sheep stands, mute and stolid: And ducks find out, disgusted, That all the ponds are solid.

Many a stout steer's work is (At least in this world) finished; The gross amount of turkies Is sensibly diminished: The holly-boughs are faded, The painted crackers gone; Would I could write, as Gray did, An Elegy thereon!

For Christmas-time is ended: Now is "our youth" regaining Those sweet spots where are "blended Home-comforts and school-training." Now they're, I dare say, venting Their grief in transient sobs, And I am "left lamenting" At home, with Mrs. Dobbs.

O Posthumus! "Fugaces Labuntur anni" still; Time robs us of our graces, Evade him as we will. We were the twins of Siam: Now SHE thinks ME a bore, And I admit that I am Inclined at times to snore.

I was her own Nathaniel; With her I took sweet counsel, Brought seed-cake for her spaniel, And kept her bird in groundsel: We've murmured, "How delightful A landscape, seen by night, is," - And woke next day in frightful Pain from acute bronchitis.

* * *

But ah! for them, whose laughter We heard last New Year's Day, - (They reeked not of Hereafter, Or what the Doctor'd say,) - For those small forms that fluttered Moth-like around the plate, When Sally brought the buttered Buns in at half-past eight!

Ah for the altered visage Of her, our tiny Belle, Whom my boy Gus (at his age!) Said was a "deuced swell!" P'raps now Miss Tickler's tocsin Has caged that pert young linnet; Old Birch perhaps is boxing My Gus's ears this minute.

Yet, though your young ears be as Red as mamma's geraniums, Yet grieve not! Thus ideas Pass into infant craniums. Use not complaints unseemly; Tho' you must work like bricks; And it IS cold, extremely, Rising at half-past six.

Soon sunnier will the day grow, And the east wind not blow so; Soon, as of yore, L'Allegro Succeed Il Penseroso: Stick to your Magnall's Questions And Long Division sums; And come—with good digestions - Home when next Christmas comes.


Darkness succeeds to twilight: Through lattice and through skylight The stars no doubt, if one looked out, Might be observed to shine: And sitting by the embers I elevate my members On a stray chair, and then and there Commence a Valentine.

Yea! by St. Valentinus, Emma shall not be minus What all young ladies, whate'er their grade is, Expect to-day no doubt: Emma the fair, the stately - Whom I beheld so lately, Smiling beneath the snow-white wreath Which told that she was "out."

Wherefore fly to her, swallow, And mention that I'd "follow," And "pipe and trill," et cetera, till I died, had I but wings: Say the North's "true and tender," The South an old offender; And hint in fact, with your well-known tact, All kinds of pretty things.

Say I grow hourly thinner, Simply abhor my dinner - Tho' I do try and absorb some viand Each day, for form's sake merely: And ask her, when all's ended, And I am found extended, With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid, To think on Her's sincerely.


Often, when o'er tree and turret, Eve a dying radiance flings, By that ancient pile I linger Known familiarly as "King's." And the ghosts of days departed Rise, and in my burning breast All the undergraduate wakens, And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction, Seems the actual result Of the Census's enquiries Made upon the 15th ult.? Still my soul is in its boyhood; Nor of year or changes recks. Though my scalp is almost hairless, And my figure grows convex.

Backward moves the kindly dial; And I'm numbered once again With those noblest of their species Called emphatically 'Men': Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime, Through the streets, with tranquil mind, And a long-backed fancy-mongrel Trailing casually behind:

Past the Senate-house I saunter, Whistling with an easy grace; Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet Still the beefy market-place; Poising evermore the eye-glass In the light sarcastic eye, Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid Pass, without a tribute, by.

Once, an unassuming Freshman, Through these wilds I wandered on, Seeing in each house a College, Under every cap a Don: Each perambulating infant Had a magic in its squall, For my eager eye detected Senior Wranglers in them all.

By degrees my education Grew, and I became as others; Learned to court delirium tremens By the aid of Bacon Brothers; Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock, And colossal prints of Roe; And ignored the proposition That both time and money go.

Learned to work the wary dogcart Artfully through King's Parade; Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with Amaryllis in the shade: Struck, at Brown's, the dashing hazard; Or (more curious sport than that) Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier Down upon the prisoned rat.

I have stood serene on Fenner's Ground, indifferent to blisters, While the Buttress of the period Bowled me his peculiar twisters: Sung 'We won't go home till morning'; Striven to part my backhair straight; Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's Old dry wines at 78:-

When within my veins the blood ran, And the curls were on my brow, I did, oh ye undergraduates, Much as ye are doing now. Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:- Now unto mine inn must I, Your 'poor moralist,' {51a} betake me, In my 'solitary fly.'


In those old days which poets say were golden - (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves: And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves, Who talk to me "in language quaint and olden" Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves, Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards, And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born. They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet, No fashions varying as the hues of morn. Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate, Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn) And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked, And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant: And oft, I own, my 'wayward fancy roams' Back to those times, so different from the present; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor 'did' their hair by means of long-tailed combs, Nor migrated to Brighton once a-year, Nor—most astonishing of all—drank Beer.

No, they did not drink Beer, "which brings me to" (As Gilpin said) "the middle of my song." Not that "the middle" is precisely true, Or else I should not tax your patience long: If I had said 'beginning,' it might do; But I have a dislike to quoting wrong: I was unlucky—sinned against, not sinning - When Cowper wrote down 'middle' for 'beginning.'

So to proceed. That abstinence from Malt Has always struck me as extremely curious. The Greek mind must have had some vital fault, That they should stick to liquors so injurious - (Wine, water, tempered p'raps with Attic salt) - And not at once invent that mild, luxurious, And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestion Got on without it, is a startling question.

Had they digestions? and an actual body Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on? Were they abstract ideas—(like Tom Noddy And Mr. Briggs)—or men, like Jones and Jackson? Then Nectar—was that beer, or whiskey-toddy? Some say the Gaelic mixture, I the Saxon: I think a strict adherence to the latter Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.

Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shews That the real beverage for feasting gods on Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose And also to the palate, known as 'Hodgson.' I know a man—a tailor's son—who rose To be a peer: and this I would lay odds on, (Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,) That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant's tongue! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung? Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass, And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her Misguided sons that "the best drink was water."

How would he now recant that wild opinion, And sing—as would that I could sing—of you! I was not born (alas!) the "Muses' minion," I'm not poetical, not even blue: And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion, Whoe'er he is that entertains the view Of emulating Pindar, and will be Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea.

Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burned With all the lustre of the dying day, And on Cithaeron's brow the reaper turned, (Humming, of course, in his delightful way, How Lycidas was dead, and how concerned The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay; And how rock told to rock the dreadful story That poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)

What would that lone and labouring soul have given, At that soft moment, for a pewter pot! How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven, And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot! If his own grandmother had died unshriven, In two short seconds he'd have recked it not; Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker'd Hath one unfailing remedy—the Tankard.

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa; Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen: When 'Dulce et desipere in loco' Was written, real Falernian winged the pen. When a rapt audience has encored 'Fra Poco' Or 'Casta Diva,' I have heard that then The Prima Donna, smiling herself out, Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake? What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry, But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache? Nay stout itself—(though good with oysters, very) - Is not a thing your reading man should take. He that would shine, and petrify his tutor, Should drink draught Allsop in its "native pewter."

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear - A soft and silvery sound—I know it well. Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell. O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: But on one statement I may safely venture; That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a "modest quencher;" That home-returning, I may 'soothly say,' "Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day."


Thou who, when fears attack, Bid'st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost - Useless, except to roast - Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours; Jones—who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.) - Daily absorbs a clay After his labours.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!


Farewell, farewell! Before our prow Leaps in white foam the noisy channel, A tourist's cap is on my brow, My legs are cased in tourists' flannel:

Around me gasp the invalids - (The quantity to-night is fearful) - I take a brace or so of weeds, And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

The night wears on:- my thirst I quench With one imperial pint of porter; Then drop upon a casual bench - (The bench is short, but I am shorter) -

Place 'neath my head the harve-sac Which I have stowed my little all in, And sleep, though moist about the back, Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

* * *

Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M. Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30. Tickets to Konigswinter (mem. The seats objectionably dirty).

And onward through those dreary flats We move, with scanty space to sit on, Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats, And waists that paralyse a Briton; -

By many a tidy little town, Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting; (The men's pursuits are, lying down, Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)

And doze, and execrate the heat, And wonder how far off Cologne is, And if we shall get aught to eat, Till we get there, save raw polonies:

Until at last the "grey old pile" Is seen, is past, and three hours later We're ordering steaks, and talking vile Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.

* * *

Konigswinter, hateful Konigswinter! Burying-place of all I loved so well! Never did the most extensive printer Print a tale so dark as thou could'st tell!

In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered, Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold; Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered, Changed Rhine's waters into molten gold; -

While still nearer did his light waves splinter Into silvery shafts the streaming light; And I said I loved thee, Konigswinter, For the glory that was thine that night.

And we gazed, till slowly disappearing, Like a day-dream, passed the pageant by, And I saw but those lone hills, uprearing Dull dark shapes against a hueless sky.

Then I turned, and on those bright hopes pondered Whereof yon gay fancies were the type; And my hand mechanically wandered Towards my left-hand pocket for a pipe.

Ah! why starts each eyeball from its socket, As, in Hamlet, start the guilty Queen's? There, deep-hid in its accustomed pocket, Lay my sole pipe, smashed to smithereens!

* * *

On, on the vessel steals; Round go the paddle-wheels, And now the tourist feels As he should; For king-like rolls the Rhine, And the scenery's divine, And the victuals and the wine Rather good.

From every crag we pass'll Rise up some hoar old castle; The hanging fir-groves tassel Every slope; And the vine her lithe arms stretches O'er peasants singing catches - And you'll make no end of sketches, I should hope.

We've a nun here (called Therese), Two couriers out of place, One Yankee, with a face Like a ferret's: And three youths in scarlet caps Drinking chocolate and schnapps - A diet which perhaps Has its merits.

And day again declines: In shadow sleep the vines, And the last ray through the pines Feebly glows, Then sinks behind yon ridge; And the usual evening midge Is settling on the bridge Of my nose.

And keen's the air and cold, And the sheep are in the fold, And Night walks sable-stoled Through the trees; And on the silent river The floating starbeams quiver; - And now, the saints deliver Us from fleas.

* * *

Avenues of broad white houses, Basking in the noontide glare; - Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from, As on hot plates shrinks the bear; -

Elsewhere lawns, and vista'd gardens, Statues white, and cool arcades, Where at eve the German warrior Winks upon the German maids; -

Such is Munich:- broad and stately, Rich of hue, and fair of form; But, towards the end of August, Unequivocally WARM.

There, the long dim galleries threading, May the artist's eye behold, Breathing from the "deathless canvass" Records of the years of old:

Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno, "Take" once more "their walks abroad," Under Titian's fiery woodlands And the saffron skies of Claude:

There the Amazons of Rubens Lift the failing arm to strike, And the pale light falls in masses On the horsemen of Vandyke;

And in Berghem's pools reflected Hang the cattle's graceful shapes, And Murillo's soft boy-faces Laugh amid the Seville grapes;

And all purest, loveliest fancies That in poets' souls may dwell Started into shape and substance At the touch of Raphael. -

Lo! her wan arms folded meekly, And the glory of her hair Falling as a robe around her, Kneels the Magdalene in prayer;

And the white-robed Virgin-mother Smiles, as centuries back she smiled, Half in gladness, half in wonder, On the calm face of her Child:-

And that mighty Judgment-vision Tells how man essayed to climb Up the ladder of the ages, Past the frontier-walls of Time;

Heard the trumpet-echoes rolling Through the phantom-peopled sky, And the still voice bid this mortal Put on immortality.

* * *

Thence we turned, what time the blackbird Pipes to vespers from his perch, And from out the clattering city Pass'd into the silent church;

Marked the shower of sunlight breaking Thro' the crimson panes o'erhead, And on pictured wall and window Read the histories of the dead:

Till the kneelers round us, rising, Cross'd their foreheads and were gone; And o'er aisle and arch and cornice, Layer on layer, the night came on.



She stood at Greenwich, motionless amid The ever-shifting crowd of passengers. I marked a big tear quivering on the lid Of her deep-lustrous eye, and knew that hers Were days of bitterness. But, "Oh! what stirs" I said "such storm within so fair a breast?" Even as I spoke, two apoplectic curs Came feebly up: with one wild cry she prest Each singly to her heart, and faltered, "Heaven be blest!"

Yet once again I saw her, from the deck Of a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall. She walked upon MY FIRST. Her stately neck Bent o'er an object shrouded in her shawl: I could not see the tears—the glad tears—fall, Yet knew they fell. And "Ah," I said, "not puppies, Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pall From hearts who KNOW what tasting misery's cup is, As Niobe's, or mine, or Mr. William Guppy's."

* * *

Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza Spinks the cook: "Mrs. Spinks," says he, "I've foundered: 'Liza dear, I'm overtook. Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn; Speak the word, my blessed 'Liza; speak, and John the coachman's yourn."

Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the coachman John: "John, I'm born and bred a spinster: I've begun and I'll go on. Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a wife: Cooking for a genteel family, John, it's a goluptious life!

"I gets 20 pounds per annum—tea and things o' course not reckoned, - There's a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and breaks MY SECOND: There's soci'ty—James the footman;—(not that I look after him; But he's aff'ble in his manners, with amazing length of limb;) -

"Never durst the missis enter here until I've said 'Come in': If I saw the master peeping, I'd catch up the rolling-pin. Christmas-boxes, that's a something; perkisites, that's something too; And I think, take all together, John, I won't be on with you."

John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he'd had enough; Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff; Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild, "She's a fine young 'oman, cook is; but that's where it is, she's spiled."

* * *

I have read in some not marvellous tale, (Or if I have not, I've dreamed) Of one who filled up the convivial cup Till the company round him seemed

To be vanished and gone, tho' the lamps upon Their face as aforetime gleamed: And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept O'er his powerful brain, and the young man slept.

Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed: But first—having thoughtfully fetched some tar - Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather's Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh.

They staid in his room till the sun was high: But still did the feathered one give no sign Of opening a peeper—he might be a sleeper Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line.

At last he woke, and with profound Bewilderment he gazed around; Dropped one, then both feet to the ground, But never spake a word:

Then to my WHOLE he made his way; Took one long lingering survey; And softly, as he stole away, Remarked, "By Jove, a bird!"


If you've seen a short man swagger tow'rds the footlights at Shoreditch, Sing out "Heave aho! my hearties," and perpetually hitch Up, by an ingenious movement, trousers innocent of brace, Briskly flourishing a cudgel in his pleased companion's face;

If he preluded with hornpipes each successive thing he did, From a sun-browned cheek extracting still an ostentatious quid; And expectorated freely, and occasionally cursed:- Then have you beheld, depicted by a master's hand, MY FIRST.

O my countryman! if ever from thy arm the bolster sped, In thy school-days, with precision at a young companion's head; If 'twas thine to lodge the marble in the centre of the ring, Or with well-directed pebble make the sitting hen take wing:

Then do thou—each fair May morning, when the blue lake is as glass, And the gossamers are twinkling star-like in the beaded grass; When the mountain-bee is sipping fragrance from the bluebell's lip, And the bathing-woman tells you, Now's your time to take a dip:

When along the misty valleys fieldward winds the lowing herd, And the early worm is being dropped on by the early bird; And Aurora hangs her jewels from the bending rose's cup, And the myriad voice of Nature calls thee to MY SECOND up:-

Hie thee to the breezy common, where the melancholy goose Stalks, and the astonished donkey finds that he is really loose; There amid green fern and furze-bush shalt thou soon MY WHOLE behold, Rising 'bull-eyed and majestic'—as Olympus queen of old:

Kneel,—at a respectful distance,—as they kneeled to her, and try With judicious hand to put a ball into that ball-less eye: Till a stiffness seize thy elbows, and the general public wake - Then return, and, clear of conscience, walk into thy well-earned steak.


Ere yet "knowledge for the million" Came out "neatly bound in boards;" When like Care upon a pillion Matrons rode behind their lords: Rarely, save to hear the Rector, Forth did younger ladies roam; Making pies, and brewing nectar From the gooseberry-trees at home.

They'd not dreamed of Pan or Vevay; Ne'er should into blossom burst At the ball or at the levee; Never come, in fact, MY FIRST: Nor illumine cards by dozens With some labyrinthine text, Nor work smoking-caps for cousins Who were pounding at MY NEXT.

Now have skirts, and minds, grown ampler; Now not all they seek to do Is create upon a sampler Beasts which Buffon never knew: But their venturous muslins rustle O'er the cragstone and the snow, Or at home their biceps muscle Grows by practising the bow.

Worthier they those dames who, fable Says, rode "palfreys" to the war With gigantic Thanes, whose "sable Destriers caracoled" before; Smiled, as—springing from the war-horse As men spring in modern 'cirques' - They plunged, ponderous as a four-horse Coach, among the vanished Turks:-

In the good times when the jester Asked the monarch how he was, And the landlady addrest her Guests as 'gossip' or as 'coz'; When the Templar said, "Gramercy," Or, "'Twas shrewdly thrust, i' fegs," To Sir Halbert or Sir Percy As they knocked him off his legs:

And, by way of mild reminders That he needed coin, the Knight Day by day extracted grinders From the howling Israelite: And MY WHOLE in merry Sherwood Sent, with preterhuman luck, Missiles—not of steel but firwood - Thro' the two-mile-distant buck.


Evening threw soberer hue Over the blue sky, and the few Poplars that grew just in the view Of the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle: "Answer me true," pleaded Sir Hugh, (Striving to woo no matter who,) "What shall I do, Lady, for you? 'Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle. Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter, And bid a decanter contain the Levant, or The brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter? Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar - (That R, for the sake of the line, we must grant her,) - And race with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter, Like that first of equestrians Tam o' Shanter? I talk not mere banter—say not that I can't, or By this MY FIRST—(a Virginia planter Sold it me to kill rats)—I will die instanter." The Lady bended her ivory neck, and Whispered mournfully, "Go for—MY SECOND." She said, and the red from Sir Hugh's cheek fled, And "Nay," did he say, as he stalked away The fiercest of injured men: "Twice have I humbled my haughty soul, And on bended knee I have pressed MY WHOLE - But I never will press it again!"


On pinnacled St. Mary's Lingers the setting sun; Into the street the blackguards Are skulking one by one: Butcher and Boots and Bargeman Lay pipe and pewter down; And with wild shout come tumbling out To join the Town and Gown.

And now the undergraduates Come forth by twos and threes, From the broad tower of Trinity, From the green gate of Caius: The wily bargeman marks them, And swears to do his worst; To turn to impotence their strength, And their beauty to MY FIRST.

But before Corpus gateway MY SECOND first arose, When Barnacles the freshman Was pinned upon the nose: Pinned on the nose by Boxer, Who brought a hobnailed herd From Barnwell, where he kept a van, Being indeed a dogsmeat man, Vendor of terriers, blue or tan, And dealer in MY THIRD.

'Twere long to tell how Boxer Was 'countered' on the cheek, And knocked into the middle Of the ensuing week: How Barnacles the Freshman Was asked his name and college; And how he did the fatal facts Reluctantly acknowledge.

He called upon the Proctor Next day at half-past ten; Men whispered that the Freshman cut A different figure then:- That the brass forsook his forehead, The iron fled his soul, As with blanched lip and visage wan Before the stony-hearted Don He kneeled upon MY WHOLE.


Sikes, housebreaker, of Houndsditch, Habitually swore; But so surpassingly profane He never was before, As on a night in winter, When—softly as he stole In the dim light from stair to stair, Noiseless as boys who in her lair Seek to surprise a fat old hare - He barked his shinbone, unaware Encountering MY WHOLE.

As pours the Anio plainward, When rains have swollen the dykes, So, with such noise, poured down MY FIRST, Stirred by the shins of Sikes. The Butler Bibulus heard it; And straightway ceased to snore, And sat up, like an egg on end, While men might count a score: Then spake he to Tigerius, A Buttons bold was he: "Buttons, I think there's thieves about; Just strike a light and tumble out; If you can't find one, go without, And see what you may see."

But now was all the household, Almost, upon its legs, Each treading carefully about As if they trod on eggs. With robe far-streaming issued Paterfamilias forth; And close behind him,—stout and true And tender as the North, - Came Mrs. P., supporting On her broad arm her fourth.

Betsy the nurse, who never From largest beetle ran, And—conscious p'raps of pleasing caps - The housemaids, formed the van: And Bibulus the Butler, His calm brows slightly arched; (No mortal wight had ere that night Seen him with shirt unstarched;) And Bob, the shockhaired knifeboy, Wielding two Sheffield blades, And James Plush of the sinewy legs, The love of lady's maids: And charwoman and chaplain Stood mingled in a mass, And "Things," thought he of Houndsditch, "Is come to a pretty pass."

Beyond all things a Baby Is to the schoolgirl dear; Next to herself the nursemaid loves Her dashing grenadier; Only with life the sailor Parts from the British flag; While one hope lingers, the cracksman's fingers Drop not his hard-earned 'swag.'

But, as hares do MY SECOND Thro' green Calabria's copses, As females vanish at the sight Of short-horns and of wopses; So, dropping forks and teaspoons, The pride of Houndsditch fled, Dumbfoundered by the hue and cry He'd raised up overhead.

* * *

They gave him—did the Judges - As much as was his due. And, Saxon, should'st thou e'er be led To deem this tale untrue; Then—any night in winter, When the cold north wind blows, And bairns are told to keep out cold By tallowing the nose: When round the fire the elders Are gathered in a bunch, And the girls are doing crochet, And the boys are reading Punch:- Go thou and look in Leech's book; There haply shalt thou spy A stout man on a staircase stand, With aspect anything but bland, And rub his right shin with his hand, To witness if I lie.



Art thou beautiful, O my daughter, as the budding rose of April? Are all thy motions music, and is poetry throned in thine eye? Then hearken unto me; and I will make the bud a fair flower, I will plant it upon the bank of Elegance, and water it with the water of Cologne; And in the season it shall "come out," yea bloom, the pride of the parterre; Ladies shall marvel at its beauty, and a Lord shall pluck it at the last.

Of Propriety.

Study first Propriety: for she is indeed the Polestar Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair; Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society; The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros. Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked; Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice: And when she is drest, behold! she knoweth not herself again. - I walked in the Forest; and above me stood the Yew, Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade; Then I pass'd into the citizen's garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape, (The giant's locks had been shorn by the Dalilahshears of Decorum;) And I said, "Surely nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!" I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky, And my foolish heart went after him, and lo! I blessed him as he rose; Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bulfinch, Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up water: And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder, Must yield to him that danceth and 'moveth in the circles' at Astley's. For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade, And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another: A maiden's heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards, And it needeth that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety: He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure, Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.


Choose judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable, Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy 'H's'. Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light? Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the Morning Post? If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and mind; Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding: So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be "formed," And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall fly open: Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation, His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth remove: Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning's papers, Side by side with rumours of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and sieges, Shall appear thy name, and the minutiae of thy head-dress and petticoat, For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.

Of Reading.

Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life; Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet intelligible: Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth not: Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream, but do. Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old, Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful: Likewise study the "creations" of "the Prince of modern Romance;" Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy: Learn how "love is the dram-drinking of existence;" And how we "invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets, The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen." Listen how Maltravers and the orphan "forgot all but love," And how Devereux's family chaplain "made and unmade kings:" How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer, Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind. So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master-spirits; And if thou canst not realise the Ideal, thou shalt at least idealise the Real.


Yet once more, O ye laurels! and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, sisters, of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, And, as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud: For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright, Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damaetas loved to hear our song. But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie; Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: Ay me! I fondly dream! Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days, But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea; He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap had doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings, That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed, The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake, Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs! What reeks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said. But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears: Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strow the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward, angel now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walked the waves, Where other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray, He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropped into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue, Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.


En! iterum laurus, iterum salvete myricae Pallentes, nullique hederae quae ceditis aevo. Has venio baccas, quanquam sapor asper acerbis, Decerptum, quassumque manu folia ipsa proterva, Maturescentem praevortens improbus annum. Causa gravis, pia cansa, subest, et amara deum lex; Nec jam sponte mea vobis rata tempora turbo. Nam periit Lycidas, periit superante juventa Imberbis Lycidas, quo non praestantior alter. Quis cantare super Lycida neget? Ipse quoque artem Norat Apollineam, versumque imponere versu Non nullo vitreum fas innatet ille feretrum Flente, voluteturque arentes corpus ad auras, Indotatum adeo et lacrymae vocalis egenum. Quare agite, o sacri fontis queis cura, sorores, Cui sub inaccessi sella Jovis exit origo: Incipite, et sonitu graviore impellite chordas. Lingua procul male prompta loqui, suasorque morarum Sit pudor: alloquiis ut mollior una secundis Pieridum faveat, cui mox ego destiner, urnae: Et gressus praetergrediens convertat, et "Esto" Dicat "amoena quies atra tibi veste latenti:" Uno namque jugo duo nutribamur: eosdem Pavit uterque greges ad fontem et rivulum et umbram. Tempore nos illo, nemorum convexa priusquam, Aurora reserante oculos, caepere videri, Urgebamus equos ad pascua: novimus horam Aridus audiri solitus qua clangor asili; Rore recentes greges passi pinguescere noctis Saepius, albuerat donec quod vespere sidus Hesperios axes prono inclinasset Olympo. At pastorales non cessavere camoenae, Fistula disparibus quas temperat apta cicutis: Saltabant Satyri informes, nec murmure laeto Capripedes potuere diu se avertere Fauni; Damaetasque modos nostros longaevus amabat. Jamque, relicta tibi, quantum mutata videntur Rura—relicta tibi, cui non spes ulla regressus! Te sylvae, teque antra, puer, deserta ferarum, Incultis obducta thymis ac vite sequaci, Decessisse gemunt; gemitusque reverberat Echo. Non salices, non glauca ergo coryleta videbo Molles ad numeros laetum motare cacumen:- Quale rosis scabies; quam formidabile vermis Depulso jam lacte gregi, dum tondet agellos; Sive quod, indutis verna jam veste, pruinae Floribus, albet ubi primum paliurus in agris: Tale fuit nostris, Lycidam periisse, bubulcis. Qua, Nymphae, latuistis, ubi crudele profundum Delicias Lycidam vestras sub vortice torsit? Nam neque vos scopulis tum ludebatis in illis Quos veteres, Druidae, Vates, illustria servant Nomina; nec celsae setoso in culmine Monae, Nec, quos Deva locos magicis amplectitur undis. Vae mihi! delusos exercent somnia sensus: Venissetis enim; numquid venisse juvaret? Numquid Pieris ipsa parens interfuit Orphei, Pieris ipsa suae sobolis, qui carmine rexit Corda virum, quem terra olim, quam magna, dolebat, Tempore quo, dirum auditu strepitante caterva, Ora secundo amni missa, ac foedata cruore, Lesbia praecipitans ad litora detulit Hebrus? Eheu quid prodest noctes instare diesque Pastorum curas spretas humilesque tuendo, Nilque relaturam meditari rite Camoenam? Nonne fuit satius lusus agitare sub umbra, (Ut mos est aliis,) Amaryllida sive Neaeram Sectanti, ac tortis digitum impediisse capillis? Scilcet ingenuum cor Fama, novissimus error Illa animi majoris, uti calcaribus urget Spernere delicias ac dedi rebus agendis. Quanquam—exoptatam jam spes attingere dotem; Jam nec opinata remur splendescere flamma:- Caeca sed invisa cum forfice venit Erinnys, Quae resecet tenui haerentem subtemine vitam. "At Famam non illa," refert, tangitque trementes Phoebus Apollo aures. "Fama haud, vulgaris ad instar Floris, amat terrestre solum, fictosque nitores Queis inhiat populus, nec cum Rumore patescit. Vivere dant illi, dant increbrescere late Puri oculi ac vox summa Jovis, cui sola Potestas. Fecerit ille semel de facto quoque virorum Arbitrium: tantum famae manet aethera nactis." Fons Arethusa! sacro placidus qui laberis alveo, Frontem vocali praetextus arundine, Minci! Sensi equidem gravius carmen. Nunc cetera pastor Exsequor. Adstat enim missus pro rege marino, Seque rogasse refert fluctus, ventosque rapaces, Quae sors dura nimis tenerum rapuisset agrestem. Compellasse refert alarum quicquid ab omni Spirat, acerba sonans, scopulo, qui cuspidis instar Prominet in pelagus; fama haud pervenerat illuc. Haec ultro pater Hippotades responsa ferebat: "Nulli sunt,nostro palati carcere venti. Straverat aequor aquas, et sub Jove compta sereno Lusum exercebat Panope nymphaeque sorores. Quam Furiae struxere per interlunia, leto Fetam ac fraude ratem,—malos velarat Erinnys, - Credas in mala tanta caput mersisse sacratum." Proximus huic tardum senior se Camus agebat; Cui setosa chlamys, cui pileus ulva: figuris Idem intertextus dubiis erat, utque cruentos Quos perhibent flores, inscriptus margine luctum. "Nam quis," ait, "praedulce meum me pignus ademit?" Post hos, qui Galilaea regit per stagna carinas, Post hos venit iturus: habet manus utraque clavim, (Queis aperit clauditque) auro ferrove gravatam. Mitra tegit crines; quassis quibus, acriter infit: "Scilicet optassem pro te dare corpora leto Sat multa, o juvenis: quot serpunt ventribus acti, Vi quot iter faciunt spretis in ovilia muris. Hic labor, hoc opus est, pecus ut tondente magistro Praeripiant epulas, trudatur dignior hospes. Capti oculis, non ore! pedum tractare nec ipsi Norunt; quotve bonis sunt upilionibus artes. Sed quid enim refert, quove eat opus, omnia nactis? Fert ubi mens, tenue ac deductum carmen avenam Radit stridentem stipulis. Pastore negato Suspicit aegra pecus: vento gravis ac lue tracta Tabescit; mox foeda capit contagia vulgus. Quid dicam, stabulis ut clandestinus oberrans Expleat ingluviem tristis lupus, indice nullo? Illa tamen bimanus custodit machina portam, Stricta, paratque malis plagam non amplius unam." En, Alphee, redi! Quibus ima cohorruit unda Voces praeteriere: redux quoque Sicelis omnes Musa voca valles; huc pendentes hyacinthos Fac jaciant, teneros huc flores mille colorum. O nemorum depressa, sonant ubi crebra susurri Umbrarum, et salientis aquae, Zephyrique protervi; Queisque virens gremium penetrare Canicula parcit: Picturata modis jacite huc mihi lumina miris, Mellitos imbres queis per viridantia rura Mos haurire, novo quo tellus vere rubescat. Huc ranunculus, ipse arbos, pallorque ligustri, Quaeque relicta perit, vixdum matura feratur Pnimula: quique ebeno distinctus, caetera flavet Flos, et qui specie nomen detrectat eburna. Ardenti violae rosa proxima fundat odores; Serpyllumque placens, et acerbo flexile vultu Verbascum, ac tristem si quid sibi legit amictum. Quicquid habes pulcri fundas, amarante: coronent Narcissi lacrymis calices, sternantque feretrum Tectus ubi lauro Lycidas jacet: adsit ut oti Saltem aliquid, ficta ludantur imagine mentes. Me miserum! Tua nam litus, pelagusque sonorum Ossa ferunt, queiscunque procul jacteris in oris; Sive procellosas ultra Symplegadas ingens Jam subter mare visis, alit quae monstra profundum; Sive (negavit enim precibus te Jupiter udis) Cum sene Bellero, veterum qui fabula, dormis, Qua custoditi montis praegrandis imago Namancum atque arces longe prospectat Iberas. Verte retro te, verte deum, mollire precando: Et vos infaustum juvenem delphines agatis. Ponite jam lacrymas, sat enim flevistis, agrestes. Non periit Lycidas, vestri moeroris origo, Marmorei quanquam fluctus hausere cadentem. Sic et in aequoreum se condere saepe cubile Luciferum videas; nec longum tempus, et effert Demissum caput, igne novo vestitus; et, aurum Ceu rutilans, in fronte poli splendescit Eoi. Sic obiit Lycidas, sic assurrexit in altum; Illo, quem peditem mare sustulit, usus amico. Nunc campos alios, alia errans stagna secundum, Rorantesque lavans integro nectare crines, Audit inauditos nobis cantari Hymenaeos, Fortunatorum sedes ubi mitis amorem Laetitiamque affert. Hic illum, quotquot Olympum Praedulces habitant turbae, venerabilis ordo, Circumstant: aliaeque canunt, interque canendum Majestate sua veniunt abeuntque catervae, Omnes ex oculis lacrymas arcere paratae. Ergo non Lycidam jam lamentantur agrestes. Divus eris ripae, puer, hoc ex tempore nobis, Grande, nec immerito, veniens in munus; opemque Poscent usque tuam, dubiis quot in aestubus errant. Haec incultus aquis puer ilicibusque canebat; Processit dum mane silens talaribus albis. Multa manu teneris discrimina tentat avenis, Dorica non studio modulatus carmina segni: Et jam sol abiens colles extenderat omnes, Jamque sub Hesperium se praecipitaverat alveum. Surrexit tandem, glaucumque retraxit amictum; Cras lucos, reor, ille novos, nova pascua quaeret.


The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,

And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns

Together, in the drifts that pass, To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass;

Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev'n as he were by:

We keep the day with festal cheer, With books and music. Surely we Will drink to him whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear.


Non hora myrto, non violis sinit Nitere mensas. Trux Aquilo foras Bacchatur, ac passim pruina Tigna sagittifera coruscant;

Horretque saltus spinifer, algidae Sub falce lunae, dum nemori imminet, Quod stridet illiditque costis Cornua, jam vacuis honorum,

Ferrata; nimbis praetereuntibus, Ut incubent tandem implacido sali Qui curvat oras. Tu Falernum Prome, dapes strue, dic coronent

Crateras: ignis cor solidum, graves Repone truncos. Jamque doloribus Loquare securus fugatis Quae socio loquereris illo;

Hunc dedicamus laetitiae diem Lyraeque musisque. Illius, illius Da, quicquid audit: nec silebunt Qui numeri placuere vivo.


Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting, Shade me with your azure wing; On Parnassus' summit sitting, Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of Drury O'er the empyreal crest, When Alecto's sister-fury Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely, Lags the lowly Lord of Fire, Cytherea yielding tamely To the Cyclops dark and dire.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness, Dulcet joys and sports of youth, Soon must yield to haughty sadness; Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

See Erostratas the second Fires again Diana's fane; By the Fates from Orcus beckon'd, Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

Where is Cupid's crimson motion? Billowy ecstasy of woe, Bear me straight, meandering ocean, Where the stagnant torrents flow.

Blood in every vein is gushing, Vixen vengeance lulls my heart; See, the Gorgon gang is rushing! Never, never let us part.


O quot odoriferi voitatis in aere venti, Caeruleum tegmen vestra sit ala mihi: Tuque sedens Parnassus ubi caput erigit ingens, Dextra veni, Clio: teque docente canam.

Jam suaves somnos Tholus affectare Theatri Coeperat, igniflui trans laqueare poli: Alectus consanguineam quo tempore Erinnyn, Suave soporatam, coepit adire quies.

Lustra sed ecce labans claudo pede Lemnia linquit Luridus (at lente lugubriterque) Deus: Amisit veteres, amisit inultus, amores; Teter habet Venerem terribilisque Cyclops.

Electri nebulas, potioraque somnia vero; Quotque placent pueris gaudia, quotque joci; Omnia tristiae fas concessisse superbae: Admissum Pietas scitque premitque nefas.

Respice! Nonne vides ut Erostratus alter ad aedem Rursus agat flammas, spreta Diana, tuam? Mox, Acheronteis quas Parca eduxit ab antris, Druriacam nubes corripuere domum.

O ubi purpurei motus pueri alitis? o qui Me mihi turbineis surripis, angor, aquis! Duc, labyrintheum, duc me, mare, tramite recto Quo rapidi fontes, pigra caterva, ruunt!

Jamque—soporat enim pectus Vindicta Virago; Omnibus a venis sanguinis unda salit; Gorgoneique greges praeceps (adverte!) feruntur - Sim, precor, o! semper sim tibi junctus ego.


Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set: but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings at the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet has its hour, The feverish hour of mirth and song and wine: There comes a day for grief's overwhelming shower, A time for softer tears: but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee!—but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey!


" Frondes est ubi decidant, Marcescantque rosae flatu Aquilonio: Horis astra cadunt suis; Sed, Mors, cuncta tibi tempera vindicas.

Curis nata virum dies; Vesper colloquiis dulcibus ad focum; Somnis nox magis, et preci: Sed nil, Terrigenum maxima, non tibi.

Festis hora epulis datur, (Fervens hora jocis, carminibus, mero;) Fusis altera lacrymis Aut fletu tacito: quaeque tamen tua.

Virgo, seu rosa pullulans, Tantum quippe nitent ut nequeant mori? Rident te? Neque enim soles Praedae parcere, dum flos adoleverit.


"Let us turn hitherward our bark," they cried, "And, 'mid the blisses of this happy isle, Past toil forgetting and to come, abide In joyfulness awhile.

And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again, If other tasks we yet are bound unto, Combing the hoary tresses of the main With sharp swift keel anew."

O heroes, that had once a nobler aim, O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line, What will ye do, unmindful of your fame, And of your race divine?

But they, by these prevailing voices now Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land, Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow, That strewed that fatal strand;

Or seeing, feared not—warning taking none From the plain doom of all who went before, Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun, And whitened all the shore.


"Quin hue," fremebant, "dirigimus ratem: Hic, dote laeti divitis insulae, Paullisper haeremus, futuri Nec memores operis, nec acti:

"Curas refecti cras iterabimus, Si qua supersunt emeritis novae Pexisse pernices acuta Canitiem pelagi carina."

O rebus olim nobilioribus Pares: origo Di quibus ac Deae Heroes! oblitine famiae Haec struitis, generisque summi?

Atqui propinquant jam magis ac magis, Ducti magistra voce, solum: neque Videre prorarum nefandas Fragmina nobilium per oras;

Vidisse seu non poenitet—ominis Incuriosos tot praeeuntium, Quorum ossa sol siccantque venti, Candet adhuc quibus omnis ora.


"Qucquid agunt homines, nostri est farrago libelli."

Acris hyems jam venit: hyems genus omne perosa Foemineum, et senibus glacies non aequa rotundis: Apparent rari stantes in tramite glauco; Radit iter, cogitque nives, sua tela, juventus. Trux matrona ruit, multos dominata per annos, Digna indigna minans, glomeratque volumina crurum; Illa parte senex, amisso forte galero, Per plateas bacchatur; eum chorus omnis agrestum Ridet anhelantem frustra, et jam jamque tenentem Quod petit; illud agunt venti prensumque resorbent. Post, ubi compositus tandem votique potitus Sedit humi; flet crura tuens nive candida lenta, Et vestem laceram, et venturas conjugis iras: Itque domum tendens duplices ad sidera palmas, Corda miser, desiderio perfixa galeri. At juvenis (sed cruda viro viridisque juventus) Quaerit bacciferas, tunica pendente, {145a} tabernas: Pervigil ecce Baco furva depromit ab arca Splendidius quiddam solito, plenumque saporem Laudat, et antiqua jurat de stripe Jamaicae. O fumose puer, nimium ne crede Baconi: Manillas vocat; hoc praetexit nomine caules. Te vero, cui forte dedit maturior aetas Scire potestates herbarum, te quoque quanti Circumstent casus, paucis (adverte) docebo. Praecipue, seu raptat amor te simplicis herbae, {145b} Seu potius tenui Musam meditaris avena, Procuratorem fugito, nam ferreus idem est. Vita semiboves catulos, redimicula vita Candida: de coelo descendit [Greek text]. Nube vaporis item conspergere praeter euntes Jura vetant, notumque furens quid femina possit: Odit enim dulces succos anus, odit odorem; Odit Lethaei diffusa volumina fumi. Mille modis reliqui fugiuntque feruntque laborem. Hic vir ad Eleos, pedibus talaria gestans, Fervidus it latices, nec quidquam acquirit eundo: {146a} Ille petit virides (sed non e gramine) mensas, Pollicitus meliora patri, tormentaque {146b} flexus Per labyrintheos plus quam mortalia tentat, Acre tuens, loculisque pilas immittit et aufert. Sunt alii, quos frigus aquae, tenuisque phaselus Captat, et aequali surgentes ordine remi. His edura cutis, nec ligno rasile tergum; Par saxi sinus: esca boves cum robore Bassi. Tollunt in numerum fera brachia, vique feruntur Per fluctus: sonuere viae clamore secundo: Et picea de puppe fremens immane bubulcus Invocat exitium cunctis, et verbera rapto Stipite defessis onerat graviora caballis. Nil humoris egent alii. Labor arva vagari, Flectere ludus equos, et amantem devia {147a} currum. Nosco purpureas vestes, clangentia nosco Signa tubae, et caudas inter virgulta caninas. Stat venator equus, tactoque ferocior armo Surgit in arrectum, vix auditurus habenam; Et jam prata fuga superat, jam flumina saltu. Aspicias alios ab iniqua sepe rotari In caput, ut scrobibus quae sint fastigia quaerant; Eque rubis aut amne pigro trahere humida crura, Et foedam faciem, defloccatumque galerum. Sanctius his animal, cui quadravisse rotundum {148a} Musae suadet amor, Camique ardentis imago, Inspicat calamos contracta fronte malignos, Perque Mathematicum pelagus, loca turbida, anhelat. Circum dirus "Hymers," nec pondus inutile, "Lignum," "Salmoque," et pueris tu detestate, "Colenso," Horribiles visu formae; livente notatae Ungue omnes, omnes insignes aure canina. {148b} Fervet opus; tacitum pertentant gaudia pectus Tutorum; "pulchrumque mori," dixere, "legendo." Nec vero juvenes facere omnes omnia possunt. Atque unum memini ipse, deus qui dictus amicis, Et multum referens de rixatore {148c} secundo, Nocte terens ulnas ac scrinia, solus in alto Degebat tripode; arcta viro vilisque supellex; Et sic torva tuens, pedibus per mutua nexis, Sedit, lacte mero mentem mulcente tenellam. Et fors ad summos tandem venisset honores; Sed rapidi juvenes, queis gratior usus equorum, Subveniunt, siccoque vetant inolescere libro. Improbus hos Lector pueros, mentumque virili Laevius, et durae gravat inclementia Mortis: {149a} Agmen iners; queis mos aliena vivere quadra, {149b} Et lituo vexare viros, calcare caballos. Tales mane novo saepe admiramur euntes Torquibus in rigidis et pelle Libystidis ursae; Admiramur opus {149c} tunicae, vestemque {149d} sororem Iridis, et crurum non enarrabile tegmen. Hos inter comites implebat pocula sorbis Infelix puer, et sese reereabat ad ignem, "Evoe, {150a} BASSE," fremens: dum velox praeterit aetas; Venit summa dies; et Junior Optimus exit. Saucius at juvenis nota intra tecta refugit, Horrendum ridens, lucemque miserrimus odit: Informem famulus laqueum pendentiaque ossa Mane videt, refugitque feri meminisse magistri. Di nobis meliora! Modum re servat in omni Qui sapit: haud ilium semper recubare sub umbra, Haud semper madidis juvat impallescere chartis. Nos numerus sumus, et libros consumere nati; Sed requies sit rebus; amant alterna Camenae. Nocte dieque legas, cum tertius advenit annus: Tum libros cape; claude fores, et prandia defer. Quartus venit: ini, {150b} rebus jam rite paratis, Exultans, et coge gradum conferre magistros. His animadversis, fugies immane Barathrum. His, operose puer, si qua fata aspera rumpas, Tu rixator eris. Saltem non crebra revises Ad stabulum, {151a} et tota moerens carpere juventa; Classe nec amisso nil profectura dolentem Tradet ludibriis te plena leporis HIRUDO. {151b}


TO A SHIP. OD. i. 14.

Yet on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride, O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there Rest thee: for lo! thy side Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast, And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost, Yield must thy keel at last On pitiless sea-waves tossed

Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine, Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:- Though thou—a Pontic pine, Child of a stately forest, -

Boastest high name and empty pedigree, Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail: Stay, unless doomed to be The plaything of the gale.

Flee—what of late sore burden was to me, Now a sad memory and a bitter pain, - Those shining Cyclads flee That stud the far-off main.

TO VIRGIL. OD. i. 24.

Unshamed, unchecked, for one so dear We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir, Melpomene, to whom thy sire Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!

Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn? Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right, Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light, When shall again his like be born?

Many a kind heart for Him makes moan; Thine, Virgil, first. But ah! in vain Thy love bids heaven restore again That which it took not as a loan:

Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given To thee, did trees thy voice obey; The blood revisits not the clay Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven

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