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The Minerva Library 



Voyage in the ' Beagle. ' 





7. GOETHE'S FAUST {Cow/>iete). Bayard Taylor. 













London : WARD, LOCK & Co. 

>hr(^t^c^ ^ocJCt^^ ctcu^^/f^ 


Edited by G. T. BETTANY, M.A., B.Sc. 












" J'ay seulement faict icy un amas de fleurs, n'y ayant fourny du mien 
qua le filet a les lier." — Michel de Montaigne, 

" These pieces commonly go under the title of poetical 
amusements ; but these amusements have sometimes gained 
as much reputation to their authors, as works of a more 
serious nature. 

"It is surprising how much the mind is entertained and 
enlivened by these little poetical compositions, as they turn 
upon subjects of gallantry, satire, tenderness, politeness, and 
everything, in short, that concerns life, and the affairs of the 

Pliny to Tuscus. 




Dear Mr. Dean, 

You have given me great pleasure in allowing me to 
dedicate this little work to yourself. 1 hesitated to ask the 
luvour, because the book miglit seem to be of too trifling 
a character, to be connected with so venerable a name ; 
but then I remembered your universal appreciation of every 
branch of our literature, and also the kindly interest which 
you took in the scheme when I first mentioned it to you. 

I trust that the principle of my selection will meet your 
approval. I feel sure you will make allowance for many 
shortcomings, and will charitably believe that the Editor 
tried to do his best. 

I ani, 

Dear Mr. Dean, 
Yours very faithfully, 



So many collections of favourite poetical pieces, ap- 
pealing to nearly every variety of taste, have been 
published of late years that some apology may seem 
due to the public for adding yet another volume to the 
number already in existence. 

But although there have been sentimental, heroic, 
humorous, lyrical, juvenile, and devotional collections, 
there is another kind of poetry which was more in 
vogue in the reign of Queen Anne, and, indeed, in 
Ante-Reform- Bill times, than it is at the present day ; 
a kind which, in its more restricted form, has some- 
what the same relation to the poetry of lofty imagina- 
tion and deep feeling, that the Dresden China 
Shepherds and Shepherdesses of the last century bear 
to the sculpture of Donatello and Michael Angelo ; 
namely, smoothly written verse, where a boudoir 
decorum is, or ought always to be, preserved ; where 
sentiment never surges into passion, and where 
humour never overflows into boisterous merriment. 
The Editor is not aware that a Collection of this 
peculiar species of exquisitely rounded and polished 
verse, which, for want of a better title, he has called 
Lyra Elegantiartiin, has ever yet been offered to the 

X ■ Preface. 

Hitherto this kind of metrical composition has re- - 
mained difificvilt of access to the majority of readers, 
because its most finished specimens have often lain 
scattered among masses of poetry, more ambitious in 
aim, but frequently far less worthy of preservation. 
It seems only reasonable, then, that those who delight 
in this lighter verse should be enabled to enjoy their 
favourite pieces in a single volume. 

In commencing his task the Editor's first endeavour 
was to frame a definition oivcrs d^ occasion., or social 
verse, with sufficient clearness to guide him in making 
his selection, and he has bee» desirous of rendering 
the collection as comprehensive as possible. His 
second endeavour was to choose those pieces which 
most completely reached this ideal standard. But it 
will be easily understood that no exact line of demar- 
cation can in all cases be maintained, and that such 
verse frequently approximates to other kinds of poetry, 
such as the song, the parody, the epigram, and even 
the riddle. 

Lest any reader who may not be familiar with this 
description of poetry should be misled by the adoption 
of the French title, which the absence of any precise 
English equivalent seems to render necessary, it may 
be as well to observe that such verse by no means 
need be confined to topics of conventional life. Subjects 
of the most important as well as the most trivial char- 
acter, may be treated with equal success, provided the 
manner of their treatment is in accordance with the 
following characteristics, which the Editor ventures to 
submit as expressive of his own ideas on this subject. 
In his judgment Occasional Verse should be shor 
graceful, refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished 

Preface. xi 

by chastened sentiment, and often playful. The tone 
should not be pitched high ; it should be terse and 
idiomatic, and rather in the conversational key ; the 
rhythm should be crisp and sparkling, and the rhyme 
frequent and never forced, while the entire poem 
should be marked by tasteful moderation, high finish 
and completeness; for, however trivial the subject- 
matter may be, indeed, rather in proportion to its 
triviality, subordination to the rules of composition, 
and perfection of execution, are of the utmost import- 
ance. The definition may be illustrated by a few 
e.xamples of pieces whkh, from the absence of some 
of the foregoing qualities, or from the excess of others, 
cannot be properly claimed as Occasional Verse, 
though they may bear a certain generic resemblance 
to it. The ballad o^ John Gilpin, for instance, is too 
broadly humorous ; Swift's On the Death of Marl- 
borough, and Byron's Windsor Poetics are too satirical 
and savage ; Cowper's My Mary is too pathetic ; 
Herrick's lyrics to Blossoms and to Daffodils are too 
serious ; Sally ifi our Alley is, perhaps, too homely, 
and too entirely simple and natural, though I should 
like to have included it ; while Pope's Rape of the Lock, 
which is one of the finest specimens of light verse in 
any language, must be excluded on account of its 
length. I should have liked to have added one or two 
of his exquisite personal compliments, but they might 
have seemed too fragmentary. 

Every piece which has been selected for this volume 
cannot be expected to exhibit all the characteristics 
above enumerated, but the cjualities of brevity cvnd 
buoyancy are absolutely essential. The poem may be 
tinctured with a well-bred philosophy, it may be 

xii Preface. 

whimsically sad, it may be gay and gallant, it may be 
playfully malicious or tenderly ironical, it may display 
lively banter, and it may be satirically facetious; it 
may even, considering it merely as a work of art, be 
pagan in its philosophy or trifling in its tone, but it 
must never be flat, or ponderous, or common-place. 

Having thus fixed upon a definition, the Editor 
proceeded to put it to "a practical use, by submitting it 
as a touchstone to the various pieces which came under 
his notice. In the first place it is scarcely necessary 
to say that all poetry of a strictly religious character, on 
account of the singleness and earnestness of its tone, 
is inadmissible in a collection where jest and earnest 
are inextricably intermingled. All pieces of quasi 
fashionably jingle have been excluded, because they 
are usually trashy and vulgar. Some of our best 
writers of Occasional Verse are not merely tinged with 
coarseness, they seem to delight in it, and often show 
much raciness in their revelry, but they are hardly 
ever vulgar. Vulgarity appears to be a rock on which 
so many would-be verse writers have suffered, and will 
continue to suffer, shipwreck. 

Fables, prologues, rhymed anecdotes, and pieces of 
purely ephemeral or personal interest, such as satirical 
or political squibs, have been generally rejected, as 
well as those pieces which expand into real song or 
crystallise into mere epigram, though in these cases, 
as already observed, the border line is often extremely 
difficult to define. Riddles, parodies, and punning 
couplets are for the most part omitted; not, as some 
readers may suppose, because they are contemptible, 
for nothing is contemptible that is really good of its 
kind; l)ut because they do not, strictly speaking, come 

Preface. xiii 

within the scope of this work. The few which are 
inserted possess an unusual breadth of feeling, or a 
delicacy of treatment, which elevates them beyond the 
range of mere epigram, riddle, and parody. 

Some epitaphs have been admitted, their epigram- 
matic character rendering them more elegant and 
ingenious than solemn or affecting; and a few pieces 
of gracefully turned nonsense will be found towards 
the end of the volume, of which The Broken Dish may 
be cited as a fair specimen. Mr. Hood was very happy 
in this kind of composition, where a conceit is built up 
on some pointed aljsurdity. 

Occasional Verse should seem to be entirely spon- 
taneous : when the reader thinks to himself, " I could 
have written that, and easily, too," he pays the author 
a very high compliment, but, at the same time, 
it is right to observe, that this absence of effort, 
as recognised in most works of real excellence, is only 
apparent; the writing of Occasional Verse is a difficult 
accomplishment, for a large number of authors, both 
famous and obscure, have attempted it, but in the 
great majority of cases with very indifferent success, 
and no one has fully succeeded who did not possess a 
certain gift of irony, which is not only a much rarer 
quality than humour, or even wit, but is less commonly 
met with than is sometimes imagined. This frequent 
liability to failure will excite less surprise if it be borne 
in mind that the possession of the true poetic faculty 
is not of itself sufficient to guarantee capacity for this 
inferior branch of the art of versification. The writer 
of Occasional Verse, in order to be genuinely successful, 
must not only be something of a poet, but he must 
also be a man of the world, in the liberal sense of the 

xiv ■ Preface. 

expression; he must have associated throughout his hfe 
with the refined and cultivated members of his species, 
not merely as an idle bystander, but as a busy actor 
in the throng. A professional poet will seldom 
write the best vers de societe, just because writing 
is the business of his life, and because he has 
something better to do. It appears to be an essential 
characteristic of these brilliant trifles, that they should 
be thrown off in the leisure moments of men whose 
lives are devoted to more stirring pursuits. Swift was 
an ardent politician; Prior, a zealous ambassador; 
Suckling, Praed, and Landor, were essentially men of 
action; even Cowper was no recluse, but a man of the 
world, forced by mental infirmity into a state of modi- 
fied seclusion. Indeed, it may be affirmed of most of 
the authors quoted in this volume — and it is curious to 
see what a large proportion of them are men of a 
certain social position— that they submitted their in- 
tellects to the monotonous grindstone of worldly busi- 
ness, and that their poetical compositions were like 
the sparks which fly off and prove the generous 
quality of the metal thus applied; and it must be re- 
membered, to pursue the simile, that but for the dull 
grindstone, however finely tempered the metal might 
be, there would be no sparks at all : in other words, 
the writer of such compositions needs perpetual con- 
tact with the world. 

I will quote here what the late Rev. Dr. J. Hannah 
says, in the Preface to his " Courtly Poets," for, in a 
measure, his i-emarks apply to the present collec- 
tion : — 

"There are scarcely half-a-dozen pieces in this 
volume which we owe to poets by profession. Most 

Preface. xv 

of these poems are little more than the comparatively 
idle words of busy men, whose end ' was not writing, 
even while they wrote;' these occasional sayings, in 
which the character often reveals itself more clearly 
than in studied language. There is a special charm in 
compositions which have amused the leisure of distin- 
guished persons, who have won their spurs in very 
different fields ; of statesmen, soldiers, students, and 
divines, who have used metre as the mere outlet for 
transitory feelings, to give grace to a compliment, or 
terseness to the expression of a sudden emotion, or 
point and beauty to a calm reflection. To a great ex- 
tent, such poems are likely to be imitative; and in that 
aspect they form a curiously exact measure of the 
influence exerted by a style or fashion. But several 
of the pieces which are brought together here may 
claim a higher rank than this." 

The Editor trusts that he has gathered together 
nearly all the Occasional Verse of real merit in the 
English language, at the same time he almost hopes 
that the cultivated reader will find hardly anything al- 
together unknown to him. The Editor is of opinion 
that hitherto verse of real excellence and buoyancy has 
been seldom very long lost sight of; in other words, 
that an unknown piece of such verse probably does 
not deserve to becon-.e better known. The contents of 
the volume have been selected and winnowed from an 
enormous mass of inferior rhyme of the same kind, 
the great bulk of which did not appear of sufficient 
merit to deserve special preservation. 

Many pieces, however, have been pondered over, 
and at last discarded with regret. Several, indeed, 
have been found, whose rejection was especially tanta^ 

xvi Prafaee. 

Using, because, thou:;h otherwise perfect specimens, 
their aim and execution was just above the range of 
Occasional Verse. Thus, The Milkmaid's Song, com- 
mencing. : 

" Come live with me, and be my love," 

appears to be too poetical, while the less beautiful, but 
almost as charming Reply has been admitted, because 
it is depressed to the requisite level by the tone of 
worldly sentiment which runs through it. Something 
of the same kind maybe said of Waller's Z/«^j to a 
Rose and his Lines to a Girdle, and on this account 
only the last will be found here. 

On the other hand several have been omitted or 
given with omissions, because their tone is hardly 
suited to the more refined taste of the present day. 

Isaac D'Israeli, in his Miscellanies, has some in- 
teresting remarks on vers d' occasion. " The passions 
of the poet," he says, "may form the subjects of his 
verse. It is in his writings he delineates himself ; he 
reflects his tastes, his desires, his humours, his amours, 
and even his defects. In other poems the poet dis- 
appears under the feigned character he assumes : here 
alone he speaks, here he acts. He makes a 
confidant of the reader, interests him in his hopes and 
his sorrows. We admire tlie poet, and conclude with 
esteeming the man. In these effusions the lover may 
not unsuccessfully urge his complaints. They may 
form a compliment for a patron or a congratulation for 
an artist, a vow of friendship or a hymn of gratitude. 
.... It must not be supposed that because these 
productions are concise, they have, therefore, the m.ore 
facility ; we must not consider the genius of a poet 

Preface. xrii 

diminative because his pieces are so, nor must we call 
them, as a fine sonnet has been called, a difficult 
trifle. A circle may be ver>- small, yet it may be as 
mathematically beautifiil and perfect as a larger one. 
To such compositions we may apply the observation 
of an ancient critic, that although a litde thing gives 
perfection, yet perfection is not a little thing. 

'■ The poet, to succeed in these hazardous pieces, 
must be alike polished by aa intercourse with the 
world, as with the studies of taste, to whom labour is 
negligence, refinement a science, and art a nature. 
Genius will not alwa\-s be sufficient to impart that grace 
of amenity which seems peculiar to those who are 
accumstomed to elegant society'. .... These pro- 
ductions are more the effusions of taste than genius, 
and it is not sufficient that the poet is inspired by the 
Muse, he must also suffer his concise page to be 
polished by the hand of the Graces." 

A re\-ievver in The Tirms ne-.vspaper has made the 
following noteworthy remarks on the subject of Social 
Verse, more especially in i:s exacter and narrower 
sense, as cultivated by Praed : " It is the f>oetr>- of 
men who belong to societ)-, who have a keen sympathy 
with the lightsome tone and air}' jesting of fashion ; 
who are no: disturbed by the flippances of small talk, 
but, on the contrary-, can see the gracefulness of which 
it is capable, and who, nevertheless, amid all this froth 
of society, feel that there are depths in otu- nature 
which even in the gaiety of drawing-rooms cannot be 
forgotten. Theirs is the poetry of bitter-sweet, of 
sentiment that breaks into humour, and of solemn 
thought, which, lest it should be too solemn, plunges 
into laughter : it is in an esnecial sense the verse of 

xviii Ptrfacc. 

society'. When society ceases to be simple, it becomes 
sceptical. Nor are we utterly to condemn this scep- 
tical temper as a sign of coiruption. It is assumed in 
self-defence, and becomes a necessity of rapid conver- 
sation. When society becomes refined, it begins to 
dread the exhibition of strong feeling, no matter 
whether real or simulated. If real, it disturbs the 
level of conversation and of manners — if simulated, so 
much the worse. In such an atmosphere, emotion 
takes refuge in jest, and passion hides itself in scep- 
ticism of passion : we are not going to wear our hearts 
upon our sleeves, rather than that we shall pretend to 
have no heart at all ; and if, perchance, a bit of it 
should peep out, we shall hide it again as quickly as 
possible, and laugh at the exposure as a good joke." 

In his introduction to W. M. Praed, in Ward's '' Eng- 
lish Poets," Mr. Austin Dobson makes some remarks 
upon Social Verse in general, and that of Praed in 
particular, which are equally suitable for quotation 

" As a writer of Society Verse in its exactor sense,'' 
says Mr. Dobson, " Praed is justly acknowledged to 
be supreme. We say exacter sense because it has of 
late become the fashion to apply this vague term in 
the vaguest possible way, so as, indeed, to include 
almost all verse but the highest and the lowest. This 
is manifestly a mistake. ' Society Verse,' as Praed 
understood it, and as we understand it in Praed, treats 
almost exclusively of the 7'ofinn, timor, t?-a, vohipfas 
(and especially of the vohiptas)^ of that charmed circle 
of uncertain limits, known conventionally as ' good 
society' — those latter-day Athenians, who, in town or 
country, spend their time in telling or hearing some new 

Preface. xix 

thing, and \vho3e graver and deeper impulses are subor- 
dinated to a code of artificial manners. Of tli ;se Praed 
is the laureate-elect ; and the narrow circle in which they 
move is the 'haunt, and the main region of his song.' 
Now and again, it may be, he appears to quit it, but 
never in reality, and even when he seems to do so, 
like Landor's shell remote from the sea, he still 
' lemenibers its august abodes.' " 

Suckling and Herrick, Swift and Prior, Cowper, 
Landor, and Thomas Moore, and Praed, and Thack- 
eray, may be considered the representative men in 
this class of literature. 

The collection has b^en restricted to the writings of 
deceased British authors, and as this kind of metrical 
composition is little cultivated at the present day, the 
Editor hopes that his book will not suffer nmch in 
consequence, although, at the same time, he reg"rets 
that the rules which he has laid down prevent his giv- 
ing specimens from the writings of Lord^ Tennyson, 
Sjijrheodore Martin, Sir Edwin Arnold, Messrs. Austin 
Dobson, Andrew Lang, F. C. Burnand, H. Cholmon- 
deley-Pennell, W. S. Gilbert, J. Ashby Sterry, Godfrey 
Turner, Savile Clarke, F. Anstey, Lewis Carroll, Miss_ 
May Probyn, and others ; and of Dj:. O. W. Holmes, 
and Messrs. James Russell Lowell, Bret Harte, J. G. 
Saxe, C. G. Leland, and some who have written 

For permission to make extracts from Mr. T. H. 
Bayly's works, the Editor's thanks are due to Messrs. R. 
Bentley & Son ; from Mr. Shirley Brooks's, to Messrs. 
Bradbury, Agnew, & Co. ; from Mr. H. S. Leigh's, 
to Messrs. Chatto & Windus ; from Mr. W. J. 
Browse's, to Messrs, Dalziel Bros.; from Mr. Mortimer 

XX Preface. 

Collins's, to Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibner & 
Co. ; and from Sir Francis Hastings Doyle's and the 
Rev. Charles Tennyson-Turner's, to Messrs. Mac- 
millan & Co. 

In thanking Messrs. G. Bell & Son, for permission 
to print the verses by the late C. S. Calverley which 
are given in the volume, it should be added that the 
selection from Mr. Calverley was, by Messrs. Bell & 
Son's request, limited to three pieces, otherwise the 
lines entitled "Motherhood," "Forever," rind " Beer," 
would also have appeared. 

In one or two cases the Editor was unable to dis- 
cover to whom to apply for permission to include a 
poem, or leave would first have been asked, and an 
acknov/ledgment made. 

The reading of several of the poems varies in 
different collections, and much difficulty has been 
encountered in discovering which was correct. When 
any doubt about the authorship of a poem was enter- 
tained, it was thought best to leave the question open. 

The Editor has taken great care to make the selec- 
tion as complete as possible ; still, he trusts to the in- 
dulgence of his readers for any errors or omissions 
which may be found. 

Frederick Locker-Lampson. 



Merry Margaret, 

As Midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower; 

With solace and gladness, 

Much mirth and no madness, 

All good and no badness ; 

So joyously, 

So maidenly. 

So womanly. 

Her demeaning, 

In everything. 

Far, far passing. 

That I can indite, 

Or suffice to write 

Of merry Margaret, 

As Midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon 

Or hawk of the tower ; 

As patient and as still, 

And as full of good will, 

As fair Isiphil, 


Sweet Pomander, 

Good Cassander; 

Steadfast of thought, 

Well made, well wrought 

Far may be sought, 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Ere you can find 

So courteous, so kind, 

As merry Margaret 

This Midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower. 

John Skclton. 


A FACE that should content me wondrous well 
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold ; 

Of lively look, all grief for to repel 

With right good grace, so Avould I that it should 

Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; 
Her tress also should be of crisped gold. 

With wit, and these, perchance, I might be tried, 

And knit again with knot that should not slide. 

Sir Thomas Wyat, 


" Who is it that this dark night 

Underneath my window plaineth?"- 

It is one wlio from thy sight 
Being (ah!) exiled, disdaineth 

Every other vulgar light. 

" Why, alas! and are you he ? 

Are not yet these fancies changed ? "- 
Dear, when you find change in me, 

Though from me you be estranged, 
Let my cliange to ruin be. 

" What if you new beauties see ? 

Will not they stir new affection ? " — 
I will tliiuk they pictures l;e 

(Image-like of saint perfection) 
Poorly counterfeiting thee. 

Lyra Eleganliarum. 

" Peace ! I think that some give car, 
Come, no more, lest I get anger." — 

Bliss ! I will my bliss forbear, 
Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; 

But my soul shall harbour there. 

" Well, begone : begone, I say. 
Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you." — 

O ! unjust is Fortune's sway. 

Which can make me thus to leave you, 

And from louts to run away ! 

Sir Philip Sydney. 


Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing; 
A plant that most with cutting grows, 
Most barren with best using. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies. 
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A tempest everlasting ; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 
Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so ? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries 

Samuel Daniel. 



My true love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just exchange one to the other given: 

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
There never was a better l)argain driven : 
My true love hath my heart, and I lip^e his. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
I cherish his because in me it bides : 

My tnie love hath my heart, and I have his. 

Sir Philip Sydney. 

My tlocks feed not, my ewes breed not, 
My rams speed not, all is amiss : 
Love is dying. Faith's defying. 
Heart's denying, causer of this. 
All my merry jigs are quite forgot, 
All my lady's love is lost, God wot : 
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love. 
There a nay is placed mthout remove. 
One silly cross wrought all my loss ; 

O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame ! 
For now I see inconstancy 

More in women than in men remain. 

In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, 
Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall : 
Heart is bleeding, all help needing, 
(O cniel speeding!) fraughted with gall. 
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal. 
My wether's bell rings doleful knell ; 
My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd. 
Plays not at all, but seems afraid ; 
With sighs so deep procures to weep. 

In howling wise, to see my doleful plight 
How sighs resound through heartless ground. 

Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight ! 

Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, 
Green plants bring not forth ; they die ; 
Herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping. 
Nymphs back peeping fearfully : 
All our pleasure known to us poor swains, 
All our merry meetings on the plains, 
All our evening sport from us is fled, 
All our Love is lost, for Love is dead. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was 

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan : 

Poor Coridon must live alone ; 
Other help for him I see that there is none. 

William Shakspere. 



If women could be fair, and yet not fond. 
Or that their love were finn, not fickle still, 

I would not marvel that they make men bond 
By service long to purchase their good will ; 

But when I see how frail those creatures are, 

I muse that men forget themselves so far. 

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, 
How oft from Phcebus they do flee to Pan ! 

Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range. 
These gentle birds that fly from man to man ! 

Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, 

And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? 

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, 

To pass the time when nothing else can please, 

And train them to our lure, with subtle oath. 
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease ; 

And then we say when we their fancy tr}', 

To play with fools, O what a fool was I ! 

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. 



Ah ! what is love ! It is a pretty thing, 
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king. 

And sweeter, too; 
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown. 
And cares can make the sweetest loves to frown : 

Ah then, ah then. 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Lyra Elegantiarinii. 

His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
As merry as a king in liis delight, 

And merrier, too ; 
For kings bethink them what the State require, 
Where shepherds careless carol by the fire ; 

Ah then, &c. 

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 

His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat. 

And blither too ; 
For kings have often tremours when they sup, 
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup : 

Ah then, &c. 

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
As doth the king upon his bed of down, 

More sounder, too ; 
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, 
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill : 

Ah then, &c. 

Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe 
As doth the king at every tide or syth, 

And blither, too ; 
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, 
Where shepherds laugh, and love u]3on the land : 

Ah then, &c. 

Robert Greene. 


In the merry month of May, 
In a morn by break of day, 
With a troop of damsels playing 
Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying. 
When anon by a woodside. 
Where as May was in his pride, 
I espied, all alone, 
Phillida and Corydon. 

Much ado there was, God wot ! 
He would love, and she would not : 

Lyra Ekgantiartan. 

She said, never man was true : 
He says, none was false to you. 
He said, he had loved her long : 
She says. Love should have no wrong. 

Corydon would kiss her then, 
She says, maids must kiss no men. 
Till they do for good and all. 
Then she made the shepherd call 
All the heavens to witness, truth 
Never loved a truer youth. 

Thus, with many a pretty oath. 
Yea, and nay, and faith and troth ! — 
Such as silly shepherds use 
When they will not love abuse ; 
Love, which had been long deluded. 
Was with kisses sweet concluded : 
And Phillida, with garlands gay. 
Was made the lady of the May. 

Nicholas Breton. 


Send back my long-stray' d eyes to me, 
Which, O ! too long have dwelt on thee : 
But if from you they've learnt such ill, 

To sweetly smile, 

And then beguile. 
Keep the deceivers, keep them still. 

Send home my harmless heart again. 
Which no unworthy thought could stain ; 
But if it has been taught by thine 

To forfeit both 

Its word and oath. 
Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine. 

Yet send me back my heart and eyes. 

For I'll know all thy falsities ; 

That I one day may laugh, when thou 

Shalt grieve and mourn — 

Of one llie scorn, 
Who proves as false as thou art now. 

yo/iii Donne. 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 


I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, 
Thine be the grief as is the blantie ; 
Thou art not what thou wast before, 
What reason I should be the same ? 
He that can love unloved again, 
Hath better store of love than brain: 
God send me love my debts to pay. 
While unthrifts fool their love away ! 

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. 

If thou hadst still continued mine; 
Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, 
I might perchance have yet been thine. 
But thou thy freedom didst recall. 
That if thou might elsewhere inthrall : 
And then how could I but disdain 
A captive's captive to remain ? 

When new desires had conquer'd thee, 
And changed the object of thy will, 
It had been lethargy in me. 

Not constancy to love thee still. 
Yea, it had been a sin to go 
And prostitute affection so, 
Since we are taught no prayers to say 
To such as must to others pray. 

Yet do thou glory in thy choice, — 

Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; 
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice 
To see him gain what I have lost ; 
The height of my disdain shall be 
To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; 
To love thee still, but go no more 
A-begging to a beggar's door. 

Sir Robert Ay ton. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 


Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 

The merit of true passion, 
With thinking that lie feels no smart, 

That sues ior no compassion ; 

Since, if my plaints serve not to approve 

The conquest of thy beauty, 
It comes not from defect of love, 

But from excess of duty. 

For knowing that I sue to serve 

A saint ot such perfection. 
As all desire, but none deserve, 

A place in her affection, 

I rather choose to want relie.' 

Than venture the revealing ; 
Where glory recommends the grief, 

Despair distrusts the healing. 

Thus those desires that aim too high 

For any mortal lover, 
When reason cannot make them die, 

Discretion doth them cover. 

Yet, when discretion doth bereave 

The plaints that they should utter, 
Then thy discretion may perceive 

That silence is a suitor. 

Silence in love bewrays more woe 

Than words tho' ne'er so witty ; 
A beggar that is dumb, you know, 

May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 

My true, tho' secret passion ; 
He smarleth most tliat hides his smart, 

And sues for no compassion. 

Sir iValler Raleigh. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Since first I saw your face I vowed 

To honour and renown you ; 
If now I be disdain'd, I wish 

My heart I had never known you. 
What ? I that loved, and you that hked- 

Shall we begin to wrangle ? — 
No, no, no, my heart is fast, 

And cannot disentangle ! 

If I admire or praise too much. 

That fault you may forgive me ; 
Or if my hands had stray'd to touch, 

Then justly might you leave me. 
I ask'd you leave, you bade me love, 

Is't now a time to chide me ? 
No, no, no, I'll love you still. 

What fortune e'er betide me. 

The sun, whose beams most glorious are, 

Rejecteth no beholder ; 
And thy sweet beauty, past compare, 

Made my poor eyes the bolder. 
Where beauty moves, and wit delights. 

And signs of kindness bind me. 
There, oh ! there, where'er I go, 

I leave my heart behind me. 


Phillis is my only joy. 

Faithless as the winds or seas, 
Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy, 
Yet she never fails to please ; 
If with a frown 
I am cast down, 
Phillis smiling. 
And beguiling. 
Makes me happier than before. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Though, alas ! too late I find 
Nothing can her fancy fix, 
Yet the nionient she is kind 
I forgive her with her tricks ; 
Which though I see, 
I can't get free, — 
She deceiving, 
I believing, — 
What need lovers wish for more ? 

Sir Charles Scdlcy. 


O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O stay and hear ! your true love's coming. 

That can sing both high and low ; 
Trip no farther, pretty sweeting, 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting — 

Every wise man's son doth know. 

■W^iat is love? 'tis not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure ; 
In delay there lies no plenty, — 
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

William Shakspcre. 

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 

And I might have gone near to love thee ; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 
Tliat lips could speak had power to move thee ; 

But I can let thee now alone, 

As worthy to be loved by none. 

I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favours are but like the wind. 
That kisses everything it meets : 

And since thou canst with more than one, 

Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. 

Lyra Elegayitiariim, 

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 

Arni'd with her briars, how sweet her smell 1 

But pluck'd, and strain'd through ruder hands, 
Her sweets no longer with her dwell ; 

But scent and beauty both are gone. 

And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide. 

When thou has handled been awhile, 
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; 

And I will sigh, while some will smile, 
To see thy love for more than one 
Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 

Sir Robert Ayton. 

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 

Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; 
And free access unto that sweet lip lies. 

From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. 
Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal 

From those two melting rubies one poor kiss ; 
None sees the theft that would the theft reveal. 

Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss ; 
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away. 

There would be little sign I would do so ; 
Why then should I this robbery delay ? 

O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! 
Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one. 
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. 

George Wither, 


Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

Lyra Elegantiamtn. 13 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so mucli honourhig thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither'd be : 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee ! 

Ben yonson. 


Amaryllis I did woo, 
And I courted Phillis too ; 
Daphne for her love I chose, 
Chloris, for that damask rose 
In her cheek, I held so dear, 
Yea, a thousand liked well near; 
And, in love with all together, 
Feared the enjoying either : 
'Cause to be of one possess'd, 
Barr'd the hope of all the rest. 

Georsre Wither. 


Her Trittmph, 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes all hearts do duty 
Unto her beauty ; 

And enamour'd, do wish, as they might 
But enjoy such a sight. 
That they still were to run by her side. 
Through swords, through seas, whither she would 


14 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth ! 

Do but look on her, she is bright 
As Love's star when it riseth ! 

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ! 

And from her arch'd brows, such a grace 

Sheds itself through her face. 

As alone there triumphs to the life 

All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
Before rude hands have touch'd it ? 

Have you mark'd but the fall o' the snow 
Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 

Or swan's down ever ? 

Or have smell'd o' the bud of the briar? 

Or the 'nard in the fire ? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 

O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 

Ben Jonson, 


He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires, 
Or from star-like eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, — 

Hearts with equal love combined, 
Kindle never-dying fires; 

Where these are not, I despise 

Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 

Thomas Carew. 

Lyra Elc^antiarum. 15 



Wkepe with me all you that read 

This little storie : 
And know for whom a teare you shed, 

Death's selfe is sorry. 
'Twas a cliild that so did thrive 

In grace and feature, 
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive 

Whicli own'd the creature. 
Yeeres he numbred scarce thirteene 

When Fates turn'd cruell, 
Yet three fiU'd Zodiackes had he beene 

The stage's jewell ; 
And did act (what now we nione) 

Old men so (hiely, 
As sooth, the Parcaj thought him one, 

He ]ilai'd so truely. 
So, by error, to his fate 

They all consented ; 
But viewing him since (alas, too late) 

They have repented. 
And have sought (to give new birth) 

In bathes to steep him ; 
Hut being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keepe him. 

Btn Jonson. 

Fain would I, Chloris, ere I die, 
Bequeath you such a legacy, 
That you might say, when I am gone. 
None hath the like: — my heart alone 
Were the best gift I could bestow. 
But that's already yours, you know : 
So that till you my heart resign, 
Or fill with yours the place of mine. 
And by that grace my store renew, 
I shall have nought worth giving you 

l6 Lyra Elegaittianim. 

Whose breast has all the wealth I have, 
Save a faint carcass and a grave. 
But had I as many hearts as hairs, 
As many loves as love has fears, 
As many lives as years have hours, 
They should be all and only yours. 




Shall I tell you whom I love ? 

Hearken then awhile to me, 
And if such a woman move. 

As I now shall versifie. 
Be assur'd 'tis she or none 
That I love, and love alone. 

Nature did her so much right, 
That she scornes the help of art, 

In as many Virtues dight 
As ere yet embraced a hart, 

So much good as truly tride. 

Some for lesse were deifide. 

Wit she hath without desire 

To make knowne how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as may be, 
Tho' perhaps not so to me I 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 17 

Reason masters every sense, 

And her virtues grace her birlh ; 
Lovely as all excellence, 

Modest in her most of mirth : 
Likelihood enough to prove 
Onelv worth could kindle love. 

Such she is, and if you know 

Such a one as I have sung, 
Be she browne, or faire, or so. 

That she be but somewhile young, 
Be assured 'tis she or none 
That I love, and love alone. 

William Broivne. 


Amongst the myrtles as I walk'd, 

Love and my sighs, thus intertalk'd : 

*' Tell me," said I, in deep distress, 

'* Where may I find my shepherdess?" 

" Thou fool," said Love, " know'st thou not this. 

In every thing that's good, she is? 

In yonder tulip go and seek, 

There thou may'st find her lip, her cheek ; 

In yon enamell'd pansy by, 

There thou shalt have her curious eye ; 

In bloom of peach, in rosy bud. 

There wave the streamers of her blood ; 

In brightest lilies that there stand, 

The emblems of her whiter hand ; 

In yonder rising hill there smell 

Such sweets as in her bosom dwell": 

" 'Tis true," said I. And thereupon 

I went to pluck them one by one, 

To make of parts an union : 

But on a sudden all was gone. 

l8 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

With that I stopt. Said Love, " these be, 
Fond man, resemblances of tliee ; 
And as these flowers, thy joy shall die, 
E'en in the twinkling of an eye ; 
And all thy hopes of her shall wither, 
Like these short sweets thus knit together." 

T/iomas Carew. 



(H.) My dearest love, since thou wilt go, 
And leave me here behind thee; 
For love or pity, let me know 
The place where I may find thee. 

(A. ) In country meadows, pearl'd with dew, 
And set about with lilies ; 
There, filling inaunds with cowslips, you 
May find your Amarillis. 

(H.) What have the meads to do with thee, 
Or with thy youthful hours? 
Live thou at Court, where thou may'st be 
The queen of men — not flowers. 

Let country wenches make 'em fine 

With posies, since 'tis fitter 
For thee with richest gems to shine. 

And like the stars to glitter. 

(A. ) You set too liigh a rate upon 

A shepherdess so homely. 
(H.) Believe it, dearest, there's not one 

1' th' Court that's half so comely. 

I prithee stay. (A. ) I must away ; 
(II.) Let's kiss first, then we'll sever; 
(Ambo.) And tho' we bid adieu to-day, 
We shall not part for ever. 

Robert Herrick, 

Lyra Eleganttarjtm. 19 


Ask me why I send you here 

This firsthng of the infant year; 

Ask me why I send to you 

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew ; 

I straight will whisper in your ears, 

The sweets of love are wash'd with tears; — 

Ask me why this flower doth shov/ 

So yellow, green, and sickly too; 

Ask me why the stalk is weak, 

And bending, yet it doth not break ; 

I must tell you, these discover 

What doubts and fears are in a lover. 

Thomas Carezv. 


" Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee, tell ! " — 

It is that fountain, and that well. 

Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; 

It is, perhaps, that passing bell 

That tolls us all to heaven or hell ; 

And this is love, as I heard tell. 

" Yet, what is love? I pray thee, say!" — 
It is a work on holiday : 
It is December match'd with iMay, 
When lusty woods, in fresh array. 
Hear, ten months after, of the play ; 
And this is love, as I hear say. 

"Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine!" — 
It is a sunshine mix'd with rain ; 
It is a tooth-ache, or like pain ; 
It is a game where none doth gain. 
The lass saith. No, and would full fain ! 
And this is love, as I hear saine. 

Lyra Elegantiartan . 

" Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?" — 

It is a " yea," it is a " nay," 

A pretty kind of sporting fray ; 

It is a thing will soon away; 

Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may, 

And this is love, as I hear say. 

" Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!" — 

A thing that creeps, it cannot go, 

A prize that passeth to and fro, 

A thing for one, a thing for moe ; 

And he that proves shall find it so ; 

And, shepherd, this is love I trow. 

Ascribed to Sir Walter Rale'ujli. 


You say I love not, 'cause I do not play 
Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. 
You blame me, too, because I can't devise 
Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes ; 
By Love's religion, I must here confess it. 
The most I love, when I the least express it. 
Some griefs find tongues ; full casks are ever found 
To give, if any, yet but little sound. 
Deep waters noiseless are ; and this we know, 
That chiding streams betray small depth below. 
So when Love speechless is, she doth express ' 
A depth in love, and that depth bottomless. 
Now since my love is tongueless, know me such, 
Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much. 

Robert Herrick. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose; 
For in your beauties, orient deep. 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Lyra Elcganiiantin. 21 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past ; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light, 
That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west. 
The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For rmto you at last she flies. 
And in your fragrant bosom dies ! 

T/iomas Carew, 


See'st thou that cloud as silver clear, 
Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere ? 
'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there. 

Robert ILerrick. 


When as in silks my Julia goes, 

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows 

That liquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see 
That brave vibration each way free ; 
O how that glittering taketh me ! 

Robert Ilerrkk. 

22 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


A SWEET disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness ; 
A lawn about the shoulders thrown 
Into a fine distraction ; 
An erring lace, which here and there- 
Enthralls the crimson stomacher ; 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbons to flow confusedly ; 
A winning wave, deserving note. 
In the tempestuous petticoat; 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility ; 
Do more bewitch me, than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

Robert Herrick. 

My Love in her attire doth show her wit, 

It doth so well become her : 
For every season she hath dressings fit, 

For winter, spring, and summer. 
No beauty she doth miss 

When all her robes are on : 
But Beauty's self she is 

When all her robes are gone. 




THERii: is a garden in her face 

Where roses and white lilies blow ; 

A heavenly paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fmits do grow ; 

There cherries grow that none may buy, 

Till cherry-ripethemselves do cry. 

Lyra Elegantiarutii. 23 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row, 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 

They look like rose-buds lili'd with snow 
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, — 
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry! 

ilichard Allison. 


Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl ! 

To purify the air ; 
Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, 

On bracelets of thy hair. 

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse, 
And wakes tlie louder drum ; 

Expense of grief gains no remorse, 
\Vhen sorrow should be dumb. 

For I must go where lazy peace 

^Vill hide her drowsy head ; 
And, for the sport of kings, increase 

The number of the dead. 

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft : 

Can I in war delight. 
Who, being of my heart bereft, 

Can have no heart to fight ? 

Thou knowest the sacred laws of old, 

Ordained a thief shoukl pay. 
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold 

W^hat he had stolen awav. 

24 Lyra Elcgantiarum. 

Thy payment shall but double be ; 

O then with speed resign 
My own seduced heart to me, 

Accompanied with thine. 

Sir William Davenant, 


Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prithee why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prithee Avhy so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young siimer ? 

Prithee why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prithee why so mute ? 

Quit, quit, foi shame, this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : 

The devil take her. 

Sir John Suckling. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair ? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me 
What care I how fai she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ; 

Lyra Elcgantianan. 25 

Or a well disposed nature 

Joined with a lovely feature? 

Be she meeker, kinder, than 

Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me 

What care I how kind she be ? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 

Me to perish for her love ? 

Or her merit's value known 

Make me quite forget my own ? 

Be she with that goodness blest 

Which may gain her name of Best ; 
If she seem not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 

Shall I play the fool and die ? 

Those that bear a noble mind 

Where they want of riches find, 

Think what with them they would do 

Who without them dare to woo : 
And unless that mind I see. 
What care I tho' great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair ; 

If she loves me, this believe, 

I will die ere she shall grieve ; 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go ; 

For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 
George Wither. 



II ER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
Tlie shooting stars attend thee ; 

And the elves also, 

Wliose little eyes glow, 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

26 Lyra Elegantiarnm. 

No wdll-o'-th'-wisp mis-light thee, 
Nor snake nor slow worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber ; 

What tho' the moon do slumber, 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light. 

Like tapers clear, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto thee ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silv'ry feet. 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

Robert Herrick. 


Gather ye rose-buds while ye may. 

Old Time is still a-flying; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he's a-getting, 
The sooner will his race be nan. 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best, which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time. 

And while you may, go marry : 
For havhig lost but once your prime. 

You may for ever tarry. 

Robert Heirick. 

Lyra Elegaiilianim. 27 


My head doth ache, 
O, Sappho ! take 

Thy fillet, 
And bind the pain ! 
Or bring some bane 

To kill it. 

But less that part 
Than my poor heart, 

Now is sick : 
One kiss from thee 
Will counsel be, 

And physic. 

Robert Herrick, 


Tis now, since I sat down before 

That foolish fort, a heart, 
(Time strangely spent !) a year, and more; 

And still I did my part. 

Made my approaches, from her hand 

Unto her lip did rise ; 
And did already understand 

The language of her eyes. 

Proceeding on with no less art. 

My tongue was engineer ; 
1 thought to undermine the heart 

By whispering in the ear. 

When this did nothing, I brought down 

Great canon-oaths, and shot 
A thousand thousand to the town, 

And still it yielded not. 

28 Lyra Elegantiaruin. 

I then resolved to starve the place, 

By cutting off all kisses, 
Praising and gazing on her face. 

And all such little blisses. 

To draw her out, and from her strength, 

I drew all batteries in : 
And brought myself to lie at length. 

As if no siege had been. 

When I had done what man could do. 
And thought the place my own. 

The enemy lay quiet too, 
And smiled at all was done. 

I sent to know from whence, and where, 

These hopes, and this relief? 
A spy informed, Honour was there. 

And did command in chief. 

March, march (quoth I), the word straight give, 
Let's lose no time, but leave her : 

That giant upon air will live. 
And hold it out for ever. 

To such a place our camp remove 

As will no siege abide ; 
I hate a fool that starves her love. 

Only to feed her pride. 

Sir John Suckling. 


Julia, I bring 

To thee this ring, 
Made for thy finger fit ; 

To shew by this. 

That our love is, 
Or should be, like to it. 

Close tho' it be, 
The joint is free ; 

Lyra Elegantianim. 29 

So when love's yoke is on, 

It must not gall, 

Or fret at all 
With hard oppression. 

But it must play 

Still either way, 
And be, too, such a yoke 

As not too wide. 

To overslide ; 
Or be so straight to choke. 

So we, who bear 

This beam, must rear 
Ourselves to such a height 

As that the stay 

Of either may 
Create the burthen light. 

And as this round 

Is no where found 
To flaw, or else to sever ; 

So let our love 

As endless prove, 
And pure as gold for ever. 

Robert Herrick. 

I pr'ythee send me back my heart, 

Since I can not have thine; 
For if from yours you will not part, 

"Why then shouldst thou have mine ? 

Yet now I think on't, let it lie ; 

To find it, were in vain : 
For thou'st a thief in either eye 

Would steal it back again. 

Why should two hearts in one lireast lie. 
And yet not lodge together ? 

O love ! where is thy sympathy, 
If thus our breasts you sever ? 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 

But love is such a mystery 

I cannot find it out ; 
For when I think I'm best resolved, 

I then am in most doubt. 

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, 

I will no longer pine ; 
For I'll believe I have her heart, 

As much as she has mine. 

Sir yokn Stickling. 


Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 

That from the nunnery 
Of your chaste breast and quiet mind, 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase. 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much. 

Loved I not Honour more ! 

Richard Lovelace, 



I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been. 
Where I the rarest things have seen ; 

O things witliout compare ! 
Such sights again cannot be found 
In any place on English ground. 

Be it at wake or fair. 

At Charing Cross, hard by the way 
Where we (thou knowst) do sell our hay 

Lyra Elcgautianttn. 31 

There is a house with stairs ; 
And tliere did I see coming down 
Such folks as are not in our town, 

Forty at least, in pairs. 

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, 
(His beard no bigger, tho', than mine) 

Walk'd on before the rest ; 
Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 
The king, God bless him ! 'twould undo him. 

Should he go still so drest. 

But wot you what ? The youth was going 
To make an end of all his wooing ; 

The parson for him staid : 
Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
He did not so much wish all past, 

Perchance as did the maid. 

The maid, and thereby hangs a tale. 
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 

Could ever yet produce : 
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be 
So round, so soft, so plump as she 

Nor half so full of juice. 

Her finger was so small, the ring 
Would not stay on which they did bring; 

It was too wide a peck : 
And to say truth (for out it must) 
It look'd like the great collar (just) 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet beneath her petticoat. 
Like little mice, stole in and out, 

As if they fear'd the light : 
But O ! she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisy makes comparison ; 

Who sees them is undone ; 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 

The side that's next the sun. 

32 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compar'd to that was next her chin, 

Some bee had stung it newly; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze. 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou'd'st swear her teeth her words did break 

That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter. 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a whit. 

Passion o' me ! how I run on ! 

There's that that would be thought upon 

I trow, besides the bride : 
The business of the kitchen's great, is fit that men should eat; 

Nor was it there denied. 

Just in the. nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 
Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band. 

Presented, and away. 

When all the meat was on the table. 
What man of knife, or teeth, was able 

To stay to be intreated ? 
And this the very reason was. 
Before the parson could say grace, 

The company were seated. 

Now hats fly off, and youth carouse ; 
Healths first go round, and then the house, 

The bride's come thick and tiiick ; 
And when 'twas named another's health. 
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, 

And who could help it, Dick ? 

O' th' sudden up they rise and dance; 
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance ; 

Lyra Elegantlanini. 

Then dance again, and kiss. 
Thus several ways the time did pass, 
Till every woman wish'd her place, 

And every man wish'd his. 

By this time all were stol'n aside 
To counsel and undress the bride ; 

liut tliat he must not know: 
But yet 'twas tliought he guess'd lier mind. 
And did not mean to stay behind 

Above an hour or so. 

Sir Jolni Sue Id big. 


Oil his Birthday, 1742. 

Resign'd to live, prepared to die, 

With not one sin, — but poetry. 

This day Tom's fair account has run 

(Without a blot) to eighty-one. 

Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays 

A table, with a cloth of bays ; 

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, 

Presents her harp still to his fingers. 

The feast, his towering genius marks 

In yonder wild goose and the larks! 

The mushrooms show his wit was sudden! 

And for his judgment, lo a pudden ! 

Roast beef, -though old, proclaims him stout, 

And grace, although a bard, devout. 

May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise 

The price of prologues and of plays, 

Be every birthday more a winner, 

Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; 

Walk to his grave without reproach, 

And scorn a rascal and a coach ! 

Alexander Pope. 

34 Lyra Elegantiarum^ 


A Fragment. 

There's one request I make to Him 
Who sits tlie clouds above : 

Tiaat 1 were fairly out of debt, 
As I am out of love. 

Then for to dance, to drink, and sing, 
I should be very willing ; 

I should not owe one lass a kiss, 
Nor any rogue one sliilling. 

'Tis only being in love, or debt, 

That robs us of our rest. 
And he that is quite out of both, 

Of all the world is blest. 

He sees the golden age, wherein 
All things were free and common ; 

He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest — 
And fears nor man nor woman. 

Sir yohn Sitclditic^ 


If all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move, 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold 
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, 
And Philomel becometh dumb ; 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

T.yra Elegantianim. 35 

Tlie flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A Iioney'd tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but soitow's fall. 

Thy gown, thy slioes, thy beds of 'roses. 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies; 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds. 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, 
All these in me no means can move, 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed. 
Had joys no date, and age no need ; 
Then these delights my mind might move. 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Out upon it, I have loved 

Three whole days together; 
And am like to love three more, — 

If it prove fine weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant ) >ver. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me ; 
Love with me had made no stays 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she. 

And that very face. 
There had been at least, ere this, 

A dozen in her place ! 

Sir yohn Suckling. 

Lyra Eleganfiarum. 



A Fj-agment, 

Chloe, why wish you that your years 

Would backwards run, till they meet mine, 

That perfect likeness, which endears 
Things unto things, might us combine? 

Our ages so in date agree. 

That twins do differ more than we. 

There are two births : the one when light 
First strikes the new awakened sense ; 

The other, when two souls unite, 

And we must count our life from thence : 

When you loved me, and I loved you. 

Then both of us were born anew. 

Love then to us did new souls give. 

And in those souls did plant new powers; 

Since when another life M'e live. 

The breath we breathe is his, not ours ; 

Love makes those young, whom age doth chill, 

And whom he finds young, keeps young still. 

And now since you and I are such. 

Tell me what's yours and what is mine? 

Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch, 
Do, like our souls, in one combine ; 

So by this, I as well may be 

Too old for you, as you for me. 

]ViUiam Cartwripht. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 37 

A Fragment. 

Why dost thou say I am forsworn, 

Since thine I vow'd to be ? 
Lady, it is already morn ; 

It was last night I swore to thee 

That fond impossibility. 

Vet have I loved thee well, and long; 
A tedious twelve-hours' space ! 

I should all other beauties wrong, 
And rob thee of a new embrace. 
Did I still doat upon that face. 

Richard Lovelaci. 

Love not me for comely grace. 
For my pleasing eye or face. 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my constant heart, — 
For these may fail, or turn to ill. 
So thou and I shall sever: 
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye, 
And love me still, but know not why — 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To doat upon me ever ! 



A Fragment. 

If to be absent were to be 

Away from thee; 
Or that when I am gone 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, migiit I crave 
Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. 

38 Lyra Elegaiitiariim. 

Though seas and land betwixt us both, 

.Our faith and troth, 
Like separated souls, 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet. 

So then we do anticipate 

Our after-fate, 
And are alive i' the skies, 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. 

Richard Lovelace, 


Wert thou yet lauer in thy feature. 
Which lies not in the power of nature ; 
Or hadst thou in thine eyes more darts 
Than ever Cupid shot at hearts ; 
Vet if they were not thrown at me, 
I would not cast a thought on thee. 

I'd rather marry a disease. 

Than court the thing I could not please: 

She that woidd cherish my desires, 

Must meet my flame with equal fires : 

What pleasure is there in a kiss 

To him that doubts the heart's not his ? 

I love thee not because thou'rt fair. 

Softer than down, smoother than air ; 

Nor for the Cupids that do lie 

In either corner of thine eye : 

Would'st thou then know what it might be ?- 

'Tis I love thee 'cause thou lov'st me. 


Lyra Elegantiarum. 39 

'Tis not her birlh, her friends, nor yet her treasure, 

Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure, 

Nor for that old morality, 

Do I love her 'cause she loves me. 

Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair, 

Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her. 

Something there is moves me to love, and I 

Do know I love, but know not how, nor why. 

Alexander Brome. 


'Tis not your beauty not your wit 

That can my heart obtain. 
For they could never conquer yet 

Either my breast or brain ; 
For if you'll not prove kind to me, 

And true as heretofore. 
Henceforth I'll scorn your slave to be, 

And doat on you no more. 

Think not my fancy to o'ercomc 

By proving thus unkind ; 
No smoothed sigh, nor smiling frown, 

Can satisfy my mind. 
Pray let Platonics play such pranks, 

Such follies I deride; 
For love at least I will have thanks, — 

And something else beside ! 

Then open-hearted be witli me, 

As 1 shall be, I vow, 
And let our actions be as free 

As virtue will allow. 
If you'll prove loving, I'll prove kind, — 

If constant, I'll be true ; 
If Fortune chance to change your mind, 

I'll turn as soon as you. 

40 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Since our affections, well ye know, 

In equal terms do stand, 
'Tis in your power to love or no, 

Mine's likewise in my hand. 
Dispense with your austerity. 

Inconstancy abhor. 
Or, by great Ciipid's deity, 

I'll never love you more. 


I pr'ythee leave this peevish fashion, 

Don't desire to be high-piized. 
Love's a princely, noble passion, 

And doth scorn to be despised. 
Tho' we say you're fair, you know 
We your beauty do bestow, — 
For our fancy makes you so. 

Don't be proud 'cause we adore you, 

We do't only for our pleasure ; 
And those parts in which you glory, 

We, by fancy, weigh and measure. 
When for Deities you go, 
For Angels, or for Queens, pray know 
'Tis our own fancy makes you so ! 

Don't suppose your majesty 

By tyranny's best signified. 
And your angelic natures be 

Distinguisli'd only by your pride. 
Tyrants make subjects rebels grow, 
And pride makes angels devils below, 
And your pride may make you so ! 

Alexander Brovu 



Know Celia (since thou art so proud) 
'Twas I that gave thee thy renovvTi: 

Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd 
Of common beauties, lived unknown 

Had not my verse exlialed thy name. 

And with it impt the wings of Fame. 

Lyra Elegantiarutn. 41 

Tliat killing power is none of thine ! 

I gave it to thy voice and eyes : 
Thy sweets, thy graces, — all are mine : 

Thou art my star — shinest in my skies ; 
Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere 
Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. 

Tempt me with such affrights no more. 

Lest what I made I uncreate ; 
Let fools thy mystic forms adore, 

I'll know thee in thy mortal state. 
Wise poets, that wrap Truth in tales, 
Know her themselves thro' all her veils. 

Thomas Cat-ezv. 



Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 
Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies ; 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 
All hearts your captives, — yours yet free: 
Be you not proud of that rich hair, 
Which wantons with the love-sick air ; 
Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 

Robert Herrick. 



Love in her sunny eyes does basking play ; 

Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; 
Love does on both her lips for ever stray. 

And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there ; 
In all her outward parts Love's always seen ; 

But oh ! he never went within. 

Abraham Cowley. 

42 Ly7-a EleganiiaruTti 



Stay while ye will, or go, 

And leave no scent behind ye : 

Yet trust me, I shall know 
The place where I may find ye. 

Within my Lucia's cheek, 

(Whose livery ye wear) 
Play ye at hide or seek, 

I'm sure to find ye there. 

Robert Herrick. 



All my past life is mine no more, 

The flying hours are gone; 
Like transitoiy dreams given o'er, 
Whose images are kept in store 

By memory alone. 

The time that is to come, is not ; 

How, then, can it be mine ? 
The present moment's all my lot, 
And that, as fast as it is got, 

Phillis, is only thine. 

Then talk not of inconstancy. 

False hearts, and broken vows ; 
If I, by miracle, can be 
This live-long minute trae to thee, 
'Tis all that heaven allo^^^s ! 

John IVilmof, Earl of Rochester. 


While on those lovely looks I gaze. 

And see a wretch pursuing, 
In raptures of a bless'd amaze. 

His pleasing, happy ruin ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 43 

'Tis not for pity that I move ; — 

His fate is too aspiring, 
Wliose heart, brolce with a load of love, 

Dies, wishing and admiring. 

But if this murder you'd forego, 

Your slave from death removing ; 
Let me your art of charming know, 

Or learn you mine of loving. 
But, whether life or death betide, 

In love 'tis equal measure; 
The victor lives with empty pride. 

The vanquish'd dies with pleasure. 

John IVilmot, Earl of Rodmlcr. 

Phillis, men say tkat all my vows 

Are to thy fortune paid ; 
Alas ! my heart he little knows. 

Who thinks my love a trade. 

Were I of all these woods the lord, 

One berry from thy hand 
More real pleasure would afford 

Then all my large command. 

My humble love has leam'd to live 

On what the nicest maid, 
Without a conscious blush, may give 

Beneath the myrtle shade. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 

'Tis not your saying that you love 

Can ease me of my smart ; 
Your actions must your words approve, 

Or else you break my heart. 

In vain you bid my passions cease. 
And ease my troubled breast; 

Your love alone must give me peace — 
Restore my wonted rest. 

44 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

But if I fail your heart to move, 
Or 'tis not yours to give, 

I cannot, will not cease to love, 
But I will cease to live. 

Aphra Bekn. 

Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 

As unconcern'd as when 
Your infant beauty could beget 

No happiness or pain ! 
When I this dawning did admire, 

And praised the coming day, 
I little thought the rising fire 

Would take my rest away. 

Your cliarms in harmless childliood lay 

Like metals in a mine ; 
Age from no face takes more away 

Than youth conceal'd in thine. 
But as your charms insensibly 

To their perfection prest. 
So love as unperceived did fly. 

And center'd in my breast. 

My passion with your beauty grew, 

While Cupid at my heart, 
Still as his mother favour'd you. 

Threw a new flaming dart. 
Each gloried in their wanton part ; 

To make a lover, he 
Employ'd the utmost of his art — 

To make a beauty, she. 

Sir Charles Sedlev. 

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free 

From Love's imperial chain. 
Take warning, and be taught by me, 

T' avoid tli' enchanting pain. 
Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks — 

Fierce winds to blossoms pi'ove — 
To careless seamen, hidden rocks— 

To human quiet, love. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 45 

Then fly the Fair, if bliss you prize ; 

The snalce's beneatli the flower : 
Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, 

And tasted quiet more ? 
How faithless is the lover's joy ! 

How constant is his care ! 
The kind with falsehood do destroy, 

The cruel with despair. 

Sir George Elherege. 


Not, Celia, that I juster am 

Or better than the rest; 
For I would change each hour, like them, 

Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every thought I have : 
Thy face I only care to see, 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 

In thy dear self I find — 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store, 

And still make love anew ? 
When change itself can give no more, 

'Tis easy to be true. 

Sir Charles Sedley, 



It is not, Celia, in your power 
To say how long our love will last ; 

It may be we, within this hour. 

May lose those joys we now do taste : 

The blessed, who immortal be, 

From change of love are only free. 

46 Lyra Eleganfiaritm. 

Then, since we mortal lovers are, 
Ask not how long our love will last ; 

But, while it does, let us take care 
Each minute be with pleasure past. 

Were it not madness to deny 

To live, because we're sure to die ? 

Fear not, though love and beauty fail, 
My reason shall my heart direct : 

Your kindness now shall then prevail. 
And passion turn into respect. 

Celia, at worst, you'll in the end 

But change a lover for a friend. 

Sir George Etherege. 


Poets may boast, as safely vain, 
Their works shall with the world remain ; 
Both bound together, live or die, 
The verses and the prophecy. 

But who can hope his line should long 
Last in a daily changing tongue ? 
While they are new, envy prevails ; 
And, as that dies, our language fails. 

When architects have done their part. 
The matter may betray their art : 
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, 
Soon brings a well-built palace down. 

Poets, that lasting marble seek, 
Must carve in Latin or in Greek : 
We write in sand : our language grows, 
And, like the tide, our work o'edlows. 

Chaucer his sense can only boast, — 
The glory of his numbers lost ! 
Years have defaced his matchless strain,— 
And yet he did not sing in vain ! 

The beauties which adom'd that age. 
The shining subjects of his page. 
Hoping they should immortal prove, 
Rewarded with success his love. 

Lyra Elegcuitiarum. 47 

This was the generous poet's scope ; 
And all an English pen can hope ; 
To make the fair approve his flame, 
That can so far extend their name. 

Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate. 
If it arrive but at the date 
Of fading beauty ; if it prove 
But as long-lived as present love. 

Edmund Waller. 


Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, 
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain : 
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy ; 
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy ! 
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues; 
With numbers, such as Phoebus' self might use ! 
Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads, 
O'er craggy mountains, and thro' flowery meads ; 
Invoked to testify the lover's care. 
Or form some image of his cruel fair. 
Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer, 
O'er these he fled ; and now approaching near. 
Had reacli'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, 
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. 
Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain. 
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : 
All, but the nymph who should redress his wrongs 
Attend his passion, and approve his song. 
Like Phcebus thus, acquiring unsought praise. 
He catch'd at love, and fiU'd his arms with bays. 

Edmund Waller 

Phillis, for shame ! let us improve, 

A thousand different ways, 
These few short moments snatch'd by love 

From many tedious days. 

48 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

If you want courage to despise 

The censure of the grave, 
Tho' Love's a tyrant in your eyes. 

Your heart is but a slave. 

My love is full of noble pride ; 

Nor can it e'er submit 
To let that fop, Discretion, ride 

In triumph over it. 

False friends I have, as well as you. 
Who daily counsel me 
, Fame and Ambition to pursue, 

And leave off loving thee. 

But when the least regard I show 

To fools who thus advise, 
May I be dull enough to grow 

Most miserably wise ! 

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 


Chloris ! yourself you so excel, 

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, 
That, like a spirit, with this spell 

Of my own teaching, I am caught. 

That eagle's fate and mine are one. 

Which, on the shaft that made him die, 

Espied a feather of his own. 

Wherewith he wont to soar so high. 

Had Echo, with so sweet a grace. 
Narcissus' loud complaints return'd. 

Not for reflection of his face, 

But of his voice, the boy had burn'd. 

Edmund Waller. 

Lyra ECegantiarum. 49 

Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes 

United, cast too fierce a light, 
Which blazes high, but quickly dies; 

Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. 

Love is a calmer, gentler joy : 

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace ; 
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy. 

That runs his link full in your face. 

Charles Sackville, Earl oj Dorset. 


To all you ladies now on land. 

We men at sea indite ; 
But first would have you understand 

How hard it is to write : 
The muses now, and Neptune too, 
^Ye must implore to write to you. 

With a fa la, la, la, la. 

For tho' the muses should prove kind. 

And fill our empty brain ; 
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 

To wave the azure main. 
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we 
Roll up and down our ships at sea. 

Then, if we write not by each post, 

Think not we are unkind; 
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 

By Dutchmen or by wind ; 
Our tears we'll send a speedier way : 
The tide shall bring them twice a day. 

The king with wonder and surprise, 
N\ ill swear the seas grow bold ; 

JO Lyra Elegaiitiariim. 

Because the tides will higher rise 

Than e'er they did of old : 
But let him know it is our tears 
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 

Should foggy Opdam chance to know 

Our sad and dismal story, 
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 

And quit their fort at Goree ; 
For what resistance can they find 
From men who've left their hearts behind ? 

Let wind and weather do its worst. 

Be you to us but kind ; 
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse. 

No sorrow we shall find : 
'Tis then no matter how things go, 
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 

To pass our tedious hours away, 

We throw a merry main : 
Or else at serious ombre play ; 

But why should we in vain 
Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
We were undone when we left you. 

But now our fears tempestuous grow 

And cast our hopes away ; 
Whilst you, regardless of our wo. 

Sit careless at a play : 
Perhaps permit some happier man 
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 

When any mournful tune you hear, 

That dies in every note. 
As if it sigh'd with each man's care 

For being so remote : 
Think then how often love we've made 
To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 

In justice, you cannot refuse 

To think of our distress. 
When we for hopes of honour lose 

Our certain happiness ; 
All these designs are but to prove 
Ourselves more worthy of your love. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 51 

And now we've told you all our loves, 

And likewise all our fears, 
In hopes this declaration moves 

Some pity for our tears ; 
Let's hear of no inconstancy. 
We have too much of that at sea. 
With a fa la, la, la, la. 

Charles SackvilU, Earl of Doiset. 



When Love with unconfinfed wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter'd to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups nm swiftly round 

With no allaying Tliames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free — 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my king ; 
When 1 shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for a hermitage : 


5* Lyra Elegantiaritm, 

If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Richard Lovelace. 



( WritUii when a prisoner in the Toiver, during Croinweiri 
tisurpation. ) 

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; 

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; 
Your incivility doth plainly show 

That innocence is tempest-proof ; 
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; 
Then strike, Affliction, for thy womids are balm. 

That which the world miscalls a jail, 

A private closet is to me; 
Whilst a good conscience is my bail. 

And innocence my liberty : 
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met. 
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 

Here sin, for want of food, must starve 
Where tempting objects are not seen ; 

And these strong walls do only serve 
To keep rogues out, not keep me in. 

Malice is now grown charitable, sure : 

I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure. 

And whilst I wish to be retired, 

Into this private room I'm turn'd ; 
As if their wisdom had conspired 

The salamander should be burn'd. 
Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish, 
I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish. 

The cynic hugs his poverty, 

The pelican her wilderness ; 
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 

Naked on frozen Caucasus. 
Contentment feels no smart ; stoics, we see, 
Make torments easy by their apathy. 

Lyra Elegantianim. 53 

I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, 

Like some high-prized margarite ; 
Or like the great Mogul or Pope, 

I'm cloister'd up from public sight. 
Retiredness is a part of majesty. 
And thus, proud Sultan ! I am great as thee. 

These manacles upon my arm 

I, as my mistress' favours, wear ; 
And for to keep my ankles warm, 

I have some iron shackles there. 
These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 

So he that struck at Jason's life. 

Thinking to make his purpose sure, 
By a malicious friendly knife 

Did only wound him to his cure : 
Malice, we see, wants wit ; for what is meant 
Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event. 

Altho' I cannot see my king — 

Neither in person — nor in coin ! — 
Yet contemplation is a thing 

That renders that I have not, mine. 
My king from me no adamant can part, 
Whom I do wear engraven in my heart. 

Have you not heard the nightingale, 

A prisoner close kept in a cage. 
How she doth chaunt her wonted tale, 

In that her narrow hermitage ? 
Even then her melody doth plainly prove 
Her bars are trees, her cage a pleasant grove. 

My soul is free as ambient air, 

Which doth my outward parts include ; 

Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 
T' accompany my solitude. 

What tho' they do with chains my body bind. 

My king alone can captivate my mind. 

I am that bird whom they combine 

Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
And tho' they may my corpse confine. 

Yet, maugre that, my soul is free : 

54 Lyra Elegantiariiin. 

Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing, 
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 

Sir Roger U Estrange, 



Martial, the things that do attain 
The happy life be these, I find — - 

The riches left, not got with pain; 
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, 

The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; 

No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
Without disease, the healthful life ; 

The household of continuance ; 

The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 

True wisdom join'd with simpleness ; 
The night discharged of all care. 

Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 

The faithful wife, without debate; 

Such sleep as may beguile the night ; 
Contented with thine own estate, 

Nor wish for death, nor fear his might. 

Earl of Surrey. 


Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content :— 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 

.Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent — 
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angiy frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbours quiet rest, 
The cottage that affords no pride or care. 

The mean that 'grees with country music best, 
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare. 

Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ; 

A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

Robert Greene. 

Lyra Eleganfiarwn. 



Wf.ll then ; I now do plainly see 
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree ; 
The very honey of all earthly joy 

Does of all meats the soonest cloy ; 

And they, methinks, deserve my pity, 
Who for it can endure the stings, 
The crowd, and buz, and murmurings 

Of this great hive, the city. 

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave, 
May I a small house and large garden have ! 
And a few friends, and many books ; both true. 

Both wise, and both delightful too ! 

And, since love ne'er will from me flee, 
A mistress moderately fair. 
And good as guardian-angels are. 

Only beloved, and loving me ! 

O, fountains ! when in you shall I 
Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy ? 
O fields ! O woods ! when, when shall I be made 

The happy tenant of your shade ? 

Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood ; 
Where all the riches lie, that she 

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 

Pride and ambition here 
Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; 
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, 

And nought but Echo flatter. 

The gods, when they descended, hither 
From Heaven did always choose their way ; 
And therefore we may boldly say 

That 'tis the way too thither. 

How happy here should I, 
And one dear She, live, and embracing die ! 
She, who is all the world, and can exclude 

In deserts solitude. 

56 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

I should have then this only fear - 
Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
Should hither throng to live like me, 

And so make a city here. 

Abrahain Cowley. 


I IN these flowery meads would be ; 

These crystal streams should solace me ; 

To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 

I witli my angle will rejoice ; 

Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love , 

Or on that bank feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty; please my minJ 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers. 
And then wash'd off by April showers ; 

Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; 

There, see a blackbird feed her young, 

Or, a laverock build her nest : 

Here, give my weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love : 

Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice. 

Or, with my Bryan and a book. 
Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 
There sit with him, and eat my meat, 
There see the sun both rise and set. 
There bid good morning to each day, 
There meditate my time away, 

And angle on : and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

Izaak Walton. 

Lyfra Eleganliaritm. 57 



Happy the man whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind, 

Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 

Together mix'd, sweet recreation 
And innocence, which most doth please 

With meditation. 

Thus let me live unseen, unknown ; 

Thus, unlamented, let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 

Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Tope. 

There is none, O none but you, 
Who from me estrange the sight, 

Whom mine eyes affect to view, 
And chained ears hear with delight. 

Olliers' beauties others move : 
In you I all the graces find ; 

Such are the effects of love, 

To make them happy that are kini, 

Women in frail beauty trust ; 

Only seem you kind to me ! 
Still be truly kind and just. 

For that can't dissembled be. 

58 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Dear, afford me then your sight ! 

That, surveying all your looks. 
Endless volumes I may write, 

And fill the world with envied books. 

Which, when after ages view, 
All shall wonder and despair, — 

Women, to find a man so true. 
And men, a woman half so fair ! 

Robert, Earl of Essex. 


Tell me no more I am deceived, 

That Chloe's false and common ; 
I always knew (at least believed) 

She was a very woman : 
As such I liked, as such caress'd, 
She still was constant when possess'd, 

She could do more for no man. 

But O ! her thoughts on others ran ; 
And that you think a hard thing ! 
Perhaps she fancied you the man ; 
And what care I one farthing ? 
You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind, 
I take her body, you her mind, — 
Who has the better bargain ? 

Williatn Congrerc 

A Fragnient. 

Fortune, that, with malicious joy, 
Does man her slave oppress. 

Proud of her office to destroy, 
Is seldom pleased to bless : 

Still various and unconstant still, 
But with .an inclination to be ill. 

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, 

And makes a lottery of life. 
I can enjoy her while she's kind ; 
But when she dances in the wind, 

Lyra Elfgantiarum. 59 

And shakes her wings and will not stay, 
I pufT the prostitute away : 
The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign'd : 
Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm. 

Jo/tn Dry den. 

Fair Amoret is gone astray. 

Pursue, and seek her, every lover ; 

I'll tell the signs by which you may 
The wandermg shepherdess discover. 

Coquet and coy at once her air. 

Both studied, tho' both seem neglected ; 

Careless she is, with artful care, 
Affecting to seem unaffected. 

With skill her eyes dart every glance. 

Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect ihem : 

For she'd persuade they wound by chance. 
Though certain aim and art direct them. 

She likes herself, yet others hates 
For that which in herself she prizes ; 

And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
She is the thing that she despises. 

William Cofigreve. 


A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, 
Attack'd a lady's heart together. 
The Band, in a most learned plea, 
Made up of deep philosophy. 
Told her, if she would ])lease to wed 
A reverend beard, and take, instead 

Of vigorous youth, 

Old solemn trath, 
With books and morals, into bed, 
How happy she would be. 

6o Lyra Elegmitiariim. , 

The Bob, he talked of management, 
What wondrous blessings heaven sent 
On care, and pains, and industry : 
And truly he must be so free 
To own he thought your airy beaux, 
With powder'd wigs, and dancing shoes. 
Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 

He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth. 

And that to be the dearest wife 

Of one, who labour'd all his life 

To make a mine of gold his own. 

And not spend sixpence when he'd done. 

Was heaven upon earth. 

When these two blades had dor.e, d'ye see. 
The Feather (as it might be me) 
Steps out, sir, from behind the screen. 
With such an air and such a mien — 
. " Look you, old gentleman," — in short. 
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport. 

It proved such sunshine weather. 
That you must know, at the first beck 
The lady leapt about his neck, 

And off they went together ! 

Sir yohn Vattbriigh. 



Fair Iris I love, and hourly I die. 
But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye ; 
She's fickle and false, and there we agree. 
For I am as false and as fickle as she ; 
We neither believe what either can say, 
And neither believing, we neither betray. 

'Tis civil to swear, and to say things of course ; 
We mean not the taking for better or worse : 
When present we love ; and when absent agree ; 
I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me : 
The legend of Love no couple can find. 
So easy to part, or so equally join'd. 

JoJin Diyden 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 6 1 


Ar.oUT the sweet bag of a bee, 

Two Cupids fell at odds; 
And whose the pretty prize should be, 

They vow'd to ask the gods. 

Which Veiuis hearing, thither came. 
And for their boldness stript them ; 

And taking thence from each his flame. 
With rods of myrtle whipt them. 

Which done, to still their wanton cries, 
When quiet grown she'd seen them. 

She kist, and w^iped their dove-like eyes : 
And gave the bag between them. 

Robert He nick. 


As after noon, one summer's day, 

Venus stood bathing in a river ; 
Cupid a-shooting went that way, 

New strung his bow, new fill d his quiver 

With skill he chose his sharpest dart : 
With all his might his bow he drew : 

Swift to his beauteous parent's heart 
The too-well-guided arrow flew. 

I faint ! I die ! the goddess cried : 

cruel, could'st thou find none other 
To wreck thy spleen on : Parricide ! 

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. 

Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak ; 
" Indeed, mama, I did not know ye: 
Alas! how easy my mistake? 

1 took you for your likeness, Cliloc." 

Mattlieio Prior. 

62 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


What nymph should I admire or trust, 
But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? 
What nymph should I desire to see, 
But lier who leaves the plain for me ? 
To whom should I compose the lay, 
But her who listens when I play? 
To whom in song repeat my cares, 
But her who in my sorrow shares? 
For wliom should I the garland make. 
But her who joys the gift to take, 
And boasts she wears it for my sake? 
In love am I not fully blest? 
Lisetta, prythee tell the rest. 

lisetta's reply. 
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, 
Desei"ves to be your only care ; 
But, when she and you to-day 
Far into the wood did stray, 
And I happen'd to pass by ; 
Which way did you^cast your eye? 
But, when your cares to her you sing. 
You dare not tell her whence they spring ; 
Does it not more afflict your heart, 
That in those cares she bears a part? 
When you the flowers for Chloe twine. 
Why do you to her garland join 
The meanest bud that falls from mine? 
Simplest of swains ! the world may see, 
Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me. 

Mdttheiu Prior. 


The sun was now withdrawn, 

The shepherds home were sped ; 
The moon wide o'er the lawn 

Her silver mantle spread ; 

Lyra Elegaittiarum, 63 

When Damon stay'd behind, 

And saunter'd in tlie grove. 
" Will ne'er a nymph be kind, 

And give me love for love? 

" O ! those were golden hours, 

When Love, devoid of cares. 
In all Arcadia's bowers 

Lodg'd nymphs and swains by pairs i 
But now from A\ood and plain 

Flies eveiy sprightly lass ; 
No joys for me remain. 

In shades, or on the grass." 

The winged boy draws near ; 

And thus the swain reproves : 
" While Beauty revell'd heie, 

My game lay in the groves ; 
At Court I never fail 

To scatter round my arrows ; 
Men fall as thick as hail. 

And maidens love like sparrows. 

"Then, swain, if me you need, 

Straight lay your sheep-hook down; 
Throw by your oaten reed. 

And haste away to town. 
So well I'm known at Conrt, 

None ask where Cupid dwells ; 
But readily resort 

To Bellendens or Lepells." 

yo/in Gay. 


Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face ! 

Thy check all on fire, and thy hair all inicurl'd : 
Pr'ythee quit this caprice ; and, as old Falstaff says, 

Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. 

How canst thou presum.e, thou hast leave to destroy 
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping". 

Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy : 
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. 

64 Lyra Elegantlarum. 

To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ, 

Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong : 
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit ; 

Ods life! must one swear to the truth of a song? 

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, sliows 
The difference there is betwixt nature and art : 

I court others in verse — but I love thee in prose ; 

And they have my whimsies — but thou hast my Iieart, 

The God of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun, 
How after his journeys he sets up his rest: 

If at morning o'er Earth 'tis his fancy to run ; 
At night he declines on his Thetis' breast. 

So when I am wearied with wandering all day; 

To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : 
No matter what beauties I saw in my way : 

They were but my visits, but thou art my Iiome. 

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war ; 

And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; 
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, 

As he was a poet sublimer than me. 

Mattheiv Prior. 

PiiYLLlDA, that loved to dream 
In the grove, or by the stream ; 

Sigh'd on velvet pillow. 
What, alas ! should fill her head. 
But a fountain, or a mead, 

Water and a willow? 

Love in cities never dwells. 
He delights in iTiral cells 

Which sweet woodbine covers. 
What are your assemblies then? 
There, 'tis true, we see more men; 

But nuich fewer lovers. 

O, how changed the prospect grows ! 
Flock and herds to fops and beaux, 
Coxcombs without number ! 

Lyra EUgaittiat-um. 65 

Moon and stars that shone so briglit, 
To the torch and waxen light, 
And whole nights at ombre. 

Pleasant as it is to hear 
Scandal tickling in our ear, 

E'en of our own mothers ; 
In the chit-chat of the day, 
To us is paid, when we're away, 

What we lent to others. 

Though the favourite Toast I reign ; 
Wine, they say, that prompts the vain, 

Heightens defamation. 
Must I live 'twixt spite and fear, 
Eveiy day grow handsomer. 

And lose my reputation ? 

Thus the fair to sighs gave way, 
Her empty purse beside her lay. 

Nymph, ah ! cease thy sorrow. 
Though curst Fortune frown to-night, 
This odious town can give delight, 

If you win to-morrow. 

John day. 


Thus Kitty, beautiful and young, 

And wild as colt untamed, 
Bespoke tlie fair from whence she sprung, 

With little rage inflamed : 

Inflamed with rage at sad restraint. 
Which wise mamma ordain'd, 

And sorely vex'd to play the saint, 
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd. 

'* Shall I thumb holy books, confined 

With Abigails, forsaken ? 
Kitty's for oUicr things dcsign'd. 

Or I am much mistaken. 

66 Lyra Eleganfianim. 

Must Lady Jenny frisk about, 
And visit with her cousins ? 

At balls must she make all the rout, 
And bring home hearts by dozens ? 

What has she better, pray, than I ? 

What hidden charms to boast, 
That all mankind for her should die, 

Whilst I am scarce a toast ? 

Dearest mamma, for once let me, 
Unchain' d, my fortune try ; 

I'll have my Earl as well as she, 
Or know the reason why. 

I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, 
Make all her lovers fall : 

Tliey'll grieve I was not loosed before : 
She, I was loosed at all ! " 

Fondness prevail'd, — mamma gave way 

Kitty, at heart's desire, 
Obtain'd the chariot for a day, 

And set the world on fire. 

Mattheiv Prior. 

False tho' she be to me and love 

I'll ne'er pursue revenge ; 
For still the charmer I approve, 

Tho' I deplore her change. 

In hours of bliss we oft have mel. 

They could not always last ; 
And tho' the present I regret, 

I'm grateful for the past. 

Wil'iiain Coir^icvi. 


As Nancy at her toilet sat. 
Admiring this and lilaming that; 

Lyra Elegantianim. 67 

" Tell me," she said ; " but tell me true ; 

The nymph who could your heart subdue. 

What sort of charms does she possess ? " 

" Absolve me, Fair One : I'll confess 

With pleasure," I replied. " Her hair. 

In ringlets rather dark than fair, 

Does down her ivory bosom roll, 

And, hiding half, adorns the whole. 

In her high forehead's fair half-round 

Love sits in open triumph crown'd : 

He in the dimple of her chin, 

In private state, by friends is seen. 

Her eyes are neither black, nor grey ; 

Nor fierce, nor feeble is their ray; 

Their dubious lustre seems to show 

Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. 

Her lips no living bard, I weet. 

May say, how red, how round, Jiow sweet : 

Old Homer only could indite 

Their vagrant grace and soft delight : 

They stand recorded in his book, 

When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke — " 

The gipsy, turning to her glass. 
Too plainly show'd she knew the face : 
" And which am I most like," she said, 
" Your Ciiloe, or your nut-brown maid? " 
Matthew Prior. 



Lkt it not your wonder move, 
Less your laughter, that I love. 
Tho' I now write fifty years, 
I have had, and have my peers ; 
Poets, tho' divine, are men : 
Some have loved as old again. 
And it is not always face. 
Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace ; 
Or the feature, or the youth : 
But the language, and the truth, 
With the ardour, and the ^lassion, 
Give the lover weight and fashion. 

68 Lyra Blegantlarum. 

If you then will read the story, 
First, prepare you to be sorry. 
That you never knew till now, 
Either whom to love or how : 
But be glad, as soon with me, 
When you know that this is she, 
Of whose beauty it was sung, 
<' She shall make the old man j-oung," 
Keep the middle age at stay, 
And let nothing high decay, 
Till she be the reason, why. 
All the world for love may die. 




The pride of eveiy gi-ove I chose. 

The violet sweet, and lily fair, 
The dappled pink, and blushing rose. 

To deck my charming Chloe's hair. 

At mom the nymph vouchsafed to place 
Upon her brow the various wreath ; 

The flowers less blooming than her face. 
The scent less fragrant than her breath. 

The flowers she w^ore along the day; 

And every nymph and shepherd said, 
That in her hair they looked more gay. 

Than glowing in their native bed. 

Undrest at evening, when she found 
Their odours lost, their colours past ; 

She changed her look, and on the ground 
Her garland and her eye she cast. 

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear. 
As any muse's tongue could speak ; 

When from its lid a pearly tear 

Ran trickling down her beauteous check. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 6q 

Dissembling rhat I knew too well, 
" My love, my life," said I, "explain 

This cb.anq^e of liumour: piy'tliee tell: 
That failing tear — what does it mean ?" 

She sigh'd : she smiled : and to the flowers 

Pointing, the lovely moralist said : 
" See ! friend, in some few fleeting hours, 

See yonder, what a change is made. 

" Ah me, the blooming pride of May, 

And that of Beauty are but one ; 
At morn botli flourish bright and gay. 

Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. 

" At morn poor Stella danced and sung; 

The amorous youth around her bow'd ; 
At night her fatal knell was rung; 

I saw, and kissed her in her shroud. 

" Such as she is, who died to-day; 

Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow: 
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display 

The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow." 

Maitheiv Prior. 


Addressed to Coiigrcve. 

At length, by so much importimity press'd. 
Take, Congreve, at once tlie inside of my breast. 
The stupid indifference so often you blame, 
Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame ; 
I am not as cold as a virgin in lead, 
Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head ; 
I know but too well how old Time flies along. 
That we live but few years, and yet fewer are younc 

But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy 
Long years of repentance for moments of joy. 
O ! was there a man — but where shall I find 
Good sense and good nature so equally join'd ? — 

70 Lyra ElegantiarKm. 

Would value his pleasures, contribute to mine ; 
Not meanly would boast, and not grossly design ; 
Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain, 
For I would have the power, but not give the pain. 

No pedant, yet learned ; no rakey-hell gay. 
Or, laughing, because he has nothing to say ; 
To all my whole sex obliging and free, 
Yet never be loving to any but me ; 
In public preserve the decorum that's just, 
And show in his eye he is true to his trust ; 
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow, 
But not fulsomely forward, or foppishly low. 

But when the long hours of public are past. 
And we meet with champagne and a cliicken at last, 
May every fond pleasure the moment endear; 
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear ! 
Forgetting or scorning the aim of the crowd. 
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud, 
Till, lost in the joy, we confess that we live, 
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive. 

And that my delight may be solidly fix'd, 

IvCt the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd. 

In whose tender bosom my soul may confide. 

Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide, 

For such a dear lover as here I describe. 

No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe ; 

But till this astonishing creature I know, 

As I long have lived chaste, I will keep myself so. 

I never will share with the wanton coquet, 

Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit. 

The toasters and songsters may try all their art, 

But never shall enter the pass of my heart. 

I loathe the mere rake, the drest fopling despise : 

Before such pursuers the chaste virgin flies : 

And as Ovid so sweetly in parable told. 

We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold. 

Lady Marv IV. Il/onfagu. 

Lyra Elfgciiitianim. 71 

The merchant, to secure his treasure, 

Conveys it in a borrow'd name : 
Euphelia serves to grace my measure ; 

But Chloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre 

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; 
When Chloe noted her desire, 

That I should sing, that I should play. 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; 

But with my numbers mix my sighs : 
And while I sing Euphelia's praise, 

I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. 

Fair Chloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 

I sung, and gazed : I play'd, and trembled : 

And Venus to the Loves around 

Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. 

Matthew Prior. 


If life be time that here is lent. 
And time on earth be cast away. 

Whoso his time liath here mis-spent 
Ilath hasten'd his own dying day ; 

.So it doth prove a killing crime 

To massacre our living time. 

If doing nought be like to death, 
Of him that doth, chameleon-wise. 

Take only pains to draw his breath. 
The passers-by may pasquilize, 
Not, here he lives ; but, here he dies. 

Jolin HoHhinn. 

■J2 Lyra Elegantiarutn. 


Give me more love, or more disdain ; 

The torrid or the frozen zone 
Bring equal ease unto my pain, 

The temperate affords me none ; 
Either extreme of love or hate 
Is sweeter than a calm estate. 

Give me a storm ; if it be love, 
Like Danae in that golden shower, 

I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
Disdain, that torrent will devour 

My vulture hopes ; and he's possess'd 

Of Heaven that is from Hell released ; 

Then crown my joys or cure my pain ; 

Give me more love, or more disdain. 

71iomas Careio. 



Written in the year 1701. 

To their Excellencies the Lcfid Justices of Ireland. 

The humble petition of Frances Harris, who muf.l 
staiTC, and die a maid, if it miscarries. 
Humbly sheweth. 

That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, 
because I was cold, 

And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and six- 
pence, besides farthings, in money and gold : 

So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night, 

I was resolved to tell my money, and see if it was right. 

Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, 

Therefore all the money I have, which God knows, is a very 
small stock, 

I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock. 

Lyra Elega>tiianim. 73 

So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, 

my smock was unript, 
And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt : 
Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed : 
And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my 

stupid head ! 
So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light : 
But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, law ! I thought 

I should have sunk outright. 
"Lawk, madam," says Mary, "how d'ye do?" "Indeed," 

says I, " never worse : 
But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse ?" 
" Lawk, help me ! " said Mary, " I never stirred out of this 

place : " 
" Nay," said I, "I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a 

plain case." 
So ftlary got me to bed, and cover'd me up warm : 
However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself 

no harm. 
.So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think. 
But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. 
So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd 

the folks round, 
And in a comer of Mrs. Dukes's box, lied in a rag the money 

was found. 
So next morning we told \Vliittle, and he fell a-swearing : 
Then my dame Wadger came : and she, you know, is thick 

of hearing : 
"Dame," said I, as loud as I could bawl, "do you know 

what a loss I have had ? " 
" Nay," said she, " my Lord Col way's folks are all very sad ; 
For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail." 
" Pugh ! " said I, " but that's not the business that I ail." 
Says Cary, says he, " I've been a sen'ant this five-and- 

Iwenty years come spring. 
And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing." 
" Yes," says the Steward, " I remember, when I was at my 

Lady Shrewsbury's. 
Such a thing as this happen'd, just about the time of goose- 
So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of 

(Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a 


74 Lyra Elegaiitiancm. 

However, I v/as resolved to bring the discourse slily about ; 
" Mrs. Dukes," said I, "here's an ugly accident has happen'd 

'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse; 
But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 
'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a 

great hole in my wages : 
Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. 
Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands. 
That tho' 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go Avithout 

*' The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), " if ever I 

saw't ! " 
So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to 

So you know, what could I say to her any more ? 
I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. 
Well ; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning 

man : 
" No," said I, " 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here 

anon. " 
So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my 

Because he's always in my chamber, and I alwa}s take his 

So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I 

"Parson," said I, "can you cast a nativity when a body's 

(Now you must know, he hates to be called parsoi, like the 

"Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be 

more civil ; 
If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see : 
You are no text for my handling ; so take that from me : 
I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to 

"Law !" said I, " don't be angry, I am sure I never thought 

you so ; 
You know I honour the cloth ; I design to be a parson's wife, 
I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life." 
With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who 

should say, 
"Now you may go hang yourself for me ! " and so went away. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 75 

Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!" said I, 

"what shall I do? 
I have lost my money, and shall lose my taie love too ! " 
Then my Lord called me: " Harry, " said my Lord, "don't 

I'll give you something towards your loss ; " and, says my 

Lady, " so will I." 
"'O, but," said T, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't 

come to ? " 
For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,) I must peti- 
tion you. 
The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' 

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection ; 
And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' 

^Yith an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, 

a better : 
And then your poor petitioner both night and day. 
Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall 

ever pray. 

Jotiathan Swift. 

When thy beauty appears 
In its graces and airs. 

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky ; 
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, 

So strangely you dazzle my eye ! 

But when, without art. 

Your kind thought you impart. 

When your love nms in bluslies through every vein. 
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart. 

Then I know you're a woman again. 

There's a passion and pride 
In our sex, she replied. 

And this, might I gratify both, I would do : 
Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 

But still be a woman to you. 

Thomas Parnell. 

76 Lyra Elegantiarum, 


Stella this day is thirty-four, 
(We shan't dispute a year or more:) 
However, Stella, be not troubled; 
Altho' thy size and years are doubled 
Since first I saw thee at sixteen, 
The brightest virgin on the green ; 
So little is thy form declined ; 
Made up so largely in thy mind. 

O, would it please the gods to split 
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit ! 
No age could furnish out a pair 
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; 
With half the lustre of your eyes. 
With half your wit, your years, and size. 
And then, before it grew too late, 
How should I beg of gentle fate 
(That either nymph might have her swain) 
To split my worship too in twain. 

yonathan Swift. 


All travellers at first incline 
Where'er they see the fairest sign ; 
And, if they find the chamber neat. 
And like the liquor and the meat, 
Will call again, and recommend 
The Angel Inn to every friend. 
What though the painting grows decay'd, 
The House will never lose its trade: 
Nay, tho' the treacherous tapster, Thoniai, 
Hangs a new angel two doors from us. 
As fine as dauber's hands can make it. 
In hopes that strangers may mistake it. 
We think it both a shame and sin 
To quit the tnie old Angel Inn. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 77 

Now this is Stella's case in fact; 
An angel's face, a little crack'd; 
(Could poets, or could painters fix 
How angels look at thirty-six :) 
This drew us in at first tp find 
In such a form an angel's mind ; 
And every virtue now supplies 
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. 
See at her levee crowding swains, 
Whom Stella freely entertains 
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense, 
And puts them but to small expense ; 
Their mind so plentifully fills, 
And makes such reasonable bills, 
So little gets for what she gives, 
We really wonder how she lives ! 
And had her stock been less, no doubt 
She must have long ago run out. 

Then who can think we'll quit the place, 
When Doll hangs out a newer face ; 
Or stop and light at Chloe's head. 
With scraps and leavings to be fed? 

Then, Chloe, still go on to prate 
Of thirty- six, and thirty- eight; 
Pursue your trade of scandal-picking. 
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken; 
Your innuendoes, when you tell us 
'That Stella loves to talk vdth fellows : 
And let me warn you to believe 
A truth, for which your soul should grieve ; 
That should you live to see the day 
When Stella's locks must all be grey, 
When age must print a furrow'd trace 
On every feature of her face ; 
That you, and all your senseless tribe, 
Could art, or time, or nature bribe 
To make you look like beauty's queen. 
And hold for ever at fifteen ; 
No bloom of youth can ever blind 
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind ; 
All men of sense will pass your door, 
And crowd to Stella's at four score. 

Jonathan. Swift. 

jr8 Lyra Eleganfiariim. 


As, when a beauteous nymph decays, 
We say, slie's past her dancing days ; 
So poets lose then* feet by time, 
And can no longer dance in rhyme. 
Your annual bard had rather chose 
To celebrate your birth in prose : 
Yet merry folks, who want by chance 
A pair to make a country dance, 
Call the old housekeeper, and get her 
To fill a place, for want of better : 
While Sheridan is off the hooks, 
And friend Delany at his books. 
That Stella may avoid disgrace, 
Once more the Deaii supplies their place 

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth ! 
Have always been confined to youth ; 
The god of wit, and beauty's queen, 
He twenty-one, and she fifteen. 
No poet ever sweetly sung, 
Unless he were, like Phcebus, young; 
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, 
Unless, like Venus, in her prime. 
At fifty-six, if this be true. 
Am I a poet fit for you? 
Or, at the age of forty-three. 
Are you a subject fit for me? 
Adieu ! bright wit, and radiant eyes. 
You must be grave, and I be wise. 
Our fate in vain we would oppose : 
But I'll be still )'our friend in prose ; 
Esteem and friendship to express. 
Will not require poetic dress ; 
And, if the Muse deny her aid 
To have them sung, they may be said. 

But, Stella, say, what evil tongue 
Reports you are no longer young ; 
Tliat Time sits, with his scythe to mow 
Wliere erst sat Cupid with his bow ; 
That half your locks are turn'd to grey? 
I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 

Lyra Elegaittiarnin. 79 

'Tis true, but let it not be known, 
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown : 
For Nature, always in tlie right. 
To your decay adapts my sight ; 
And wrinkles undistinguish'd pass, 
For I'm asliam'd to use a glass; 
And till I see. them with these eyes. 
Whoever says you have them, lies. 

No length of time can make you quit 
Honour and virtue, sense and wit; 
Thus you may still be young to me, 
While I can better hear than see. 
O ne'er may Fortune show her spite, 
To make me deaf, and mend my sight. 

Joiial/ian Swl/t. 


This day, whate'er the Fates decree, 
Shall still be kept with joy by me: 
This day then let us not be told 
That you are sick, and I grown old ; 
Nor think on our approaching ills. 
And talk of spectacles and pills : 
To-morrow will be time enough 
To hear such mortifying stuff. 
Yet, since from reason may be brought 
A better and more pleasing thought, 
Which can in spite of all decays 
Support a few remaining days. 
From not the gravest of divines 
Accept for once some serious lines. 

Altho' we now can form no more 
Long schemes of life, as heretofore ; 
Yet you, while time is running fast. 
Can look with joy on what is past. 

Were future happiness and pain 
A mere contrivance of the brain. 
As atheists argue, to entice 
And fit their proselytes for vice, 
(The only comfort they propose. 
To have companions in their woes/ 

8o Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Grant this the case ; yet sure 'tis hard 
That virtue, styled its ovra. reward 
And by all sages understood 
To be the chief of human good, 
Should acting die, nor leave behind 
Some lasting pleasure in the mind. 
Which, by remembrance, will assuage 
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age ; 
And strongly shoot a radiant dart 
To shine thro' life's declining part. 
Say, Stella, feel you no content, 
Reflecting on a life well spent? 
Your skilful hand employ'd to save 
Despairing wretches from the grave ; 
And then supporting with your store 
Those whom you dragg'd from death before ' 
So Providence on mortals waits. 
Preserving what it first creates : 
Your generous boldness to defend 
An innocent and absent friend ; 
That courage which can make you just 
To merit humbled in the dust ; 
The detestation you express 
For vice in all its glittering dress ; 
That patience under torturing pain. 
Where stubborn stoics would complain : 
Must these like empty shadows pass, 
Or fonns reflected from a glass? 
Or mere chimaeras in the mind. 
That fly, and leave no marks behind? 
Does not the body thrive and grow 
By food of twenty years ago? 
And, had it not been still supplied, 
It must a thousand times have died. 
Then who with reason can maintain 
That no effects of food remain? 
And is not virtue in mankind 
The nutriment that feeds the mind ; 
Upheld by each good action past. 
And still continued by the last ? 
Then, who with reason can pretend 
That all effects of virtue end ? 
Believe me, Stella, when you show 
That true contempt for things below. 

Lyra Elcganthruiii. 8l 

Nor prize your life for other ends 
Than merely to oblige your friends ; 
Your former actions claim their part, 
And join to fortify your heart. 
For virtue in her daily race, 
Like Janus, bears a double face ; 
Looks back with joy where she has gone, 
And therefore goes with courage on. 
She at your sickly couch will wait. 
And guide you to a better state. 

O then, whatever Heaven intends, 
Take pity on your pitying friends ! 
Nor let your ills affect your mmd. 
To fancy they can be unkind. 
Me, surely me, you ought to spare, 
Who gladly would your suffering share, 
Or give my scrap of life to you, 
And think it far beneath your due ; 
You, to whose care so oft I owe 
That I'm alive to tell you so. 

yotiathan Swift. 


Oft in danger, yet alive, 
We are come to thirty-five; 
Long may better years arrive, 
Better years than thirty-five ! 
Could philosophers contrive 
Life to stop at thirty-five. 
Time his hours should never drive 
O'er the bounds of thirty-five, 
High to soar and deep to dive, 
Nature gives at thirty-five, 
I^adies, stock and tend your hive, 
Trifle not at thirty-five; 
For, howe'er we boast and strive. 
Life declines from thirty-five. 
He that ever hopes to thrive 
Must begin by thirty-five; 

$2 Lyra Elegajitiarum. 

And all who wisely wish to wive ♦ 
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. 

Saimtel Johnson. 


Away, let nought to love displeasing, 
My Winifreda, move j'our care ; 

Let nought delay the heavenly blessing. 
Nor squeamish pi^ide, nor gloomy fear. 

What tho' no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood ; 

We'll shine in more substantial honours, 
And to be noble we'll be good. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke : 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

Wliat tho' from fortune's lavish bounty 
No mighty treasures we possess ; 

We'll find within our pittance plenty, 
And be content without excess. 

Still shall each returning season 

Suflicient for our wishes give; 
For we will live a life of reason. 

And that's the only life to live. 

Thro' age and youth in love excelling. 
We'll hand in hand together tread, 

Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwellinj^ 
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed. 

TIow shall I love the pretty creatures. 

While round my knees they fondly clung ; 

To see them look their mother's features. 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. 

Lyra Elegantianwi. 83 

And when with envy time transported, 

Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
You'll in your girls again be courted, 

And I'll go wooing in my boys. 


A MAN may live thrice Nestor's life. 

Thrice wander out Ulysses' race. 
Yet never find Ulysses' wife; — 

Such change hath chanced in this case ! 
Less age will serve than Paris had, 

Small pain (if none be small enow) 
To find good store of Helen's trade : 

Such sap the root doth }aeld the bough ! 
For one good wife, Ulysses slew 

A worthy knot of gentle blood : 
For one ill wife, Greece overthrew 

The town of Troy. — Sith bad and good 
Bring mischief, Lord let be thy will 
To keep me free from eitlier ill ! 



How blest has my time been ! what joys have I known, 
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! 
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. 
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Tlirough walks grown with woodbines, as often wc stray. 
Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones sec 
And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 

To tiy her sweet temper, oft times am I seen, 
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green; 
Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles. 
And meets me at night with complaisance and smiles. 

What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, 
Iler wit and good humour bloom all the year through; 
Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. 
And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. 

84 Lyra Elegantiartmi. 

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
And cheat with false vows, the too credulous fair; 
In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam ! 
To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 

Edward Moore. 



The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride; 
For riches like raiment their nakedness hide : 
The slave that is needy must starve all his life. 
In a bachelor's plight, without mistress or wife. 

In good days of yore they ne'er troubled their heads 
In settling of jointures, or making of deeds ; 
But Adam and Eve, wlien they first enter'd course, 
E'en took one another for better or worse. 

Then pr'ythee, dear Chloe, ne'er aim to be great. 
Let love be the jointure, don't mind the estate; 
You can never be poor who have all of these charms ; 
And I shall be rich when I've you in my arms. 



A KNIFE, dear girl, cuts love, they say — 
Mere modish love perhaps it may ; 
For any tool of any kind 
Can separate what was never join'd. 
The knife tliat cuts our love in two 
Will have much tougher work to do: 
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit 
Down to the vulgar size of merit ; 
To level yours with common taste, 
Must cut a world of sense to waste; 
And from your single beauty's store, 
Clip what would dizen out a score. 

Lyra Elegantim-iim. 

TIic self-same blade from me must sever 

Sensation, judgment, sight — for ever ! 

All memory of endearments past, 

All hope of comforts long to last, 

All that makes fourteen years with you 

A summer — and a short one too : 

All that affection feels and fears. 

When hours, without you, seem like years. 

'Till that be done, — and I'd as soon 

Believe this knife would clip the moon, — 

Accept my present undeterr'd, 

And leave their proverbs to the herd. 

If in a kiss — delicious treat ! 

Your lips acknowledge the receipt ; 

Love, fond of such substantial fare, 

And proud to play the glutton there, 

All thoughts of cutting will disdain. 

Save only — " cut and come again." 

Saiiuul Bishop. 



" Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed," 
So sixteen years ago I said — 
Behold another ring ! " for what ? " 
To wed thee o'er again — why not ? 

With the first ring I married youth, 
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; 
Taste long admired, sense long rever'd, 
And all my Molly then appear'd. 

If she, by merit since disclosed. 
Prove twice the woman I supposed, 
I plead that double merit now, 
To justify a double vow. 

Here then to-day, with faith as sure, 
With ardour as intense and pure, 
As when amidst the rites divine 
I took thy troth, and plighted mine, 

86 Lyra Elegantiartim . 

To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, 
A token and a pledge I bring ; 
With this I wed, till death us part, 
Thy riper virtues to my heart ; 
These virtues which, before untried, 
The wife has added to the bride — 
Those virtues, whose progressive claim, 
Endearing wedlock's very name, 
My soul enjoys, my song approves, 
For conscience' sake as well as love's. 

For why ? They teach me hour by hour 
Honour's high thought, affection's power, 
Discretion's deed. Sound judgment's sentence. 
And teach me all things — but repentance. 

Sanmel BisJiop. 



How happy a thing were a wedding, 

And a bedding. 
If a man might purchase a wife 

For a t\^'elvemonth and a day ; 
But to live with her all a man's life, 

For ever and for aye. 
Till she grow as grey as a cat. 
Good faith, Mr. Parson, excuse me from that! 

Thomas Flat/nan. 


Thus spoke to my lady the kr.ight full of care : 

' ' Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. 

This Hamilton's Bawn, whilst it sticks on my hand, 

I lose by the house what I get by the land ; 

But how to dispose of it to the best bidder. 

For a barrack or 7/ialt-honse, we now must consider. 

First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house, 
Here I have computed the profit will fall t'us, 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 87 

There's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain, 
I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain; 
A handsome addition for \vine and good cheer, 
Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year: 
With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored 
No little scrub joint shall come on to my board : 
And you and the dean no more shall combine 
To stint me at niglit to one bottle of wine; 
Nor shall I, for his humour, pemiit you to purloin 
A stone and a quarter of beef from my sirloin. 
If I make it a barrack, the Crown is my tenant ; 
My dear, I have ponder'd again and again on't ; 
In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent. 
Whatever they give me I must be content. 
Or join with the Court in every debate ; 
And rather than that I would lose my estate." 

Thus ended the knight : thus began his meek wife ; 
" It must and it shall be a barrack, my life. 
I'm grown a mere mopus; no company comes 
But a rabble of tenants and rusty dull Rums. 
With parsons what lady can keep herself clean ? 
I'm all over daub'd when I sit by the dean. 
But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, 
The captain, I'm sure, will always come here ; 
I then shall not value his deanship a straw, 
For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe; 
Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert, 
Wiil tell him that chaplains should not be so pert ; 
That men of his coat should be minding their prayers, 
And not among ladies to give themselves airs." 

Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; 
The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. 

But Hannah, who listen'd to all that was past, 
And could not endure so vulgar a taste. 
As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd. 
Cried, " Madam, why surely my master's possess'd. 
Sir Arthur the maltster ! How fine it will sound ! 
I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground. 
But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good, 
When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. 
And now my dream's out ; for I was adream'd 
That I saw a huge rat ; O dear, how I scream'd ! 
And after, methought I had lost my new shoes ; 
And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news. 

88 Lyra Eleganilaruin. 

" Dear madam, liad you but the spirit to tease, 
You might have a barrack whenever you please ; 
And, madam, I always beheved you so stout, 
That for twenty denials you would not give out. 
If I had a husband like him, T/wrtest, 
Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest ; 
And rather than come in the same pair of sheets 
With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets : 
But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent. 
And worry him out, till he gives his consent. 
Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think, 
An I were to be hang'd I can't sleep a wink : 
For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, 
I can't get it out, tliough I'd never so fain. 
I fancy already a barrack contrived 
At Hamilton's Bawn, and the troop is arrived ; 
Of this, to be sure. Sir Arthur has warning. 
And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. 
Now see when they meet liow their honours behave, 
' Noble captain, your servant' — ' Sir Arthur, your slave;' 
' You honour me much ' — ' the honour is mine — ' 
' 'Twas a sad rainy night' — ' but the morning is fine.' 
' Pray how does my lady ? ' — ' My wife's at your service.' 
' I think I have seen her picture by Jervis.' 
' Good morrow, good captain ' — ' I'll wait on you down— 
' You shan't stir a foot ' — ' you'll think me a clown — ' 
' For all the world, captain ' — 'not half an inch farther — ' 
'You must be obey'd' — 'Your servant, Sir Arthur; 
My humble respects to my lady unknown — ' 
' I hope you will use my house as your own.' " 

" Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate, 
Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate." 
' ' Pray, madam, be quiet : what was it I said ? 
You had like to have put quite out of my head. 

Next day, to be sure, the captain will come 
At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum ; 
Now, madam, observe how he marches in state ; 
The man with the kettle-dram enters the gate ; 
Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trum] eters follow, 
Tantara, tantara ; while all the boys halloo. 
See now c.omes the captain all daubed with gold lace ; 
O, la ! the sw^eet gentleman, look in his face ; 
And see how he rides like a lord of the land. 
With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand ; 

Lyra Elegaiifiarum. 89 

And his horse, the dear crefcr, it prances and rears, 

With ribands in knots at its tail and its ears ; 

At last comes the troop, by the word of command, 

Drawn up in our Court, when the captain cries. Stand ! 

Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen, 

(For sure T had dizen'd you out like a queen) ; 

The captain, to show he is proud of the favour, 

Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver, 

(His beaver is cock'd; pray, madam, mark that. 

For a captain of horse never takes off his hat ; 

Because he has never a hand that is' idle. 

For the riglit holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle ;) 

Then flourishes thrice his sword hi the air, 

As a compliment due to a lady so fair; 

(How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt) 

Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the hilt 

Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin : 

' Pray, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in.' 

The captain salutes you with congee profound, 

And your ladyship curtsies half way to the gi'ound. 

' Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us; 

I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us. 

And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay, 

And take a short dinner here with us to-day ; 

You're heartily welcome ; but as for good cheer, 

You come in the veiy worst time of the year. 

If I had expected so worthy a giiest ' 

' Lord, madam ! your ladyship sure is in jest ; 

You banter me, madam, the kingdom must gi'ant — ' 

'You officers, captain, are so complaisant.'" 

" Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody coming!" 

"No, madam! 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming." 

To shorten my tale (for I hate a long stor}') 

The captain at dinner appears in his gloiy ; 

The dean and the doctor have humbled their pride. 

For the captain's entreated to sit by your side; 

And, because he's their betters, you carve for him first. 

The parsons for envy are ready to burst ; 

The servants ama2.ed are scarce ever able ' 

To keep off their eyes as they wait at the table ; 

And Molly and I have thrust in our nose 

To peep at the captain in all his fine clo'es ; 

Dear madam, be sure he's a fine-s]'>oken man, 

Do but hear on the clcrg)' how glib his tongue ran ; 

90 Lyra Elegaiitianan. 

And ' Madam,' says he, 'if such dmners you give. 
You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live ; 
I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose, 
But the devil's as welcome wherever he goes ; 

, they bid us reform and repent, 

But z — s by their looks they never keep Lent ; 
Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid 
You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid ; 
I wi;ih she would lend you her pretty white hand 
In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band,' 
(For the dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny, 
That the captain supposed he was curate to Jinny) 
' Whenever you see a cassock and gown, 
A hundred to one but it covers a clown ; 
Observe how a parson comes into a I'oom, 

, he hobbles as bad as my groom; 

A s:holard, when just from his college broke loose. 

Can hardly tell how to cry Bo to a goose ; 

Your Novi'ds, and Bhiturks, and Oimtrs, and stuff, 

By , they don't signify this pinch of snuff. 

To give a young gentleman right education, 
The Army's the only good school in the nation ; 
My schoolmaster call'd me a dunce and a fool. 
But at cuffs I was always the cock of the Gchoci ; 
I never could take to my book for the blood o' me. 
And the puppy confess'd he expected no good of me. 
He caught me one morning coquetting his wife. 
And he maul'd me ; I ne'er was so maul'd in my life ; 
So I took to the road, and, Avhat's very odd. 
The first man I robb'd was a parson, by G — . 
Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say, 
But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day. ' 

" Never since I was born did I hear so much wit. 
And, madam, I laugh'd till I thought I should split. 
So then you look'd scornful, and snift at the dean. 
As who should say, N'mv, am I skinny and lean ? 
But he durst not so much as once open his lips. 
And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips." 

Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk. 
Till she heard the dean call, "Will your ladyship walk ' 
Her ladyship answers, "I'm just coming down," 
Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, 
Altho' it was plain in her heart she was glad. 
Cried, " Hussy, why sure the wench has gone mad ; 

Lyra Elegautiarnvi. 91 

How could these chimeras get into your brains? 
Come hither, and take this old gown for your pains. 
Rut the dean, if this secret should come to his cars, 
Will never have done with his jibes and his jeers. 
For your life not a word of the matter, I charge ye, 
Give me but a barrack; a fig for the clergy." 

yonathan Swift. 


Sent on ha- Birth- Day. 

O, BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send. 

Long health, long youth, long pleasure and a friend ! 

Not with those toys the female race admire, 

Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. 

Not as the world its petty slaves rewards, 

A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; 

Fair to no purpose, artful to no end ; 

Young without lovers, old without a friend ; 

A fop their passion, but their prize a sot ; 

Alive, ridiculous, — and dead, forgot! 

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content. 
And the gay conscience of a life well spent, 
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, 
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face ; 
Let day improve on day, and year on year, 
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; 
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, 
In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy; 
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb, 
And ^^'akc to raptures in a life to come ! 

Alcxandci I'opi. 

Pr'ytiiee, Chloe, not so fast. 
Let's not run and wed in haste ; 
We've a thousand things to do, 
You must fly, and I pursue ; 

92 Lym Elegantiariim. 

You must frown, and I must sigh ; 
I entreat, and you deny. 
Stay — If I am never crost, 
Half the pleasure will be lost. 

Be, or seem to be severe, 
Give me reason to despair ; 
Fondness will my wishes cloy, 
Make me careless of the joy. 
Lovers may, of course, complain 
Of their trouble, and their pain ; 
But if pain and trouble cease, 
Love without it will not please. 



Would you that Delville I describe? 
Believe me, sir, I will not gibe: 
For who could be satirical? 
Upon a thing so very small? 

You scarce upon the borders enter, 
Before you're at the very centre. 
A single crow can make it night, 
When o'er your farm she takes her flight : 
Yet, in this narrow compass, we 
Obsei"ve a vast variety ; 
Both walks, walls, meadows, and pai'terres, 
Windows, and doors, and rooms, and stairs, 
And hills and dales, and woods and fields, 
And hay, and grass, and corn, it yields ; 
All to your haggaixl brought so cheap in, 
Without the mowing or the reaping : 
A razor, tho' to say't I'm loth. 
Would shave you and your meadows both. 

Tho' small's the farm, yet here's a house 
Full large to entertain a mouse ; 
But where a rat is dreaded more 
Than savage Caledonian boar ; 
For, if it's enter'd by a rat. 
There is no room to brins; a cat. 

Lyra ElegaiUianoii. 93 

A little rivulet seems to steal 
Down tliro' a thing you call a vale, 
Liice tears adown a wrinkled cheek, 
Like rain along a blade of leek : 
And this you call your sweet meander. 
Which might be suck'd up by a gander, 
Could he but force his nether bill 
To scoop the channel of tlie rill. 
For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, 
Were it as big as city gutter. 

Next come I to your kitchen garden, 
Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in ; 
And round this garden is a walk, 
No longer than a tailor's chalk ; 
Thus I compare what space is in it, 
A snail creeps round it in a hiinute. 
One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze 
Up thro' a tuft you call your trees : 
And, once a year, a single rose 
Peeps from the bud, but never blows ; 
In vain then you expect its bloom ! 
It cannot blow for want of room. 

In short, in all your boasted seat. 
There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. 

Dr. Thomas S/ieruIaii. 


Whoever pleaseth to enquire 
Why yonder steeple wants a spire, 
The grey old fellow, poet Joe, 
The philosophic cause will show. 
Once on a time, a western blast 
At least twelve inches overcast. 
Reckoning roof, weathercock and all. 
Which came with a prodigious fall, 
And tumbling topsy-turvy round, 
Lit with its bottom on the ground, 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

For by the laws of gravitation 
It fell into its proper station. 

This is the little strutting pile 
You see just by the church-yard stile: 
The walls in tumbling gave a knock, 
And thus the steeple gave a shock : 
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls, 
Tlie steeple, Knock : the Vicar, Walls. 

The vicar once a week creeps in, 
Sits with his knees up to his chin ; 
Here cons his notes, and takes a whet, 
Till the small ragged flock is met. 

A traveller who by did pass, 
Observed the roof behind the grass. 
On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, 
And saw the parson creeping out ; 
Was much surprised to see a crow 
Venture to build his nest so low. 

A school-boy ran unto't, and thought 
The crib was down, the blackbird caught. 
A third, who lost his way by night, 
Was forced for safety to alight. 
And stepping o'er the fabric-roof. 
His horse had like to spoil his hoof. 

Warburton took it in his noddle, 
This building was design'd a model 
Or of a pigeon-house, or oven. 
To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in. 
Then Mrs. Johnson gave her verdict, 
And eveiy one was pleased that heard it. 
All that you make this stir about 
Is but a still which wants a spout, 
The Rev. Dr. Raymond guess'd 
More probably than all the rest ; 
He said, but tliat it wanted room, 
It might have been a pigmy's tomb. 
The doctor's family came by, 
And little miss began to ciy. 
Give me that house in my own hand ! 
Then madam bade the chariot stand, 
Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild. 
Pray reach that thing here to the child ; 
That thing, I mean, among the kale, 
And here's to buy a pot of ale. 

T.yra Elegantianifn. 95 

The clerk said to her, in a heat, 
What, sell my master's country seat, 
Where he comes every week from town, 
He would not sell it for a crown? 
Poh, fellow, keep not such a pother. 
In half-an-hour thou'lt make another. 
Says Nancy, I can make for miss 
A finer house ten times than this, 
The Dean will give me willow-sticks, 
And Joe my apron full of bricks. 

yonalhan Sivift. 


Man is for woman made. 
And woman made for man : 

As the spur is for the jade, 

As the scabbard for the blade, 
As for liquor is the can, 

So man's for woman made, 
And woman made for man. 

As the sceptre to be sway'd. 
As to night the serenade. 

As for pudding is the pan, 

As to cool us is the fan, 
So man's for woman made. 

And woman made for man. 

Be she widow, wife, or maid, 

Be she wanton, be she staid, 

Be she well or ill array'd, 
« * * 

So man's for woman made, 

And woman made for man. 

Peter A. MoUeux. 

q6 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


When I tie about thy wrist, 
Julia, this my silken twist, 
For what other reason is't 

But to show thee how, in part, 

Tliou my pretty captive art? 

— But thy bond-slave is my heart. 

'Tis but silk that bindeth thee. 
Snap the thread, and thou art freej 
But 'tis otherwise with me : 

I am bound, and fast bound, so 
That from thee I cannot go : 
If I could I would not so ! 

Robert Ilerrick. 



That which her slender waist confined, 
Shall npw my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely dear. 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love 
Did all within this circle move ! 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; 
Give me but what this riband bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 

Edmund Waller. 

Lyra Elegantianim. 97 


Go, virgin kid, with lambent kiss, 

Salute a virgin's hand ; 
Go, senseless thing, and reap a bliss 

Thou dost not understand : 
Go, for in thee, methinks, I find 

(Though 'tis not half so bright) 
An emblem of her beauteous mind, 

By nature clad in white. 

Securely thou may'st touch the fair, 

Whom few securely can ; 
May'st press her breast, her lip, her iiair, 

C3r wanton wdth her fan : 
May'st coach it with her to and fro, 

From masquerade to plays ; 
Ah ! couldst thou hither come and go, 

To tell me what she says ! 

Go then, and when the morning cold 

Shall nip her lily arm. 
Do thou (oh, might I be so bold !) 

With kisses make it warm. 
But when thy glossy beauty's o'er, 

When all thy charms are gone. 
Return to me, I'll love thee more 

Than e'er I yet have done. 



As down in the meadows I chanced to pass, 
O ! there I beheld a young beautiful lass : 
Her age, 1 am sure, it was scarcely fifteen ; 
And she on her head wore a garland of green : 
llcr lips were like rubies ; and as for her eyes. 
They sparkled like diamonds, or stars in the skies ; 
And, as for her voice, it was charming and clear. 
As sadly she sung for tJie loss of her dear. 

gg Lyra Elegantiarum. 

" Why does my loved Billy prove false and unkind, 
Ah ! why does he change, like the wavering wind, 
From one that is loyal in every degree? 
Ah ! why does he change to another from me ? 
Or does he take pleasure to torture me so? 
Or does he delight in my sad overthrow? 
Susannah will always prove true to her trust, 
'Tis pity, loved Billy should be so unjust. 

In the meadows as we were a making of hay. 
There, there did we pass the soft minutes away ; 

then was I kiss'd, as I sat on his knee. 
No man in the world was so loving as he. 

And as he went forth to hoe, harrow, and plough, 

1 milk'd him sweet syllabubs under my cow ; 
O then I was kiss'd, as I sat on his knee. 
No man in the world was so loving as he. 

But now he has left me, and Fanny, the fair. 
Employs all his wishes, his thoughts, and his care ; 
And he kisses her lips, and she sits on his knee, 
As he says all the soft things he once said to me. 
But if she believe him, the false-hearted swain 
Will leave her, and then she with me may complain ; 
For nought is more certain (believe, silly Sue), 
Who once has been faithless, can never be true." 

She finished her song, and rose up to be gone. 
When over the meadow came jolly young John ; 
Who told her that she was the joy of his life. 
And, if she'd consent, he would make her his wife ; 
She could not refuse him, to church so they went, 
Young Billy's forgot, and young Susan's content. 
Most men are like Billy, most Avomen like Sue ; 
If men will be false, why should women be true? 

Unknown . 


What is Prudery? 'Tis a beldam, 
Seen with wit and beauty seldom. 
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows. 
'Tis (no 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows. 

Lyra Elegatttiaritm, 99 

'Tis a virgin hard of feature, 
Old, and void of all good-nature ; 
Lean and fretful ; would seem wise ; 
Yet plays the fool before she dies, 
'Tis an ugly envious shrew 
That rails at dear Lepell and you. 

Alexander Pope. 


Prudence, Sir William, is a jewel — 
Is clothes, and meat, and drink, and fuel ! 
Prudence ! for man the very best of wives, 
Whom bards have seldom met with in their lives ; 
Which certes does account for, in some measure, 
Their giievous want of worldly treasure, 
On which the greatest blockheads make their brags. 
And showeth why we see, instead of lace 
About the poet's back, with little giace. 
Those fluttering, French-like followers — call'd rags. 

Prudence, a sweet, obliging, curtsying lass, 
Fit through this hypocrilic world to pass! 
Who kept at first a little peddling shop, 
Swept her own room, twirled her own mop, 
Wash'd her own clothes, caught her own fleas. 
And rose to fame and fortune by degi^ees ; 
Who, when she enter'd other people's houses, 
'Till spoke to was as silent as a mouse is; 
And of opinions tho' possess'd a store, 
She left them with her pattens — at the door. 

yo/i7t Wolcof. 



I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking, 
Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, 
What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation. 
By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation? 

ICO Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply: — 
See the heart without motion, thougli Celia pass by! 
Not the beauty she has, or tlie wit that she borrows, 
Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. 

When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refined, 
I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind ; 
Whatever she says, is with spirit and iire ; 
Every woi^d I attend j but I only admire. 

Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim, 
Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim : 
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes ; 
Those stars of the world are too good for the skies. 

But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair. 
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care ; 
When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain. 
The leapings, the achings, return all again. 

O wonderful creature ! a woman of reason ! 
Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season ! 
When so easy to guess who this angel should be. 
Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she ? 

Lord Peterborough. 



You, Damon, covet to possess 
The nymph that sparkles in her dress ; 
Would rustling silks and hoops invade. 
And clasp an armful of brocade. 

Such raise the price of your delight 
Who purchase both their red and white. 
And, pirate-like, surprise your heart 
With colours of adulterate art. 

Me, Damon, me the maid enchants 
Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints ; 
A modest blush adorns her face. 
Her air an unaffected grace. 

Ly7-a Elegantiariun. I( 

No art she knows, or seeks to know ; 
No charm to wealthy pride will owe ; 
No gems, no gold she needs to wear; 
She shines intrinsically fair. 

]Villiaiii Bedingfidd. 



My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, 
And all the gay haunts of my }outh I forsook ; 
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. 

O, what had my youth with ambition to do? 
Why left I Amynta ? why broke I my vow ? 
O, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, 
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more. 

Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! 
O, fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
A love so well founded, a passion so true ! 

Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
Poor Shepherd, Amynta can no more be thine ; 
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, 
The moments neglected return not again. 

Sir Gilbei't Elliol. 

Strephon, when you see me fly, 
Why should that your fear create ? 

Maids may be as often shy. 
Out of love, as out of hate : 

Wlien from you I fly away, 

'Tis because I fear to stay. 

Did I out of hatred run 

Less would be my pain and care ; 
But the youth I love to shun ! 

Wlio could such a trial bear? 
Who, that such a swain did see, 
Who could love, and fly, like me ? 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Cruel duty bids me go ; 

Gentle love commands my stay ; 
Duty's still to love a foe ; 

Shall I this or that obey ? 
Duty frowns, and Cupid smiles, 
That defends, and this beguiles. 

Ever by this crystal stream, ; 

I could sit and see thee sigh, 
Ravish'd with this pleasing dream, 

O, 'tis worse than death to fly ! 
But the danger is so great. 
Fear gives wings instead of feet. 

If you love me, Strephon, leave me 

If you stay, I am undone ; 
O, you may with ease deceive me ; 

Pr'ythee, charming boy, begone : 
The gods decree, that we must part ; 
They have my vow, but you my heart. 


A WOMAN is like to — but stay — 
What a woman is like, who can say ? 
There is no living with or without one — 

Love bites like a fly. 

Now an ear, now an eye, 
Buz, buz, always buzzing about one. 

When she's tender and kind 

She is like, to my mind, 
(And Fanny was so, I remember, ) 

She's like to — O dear ! 

She's as good, very near. 
As a ripe melting peach in September. 

If she laugh^ and she chat. 

Play, joke, and all that, 
And with smiles and good humour she meet me, 

She's like a rich dish 

Of venison or fish. 
That cries from the table. Come eat me ! 

Lyra Elegantiarum. i< 

But she'll ]ilagiie you, find vex you, 
Distract and perplex you ; 
False-hearted and ranging, 
Unsettled and changing. 
What then do you think, she is like ? 

Like a sand ? like a rock ? 

Like a wheel ? like a clock ? 
Ay, a clock that is always at strike. 
Her head's like the island folks tell on, 
Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on ; 
Her heart's like a lemon — so nice 
She carves for each lover a slice; 

In tnith she's to me, 

Like the wind, like the sea. 
Whose raging will hearken to no man ; 

Like a mill, like a pill. 

Like a flail, like a whale, 

Like an ass, like a glass 
Whose image is constant to no man ; 

Like a shower, like a flower, 

Like a fly, like a pie, 

Like a pea, like a flea, 

Like a thief, like— in brief, 
She's like nothing on earth — but a woman ! 



A Fragment. 

Once on a time, so nms the fable, 
A countiy mouse, right hospitable, 
Received a town mouse at his board. 
Just as a farmer might a lord. 
A frugal mouse, upon the whole. 
Yet loved his friend, and had a soul. 
Knew what was handsome, and could dot, 
On just occasion, " coxlte qui ccdfe." 
He brought him bacon, nothing lean. 
Pudding, that might have pleased a Dean ; 
Cheese, sucli as men in Suffolk make. 
But wish'd it Stilton for his sake; 

t04 Lyra Elegaiitiarian. 

'/et, to his guest though no ways sparing, 
He ate himself the rind and paring. 
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, 
But show'd his breeding and his wit ; 
He did his best to seem to eat, 
And cried, " I vow, you're mighty neat. 
" But Lord, my friend, this savage scene: 
" For God's sake, come and live with men 
" Consider, mice, like men, must die, 
" Both small and gi"eat, both you and I ; 
" Then spend your life in joy and sport, 
" (This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court)." 
The veriest hermit in the nation 
May yield, God knows, to strong temptatio 
Away they came, through thick and thin. 
To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn : 
('Twas on the night of a debate. 
When all their Lordships had sat late). 

Behold the place, where if a poet 
Shined in description, he might show it ; 
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls. 
And tips with silver all the walls ; 
Palladian walls, Venetian doors, 
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors : 
But let it, in a word, be said. 
The moon was up, and men a-bed. 
The napkins white, the carpet red : 
The guests withdrawn had left the treat. 
And down tlie mice sat, tete-a-tcte. 

Our courtier v/alks from dish to dish, 
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ; 
Tells all their names, lays down the law, 
" Que ca est hoii ! Ah goiitez fa ! 
" That jelly's rich, this Malmsey's healing, 
" Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in.' 
Was ever such a happy swain ? 
He stuffs, and swills, and stuffs again. 
" I'm quite asham'd — 'tis mighty rude 
" To eat so much — but all's so good. 
" I have a thousand thanks to give — 
" My Lord alone knows how to live." 
No sooner said, than from the hall 
Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all : 
" A rat, a rat ! clap to the door" — 

Lyra Elegantiartim. 105 

Tlie cat comes bouncing on the floor. 

O for tlic heart of Homer's mice, 

Or gods to save them in a trice! 

" An't please your honour," quoth the peasant, 

" This same dessert is not so pleasant : 

" Give me again my hollow tree, 

" A crust of bread, and liberty ! " 

Alexander Pope 


Dear Love, let me this evening die, 

O smile not to prevent it ; 
Dead with my rivals let me lie. 

Or we shall both repent it. 
Frown quickly then, and break my heart, 

That so my way of dying 
May, tho' my life was full of smart, 

Be worth the world's envying. 
Some, striving knowledge to refine. 

Consume themselves with thinking ; 
And some, who friendship seal in wine, 

Arc kindly kill'd with drinking. 
An 1 some are wreck'd on the Indian coast, 

Thither by gain invited ; 
Some are in smoke of battle lost, 

Wiiom drums, not lutes, delighted. 
Alas, how poorly these depart, 

Their graves still unattended ! 
Who dies not of a broken heart 

Is not of Death commended. 
His memory is only sweet. 

All praise and pity moving, 
Who kindly at his mistress' feet 

Does die with over-loving. 
And now thou frown'st, and now I die, 

My corpse by lovers followed ; 
Which straight shall by dead lovers lie ; 

That ground is only hallow'd. 
Ii piiests are grieved I have a grave, 

My death not well approving. 
The poets my estate shall have, 

To teach Ihem the art of loving. 

io6 Lyra EJegantiarum. 

And now let lovers ring their bells 

For me, poor youth departed, 
Who kindly in his love excels, 

By dying broken-hearted. 
My grave with flowers let lovers strow, 

Which, if thy tears fall near them, 
May so transcend in scent and show, 

As thou wilt shortly wear them. 
Such flowers how much will florists prize, 

On lover's grave that growing, 
Are water'd by his mistress' eyes. 

With pity overflowing. 
A grave so deck'd will, tho' thou art 

Yet fearful to come nigh me, 
Provoke thee straiglit to break thy heart, 

And lie down boldly by me. 
Then everywhere all bells shall ring, 

All li;_;ht to darkness turning ; 
While every choir shall sadly sing, 

And Nature's self wear mourning. 
Yet we hereafter may be found, 

By destiny's right placing, 
Making, like flowers, love underground. 

Where roots are still embracing. 

Sir William Davenant, 



Dear little, pretty, favourite ore, 
That once increased Gloriana's store ; 
That lay within her bosom blest, 
Gods might have envied thee thy rest ! 
I've read, imperial Jove of old 
For love transform'd himself to gold : 
And why for a more lovely lass 
May he not now have lurk'd in brass ? 
O, rather than from her he'd part 
He'd shut that charitable heart. 
That heart whose goodness nothing less 
Than his vast power could dispossess. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 107 

From Gloriana's gentle touch 
Thy mighty vahie now is such, 
That thou to me art worth alone 
JNIore than his medals are to Sloanc. 

Ilcitjy Fielding. 

I LATELY vow'd, but 'twas in haste, 

That I no more would court 
The joys tliat seem when they are past 

As dull as they are short. 

I oft to hate my mistress swear, 

But soon my weakness find ; 
I make my oaths when she's severe, 

But break them when she's kind. 

yokn Oldiitijcoii. 



This picture placed these busts between. 

Gives satire its full strength ; 
Wisdom and wit are little seen, 

But folly at full length. 

Mrs. Jane Brereton. 



Immortal Newton never spoke 

More truth than here you'll find ; 
Nor Pope himself ere penn'd a joke, 

Severer on mankind. 

Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield. 

loS Lyra Elegantiariim. 



Asses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before, 

Then sleep for an hour or two, and no more. 

At nine stretch your arms, and oh ! think when alone 

There's no jjleasure in bed. — Mary, bring me my gown . 

Slip on that ere you rise ; let your caution be such ; 

Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much : 

Your pinners set right, your twitcher tied on. 

Your prayers at an end, and )'our breakfast quite done, 

Retire to some author improving and gay. 

And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day. 

At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the year, 

The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear: 

But mark in the meadows the ruin of time ; 

Take the hint, and let life be improved in its prime. 

Return not in haste, nor of dressing take heed ; 

For beauty, like yours, no assistance can need. 

With an appetite thus down to dinner you sit. 

Where the chief of the feast is the flow of your wit : 

Let this be indulged, and let laughter go round ; 

As it pleases your mind to your health 'twill redound. 

After dinner two glasses at least, I approve; 

Name the first to the King, and the last to your love: 

Thus cheerful, with wisdom, with innocence, gay. 

And calm with your joys, gently glide through the day. 

The dews of the evening most carefully shun ; 

Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun. 

Then in chat, or at play, with a dance, or a song, 

Let the night, like the day, pass with pleasure along. 

All cares, but of love, banish far from your mind ; 

And those you may end, when you please to be kind. 

Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterjidd. 


Old Isi.ay, to show his fine delicate taste, 

Li improving his garden purloin'd from the waste ; 

Lyra Eleganfiai'iim. 109 

Bade liis gard'iier one morning lay open his views, 

Ky cutting a couple of grand avenues. 

No particular prospect his I-ordship intended, 

But left it to chance how his walks should be ended, 

^^'ith transport and joy he perceiv'd his first view end 

In a favourite prospect — a church that was ruin'd ; 

But alas ! what a sight did the next cut exhibit, 

At the end of the walk hung a rogue on a gibbet ! 

He beheld it and wept, for it caused him to muse on 

Full many a Campbell that died with his shoes on. 

All amazed and aghast at the ominous scene. 

He ordered it quick to be closed up again, 

With a clump of Scotch fir trees by way of a screen. 

Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield. 


" TiiEX, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat, 
And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under my hat, 
Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark, 
And, foUow'd by John, take the dust in High Park. 
In the way I am met by some smart macaroni, 
Who rides by my side on a little bay pony — 
No sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide, 
But as taper and slim as the ponies they ride ; 
Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider. 
Dear sweet little creatures, both jiony and rider ! 

" But sometimes, when hotter, I order my chaise. 
And manage, myself, my two little greys : 
Sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies. 
Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies. 
And to give them this title I'm sure isn't wrong. 
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long. 

" In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down. 
You know was the fashion before you left town. 
The thing's well enough, when allowance is made 
For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade, 
But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords 
To those noisy impertinent creatures call'd birds, 
Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene. 
Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen. 

lo Lyra Elegantiarum. 

" Yet, though 'tis too rural — to come near the mark, 
We all herd in one walk, and that, nearest the park, 
There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket, 
The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and — footmen at criclcet. 
I must though, in justice, declare that the grass, 
Whicli, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace. 
In a little time more will be brown and as flat 
As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat. 
Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees 
We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees, 
Witlr a small pretty band in each seat of the walk. 
To play little tunes and enliven our talk." 

Thomas Tickell 

Last Sunday at St. James's prayers. 

The prince and princess by, 
I, drest in all my whale-bone airs. 

Sat in a closet nigh. 
I bow'd my knees, I held my book, 

Read all the answers o'er ; 
But was perverted by a look, 

Which pierced me from the door. 
High thoughts of Heaven I came to use. 

With the devoutest care ; 
Which gay young Strephon made me lose, 

And all the raptures there. 
He stood to hand me to my chair. 

And l)ow'd with courtly grace ; 
But whisper'd love into my ear, 

Too warm for that grave place. 
" Love, love," said he, "by all adored. 

My tender heart has won." 
But I grew peevish at the word, 

And bade he would be gone. 
He went quite out of sight, while I 

A kinder answer meant ; 
Nor did I for my sins that day 

By half so much repent. 


Lyra Elegantiarum. 1 1 



Of old, when Scanon his companions invited, 
Each guest biouglit his disli, and the feast was united ; 
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish. 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings a good dish : 
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour; 
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour : 
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain : 
Our Garrick a salad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb ; 
That Rickey's a capon ; and, by the same nde, 
"Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool. 

At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able. 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, 
Let me ponder, and tell what I ttiink of the dead. 

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth. 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth 
If he had any faults, he has left xis in doubt. 
At least in six weeks I could not find them out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them, 
That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them. 

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. 
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for tlie universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind : 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend hini a vote : 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. 
And thought of convincing, while lliey thought of dining ; 
Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge disobedient ; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 

12 Lyra Elegantiaruin. 

In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in pla;e, Sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
Would you ask for his merits ? alas, he had none : 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own 

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at, 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his, what wit and what whim. 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball. 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd Irim full ten times a day at Old Nick , 
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wisli'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of liearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ouglit to be, not what they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. 
And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has Our poet this malady caught ? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few. 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks. 
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines 
When satire and censure encircled liis throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own : 

Lyra Elegantianim. t\ 

But now he is gone, and we want a detectoi, 

Our Dodds sliall be pious, our Kenricks sliall lecture ; 

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; 

Our Townshcnd make speeches, and I shall compile ; 

New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, • 

No countryman living their tricks to discover : 

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 

And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. 

Here lies David Ganick, describe him who can ? 
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man; 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 
Vet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art ; 
Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting : 
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting ; 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 
Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind : 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and W^oodfalls so grave, 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
When he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies ! 
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

Here Ilickcy reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature. 
And Slander itself must allow him good-nature : 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper : 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 


1 14 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 

I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser. 

Too courteous, perhaps, or obhgingly flat? 

His veiy worst foe can't accuse him of that. 

Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 

And so was too foohshly honest ? Ah no ! 

Then what was his failing? Come, tell it, and Ijurn ye, — 

Pie was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind : 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand : 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 
Still born to improve us in every part. 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. 
When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing ; 
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

CuiME, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear, 
In your holiday suits, with your lasses appear ; 
The happiest of folk, are the guiltless and free, 
And who are so guiltless, so happy, as we ? 

We harbour no passions, by luxury taught. 

We practise no arts, with hypocrisy fraught ; 

What we think in our hearts, you may read in our eyes ; 

For knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise. 

By mode and caprice are the city dames led. 

But we, as the children of nature are bred ; 

By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd, 

For the roses will bloom when there's peace in the breast. 

That giant. Ambition, we never can dread ; 
Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head ; 
Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door. 
They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor. 

When love has possess'd iis, that love we reveal : 
Like tlie flocks that we feed are the passions we feel ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 115 

So harmless and simple we sport, and we play, 
And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray. 

David Garrick. 

\'E fair married dames, who so often deplore 
That a lover once blest is a lover no more ; 
Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught 
Tliat prudence must cherish what beauty has caught. 

The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of your eye, 
Your roses and lilies may make the men sigh ; 
But roses and lilies, and sighs pass away. 
And passion will die as your beauties decay. 

Use the man that you wed like your fav'rite guitar, 
Though music in both, they are both apt to jar ; 
How tuneful and soft from a delicate touch, — 
Not handled too roughly, or play'd on too much ! 

The sparrow and linnet will feed from your hand. 
Grow tame at your kindness, and come at command ; 
Exert with your husband the same happy skill ; 
For hearts, like young birds, may be tamed at your will. 

Be gay and good-humoured, complying and kind, 
Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind 
'Tis thus that a wife may her conquests improve, 
And Plymen shall rivet the fetters of Love. 

David Garrick. 

Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes 

My heart your own declare ; 
But for love's sake let it suffice 

You reign triumphant there. 

Forbear your utmost power to try. 

Nor further urge your sway ; 
Press not for what I must deny, 

For fear I should obey. 

1 1 6 Lyra Elcgantiarum. 

Could all your arts successful provCj 
Would you a maid undo, 

Whose greatest failing is her love, 
And that her love for you ? 

Say, would you use that very power 
You from her fondness claim, 

To ruin in one fatal hour 
A life of spotless fame ? 

Resolve not then to do an ill. 
Because perhaps you may ; 

But rather use your utmost skill 
To save me, than betray. 

Be you yourself my virtue's guard ; 

Defend, and not pursue ; 
Since 'tis a task for me too hard 

To strive with love and you. 

Soame Jeiiyns, 


Thanks, my Lord, for your venison — for finer or fatter 

Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter : 

The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 

The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting. 

To spoil such n delicate picture by eating : 

I had thought, in my chambers, to place it in view, 

To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu — 

As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, 

One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 

But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 

Tliey'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in. 

But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce 

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ; 

Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 

By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 

But, my Lord, it's no bounce — I protest in my turn, 
It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. 

Lyra Elegantiarinn. 1 1 7 

To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the haunch 

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch — 

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 

To paint it, or cat it, just as he liked best. 

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 

'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's : 

But in parting with these, I was puzzled again, 

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the A\heii. 

There's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and H — fif, 

I think they love venison — I know they love beef ; 

There's my countryman Higgins O, let him alone, 

P'or making a blunder, or picking a bone. 

But hang it — to poets, who seldom can eat. 

Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt — 

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd. 

An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entcr'd : 

An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he. 

And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. 

" What have we got here ? — why this is good eating ! 

Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? " 

" Why, whose should it be? " cried I, with a flounce ; 

"I get these things often ; " — but that was a bounce : 

" Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 

Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation." 

" If that be the case then," cried he, veiy gay, 

" I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 

To-morrow you'll take a poor dinner with me ; 

No words — I insist on't — precisely at three : 

We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there ; 

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare, 

And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 

We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. 

What say you — a pasty — it shall and it must ; 

And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 

Here, porter, this venison with me to Mile-End ; 

No stirring, I beg— my dear friend — my dear friend ! " 

Thus snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind. 

And the porter and eatables followed behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
And " nobody with me at sea but myself; " 
Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty. 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 

1 1 8 Ly7-a Elegatitiarum. 

Were things that I never disHked in my life, 
Tho' clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife : 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
(A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine) 
My friend bade me welcome, but strack me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
" For I knew it," he cried, " both eternally fail, 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; 
But no mattei", I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty ; 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew — 
They both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge." 
While thus he described them by trade and by name, 
They entered, and dinner was served as they came. 

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen. 
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound. 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round ; 
But what vex'd me most, was that hang'd Scottish rogue. 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue. 
And " madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, 
But I've ate of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst." 
"The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
" I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 
But your friend there the Doctor eats nothing at all." 
" 0-oh," quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice, 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 
There's a pasty" — " a pasty ! " repeated the Jew ; 
" I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." 
" What the de'il, mon, a pasty," re-echo'd the Scot ; 
" Though splitting, I'll still keep a comer for that." 
" We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out ; 
" We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. iig 

While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 

With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ! 

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 

Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night ! 

]!ut we quiclcly found out — for who could mistake her — 

That she came with some terrible news from the baker ; 

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven 

Had shut out the pasty on shuttmg his oven ! 

Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 

And, now that I tiiink on't, the story may stop. 

To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced, 

To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 

You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning — 

A relish— a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 

At least it's your temper, as very well known. 

That you think very slightly of all that's your own : 

So, perhaps, in your habit of thinking amiss, 

\'ou may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 

Oliver Goldsniilh. 

I LATELY thought no man alive 
Could e'er improve past forty-five. 

And ventured to assert it. 
The observation was not new, 
I'ut seemed to me so just and true 

That none could controvert it. 

" No, sir," said Johnson, " 'tis not so ; 
'Tis your mistake, and I can show 

An instance, if you doubt it. 
You, who perhaps are forty-eight, 
May still improve, 'tis not too late ; 

I wish you'd set about it." 

Encouraged thus to mend my faults, 
I tum'd his counsel in my thoughts 

Which way I could apply it ; 
Genius I knew was past my reach, 
For who can leam what none can teach ? 

And wit — I could not buy it. 

Lyra Elcgantiaruiii. 

Then come, my friends, and try your skill ; 
You may improve me if you \\ ill, 

(My books are at a distance) : 
With you I'll live and learn, and then 
Instead of books I shall read men, 

So lend me your assistance. 

Dear Knight of Plympton, teach mc how 
To suffer with unclouded brow, 

And smile serene as thine, 
The jest uncouth and truth severe ; 
Like thee to turn my deafest ear. 

And calmly drink my wine. 

Thou say'st not only skill is gain'd. 
But genius, too, may be attain'd. 

By studious imitation ; 
Thy temper mild, thy genius fine, 
I'll study till I make them mine 

By constant meditation. 

The art of pleasing teach me, Garrick, 
Thou who reversest odes Pindarick 

A second time i"ead o'er ; 
O could we read thee backwards too, 
Last thirty years thou shouldst review, 

And charm us thirty more. 

If I have thoughts and can't express 'em, 
Gibbon shall teach me how to dress 'em 

In terms select and terse ; 
Jones, teach me modesty and Greek ; 
Smith, how to think ; Burke, how to speak 

And Beauclerk, to converse. 

Let Johnson teach me how to place 
In fairest light each borrow'd grace, 

From him I'll learn to write : 
Copy his free and easy style, 
And from the roughness of his file 

Grow, like himself, polite. 

Dr. Barnard, of Killal 

L\Ta Eles;autiaruin. 

When Molly smiles beneath her co\t, 
I feel my heart — I can't tell how; 
When Molly is on Sunday drest, 
On Sundays I can take no rest. 

What can I do? on worky days 
I leave my work on her to gaze. 
What shall I say? At sermons, I 
Forget the text when Molly's by. 

Good master curate, teach me how 

To mind your preacliing, and my plougli : 

And if for this you'll raise a spell, 

A good fat goose shall thank you well. 




Did ever swain a nymph adore, 

As I ungrateful Nanny do? 
Was ever shepherd's heart so sore, 

Or ever broken heart so tnie? 
My cheeks are swell'd with tears, but she 
lias never wet a cheek for me. 

If Nanny call'd, did e'er I stay? 

Or linger, when she bid me run? 
She only had the word to say, 

And all she wisli'd was quickly done. 
I always think of her, but she 
Does ne'er bestow a thought on me. 

To let her cows my clover taste, 
Have I not rose by break of day? 

Did ever Nanny's heifers fast. 
If Robin in his barn had hay? 

Though to my fields tliey welcome were, 

1 ne'er was welcome yet to her. 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 

If ever Nanny lost a sheep, 

Then cheerfully I gave her two ; 

And I her lambs did safely keep, 
Within my folds, in frost and snow. 

Have they not there from cold been free? 

But Nanny still is cold to me. 

When Nanny to the well did come, 
'Twas I that did her pitchers fill ; 

Full as they were, I brought them home : 
Her com I carried to the mill. 

]\Iy back did bear the sack, but she 

Will never bear the sight of me. 

To Nanny's poultr}' oats I gave, 
I'm sure they always had the best : 

Within this week her pigeons have 
Ate up a peck of pease, at least : 

Her little pigeons kiss, but she 

Will never take a kiss from me. 

Must Robin always Nanny woo, 
And Nanny still on Robin frown? 

Alas, poor wretch ! what shall I do. 
If Nanny does not love me soon ? 

If no relief to me she'll bring, 

I'll hang me in her apron-string. 



Happy and free, securely blest, 

No beauty could disturb my rest ; 

My amorous heart was in despair 

To find a new victorious fair. 

Till you, descending on our plains, 

With foreign force renew my chains ; 

Where now you reign without control. 

The mighty sovereign of my soul. 

Your smiles have more of conquering charms 

'I'han all your native country's arms : 

Their troops we can e.\'pel with ease, 

Who vanquish only when we please. 

Lyra Ek^^antianiin. 123 

But in your eyes, O ! there's the spell ! 
Who can see them, and not rebel ? 
You make us captives by your stay, 
Yet kill us if you go away. 

John Dryden. 

" Ye little nymphs that hourly wait 
To bring from Celia's eyes my fate, 
Tell her my pain in softest sighs, 
And gently whisper Strephon dies. 

" But if this won't her pity move. 
And the coy nymph disdains to love, 
Tell her, instead, 'tis all a lie, 
And haughty Strephon scorns to die." 



With leaden foot Time creeps along, 

While Delia is away, 
With her, nor plaintive was the song. 

Nor tedious was the day. 

Ah ! envious power ! reverse my doom. 

Now double thy career ; 
Strain every nerve, stretch every plume. 

And rest them when she's here. 

Richard Jcii^o. 



To thee, fair Freedom! I retire, 

From flattery, feasting, dice and din ; 

Nor art thou found in domes much higher 
Than the lone cot or humble Inn. 

'Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
And every health which I begin. 

Converts dull port to bright champagne; 
For Freedom crowns it, at an Inn. 

124 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
I fly from falsehood's specious grin ; 

Freedom I love, and form I hate. 
And choose my lodgings at an Inn. 

Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 

Which lacqueys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what Courts have not in store, 
It buys me Freedom, at an Inn. 

And now once more I shape my way 

Through rain or shine, through thick or tliin, 

Secure to meet, at close of day, 
With kind reception at an Inn. 

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, 
Where'er his stages may have been. 

May sigh to think how oft he found 
The warmest welcome — at an Inn. 

William Shenstone. 

As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass'd, 
A swain overtook me, and held my hand fast ; 
Then cried, my dear Lucy, thou cause of my care, 
How long must thy faithful young Thyrsis despair? 
To grant my petition, no longer be shy; 
But frowning, I answer'd, " O, fie, shepherd, fie." 

He told me his fondness like time should endure. 
That beauty which kindled his flame 'twould secure ; 
That all my sweet charms were for homage design'd. 
And youth was the season to love and be kind : 
Lord, what could I say? I could hardly deny, 
And faintly I uttered, " O, fie, shepherd, fie." 

He swore — with a kiss, that he could not refrain, 
I told him 'twas rude, — but he kiss'd me again ; 
My conduct, ye fair ones, in question ne'er call, 
Nor think I did wrong, — I did nothing at all! 
Resolved to resist, yet inclined to comply, 
I leave it for you to say, " Fie, shepherd, fie." 


Lyra Elegantiarum. 125 


Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight ; 
He's ever unhappy when I'm from his sight : 
He wants to be with me wherever I go ; 
The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so. 

His pleasure all day is to sit jjy my side ; 
He pipes and he sings, though I fro^vll and I chide ; 
I bid him depart : but he smiling, says " No." 
The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so. 

He often requests me his flame to relieve ; 
I ask him what favour he hopes to receive : 
His answer's a sigh, while in blushes I glow ; 
What mortal, beside him, would plague a maid so ? 

This breast-knot he yesterday brouglit from the wake, 
And softly entreated I'd wear't for his sake, 
Such trifles are easy enough to bestow : 
I sure deserve more for his plaguing me so ! 

He hands me each eve from the cot to the plain, 
And meets me each morn to conduct me again ; 
But what's his intention I wish I could know. 
For I'd rather l)c married than plagued by him so. 


Were I a king, I could command content ; 

Were I obscure, hidden should be my cares ; 

Or were I dead, no cares should me torment, 

Nor hopes, nor hates, nor loves, nor griefs, nor fears. 

A doubtful choice, — of these three which to crave, 

A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave. 

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. 

126 Lyra Elegantiaiitm. 


I SENT for Ratcliffe ; was so ill, 
That other doctors gave me over : 

He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, 
And I was likely to recover. 

But when the wit began to wheeze. 
And wine had warm'd the politician, 

Cured yesterday of my disease, 
I died last night of my physician. 

Matthew Prior. 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sydney's sister — Pembroke's mother — 
Death, ere thou hast slain another, 
Fair and v/ise and good as she. 
Time shall throw his dart at thee. 

Ben Joiison. 


Or verse, I covet none ; 
But only crave 
Of you that I may have 
A sacred laurel springing from my grave, 
Which being seen 
Blest with perpetual gi'een. 

May grow to be 
Not so much call'd a tree. 
As the eternal monument of me. 

Robert Herrick. 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 127 


As gilly-flowers do but stay 

To blow, and seed, and so away, 

So you, sweet lady, sweet as May, 

The garden's glory, lived awhile. 

To lend the world your scent and smile : 

But when your own fair print was set 

Once in a virgin flosculet, 

Sweet as yourself, and newly blown. 

To give that life, resign'd your own ; 

But so, as still the mother's powxr 

Lives in the pretty lady-flower. 

Robert Ilcrrkk. 


He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried 
To live without him, liked it not, and died. 
Sir Hettry JVoifoii. 



As doctors give physic by way of prevention, 

Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ; 

P"or delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
May haply be never fulfill'd by his lieir. 

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; 

That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; 
• Yet credit but lightly what more may be said. 
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. 

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, 

His virtues and vices were as other men's are ; 

High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, 
In a life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care. 

128 Lyra Elegantia7-Mm . 

Nor to business a dradge, nor to faction a slave, 
He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; 

In public employments industrious and grave, 

And alone with his friends. Lord ! how merry was he. 

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot. 

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust ; 

x\nd whirl'd in the round as the wheel turn'd about, 

He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust 

This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere, 

Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; 
It says that his relics collected lie here. 

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. 

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway. 
So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found ; 

False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, 
So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd. 

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air. 

To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; 

And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear. 
He cares not — yet, pithee, be kind to his fame. 

Matthezo Prior. 



Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,- 
Not forced him wander, but confined him home. 

Jolm Cleveland. 


Heroes and kings ! your distance keep. 
In peace let one poor poet sleep, 
Who never flatter'd folks like you : 
Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. 

Alexander Pope. 

Lyra Elegant lariim. 129 



Fair marble tell to future days 

That here two virgin-sisters lie, 
Whose life employ'd each tongue in praise, 

Whose death gave tears to every eye. 
In stature, beauty, years and fame, 

Together as they grew, they shone ; 
So much alike, so much the same, 

That death mistook them both for one. 

Sxipposcd to he after Ronsard. 

Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 
Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid : 
Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine 
With blushing roses and the clustering vine ; 
Thus will thy lasting leaves, ^vitll beauties hung, 
Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung; 
Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit 
Among the Muses and the Graces writ. 


Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught, 
And spent my little life without a thought ; 
And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim, 
Should think of me, who never thought of him. 

After the A hbe Regnier. 


My little Ben, since thou art young, 
And hast not yet the use of tongue. 
Make it thy slave while thou art free ; 
It prison, lest it prison thee. 

John Hoshins. 

Lyra Elegantiarmn. 


On parent's knees, a naked new-born child, 
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled ; 
So live, that sinking in thy long last sleep, 
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep. 

Sir William yones. 



Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, 

Must we no longer live together ? 
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, 

To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ? 

Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly 

Lie all neglected, all forgot : 
And pensive, wavering, melancholy. 

Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what. 

Mattheit) Prior. 


He that will win his dame must do 
As Love does \\hen he bends his bow : 
With one hand thrust the lady from, 
And with the other pull her home. 

Samuel Butler, 

My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled, 
Sat up together many a night, no doubt : 

But now I've sent the poor old lass to bed, 
Simply because my fire is going out. 

George Colmatt, the Youitger, 

Lyra Elegantiartim. 131 

To fix her, — 'twere a task as vain 
To count the April drops of rain. 
To sow in Afric's barren soil, — 
Or tempests hold withhi a toil. 

I know it, friend, she's light as air, 
False as the fowler's artful snare, 
Inconstant as the passing wind. 
As winter's dreary frost unkind. 

She's such a miser, too, in love, 
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove ; 
Though hundreds of gallants await 
From her victorious eyes their fate. 

Blushing at such inglorious reign, 
I sometimes strive to break my chain ; 
My reason summon to my aid, 
Resolve no more to be betray'd. 

Ah, friend ! 'tis but a short-lived trance, 
Dispell'd by one enchanting glance ; 
She need but look, and I confess 
Those looks completely curse or bless. 

So soft, so elegant, so fair. 

Sure something mors than human's there : 

I must submit, for strife is vain, 

'Twas destiny that forged the chain. 

Tobias Stnollett. 



The silver moon's enamour'd beam, 

Steals softly thro' the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream. 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state go balmy sleep, 

('Tis where you've seldom been). 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen. 

132 Lyra Elegantiariim. 

Upon the gi-een the virgins wait, 

In rosy chaplets gay, 
Till morn unbar her golden gate. 

And give the promised May. 
Methinks I hear the maids declare, 

The promised May, when seen, 
Not half so fragrant, half so fair, 

As Kate of Aberdeen. 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes. 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats. 

And hail the maid of love : 
And see — the matin lark mistakes, 

He quits the tufted green : 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, — 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead. 

Where midnight fairies rove. 
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh, 

She claims a virgin Queen ; 
And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 

yohn Cunningham. 



These springs were maidens once that loved : 
But lost to that they most approved : 
My story tells, by Love they were 
Turn'd to these springs which we see here : 
The pretty whimperings that they make. 
When of the banks their leaves they take. 
Tell ye but this, they are the same, 
In nothing changed but in their nam.e. 

Robert Ilerrick. 

Lyra Elegantiariiin. 133 


Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain 
To a lovely young shepherdess crossing the plain ; 
Why so much in haste ? — now the month it was May — 
May I venture to ask you, fair maiden, which way ? 
Then straight to this question the nymph did reply, 
With a blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye, 
I came from the village, and homeward I go, 
And now, gentle shepherd, pray why would you know ? 

I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss, 

If I tell you my reason for asking you this ; 

I would see you safe home — (now the swain was in love !) 

Of such a companion if you would approve. 

Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own, 

But I see no great danger in going alone j 

Nor yet can 1 hinder, the road being free 

For one as another, for you as for me. 

No danger in going alone, it is true. 
But yet a companion is pleasanter too ; 
And if you could like (now the swain he took heart) 
.Such a sweetheart as me, why we never would part. 
Q that's a long word, said the shepherdess then, 
I've often heard say there's no minding you men. 
You'll say and unsay, and you'll flatter, 'tis true ! 
Then to leave a young maiden's the first thing you do. 

O judge not so harshly, the shepherd replied, 
To prove what I say 1 will make you my bride. 
To-morrow the parson (well said, little swain !) 
.Shall join both our hands, and make one of us twain. 
Then what the nymph answer'd to this isn't said. 
The very ne.\t morn, to be sure, they were wed. 
Sing hey-diddle, — ho-diddle, — hey-diddle-down — 
Now when shall we see such a wedding in town ? 


134 Lyra Elcgantiarum. 


While at the helm of State you ride, 
Our nation's envy, and its pride ; 
While foreign Courts with wonder gaze, 
And curse those counsels that they praise ; 
Would you not wonder, sir, to view 
Your bard a greater man than you ? 
Which that he is, you cannot doubt. 
When you have read the sequel out. 

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows. 
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us. 
No great analog)^ between 
Greatness and happiness is seen. 
If then, as it might follow straight, 
Wretched to be, is to be great ; 
Forbid it, gods, that you should try 
What 'tis to be so great as 1 1 

The family that dines the latest 
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest ; 
But latest hours must surely fall 
'Fore him who never dines at all. 
Your taste in architect, you know. 
Hath been admired by friend and foe ; 
But can your earthly domes compare 
With all my castles — in the air ? 
We're often taught, it doth behove us 
To think those greater who're above us ; 
Another instance of my glory. 
Who live above you, twice two story ; 
And from my garret can look down 
On the whole street of Arlington. 

Greatness by poets still is painted 
With many followers acquainted : 
This, too, doth in my favour speak ; 
Your levee is but twice a week ; 
From mine I can exclude but one day. 
My door is quiet on a Sunday. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. i35 

Nor in the manner of attendance, 

Doth your great bard claim less ascendance, 

Familiar you to admiration 

May be approached by all the nation ; 

Wliile I, like the Mogul in Indo, 

Am never seen but at my window. 

If with my greatness you're offended, 

The fault is easily amended ; 

For I'll come down, with wondrous ease. 

Into whatever //dfiTif you please. 

I'm not ambitious ; little matters 

Will serve us great, but humble creatures. 

Suppose a secretary o' this isle. 
Just to be doing with a while ; 
Admiral, general, judge, or bishop : 
Or I can foreign treaties dish up. 
If the good genius of the nation 
Should call me to negotiation, 
Tuscan and French are in my head, 
Latin I write, and Greek — I read. 
If you should ask, what pleases best? 
To get the most, and do the least ; 
What fittest for? — you know, I'm sure, 
I'm fittest for — a sinecure. 

Henry Fielding. 



Great Sir, as on each levee day 
I still attend you— still you say — 
I'm busy now, to-morrow come ; 
To-morrow, sir, you're not at home ; 
So says your porter, and dare I 
Give such a man as him the lie ? 

In imitation, sir, of you, 

I keep a mighty levee too : 

Where my attendants, to their sorrow, 

Are bid to come again to-morrow. 

To-morrow they return, no doubt. 

But then, like you, sir, I'm gone out. 

136 Ly7-a Eleganiiariim. 

So says my maid ; but they less civil 

Give maid and master to the devil; 

And then with menaces depart, 

Which could you hear would pierce your heart. 

Good sir, do make my levee fly me, 

Or lend your porter to deny me. 

Henry Fielding. 


On the brow of a hill a young Shepherdess dwelt, 
Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt : 
For a few sober maxims still ran in her head 
That t'was better to earn, ere she ate her brown bread ; 
That to rise with the lark was conducive to health. 
And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth. 

Now young Roger, who lived in the valley below. 
Who at church and at market was reckoned a beati. 
Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, 
And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale : 
With his winning behaviour he melted her heart ; 
For quite artless herself, she suspected no art. 

He had siglr'd and protested, — had knelt and implored, 
He could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord : 
Then her eyes he commended in language well drest, 
And enlarged on the torments that troubled his breast; 
Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind, 
That in downright compassion to love she inclined. 

But as soon as he'd melted the ice of her breast, 
All the flames of his love in a moment had ceas'd, 
And now he goes flaunting all over the dell. 
And boasts of his conquest to Susan and Nell : 
Tho' he sees her but seldom, he's always in haste. 
And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest. 

All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her head, 

And her thoughts are so pestered, she scoixe earns her bread ; 

The whole village cries shame when a milking she goes, 

That so little affection slie shows to tlie cows: 

But she heeds not their railing, — e'en let tliem rail on. 

And a fig for the cows, now her sweetheart is gone ! 

Lyra Elegaiitiantm. I37 

Take hcotl pretty virgins of Britain's fair Isle 

How you venture your hearts for a look or a smile, 

For Cupid is artful, and virgins are frail, 

And you'll find a false Roger in eveiy vale. 

Who to court you and tempt you will try all his skill : 

So remember the lass at the brow of the hill. 

Miss Mary Joins. 


Such were the lively eyes and rosy hue 
Of Robin's face, when Robin first I knew, 
The gay companion and the favourite guest, 
Loved without awe, and without views caress'd. 
His cheerful smile and open honest look 
Added new graces to the truth he spoke. 
Then every man found something to commend. 
The pleasant neighbour, and the worthy friend : 
The generous master of a private house, 
The tender father, and indulgent spouse. 

The hardest censors at the worst believed, 
His temper was too easily deceived 
(A consequential ill goodnature draws, 
A bad effect, but from a noble cause). 
Whence then these clamours of a judging crowd, 
" Suspicious, griping, insolent, and proud — 
Rapacious, cruel, violent, and unjust ; 
False to his friend, and traitor to his trust." 

Lady Mary IV. Montagu. 



I HATE the town, and all its ways ; 
Ridottos, operas, and plays; 
The ball, the ring, the mall, the Court, 
Wherever the bean mondc resort ; 

138 Lyra Elegantiariim. 

Where beauties lie in ambush for folks, 
Earl Straffords and the Dukes of Norfolks; 
All coffee-houses, and their praters. 
All courts of justice and debaters; 
x\ll taverns, and the sots within 'em ; 
All bubbles, and the rogues that skin 'em. 
I hate all critics ; may they bum all, 
From Bentley to the Grub-street Journal ; 
All bards, as Dennis hates a pun ; 
Those who have mt, and who have none. 
All nobles of whatever station ; 
And all the parsons in the nation. 
I hate the world crammed altogether. 
From beggars, up, the Lord knows whither! 
Ask you then, Celia, if there be 
The thing I love ? My charmer, thee. 
Thee more than light, than life adore. 
Thou dearest, sweetest creature, more 
Than wildest raptures can express. 
Than I can tell, or thou canst guess. 
Then tho' I bear a gentle mind. 
Let not my hatred of mankind 
Wonder within my Celia move. 
Since she possesses all I love. 

Henry Fielding. 


Hail ! pretty emblem of my fate ! 
Sweet flower, you still on Phoebus wait ; 
On him you look, and with him move, 
By nature led, and constant love. 

Know, pretty flower, that I am he, 
Who am in all so like to thee ; 
I, too, my fair one court, and where 
She moves, my eyes I thither steer. 

But, yet this difference still I find, 
The sun to you is always kind ; 
Does always life and warmth bestow ; — 
Ah ! would my fair one use me so ! 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 139 

Ne'er would I wait till she arose 
From her soft bed and sweet repose ; 
But, leaving thee, dull plant, by night 
I'd meet my Phillis with delight. 

Robert Walpole, Earl of Orford. 


While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, 

And in one day atone for the business of six. 

In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night. 

On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my riglit ; 

No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move, 

That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love. 

For her neither visits nor parties at tea. 

Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee. 

This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine. 

To good or ill fortune the third we resign. 

Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate, 

I drive in my car in professional state. 

So with Phia thro' Athens Pisistratus rode ; 

Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. 

But why should I stories of Athens rehearse 

Where people knew love, and were partial to verse, 

Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose 

In Holland h-.ilf-drownfed in interest and prose? 

By Greece and past ages what need I be tried 

When The Hague and the present are both on my side ; 

And is it enough for the joys of the day 

To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say ? 

When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow. 

As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow. 

That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is 

So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretaris. 

[[ague, 1696. Matt/trdj Prior. 

140 Lyra Elegantiariim. 



WiiKRE the loveliest expression to features is join'd, 

By Nature's most delicate pencil design'd ; 

Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art, 

Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the heart; 

Where in manners, enchanting, no blemish we trace ; 

But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face; 

Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove 

Defences unequal to shield us from love : 

Then tell me, mysterious Enchanter, O tell ! 

By what wonderful art, by what magical spell, 

]\ly heart is so fenced that for once I am wise, 

And gaze without rapture on Amoret's eyes ; 

That my wishes, which never were bounded before, 

Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no more? 

Is it reason ? No, that my whole life will belie, 

For who so at variance as reason and I? 

Ambition, that fills up each chink of my heart. 

Nor allows any softer sensation a part ? 

O, no ! for in this all the world must agree. 

One folly was never sufficient for me. 

Is my mind on distress too intensely employ'd, 

Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety cloy'd ? 

For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain 

Both slacken the springs of those nerves which they strain. 

That I've felt each reverse that from Fortune can flow, 

That I've tasted each bliss that the happiest know, 

Has still been the whimsical fate of my life. 

Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife : 

But, tho' versed in extremes both of pleasure and pain, 

I am still but too ready to feel them again. 

If, then, for this once in my life, I am free. 

And escape from the snares that catch wiser than me ; 

'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms ; 

For though brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that warms; 

As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze. 

But feel not their warmth, tlio' their splendour we praise, 

So beauty our just admiration may claim. 

But love, and love only, the heart can inflame ! 

Rt. Honhlc. Charles James Fox. 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 141 


Oft you have ask'd mc, Granville, why 

Of late I heave the frequent sigh? 

Why, moping, melancholy, low, 

From supper, commons, wine, I go ? 

Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd ; 

By day no peace, by night no rest ? 

Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew 

A tale so tender, and so true — 

Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain. 

My pen with freedom shall explain. 

Say, Granville, do you not remember, 
About the middle of November, 
When Blenheim's hospitable lord 
Received us at his cheerful board ; 
How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled. 
Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild ? 
And mark'd you not, how many a glance 
Across the table, shot by chance 
From fair Eliza's graceful form, 
Assail'd and took my heart by storm? 
And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal, 
I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal ? 
And how, when conversation's charms 
Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms. 
My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder, 
When talking to her at the ivbider? 
These facts premised, you can't but guess 
The cause of my uneasiness. 
For yon have heard, as well as I, 
That she'll be married speedily; 
And then — my grief more plain to tell — 
Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes, — farewell ! 
But still, tho' false the fleeting dream. 
Indulge awhile the tender theme, 
And liear, had fortune yet been kind, 
How bright the prospect of the mind. 
O ! had I had it in my power 
To wed her — with a suited dower — 

142 Lyra Eleganfianiiii. 

And proudly bear the beauteous maid 

To Saltrum's venerable shade, — 

Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, 

Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em, — 

Then had I tasted bliss sincere, 

And happy been from year to year. 

How changed this scene ! for now, my Granville, 

Another match is on the anvil. 

And I, a widow'd dove, complain, 

And feel no refuge from my pain — 

Save that of pitying Spencer's sister, 

Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister. 

The Rt. Honble. George Canning. 

'Tis late, and I must haste away, 

My usual hour of rest is near — 
And do you press me, youths, to stay — 

To stay and revel longer here ? 

Then give me back the scorn of care 
Which spirits light in health allow. 

And give me back the dark brown hair 
Which curl'd upon my even brow. 

And give me back the sportive jest 

Which once could midnight hours beguile ; 

The life that bounded in my breast. 
And joyous youth's becoming smile : 

And give me back the fervid soul 

Which love inflamed with strange delight, 

When erst I sorrow'd o'er the bowl 
At Chloe's coy and wanton flight. 

'Tis late, and I must haste away. 

My usual hour of rest is near — 
But give me these, and I will stay — 

Will stay till noon, and revel here ! 

PVil/iam Lamd, Viscowit Melbojtme, 

Lyra Elegaittiarum. 143 



Great Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er, 
The Tories trust your word no more, 

The Whigs no longer fear you ; 
Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd, 
No crowd of coaches fills your yard, 

And scarce a soul comes near you. 

Few now aspire to your good graces, 
Scarce any sue to you for places. 

Or come with their petition, 
To tell how well they have deserved. 
How long, how steadily they starved 

For you, in opposition. 

Expect to see that tribe no more, 
Since all mankind perceive that power 

Is lodged in other hands : 
Sooner to Carteret now they'll go. 
Or even (tho' that's excessive low) 

To Wilmington or Sandys'. 

With your obedient wife retire. 
And sitting silent by the fire, 

A sullen tite-d-tete, 
Think over all you've done or said. 
And curse the hour that you were made 

Unprofitably great. 

With vapours there, and spleen o'ercast 
Reflect on all your actions past 

With sorrow and contrition : 
And there enjoy the thoughts that rise 
From disappointed avarice. 

From frustrated ambition. 

There soon you'll loudly, but in vain, 
Of your deserting friends complain. 

That visit you no more : 
For in this country, 'tis a truth. 
As known, as that love follows youth, 

That friendship follows power. 

144 Lyra Eleganfiantm. 

Such is the calm of your retreat? 
You thro' the dregs of life must sweat 

Beneath this heavy load ; 
And I'll attend you as I've done, 
Only to help reflection on, 

With now and then an ode. 

Sir Charles II. JVilIiams. 


What statesman, what hero, what king, 
Whose name thro' the island is spread, 

Will you choose, oh, my Clio, to sing. 
Of all the great living, or dead ? 

Go, my muse, from this place to Japan, 

In search of a topic for rhyme ; 
The great Earl of Bath is the man 

Who deserves to employ your whole time. 

But, howe'er, as the subject is nice. 

And perhaps you're unfurnish'd with matter, 

May it please you to take my advice. 
That you mayn't be suspected to flatter. 

When you touch on his Lordship's high birth, 
Speak Latin as if you were tipsy, 

Say, we all are the sons of tbe earth, 
Et gentis noil fccinms ipsi. 

Proclaim him as rich as a Jew, 

Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties ; 

You may say, he is married — that's true — 
Yet speak not a word of his Countess. 

Leave a blank here and there in each page. 
To enrol the fair deeds of his youth ! 

When you mention the acts of his age, 
Leave a blank for his— honour and truth. 

Say he made a great monarch change hands; 

He spake, and the minister fell ; 
Say he made a great statesman of Sandys ; — 

O that he had taught him to spell ! 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 145 

Then enlarge on his cunning and wit, 
Say how he harangued at the Fountain: 

Say liow the old Patriots were bit, 

And a mouse was produced by a mountain. 

Then say how he mark'd the new year 

By increasing our taxes and stocks ; 
Tlien say how he clianged to a Peer, 

Fit companion for Edgcumbe and Fox. 

Sir Charles H. Williams. 

Upon a late Occasion. 

Well may they, Went worth, call thee young ; 
What, hear and feel ! sift right from wrong, 

And to a wretch be kind ! 
Old statesmen would reverse your plan, 
Sink, in the minister, the man. 

And be both deaf and blind. 

If thus, my Lord, your heart o'erflows. 
Know you, how many mighty foes 

Such weakness will create you ? 
Regard not what Fitzherbert says. 
For though you gain each good man's praise, 

We older folks shall hate you. 

You should have sent, the other day, 
Garrick, the player, with frowns away; 

Your smiles but made liim bolder : 
Why would you hear his strange appeal. 
Which dared to make a statesman feel ? — 

I would that you were older. 

You should be proud, and seem displeased, 
Or you forever will be teased. 

Your house with beggars haunted 
What, every suitor kindly used ? 
If wrong, their folly is excused. 

If right, their suit is gianted. 


146 Lyra Elegantianuii. 

From pressing words of great and small 
To free yourself, give hopes to all, 

And fail nineteen in twenty : 
What, wound my honour, break my word ? 
You're young again, — you may, my Lord, 

Have precedents, in plenty ! 

Indeed, young Statesman, 'twill not do, — 
Some other ways and means pursue. 

More fitted to your station : 
What from your boyish freaks can spring ? 
Mere toys ! — Tlie favour of your king. 

And love of all the nation. 

David Garrick, 


About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, 

That plan was cf)mmenced which the wise now applaud, 

Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies, 
As good raw materials for settlers, abroad. 

Some West Indian Island, whose name I forget. 

Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic 

And such the success the first colony met. 

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic. 

Behold them now safe at the long look'd-for shore. 

Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, 

And thinking of friends whom, but two years before, 
They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet. 

And, hark ! from the shore a glad welcome there came — 
" Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy? " 

While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name 
Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper'd for joy ! 

Can it possibly be ? — half amazement — half doubt, 
Pat listens again — rubs his eyes and looks steady ; 

Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, 

" Good Lord ! only think — black and curly already ! " 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 147 

Deceived by tliat well-mimick'd brogue in his cars, 
Pat read hi> own doom in these wool-hcatled tigures, 

And thouglit, what a climate, in less than two years. 
To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers ! 


'Tis thus, but alas ! by a moral more true 

Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories. 
Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two. 

By a luszis natiim, all turn into Tories. 
And thus, when I hear them " strong measures " advise. 

Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steaily, 
I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, 

" Good Lord ! — only think — black and curly already ! " 

Thomas Moore. 



" Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? 
Rough is the road, your vv'heel is out of order — 
Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole in't, 

So have your breeches! 

*' Weaiy knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, 
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, ' Knives and 

Scissors to grind O ! ' 

" Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ? 

Or the attorney ? 

" Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or 
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? 
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 

All in a law-suit ? 

" (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eye-lids. 
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 

Pitiful story." 

148 LyTa Ekgantiarum. 


"Stoiy! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, 
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were 

Torn in the scuffle. 

" Constable came up for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the Justice ; 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish 

Stocks for a vagrant. 

" I should be glad to drink your honour's health in 
A pot of beer, if you would give me sixpence ; 
But, for my part, I never love to meddle 

"With politics, sir." 


" /give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — 
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeance — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, 

Spiritless outcast ! " 

{Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and 
exit in a tra7isport of reptiblican enthusiasm and 
univeisal ph ilanthropy. ) 



In matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch 
Is giving too little and asking too much ; 
With equal advantage the French are content, 
So we'll clap on Dutch bottoms a twenty per cent. 

Twenty per cent., 

Twenty per cent.. 
Nous frapperons Falck with twenty per cent. 

The Ris:ht Hon. George Canning. 

Lyra Elegantiaruin. I49 



Part of Mr. IVhitbread'' s speech on the trial of Lord Melville, 
put itito verse by Canning at the time it was delivered. 

I'm like Archimedes for science and skill, 

I'm like a young prince going straight up a hill ; 

I'm like (with respect to the fair be it said,) 

I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed. 

If you ask why the llth of June I remember. 

Much better than April, or May, or November, 

On that day, my Lords, with truth, I assure ye, 

My sainted progenitor set up his brewery; 

On that day, in the morn, he began brewng beer : 

On that day, too, began his connubial career ; 

On that day he received and he issued his bills ; 

On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills ; 

On that day he died, having finished his summing. 

And the angels all cried, " Here's old Whitbread a-coming!" 

So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh, 

For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I ; 

And still on that day, in the hottest of weather. 

The whole Whitbread family dine all together. 

So long as the beams of this house shall support 

The roof which o'ershades this respectable court. 

Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos : 

So long as the sun shall shine in at those windows. 

My name shall shine bright as my ancestor's shines, 

Mine recorded in journals, his blazon'd on signs! 

The Right Hon. George Canning. 


Written after the late negotiation for a new ministry. 

King Crack was the best of all possible kings, 

(At least so his courtiers would swear to you gladly,) 

But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things, 
And, at last, took to worshipping images sadly. 


150 Lyra Elegantiarnm. 

Some broken-down idols, that long had been placed 
In his Father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much. 

That he knelt down and worshipp'd, tho' — such was his 
taste! — 
They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch. 

And these were the beautiful gods of King Crack! — 
But his People, disdaining to worship such things, 

Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your godships must pack— 
You'll not do for tis, tho' you may do for Kings." 

Then, trampling these images under their feet, 

They sent Crack a petition, beginning " Great Cresar! 

We're willing to worship ; but only entreat 
That you'll find us some decenter godheads than these 

" I'll try," says King Crack — so they fumish'd him models 
Of better shaped gods, birt he sent them all back ; 

Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of 
In short they were all much too godlike for Crack. 

So he took to his darling old idols again, 

And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, 
In open defiance of gods and of men, 

Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places. 

Thomas Moore. 


If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep. 
The sky if no longer dark tempests deform, 

When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep? 
No — here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm ! 

At the footstool of Power let Flattery fawn; 

Let Faction her idol extol to the skies ; 
To Virtue in humble retirement withdrawn, 

Unblamed may the accents of gratitude rise ! 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 151 

And shall not his memory to Britain be dear, 
Whose example with envy all nations behold? 

A Statesman unbiass'd by interest or fear, 
By power imcorrupted, untainted by gold ! 

Who, when terror and doubt thro' the universe reigned, 
When rapine and treason their standards unfurl'd, 

The hearts and the hopes of his country maintained, 

And our kingdom preserved midst the wreck of the world ! 

Unheeding, unthankfid, we bask in the blaze. 

While the Ijeams of the sun in full majesty shine : 

When he sinks into twilight with fondness we gaze, 
And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline. 

So, Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er. 

Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall ; 
iVcw justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore; 

Admired in thy zenith, but loved in thy fall. 

O take then, for dangers by wisdom repell'd. 
For e\'ils by courage and constancy braved, 

O take, for the throne by thy counsels upheld. 
The thanks of a people thy firmness has saved. 

And oh! if again the rude whirlwind should rise, 

The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform ; 

The regrets of the good and the fears of the wise, 
Shall turn to the pilot that weather'd the storm. 

Right Hon. George Canning. 


Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child. 

Though dire the burthen be. 
And hide it in the pathless wild, 

Or drown it in the sea : 
The ruthless murderer prays and swears ; 

So let him swear and pray ; 
Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers, 

And take the sword away. 

152 Lyra Elegantiaritm. 

We've had enough of fleets and camps, 

Guns, glories, odes, gazettes, 
Triumphal arches, coloured lamps, 

Huzzas and epaulettes ; 
We could not bear upon our head 

Another leaf of bay ; 
That horrid Buonaparte's dead; — 

Yes, take the sword away. 

We're weary of the noisy boasts 

That pleased our patriot throngs : 
We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts,. 

And tame to Dibdin's songs; 
We're quite content to rule the wave. 

Without a great display; 
We're known to be extremely brave ; 

But take the sword away. 

We give a shrug, when fife and drum 

Play up a favourite air ; 
We think our barracks are become 

More ugly than they were ; 
We laugh to see the banners float ; 

We loathe the charger's bray ; 
We don't admire a scarlet coat; 

Do take the sword away. 

Let Portugal have rulers twain ; 

Let Greece go on with none; 
Let Popeiy sink or swim in Spain, 

While we enjoy the fun ; 
Let Turkey tremble at the knout ; 

Let Algiers lose her Dey ; 
Let Paris turn her Bourbons out;— 

Bah ! take the sword away. 

Our honest friends in Parliament 

Are looking vastly sad ; 
Our farmers say M'ith one consent 

It's all immensely bad ; 
There was a time for borrowing, 

But now it's time to pay; 
A budget is a serious thing; 

So take the sword away. 

Lyra Elegantiartim. I S3 

And O, the bitter tears we wept, 

In those our days of fame, — 
The dread, that o'er our heart-strings crept 

With every post that came, — 
The home-affections, waged and lost 

In every far-off fray, — 
The price tliat British glory cost ! 

Ah ! take the sword away. 

We've plenty left to hoist the sail, 

Or mount the dangerous breach ; 
And Freedom breathes in every gale, 

That wanders round our beach. 
When duty bids us dare or die. 

We'll fight another day : 
But till we know a reason why. 

Take, take the sword away. 

Wiiitkrop M. Praed. 


Sleep, Mr. .Speaker, 'tis surely fair 

If you mayn't in your bed, that you should in your chair ; 

Louder and longer still they grow, 

Tory and Radical, Aye and No ; 

Talking by night and talking by day : 

Sleep, ]Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may ! 

Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; slumber lies 

Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes. 

Fielden or Finn in a minute or two 

Some disorderly thing will do ; 

Riot will chase repose away — 

Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may! 

Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men 
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then, 
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill, 
Sweet to the children that work in the mill. 
You have more need of repose than they — 
Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may! 

154 Lyra Elegantiarmn. 

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon 
Move to abolish the sun and the moon : 
Hume will no doubt be taking the sense 
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence. 
Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray — 
Sleep, Mr. Speaker— sleep while you may! 

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time. 

When loyalty was not quite a crime. 

When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school, 

And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool. 

Lord, how principles pass away — 

Sleep, Mr. Speaker— sleep while you may! 

Winthrop M. Praed. 


An Electmi Ballad. 

As I sate down to breakfast in state, 

At my living o) Tithing-cum-Boring, 
With Betty beside me to wait, 

Came a rap that almost beat the door in. 
I laid down my basin of tea, 

And Betty ceased spreading the toast, 
" As sure as a gun, sir," said she, 

" That must be the knock of the Post." 

A letter — and free — bring it here — 

I have no correspondent who franks. 
No ! yes ! can it be ? ^Vhy, my dear, 

'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. 
" Dear sir, as I know you desire 

'Jliat the Church should receive due protection 
I humbly presume to require 

Your aid at the Cambridge election. 

" It has lately been brought to my knowledge, 

That the ministers fully design 
To suppress each Cathedral and College, 

And eject every learned divine. 

Lyra Elegantiarnm. 155 

To assist this detestable scheme 

Three nuncios from Rome are come ovei ; 

They left Calais 011 Monday by steam, 
And landed to dinner at Dover. 

" An army of gi"im Cordeliers, 

Well furnish'd with relics and vermin. 
Will follow. Lord Westmoreland fears. 

To effect what their chiefs may determine. 
Lollards' tower, good authorities say, 

Is again fitting up as a prison ; 
And a wood-merchant told me to-day 

'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen. 

"The finance-scheme of Canning contains 

A new Easter-offering tax : 
And he means to devote all the gains 

To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. 
Your living, so neat and compact — 

Pray, don't let the news give you pain ? 
Is promised, I know for a fact, 

To an olive-faced Padre from Spain." 

I read, and I felt my heart bleed, 

Sore wounded ^^dth horror and pity ; 
So I flew, with all possible speed. 

To our Protestant champion's committee. 
True gentlemen, kind and well bred ! 

No fleering ! no distance ! no scorn ! 
They asked after my wife who is dead. 

And my children who never were bom. 

They then, like high-principled Tories, 

Callctl our Sovereign unjust and unsteady. 
And assailed him with scandalous stories. 

Till the coach for the voters was ready. 
That coach might be well called a casket 

Of learning and brotherly love: 
There were parsons in boot and in basket ; 

There were parsons below and above. 

There were Sneaker and Griper, a jjair 
Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches; 

A smug chaplain of plausible air, 

Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. 

156 Lyra Elegantiaritm. 

Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host, 

Who, with arguments weighty as lead, 

Proves six times a week in the Post 
That flesh someliow differs from bread. 

Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes 

Are seldom Avithdrawn from the stirrup ■ 
Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows. 

Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup ; 
Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning, 

And wiping away perspiration ; 
Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning 

The beast in St. John's Revelation. 

A layman can scarce form a notion 

Of our wonderful talk on the road ; 
Of the learning, the wit, and devotion, 

Which almost each syllable show'd : 
Why divided allegiance agrees 

So ill with our free constitution ; 
How Catholics swear as they please, 

In hope of the priest's absolution : 

How the Bishop of Norwich had barter'd 

His faith for a legate's commission-; 
How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr' d, 

Had stooped to a base coalition ; 
How Papists are cased from compassion 

By bigotry, stronger than steel ; 
How burning would soon come in fashion, 

And how very bad it must feel. 

We were all so much touched and excited 

By a subject so direly sublime, 
That the rules of politeness were slighted, 

And we all of us talked at a time ; 
And in tones, which each moment grew louder, 

Told liow we should dress for the show, 
And where we should fasten the powder. 

And if we should bellow or no. 

Thus from subject to subject we ran. 
And the journey pass'd pleasantly o'er, 

Till at last Dr. Humdrum began: 
From that time I remember no more. 

Lyra Elegantiarttiii. IS7 

At Ware he commenced his prelection, 

In the dullest of clerical drones : 
And when next I regained recollection 

We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones. 

Thomas, Lord Macaulay. 1827. 


You meaner beauties of the night, 

That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light. 

You common people of the skies ! 

What are you when the moon shall rise ? 

You curious chaunters of the wood, 
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays. 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents; what's your praise, 
When Philomel her voice shall raise? 

You violets that first appear. 

By your pure purple mantles known 

Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the spring were all your own ; 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 

So, when my mistress shall be seen 

In form and beauty of her mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 

Tell me if she were not designed 

The eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir Henry Wotton. 


Know you, fair, on what you look? 
Divinest love lies in this book, 
Expecting fire from your eyes 

158 Lyra Ele^antiarum. 

To kindle tliis his sacrifice. 

When your hands untie these strings, 

Thinlv you've an angel by the wings ; 

One that gladly would I^e nigh 

To wait upon each morning sigh, 

To flutter in tlie balmy air 

Of your well perfumed prayer. 

These white plumes of his he'll lend you, 

Which every day to heaven will send you, 

To take acquaintance of the sphere, 

And all the smooth-faced kindred there ! 

Richard Crxixhaw. 



Soon as the day begins to waste, 
Straight to the well-known door I haste, 

And, rapping there, I'm forced to stay 
While Molly hides her work with care. 
Adjusts her tucker and her hair. 

And nimble Becky scours away. 

Entering, I see in Molly's eyes 
A sudden smiling joy arise, 

As quickly check'd by virgin shame : 
She drops a curtsey, steals a glance, 
Receives a kiss, one step advance. — 

If such I love, am I to blame ? 

I sit, and talk of twenty things. 

Of South Sea Stock, or death of kings. 

While only " Yes " or " No," says Molly ; 
As cautious she conceals her thoughts, 
As others do their private faults : — 

Is this her prudence, or her folly ? 

Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek, 
I hang about her snowy neck. 

And ciy, " Farewell, my dearest Molly !" 
Yet still I hang, and still I kiss. 
Ye learned sages, say, is this 

In me the effect of love, or folly ? 

Lyra Elegant iarum. ijg 

No — both by sober reason move, — 
She prudence shows, and I true love — 

No charge of folly can be laid. 
Then (till the marriage-rites proclaim'd 
Shall join our hands) let us be named 

The constant swain, and virtuous maid. 


You say you love, — and twenty more 
Have sigh'd, and said the same before. 
A.nd yet I swear I can't tell how, 
I ne'er believed a man till now. 

'Tis strange that I should credit give 
To words, who know that words deceive : 
And lay my better judgment by, 
To trust my partial ear or eye. 

'Tis ten to one I had denied 
Your suit had you to-morrow tried ; 
But, faith ! unthinkingly, to-day 
My heedless heart has gone astray. 

To bring it back would give me pain, 
Perhaps the struggle, too, were vain ; 
I'm indolent, — so he that gains 
My heart, may keep it for his pains. 


Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design, 

To escape from her charms, and to drown Love in wine ; 

I tried it, but found, when I came to depart, 

The wine in my head, but still Love in my heart. 

I repair'd to my Reason, entreating her aid, 
Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd : 
Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, 
That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair. 

l6o Lyra Elegantiartim. 

That's a truth, replied I, I've no need to be taught, 
I came for your counsel to find out a fault ; 
If that's all, quoth Reason, return as you came, 
For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name. 

Earl of De la Warrc. 

As I went to the wake that is held on the green, 
I met with young Phoebe, as blithe as a queen ; 
A form so divine might an anchorite move, 
And I found (tho' a clown) I was smitten with love; 
So I ask'd for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied, 
Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied. 

Lovely Phoebe, says I, don't affect to be shy, 
I vow I will kiss you — here's nobody by ; 
No matter for that, she replied, 'tis the same; 
For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame; 
So pray let me go, I shall surely be miss'd ; 
Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kiss'd. 

Lord bless me ! I cried, I'm sui-prised you refuse ; 
A few hannless kisses but serve to amuse ; 
The month it is May, and the season for love, 
So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove. 
No, Damon, she cried, I must first be your -wife, 
You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life. 

Well, come then, I cried, to the church let us go. 

But after, dear Phcebe must never say " No." 

Tio you prove but true, (she replied,) you shall find 

I'll ever be constant, good-humour'd, and kind. 

So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says she won't, 

And I kiss her so much, that I wonder she don't. 



'Tis not the splendour of the place. 
The gilded coach, the purse, the mace ; 
Nor all the pompous train of state, 
With crowds that at your levee wait. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. i6l 

That make you happy, — make you great. 
But while mankind you strive to bless, 
With all the talents you possess ; 
While the chief pleasure you receive, 
Arises from the joy )'ou give : 
This wins the heart, and conquers spite, 
And makes the lieaNy burthen light. 
For Pleasure, rightly understood, 
Is only labour to be good. 



Lords, knights and squires, the numerous band 
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. 

Were summoned by her high command. 
To show their passions by their letters. 

My pen amongst the rest I took, 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obey'd. 

Nor quality, nor reputation, 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion, 

And I may write till she can spell. 

For, while she makes her silkworms' beds 

With all the tender things I swear ; 
Whilst all the house my passion reads, 

In papers round her baby's hair ; 

She may receive and own my flame. 

For, though fhe strictest prudes should know it, 

She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 
And I for an unhappy poet. 

Then too, alas ! when she shall tear 
The rhymes some younger rival sends ; 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear. 
And we shall still continue friends. 

r62 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

For, as our different ages move, 

"lis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it !) 
That I shall be past making love, 

When she begins to comprehend it. 

Matthew Prior. 


Why should I thus employ my time. 
To paint those cheeks of rosy hue? 

Why should I search my brains for rhyme. 
To sing those eyes of glossy blue ? 

The power as yet is all hi vain, 

Thy numerous charms, and various graces : 

They only serve to banish pain. 
And light up joy in parents' faces. 

But soon those eyes their strength shall feel ; 

Those charms their powerful sway shall find : 
Youth shall in crowds before you kneel, 

And own your empire o'er mankind. 

Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit, 
And thousands court your wish'd-for arms; 

My Muse shall stretch her utmost wit. 
To sing the victories of your charms. 

Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost, 
At least while verse like mine endures : 

And future Hanburys shall boast, 

Of verse like mine, of charms like yours. 

A little vain we botlr may be, 

Since scarce another house can show, 

A poet, that can sing like me; 

A beauty, that can charm like you. 

Sir Charles H. Williams. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 163 



Dear Doctor of St. Mary's, 
In the hundred of 'Bergavenny, 
I've seen such a lass, 
With a shape and a face, 
As never was match'd by any. 

Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty, 
Has this girl of Ponty-Pool, Sir, 

With eyes that would make 

The toughest heart ache, 
And the wisest man a fool, Sir. 

At our fair t'other day she appear'd. Sir, 

And the Welshmen all llock'd and view'd hei ; 

And all of them said. 

She was fit t'have been made 
A wife for Owen Tudor. 

They would ne'er have been tired of gazing. 
And so much her charms did please. Sir, 
That all of them sat 
Till their ale grew flat, 
And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir. 

How happy the lord of the manor, 
That shall be of her possest. Sir ; 
For all must agree. 
Who my Hamet shall see, 
She's a Harriet of the best, Sir. 

Then pray make a ballad about her ; 
We know you have wit if you'd show it, 
Then don't be ashamed, 
You can never be blamed, — 
For a prophet is often a poet ! 

But why don't you make one yourself, then ? 
I suppose I by you shall be told. Sir, 
This beautiful piece 
Of Eve's flesh is my niece — 
And besides, she's but five years old. Sir I 

164 Lyra Elegantianem, 

But tho', my dear friend, she's no older, 
In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir, 
That this angel at five, 
Will, if she's alive. 
Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir. 

Sir Charles H. Williams. 


My gentle Anne, whom heretofore. 
When I was young, and thou no more 

Than plaything for a nurse, 
I danced and fondled on my knee, 
A kitten both in size and glee, 

I thank thee for my purse. 

Gold pays the worth of all things here ; 
But not of love ; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it ; 
I therefore, as a proof of love, 
Esteem tliy present far above 

The best things kept within it. 

William Ccnvper. 


My pretty, budding, breathing flower, 

Methinks, if I to-morrow 
Could manage, just for half an hour. 

Sir Joshua's brush to borrow, 
I might immortalise a few 

Of all the myriad graces 
Which Time, while yet they all are new, 

With newer still replaces. 

Lyra Elegaiitiarum. 165 

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes. 

Their quick and earnest flashes ; 
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies. 

The fringe of long dark lashes ; 
I'd draw with most fastidious care 

One eyebrow, then the other, 
And that fair forehead, broad and fair. 

The forehead of your mother. 

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek 

Where health in sunshine dances ; 
And oft the pouting lips, where speak 

A thousand voiceless fancies ; 
And the soft neck would keep me long. 

The neck, more smooth and snowy 
Than ever yet in schoolboy's song 

Had Caroline or Chloe. 

Nor less on those twin rounded arms 

My new-found skill would linger, 
Nor less upon the rosy charms 

Of every tiny finger ; 
Nor slight the small feet, little one. 

So prematurely clever 
That, though they neither walk nor run, 

I think they'd jump for ever. 

But then your odd endearing ways — 

What study e'er could catch them ? 
Your aimless gestures, endless plays — 

What canvas e'er could match them ? 
Your lively leap of merriment. 

Your murmur of petition, 
Your serious silence of content. 

Your laugh of recognition. 

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed. 

For Art's most fine creations ! — 
Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need. 

To note your transformations. 
No picture of your form or face. 

Your waking or your sleeping. 
But that which Love shall daily trace, 

And trust to Memory's keeping. 

1 66 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Hereafter, wl.en revolving years 

Have made you tall and twenty, 
And brought you blended hopes and fears, 

And sighs and slaves in plenty. 
May those who watch our little saint 

Among her tasks and duties, 
Feel all her virtues hard to paint, 

As now we deem her beauties. 

Wmthrop M. Praed. 


Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays, 

So beautiful approve thee, 
So winning light are all thy ways, 

I cannot choose but love thee. 
Thy balmy breath iipon my brow 

Is like the summer air, 
As o'er my cheek thou leanest now, 

To plant a soft kiss there. 

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 

Between the child and woman. 
And thoughts and feelings more profound, 

And other years are coming : 
And thou shalt be more deeply fair 

More pi'ecious to the heart. 
But never canst thou be again 

That lovely thing thou art ! 

And youth shall pass, with all the brood 

Of fancy-fed affection ; 
And grief shall come with womanhood, 

And waken cold reflection. 
Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep, 

O'er pleasures unretuming. 
Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep • 

Unto the cares of morning. 

Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 

Of joyous expectation, 
Ordain'd to bless the little one — 

The freshling of creation ! 

Sidney Walker. 

Lyra Elegatitiarum. 1 67 


A PRETTY task, Miss S , to ask 

A Benedictine pen, 
That cannot quite at freedom write 

Like those of other men. 
No lover's plaint my Muse must paint 

To fill this page's span, 
But be correct and recollect 

I'm not a single man. 

Pray only think for pen and ink 

How hard to get along, 
That may not tun: on words that burn 

Or Love, tJie life of song ! 
Nine INIuses, if I chooses, I 

May woo all in a clan. 
But one Miss S I daren't address — 

I'm not a single man. 

Scribblers unwed, with little head 

May eke it out -vvith heart, 
And in their lays it often plays 

A rare first-fiddle part. 
They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, 

But if / so began, 
I have my fears about my ears — 

I'm not a single man. 

Upon your cheek I may not speak, 

Nor on your lip be warm, 
I must be wise about your eyes. 

And formal with your form, 
Of all that sort of thing, in short. 

On T. H. Bayly's plan, 
I must not twine a single line — 

I'm not a single man. 

A watchman's part compels my heart 

To keep you off its beat. 
And I might dare as soon to swear 

At yoii as at your feet. 

t68 Lyra Elegantianim. 

I can t expire in passion's fire 

As other poets can — 
My life (she's by) won't let me die— 

I'm not a single man. 

Shut out from love, denied a dove. 

Forbidden bow and dart, 
Without a groan to call my own, 

With neither hand nor heart, 
To Hymen vow'd, and not allow'd 

To flirt e'en with your fan, 
Here end, as just a friend, I must — 

I'm not a single man. 

Thomas Hood. 



To the H'o7ihle. M. C. Stanhope. 

Hail, day of music, day of Love, 

On earth below, in air above. 

In air the turtle fondly moans. 

The linnet pipes in joyous tones ; 

On earth the postman toils along, 

Bent double by huge bales of song. 

Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye, 

Blazes all Cupid's heraldry — 

Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows, 

Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. 

What nymph without wild hopes and fears 

The double rap this morning hears ! 

Unnumbered lasses, young and fair, 

From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, 

With cheeks high flush'd, and hearts loud beating 

Await the tender annual greeting. 

The loveliest lass of all is mine — 

Good morrow to my Valentine ! 

Good morrow, gentle child ! and then 

Again good morrow, and again, 

Good morrow following still good morrow, 

Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. 

Lyra Elegaiifiartim. ibg 

And when the god to whom we pay 
In jest our homages to-day 
Shall come to claim, no more in jest, 
His rightful empire o'er thy breast, 
Benignant may his aspect be, 
His yoke the tniest liberty : 
And if a tear his power confess, 
Be it a tear of happiness. 
It shall be so. The Muse displays 
The future to her votary's gaze ; 
Prophetic rage my bosom swells — 
I taste the cake — I hear the bells ! 
From Conduit Street the close array 
Of chariots barricades the way 
To where I see, with outstretch'd hand; 
Majestic, thy great kinsman stand. 
And half unbend his brow of pride, 
As welcoming so fair a bride. 
Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow. 
Brighten St. George's portico : 
Within I see the chancel's pale. 
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil, 
The page on which those fingers white. 
Still trembling from the awful rite. 
For the last time shall faintly trace 
The name of Stanhope's noble race. 
I see kind faces round thee pressing, 
I hear kind voices whisper blessing ; 
And with those voices mingles mine — 
All good attend my Valentine ! 

Thomas, Lord Macaiilay. 



The scene is a pic-nic, and Mr. Joseph de Clapham ventures 
to think that his fiancee, the lovely Belgravinia, is a little too 

Now, don't look so glum and so sanctified, please, 

For folks comme ilfaut. Sir, are always at ease ; 

How dare you suggest that my talk is too free ? 

II n''est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

17° Lyra Elegaiitiarum. 

Must I shut up my eyes when I ride in the Park ? 
Or, pray, would you hke me to ride after dark ? 
If not, Mr. Prim, I shall say what I see, 
n n^ est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

What harm am I speaking, you stupid Old Nurse ? 
I'm sure papa's newspaper tells us much worse, 
He's a clergyman, too, are you stricter than he ? 
II in! est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

I knew who it was, and I said so, that's all ; 

I said who went round to her box from his stall ; 
Pray, what is your next prohibition to be ? 

n n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

" My grandmother would not " — O, would not, indeed ? 
Just read Horace Walpole — Yes, Sir, I do read. 
Besides, what's my grandmother's buckram to me ? 

II n'est jamais de mul en bon compagnie. 

" 1 said it before that old roiiS, Lord Gadde ; " 
That's a story, he'd gon^; and what harm if I had ? 
He has known me for years — from a baby of three. 
II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

You go to your Club (and this makes me so wild), 
There you smoke, and you slander man, woman, and child ; 
But I'm not to know there's such people as she — 
II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

It's all my own fault ; the Academy, Sir, 
You whispered to Philip, " No, no, it's not her. 
Sir Edwin would hardly — " I heard, mon ami ; 
II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

Well, there, I'm quite sorry; now, stop looking haughty. 
Or must I kneel down on my knees, and say, "Naughty"? 
There ! get me a peach, and I wish you'd agree 
II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. 

Charles Shirley Brooks. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 171 


"When youthful faith hath fled, 

Of loving take thy leave ; 
Be constant to the dead — ■ 

The dead cannot deceive. 

Sweet modest flowers of spring, 

How fleet your balmy day ! 
And man's brief year can bring 

No secondary May. 

No earthly burst again 

Of gladness not of gloom 
Fond hope and vision vain, 

Ungrateful to the tomb. 

But 'tis an old belief 

That on some solemn shore. 
Beyond the sphere of grief, 

Dear friends shall meet once more. 

Beyond the sphere of time, 

And Sin and Fate's control. 
Serene in endless prime 

Of body and of soul. 

That creed I fain would keep, 

That hope I'll not forego. 
Eternal be the sleep, 

Unless to waken so. 

Jolm O. Lochhart. 



Before the urchin well could go, 
She stole the whiteness of the snow; 
And more, — that whiteness to adorn, 
She stole the blushes of the mom : 
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds 
On primrose buds or violet beds. 

Still, to reveal her artful wiles. 
She stole the Graces' silken smiles : 

172 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

She stole Aurora's balmy breath, 
And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth : 
The cherry, dipt in morning dew. 
Gave moisture to her lips and hue. 

These were her infant spoils, a store 
To which, in time, she added more ; 
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen 
Her air and love-commanding mienj 
Stole Juno's dignity, and stole 
From Pallas sense to charm the soul. 

Apollo's wit was next her prey, 
Her next the beam that lights the day ; 
• She sung ; amazed the Syrens heard ; 
And to assert their voice appear'd: 
She play'd ; the Muses from the hill 
Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill. 

Great Jove approved her crimes and art ; 
And t'other day she stole my heart. 
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care. 
Exert thy vengeance on this fair ; 
To trial bring her stolen charms, 
And let her prison be my arms. 

GharUs Wyndham, Earl of Egremont. 


A Hushnnd to a Wife. 

Thou wert too good to live on earth with me, 
And I not good enough to die with thee. 


No truer friend than woman man discovers. 
So that they have not been, nor can be lovers. 


Lyra Elegantiarum, 173 


Till death I Sylvia must adore ; 
No time my freedom can restore ; 
Her cruel rigour makes me smart, 
Yet when I try to free my heart, 
Straight all my senses take lier ji.xrt. 

And when against the cruel maid 
I call my reason to my aid ; 
I5y that, alas ! I plainly see 
That nothing lovely is but she ; 
And reason captivates me more 
Than all my senses did before. 


Treason doth never prosper — What's the reason ? 
If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason. 

Sir yohn Harrington. 

None, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair, 
But love can hope when reason would despair. 

George, Lord Lyttelton. 


Though British accents your attention fire. 
You cannot learn so fast as we admire. 
■ Scholars like you but slowly can improve. 
For who would teach you but the verb " I love." 
Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford. 

As lamps burn silent with unconscious light, 
So modest ease in beauty shines most bright, 
Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall, 
And she who means no mischief does it all. 

Aaron Hill. 

i*j Lyra Elfgantiarum. 

I LCVED thee, beautiful and kind, 
And plighted an eternal vow ; 

So alter'd are thy face and mind, 
'Twcre perjury to love thee now. 

Robert, Earl Niigeni. 

To my ninth decade I have totter'd on, 

And no soft arm bends now my step to steady ; 
She, who once led me where she would, is gone, 
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready. 

^yalttr Savage Landor. 

My heart still hovering round about you 
I thought I could not live without you : 
But since we ve been three months asunder, 
How I lived with you is the wonder. 



On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings. 
The Tree will return her as good as she brings. 

Henry Luttrdl. 



Friends ! hear the words my wandering thoughts would say, 
And cast them into shape some other day; 
Southey, my friend of furty years, is gone, 
And, shatter'd by the fall, I stand alone. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 1 75 


Venus, take my votive glass; 
Since I am not what I was, 
What from this day I shall be, 
Venus, let me never see. 

Matthew Prior. (From Plato.) 

MVRTILLA, early on the lawn, 
Steals roses from the blushing dawn ; 
But when Myrtilla sleeps till ten, 
Aurora steals them back again ! 



I AM his Highness' dog at Kew ; 
Pray, tell me, sir, whose dog are you ? 

Alexander Pope. 


A Syllogism, with the Conclusion sicppressed. 

The Germans in Greek 
Are sadly to seek ; 
Not five in five-score 
But ninety-five more ; 
All save only Hermann, 
And — Hermann's a German. 

Richard Porson. 

X76 Lyra Elegantiarum. 




"When late I attempted your pity to move, 
. What made you so deaf to my prayers ? 

1 Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, 

'J But — why did you kick me down stairs ? 

I Bickerstaff. 



Sly Beelzebub took all occasions 
To ivy Job's constancy and patience. 
He took his honour, took his health ; 
He took his children, took his wealth. 
His servants, horses, oxen, cows, — 
But cunning Satan did not take his spouse. 

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, 
And loves to disappoint the devil, 
' Had predetermined to restore 

Twofold all he had before ; 
His servants, horses, oxen, cows — 
Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse ! 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 


Lord Erskine, on woman presuming to rail. 
Calls a wife, a tin canister tied to one's tail ; 
And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on. 
Seems hurt at his Lordship's degrading comparison. 
But wherefore degrading ? consider'd aright, 
A canister's polish'd, and useful, and bright : 
And should dirt its original purity hide, 
That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied. 

Matthew G, Lewis. 



\ In Koln, a town of monks and bones. 

And pavement fang'd with murderous stones, 

Lyra Elegafttianun. 177 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; 

I counted two-and-seventy stenches, 

All well defined, and several stinks ! 

V'e nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 

The river Rliine, it is well known, 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 
But tell me, nyinphs ! what power divine 
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer, 
And, tho' Death's image, to my couch repair ; 
How sweet, tho' lifeless, yet ^vith life to lie, 
And without dying, O, how sweet to die ! 

John Wolcot. 


Ah Ben ! 
Say how or when 
Shall we, thy guests. 
Meet at those lyric feasts, 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple- Tun ; 
Where we such clusters had, 
As made us nobly wild, not mad ? 
And yet each verse of thine 
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. 

My Ben ! 
O come again, 
Or send to us 
Thy wits' great ovei"plus ; 

But teach us yet 
Wisely to husband it, 
Lest we that talent spend ; 
And having once brought to an end 
That precious stock, the store 
Of such a wit, the world should have no more. 
Robert Herrick 

178 Lyra Elegantiarum, 


Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream ; 
I wish no happier one than to be laid 
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade. 

Or wavy willow, by the running stream. 
Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly 
Wanders as careless and content as I. 

Thanks for this fancy, insect king, 
Of purple crest and meshy wing, 
Who, with indifference, givest up 
The water-lily's golden cup ; 
To come again and overlook 
What I am writing in my book. 
Believe me, most who read the line 
Will read with hornier eyes than thine ; 
And yet their souls shall live for ever, 
And thine drop dead into the river ! 
God pardon them, O insect king, 
Who fancy so unjust a thing! 

Walter Savage Landor. 


Busv, curious, thirsty fly! 
Drink with me, and drink as I, 
Freely welcome to my cup, 
Couldst thou sip and sip it up: 
Make the most of life you may ; 
Life is short and wears away. 

Both alike are mine and thine, 
Hastening quick to their decline. 

Lyra Elegantiartim. 179 

Thine's a summer, mine no more, 
Though repeated to threescore. 
Threescore summers, when they're gone, 
Will appear as short as one ! 

William Oldys. 

The Sages of old. 

In prophecy told, 
The cause of a nation's undoing ; 

But our new English breed 

No prophecies need. 
For each one here seeks his o%vn ruin. 

With grumbling and jare. 

We promote civil wars. 
And preach up false tenets to many ; 

We snarl, and we bite, 

We rail, and we fight 
For Religion, yet no man has any. 

Then him let's commend. 

That is true to his friend. 
And the Church, and the Senate would settle ; 

Who delights not in blood. 

But draws when he should. 
And bravely stands brunt to the battle. 

Who rails not at kings. 

Nor at politick things, 
Nor treason will speak when he's mellow : 

But takes a full glass, 

To his country's success ; 
This, this is an honest, brave fellow. 


Says Plato, why should man be vain 

Since bounteous heaven has made him great? 

Why look with insolent disdain 

On those undecked wth wealth or state "> 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Can splendid robes or beds of down, 

Or costly gems to deck the fair, 
Can all the glories of a crown 

Give health, or ease the brow of care. 

The sceptred king, the burthen'd slave, 

The humble, and the haughty, die : 
The rich, the poor, the base, the brave. 

In dust without distinction lie ! 
Go, search the tombs where monarchs rest, 

Who once the greatest titles bore, — 
The wealth and glory they possessed, 

And all their honours, are no more ! 

So glides the meteor through the sky. 

And spreads along a gilded train ; 
But when its short-lived beauties die, 

Dissolves to common air again ; 
So 'tis with us, my jovial souls ! 

Let friendship reign while here we stay ; 
Let's crown our joys with flowing bowls, 

When Jove us calls we must away. 


With an honest old friend and a merry old song, 
And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long. 
And laugh at the malice of those who repine 
That they must drink porter whilst I can drink wine. 

I envy no mortal tho' ever so great, 
Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ; 
But what I abhor and esteem as a curse, 
Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse. 

Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay, 
Let us merrily pass life's remainder away ; 
Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise, 
For the more we are envied, the higher we rise. 

Henry Carey. 

Lyra Elegauiiayiim. i8r 


What Calo advises most certainly wise is, 
Not always to laboui", but sometimes to play, 

To mingle sweet pleasure with thirst after treasure, 
Indulging at night for the toils of the day : 

And while the dull miser esteems himself wiser 
His bags to increase, while his health does decay, 

Our souls we enlighten, our fancy we brighten, 
And pass the long evenings in pleasure away. 

All cheerful and hearty, we set aside party, 

With some tender fair the bright bumper is crown'd ; 

Thus Bacchus invites us, and Venus delights us. 
While care in an ocean of claret is drown'd. 

See here's our physician, — we know no ambition, 

But where there's good wine and good company found 

Thus happy together, in spite of all weather, 

'Tis sunshine and summer with us all the year round 

Henry Carey. 


In the days of my youth I've been frequently told, 

That the best of good things are despised when they're old, 

Yet I own, I'm so lost in the modes of this life, 

As to prize an old friend, and to love an old wife ; 

And the first of enjoyments, thro' life has been mine. 

To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 

In this gay world, new fashions spring up every day, 
And to make room for them^ still the old must give way ; 
A new fav'rite at Court will an old one displace. 
And too oft an old friend will put on a new face : 
Vet the pride, pomp, and splendour of courts I'd resign. 
To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 

1 82 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

With old England, by some folks, great faults have been 

Tho' they've since found much greater on New England's 

And the thief a new region transportedly hails, 
Quitting Old England's coast for a tiip to New Wales : 
But such transporting trips, pleased with home, I'd decline, 
To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 

By the bright golden sun, that gives birth to the day, 
Tho' as old as tlie globe which he gilds with his ray. 
And the moon, which, tho' new, every month, as we're told, 
Is the same silver lamp near six thousand years old — 
Could the lamp of my life last while sun and moon shine, 
I'd regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 

John Collins. 

If all be true that I do think, 
There are five reasons we should drink ; 
Good wine — a friend — or being dry — 
Or lest we should be by and by — 
Or any other reason why. 

Dr. Heftry Aldrich. 



Whene'kr the cruel hand of death 

Untimely stops a favourite's breath, 

Muses in plaintive numbers tell 

How loved he lived — how mourn'd he fell; 

Catullus wail'd his sparrow's fate. 

And Gray immortalised his cat. 
Xlirice tuneful bards! could I but chime so clever, 
My quart, my honest quart, should live for ever. 

How weak is all a mortal's power 
T' avert the death-devoted hour ! 

Lyra Elegantianim. 183 

Nor can a shape, or beauty save 

From the sure conquest of the grave. 

In vain the butler's choicest care, 

The master's wish, the bursar's prayer ! 
For when life's lengthen'd to its longest span, 
China itself must fall, as well as man. 

Can I forget how oft my quart 

Has soothed my care, and warm'd my heart ? 

When barley lent its balmy aid. 

And all its liquid charms display'd ! 

When orange and the nut-brown toast 

Swam mantling round the spicy coast! 
The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes. 
Nor envied Jove the nectar of the skies. 

The side-board, on that fatal day. 

When you in glittering ruins lay, 

Moum'd at thy loss — in guggling tone 

Decanters poured out their moan — 

A dimness hung on eveiy glass — 

Joe wonder'd what the matter was — 
Corks, self-contracted, freed the frantic beer. 
And sympathising tankards dropt a tear. 

Where are the flowery wreaths that bound 

In rosy rings thy chaplets round? 

The azure stars whose glittering rays 

Promised a happier length of days ! 

The trees that on thy border grew, 

And blossom'd with eternal blue ! 
Trees, stars, and flowers are scatter'd on the floor, 
And all thy brittle beauties are no more. 

Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth. 
Had Nottingham but given thee birth ! 
Or had thy variegated side 
Of Stafford's sable hue been dyed, 
Thy stately fabric had been found, 
Though tables tumbled on the ground. — 

The finest mould the soonest will decay; 

Hear this, ye fair, for you yourselves are clay ! 


84 Lyra Elegaiitianim. 



All you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Hall beer, 
Or ever cried " roast-meat" for having been there. 
To crown your good cheer, pray accept of a catch. 
Now Harry and Betty have struck up a match ! 

Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

As things may fall out which nobody would guess. 
So it happens that Harry should fall in with Bess : 
May they prove to each other a mutual relief; 
To their plenty of caiTots, I wish 'em some beef! 

Derry do^vn, do\vn, down, derry down ! 

She had a great talent at roast-meat and boil'd. 
And seldom it was that her pudding was spoil'd ; 
Renown'd, too, for dumpling, and dripping-pan sop, 
At handling a dish-clout, and twirling a mop. 

Deny down, down, down, derry down ! 

To kitchen-stuff only her thoughts did aspire. 
Yet wit she'd enough to keep out of the fire : 
And though in some things she was shortoft/iefox. 
It is said, she had twenty good pounds in her box. 

Derry down, down, down, deny down I 

Now we've told you the bride's rare descent and estate, 
'Tis fit that the bridegroom's good parts we relate : 
As honest a ploughman as e'er held a plough. 
As trusty a carter as e'er cried, ^'Gee-ho!" 

Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

So lovingly he with his cattle agreed. 
That seldom a lash for his whip he had need : 
When a man is so gentle and kind to his horse, 
His wife may expect that he'll not use her worse. 

Derry down, down, down, derry down .' 

With industry he has collected the pence. 
In thirty good pounds there's a gi-eat deal of sense. 
And though he suspected ne'er was of a plot. 
None yet in good-humour e'er called him a sot. 

Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 185 

For brewing we hardly .shall meet with his fellow, 
His beer is well hopt, clear, substantial, and mellow : 
He brew'd the good liquor, she made the good cake, 
And as they have brew'd even so let them bake. 

Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

Your shoes he can cobble, she mend your old clothes. 
And both are ingenious at darning of hose : 
Then since he has gotten the length of her foot. 
As they make their own bed, — so pray let them go to't. 
Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl, 
Whilst rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal : 
Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan, 
Hit 'em each on the nose, with the hose, if ye can. 

Derry down, down, down, derry downf 

May her wheel and his plough be so happily sped, 
With the best in the parish to hold up their head : 
May he load his own waggon with butter and cheese, 
^^'hilst she rides to market with turkeys and geese. 

DeiTy down, down, down, derry down ! 

May he be churchwarden, and yet come to church. 
Nor when in his office take on him too much : 
May she meet due respect, without scolding or strife, 
And live to drink tea with the minister's wife ! 

Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

Rejoice ye good fellows that love a good bit. 
To see thus united the tap and the spit ; 
For as bread is the staff of man's life, so you know 
Good drink is the switch makes it merrily go. 

Deny down, down, down, derry down I 

Then drink to good neighbourhood, plenty, and peace. 
That our taxes may lessen, and weddings increase : 
Let the high and the low, like good subjects, agree, 
Till the courtiers, for shame, grow as honest as we. 

Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 

Tet conjugal love be the pride of each swain, 

Let true-hearted maids have no cause to complain : 

1 86 Lyra Elegantiarnm. 

To rtie Church pay her dues, to their Majesties honour, 
And homage and rent to the lord of the manor. 

Deny dowai, down, do^vn, derry down ! 

To hug yourself in perfect ease, 

What would you wish for more than these? 

A healthy, clean, paternal seat. 

Well shaded from the summer's heat : 

A little parlour-stove, to hold 
A constant fire from winter's cold ; 
Where you may sit and think, and sing. 
Far off from Court—" God bless the King!" 

Safe from the harpies of the law, 
From party rage, and gieat man's paw; 
Have few choice friends to your own taste,— 
A wife agreeable and chaste ; 

An open, but yet cautious mind, 
Where guilty cares no entrance find ; 
Nor miser's fears, nor en\'y's spite. 
To break the Sabbath of the night. 
Plain equipage, and temperate meals, 
Few tailor's, and no doctor's bills ; 
Content to take, as Heaven shall please, 
A longer or a shorter lease. 

William Bedingfield. 

When I'm dead, on my tomb-stone I hope they will say ; 

Here lies an old fellow, the foe of all care ; 
With the juice of the grape he would moisten his clay, 
And, wherever he went, frolic follow'd him there. 
With the young he would laugh. 
With the old he would quaff. 

And banish afar all traces of sorrow : 
Old Jerome would say — 
"Though the sun sinks to-day. 
It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow." 

Tho' the snows of old age now may whiten his brow. 
It never by gloom was a moment o'ercast ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 187 

His age, like tlie sunset that gleams on us now, 
Chased away with its brigiitness the clouds to the last. 
With the young he would laugh. 
With the old he would quaff, 

And banish afar all traces of sorrow : 
Old Jerome would say — 
" Tho' the sun smks to-day, 
It is certain to rise up as gaily to-moiTow." 

Samuel Beazley, 



I'm often ask'd by plodding souls, 

And men of crafty tongue. 
What joy I take in draining bowls. 

And tippling all night long. 
Now, tho' these cautious knaves I scorn. 

For once I'll not disdain 
To tell them why I sit till mom, 

And fill my glass again : 

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives 

Life's picture's mellow made ; 
The fading light then brightly lives. 

And softly sinks the shade ; 
Some happier tint still rises there 

With every drop I drain — 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

My Muse, too, when her %vings are dry 

No frolic flight will take ; 
But round a bowl she'll dip and fly. 

Like swallows round a lake. 
Then if the nymph will have her share 

Before she'll bless her swain — 
Why that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

In life I've nmg all changes too, — 

Run every pleasure down, — 
Tried all extremes of fancy through, 

And lived with half the town ; 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 

For me there's nothing new or rare, 
Till wine deceives my brain — 

And that I think's a reason fair 
To fill my glass again. 

Then, many a lad I liked is dead, 

And many a lass grown old ; 
And as the lesson strikes my head, 

My weary heart grows cold. 
But wine, awhile, drives off despair, 

Nay, bids a hope remain — 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state 

In these convulsive days, 
I can't endure the ruin'd fate 

My sober eye surveys ; 
But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare, 

I see the gloom less plain — • 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

I find too when I stint my glass. 

And sit with sober air, 
I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass, 

Who treads the path of care ; 
Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear 

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain — 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too. 

With different holds entwine ? 
While nought but death can some undo. 

There's some give way to wine. 
With me the ligliter head I wear 

The lighter hangs the chain — 
And that I think a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

And now I'll tell, to end my song, 

At what I most repine ; 
This cursed war, or right or wrong. 

Is war against all wine ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 189 

Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare 

As juice of France or Spain — 
And that I think's a reason fair 

To fill my glass again. 

Captain Charles Morris. 

Farewell !^biit whenever you welcome the hour. 
That awakens the night-song of mirtli in your bower. 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain, 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, 

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 

]\Iy soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night : 

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles — 

Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer. 

Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here !" 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! 
Like the vase, in wliich roses have once been distill'd — 
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 

Thomas Moore. 



With deep affection. 
And recollection, 
I often think of 
Those Shandon bells. 

igo Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Whene'er I wander. 
And thus grow fonder. 

Sweet Cork, of thee ; 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine. 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate-- 
But all this music 

Spoke nought like thine ; 
For memory dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old "Adrian's Mole" in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Svringing uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 
But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly ; — 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 191 

! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk O ! 
In Saint Sopliia 

The Turkman gets; 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom 

1 freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More dear to me, — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Fraiik Mahony. 


My boat is on the shore. 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those that love me, 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And whatever sky's above me, 

Here's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me. 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be M-on. 

Wcre't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

192 Lyrn Elegantiariuii. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The Hbation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

Lord By7-on. 

In his last binn Sir Peter lies, 

Who knew not what it was to frown : 
Death took him mellow, by surprise. 

And in his cellar stopp'd him down. 
Thro' all our land we could not boast 

A knight more gay, more prompt than he, 
To rise and fill a bumper toast, 

And pass it round with thx-ee times three. 

None better knew the feast to sway, 

Or keep mirth's boat in better trim ; 
For nature had but little clay 

Like that of which she moulded him. 
The meanest guest that grac'd his board 

Was there the freest of the free. 
His bumper toast when Peter pour'd, 

And pass'd it round with three times three. 

He kept at true good humour's mark 

The social flow of pleasure's tide : 
He never made a brow look dark, 

Nor caused a tear, but when he died. 
No sorrow round his tomb should dwell : 

More pleased his gay old ghost would be, 
For funeral song, and passing bell, 

To hear no sound but three times three. 

Thomas L. Peacock. 

Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core : 

Le t us drink ! who would not ? since, thro' life's varied round, 

In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

Lyra Elegatitiaj'um. 193 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 

I have loved ! — who has not ? — but vv'hat heart can declare 

That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends ! — who has not?— but what tongue will avow, 
That friends, rosy wine ! are as faithful as thou 1 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change; 
Thou grow'st old — who does not? — but on earth what ap- 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
We are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast no such alloy, 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we lly to the goblet at last ; 
There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul. 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. 
And misery's triumph commenced over mirth, 
Hope was left, — was she not ?— 'but the goblet we kiss. 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Lard Byi-oii. 


Spark, gen'rous Victor, spare the slave, 

Who did unequal war pursue ; 
That more than triumph he might have, 

In being overcome by you. 

jQ^ Lyra Elegantiarum. 

In the dispute whate'er I said, 

My heart was by my tongue belied ; 

And in my looks you might have read 
How much I argu'd on your side. 

You, far from danger as from fear, 
Might have sustain'd an open fight ; 

For seldom your opinions err ; 
Your eyes are always in the right. 

Why, fair one, would you not rely 

On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd ? 
Could 1 their prevalence deny, 

I must at once be deaf and blind. 
Alas ! not hoping to subdue, 

I only to the fight aspir'd : 
To keep the beauteous foe in View 

Was all the glory I desir'd. 
But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure, 

Contemns the wreath too long delay'd ; 
And arm'd with more immediate power, 

Calls cruel silence to her aid. 
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: 

She drops her arms, to gain the field : 
Secures her conquest by her flight. 

And triumphs, when she seems to yield. 
So when the Parthian turn'd his steed. 

And fiom the hostile camp withdrew ; 
With cruel skill the backward reed 

He sent ; and as he fled, he slew. 

JUaiihew Prior. 



Farewell ! all good wishes go with him to-day. 
Rich in name, rich in fame, he has play'd out the play. 
Though the sock and the buskin for aye be removed 
Still he serves in the train of the drama he loved. 
We now who surround him, would make some amends 
For past years of enjoyment — we court him as friends, 
Our chief, nobly born, genius cro\vn'd, our zeal shares, 
O, his coronet's hid by the laurel he wears. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 195 

Shall we never again see his spirit infuse 
Life, life in tiie gay gallant forms of the Muse, 
Through tlie lovers and heroes of Shalcespeare he ran, 
All the soul of a soldier, the heart of the man — 
Shall we never in Cyprus his spirit retrace. 
See him stroll into Angiers with indolent grace, 
Or greet him in bonnet at fair Dunsinane — 
Or meet him in moonlight Verona again ! 

Let the curtain come down. Let the scene pass away — 
There's an autumn when summer has squander'd her day: 
We sit by the fire when we can't by the lamp, 
And re-people the banquet, re-soldier the camp. 
O, nothing can rob us of memory's gold : 
And though he quit the gorgeous, and we may grow old, 
With our Shakespeare in hand, and bright forms in ourbrain, 
We can dream up our Siddons and Kembles again. 

y. Hamilton Reynolds. 


As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself, '^ 

They may tallc as they please about what they call pelf. 
They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking, 
But help it I cannot, I cannot lielp thinking 

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

How pleasant it is to have money. 

I sit at my table en grattd seigneur. 

And when I have done, throw a cmst to the poor ; 

Not only the pleasure itself of good living. 

But also the pleasure of now and then giving : 

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So pleasant it is to have money. 

They may talk as they please about what they call pelf. 
And how one ought never to thinlv of one's-self. 
How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking. 
My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking 

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

How pleasant it is to have money. 

196 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past, 
And he who came first had to wait for the last ; 
The oysters ere this had been in and been out ; 
While I have been sitting and thinking about 

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

How pleasant it is to have money. 

A clear soup with eggs ; voila tout ; of the fish 
Theyf/r/j de sole are a moderate dish 
A la Orly, but you're for red mullet, you say: 
By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day 

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

How pleasant it is to have money. 

After oysters, Sauteme ; then Sherry ; Champagne, 
Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 
P"ly up. thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, 
And tell to our ears in the sound that we love 

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

How pleasant it is to have money. 

I've the simplest of palates; absurd it may be, 
But I almost could dine on 3. poulet-ati-riz. 
Fish and soup and omelette and that — but the deuce — 
There were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Ricsse! 
So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho I 
So pleasant it is to have money. 

Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock. 
Give me the pure juice of the purple Medoc ; 
St. Peray is exquisite ; but, if you please, 
Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. 

So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! 

So pleasant it is to have money. 

As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense — 
I've seen it observed by a writer of sense. 
That the labouring classes could scarce live a day. 
If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. 

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So useful it is to have money. 

One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend, 
Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend, 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 197 

And so suppose now, while the things go away, 
By way of a grace we all stand up and say 

How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! 

How pleasant it is to have money. 


I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets. 
When I look at the number of persons one meets, 
Whate'er in the world the poor devils can do 
Whose fathers and mothers can't give them a sous. 

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So needful it is to have money. 

I ride, and I drive, and I care not a d n, 

The people look up and they ask who I am ; 
And if I should chance to nm over a cad, 
I can pay for the damage, if ever so bad. 

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So useful it is to have money. 

It was but this -winter I came up to town, 
And already I'm gaining a sort of renown; 
Find my way to good houses without much ado, 
Am beginning to see the nobility too. 

So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So useful it is to have money. 

O dear what a pity they ever should lose it, 
Since they are the people who know how to use it ; 
So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners ; 
And yet, after all, it is we are the winners. 

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So needful it is to have money. 

It is all very well to be handsome and tall, 
Which certainly makes you look well at a ball. 
It's all very well to be clever and witty. 
But if you are poor, why it's only a pity. 

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ' 

So needful it is to have money. 

Tliere's something undoubtedly in a fine air, 
To know how to smile and be able to stare, 

igS Lyra Elegantiarum. 

High breeding is something, but well bred or not, 
In the end the one question is, what have you got ? 

So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 

So needful it is to have money. 

And the angels in pink and the angels in blue, 
In muslins and moires so lovely and new, 
What is it they want, and so Avish you to guess, 
But if you have money, the answer is yes. 

So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho ! 

So needful it is to have money. 

Arthur H. Clough. 


While I'm blest with health and plenty, 

Let me live a jolly, jolly dog ; 
For as blythe as five- and- twenty, 

Thro' the world I wish to jog. 

As for greater folks or richer, — 

While I pay both scot and lot, 
And enjoy my friend and pitcher, 

I've a kingdom in a cot ! 

Flocks and herds in fields, all nigh too, 
Com and clover, beans and pease, 

And in hen yard, pond and stye too, 
Pigs and poultry, ducks and geese. 

While my farm thus cuts a dash too, 
Poor folks daily labouring on't, 

Who plough, sow, and reap, and thrash too, 
I'll be thrash'd if they shall want. 

He who slicks his knife in roast meat. 

And for numbers has to carve, 
May the churl the whipping-post meet, 

If he stuffs — and lets them starve. 

And when I, like Neighbour Squeezum, 
Plot and scheme the poor to drain. 

Or with Badger join, to fleece 'em. 
Badger me for a rogue in grain. 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 199 

He for that who tills and cultures, 

Now may laugh, but when Old Scratch 

Spreads his net for sharks and vultures, 
What a swarm he'll have to catch ! 

Heaps of grain then let them hoard up ; — 
Heaps of wealth while they count o'er, 

All the treasures I have stored up 
Are the Blessings of the Poor ! 

John Collins. 


The poor man's sins are glaring; 
In the face of ghostly warning 

He is caught in the fact 

Of an overt act — 
Buying greens on Simday morning. 

The rich man's sins are hidden 

In the pomp of wealth and station ; 

And escape the sight 

Of the children of light, 
Who are wise in their generation. 

The rich man has a kitchen, 
And cooks to dress his dinner ; 

The poor who would roast 

To the baker's must post, 
And thus becomes a sinner. 

The rich man has a cellar. 
And a ready butler by him ; 

The poor must steer 

For his pint of beer 
Where the Saint can't choose but spy him. 

The rich man's painted windows 
Hide the concerts of the quality ; 

The poor can but share 

A crack'd fiddle in the air, 
Which offends all sound morality. 

Lyra Elegaiitiarnm. 

The rich man is invisible 

In the crowd of his gay society ; 

But the poor man's dehght 

Is a sore in the sight, 
And a stench in the nose of piety. 

Thomas L, Peacock, 


THE lass. 

Among thy fancies, tell me this, 
What is the thing we call a kiss? 
I shall resolve you what it is. 

It is a creature born and bred 
Between the lips, all cherry-red, 
By Love and warm desires fed. 

And makes more soft the bridal bed. 

It is an active flame, that flies 
First to the babies of the eyes. 
And charms them there with lullabies, 

And stills the bride, too, when she cries. 

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear. 

It frisks and flies, — now here, now there, 

'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near, 

And here, and there, and everywhere. 

Has it a speaking virtue ? Yes. 
How speaks it, say ? Do you but this, 
Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss ; 
And this Love's sweetest language is. 

Has it a body ? Aye, and wings, 
With thousands rare encolourings; 
And as it flies, it gently sings. 

Love honey yields, but never stings. 

Roba't Herrick. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

My love and I for kisses play'd ; 

She would keep stakes, I was content ; 
But when I won she would be paid, 

This made me ask her wliat slie meant ; 
Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, 
Take your own kisses, give me mine again. 

William Strode. 



Soft child of Love — thou balmy bliss, 
Inform me, O delicious Kiss ! 
Why thou so suddenly art gone. 
Lost in the moment thou art won ? 
Yet, go — for wherefore should I sigh ? — 
On Delia's lip, with raptured eye, 
On Delia's blushing lip, I see 
A thousand full as sweet as thee ! 

John Wolcot. 


Philosophers pretend to tell, 
How like a hermit in his cell, 
The soul within the brain does dwell : 
But T, who am not half so wise. 
Think I have seen't in Chloe's eyes, 
Down to her lips from thence it stole, 
And there I kiss'd her very soul. 



Come, lovely lock of Julia's hair. 
The gift of that bewitcliing fair. 
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid, 
Thou precious little auburn braid ! 

;02 Lyra Elegantiaruvi. 

Of Julia's charms, O sacred part, 

Thou'st drank the pure stream of her heart ; 

Thou'st tended on my love's repose, 

Thou'st kiss'd her fingers when she rose, 

And, half concealing many a grace, 

Giv'n added powers to that sweet face : 

Oft, careless, o'er her shoulders flung, 

Down her small waist redundant hung ; 

And oft thy wanton curls have press'd. 

And dared to kiss her snow-white breast ! 

High favour'd lock ! O, thou shalt be 

The dearest gift of life to me. 

Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid. 

Delightful little auburn braid ! 

And art thou mine ? and did my fair 

Intx^ust thee to her lover's care ? 

What streams of bliss wilt thou impart, 

Who drank the stream of Julia's heart! 

O, thou shalt be the healing power 

To soothe me in misfortune's hour, 

And oft, beneath my pillow laid, 

My soul in dreams will ask thine aid. 

Thou shalt inspire with full delight 

The fairest visions of the night ; 

For thou, intrusive lock, hast spread 

And wanton'd o'er my Julia's bed ; 

Seen the sweet languish of her eyes, 

Heard all her wishes, all her sighs : 

O, thou hast been divinely bless'd, 

And pass'd whole nights on Julia's breast. 

Come, then, dear lock of Juha's hair, 

The gift of that enchanting fair. 

Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid. 

Delightful little auburn braid ! 




* * * * 

Well tried thro' many a varying year, 

See Levet to the grave descend. 
Officious, innocent, sincere, 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 203 

In Misery's darkest cavern known, 

His useful care was ever nigh. 
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, 

And lonely Want retired to die. 

No summons mock'd by chill delay. 

No petty gain disdain'd by pride. 
The modest wants of every day. 

The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walked their narrow round, 

Nor made a pause nor left a void : 
And sure the Eternal Master found 

The single talent well employ'd. 

Samud Johnson. 


Since truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue, 
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song ; 
Adieu the dance at closing day, 
And, ah, the happy morn of May. 

How oft he told me I was fair, 
And wove the garland for my hair • 
How oft for Marian stript the bower. 
To fill my lap with every flower I 

No more his gifts of guile I'll wear. 
But from my brow the chaplet tear ; 
The crook he gave in pieces break, 
And rend his ribbons from my neck. 

How oft he vow'd a constant flame. 
And carved on eveiy oak my name ! 
Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree 
Is all that will remember me. 

John Wolcot, 

204 Lyra Elegantiatuiii. 


I FEED a flame within, which so torments me, 
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me ; 
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, 
That I had rather die, than once remove it. 

Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it. 
My tongue does not betray, nor my eye show it : 
No sigh, and not a tear, my pain discloses, 
For they fall silently like dew on roses. 

Thus to prevent my love from being cruel. 
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel : 
And while I suffer thus to give him quiet, 
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it. 

On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me ; 
While I conceal my love, no frown can fright me 
To be more happy I dare not aspire ; 
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. 



A Fragment. 

Mark'd you her cheek of roseate hue ? 
Mark'd you her eye of radiant blue ? — 
That eye, in liquid circles moving ! 
That cheek, abash'd at man's approving ! 
The one Love's arrows darting round, 
The other blushing at the wound. 
Did she not speak, did she not move. 
Now Pallas, — now the Queen of Love. 

Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 

Lyra Elegantiariim . 

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume 

That you cherish a secret affection for me ? 
When we see the flowers bud, don't we look for the bloom ! 

Then, sweetest ! attend while I answer to thee. 

When we young men with pastimes the twilight beguile, 
I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy : 

And observe, that whatever occasions the smile. 
You give me a glance ; but provokingly coy. 

Last month, when \\'ild strawberries, plucked in the grove, 
Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had stmng. 

You gave me the choicest ; I hoped 'twas for love ; 
And I told you my hopes while the nightingale sung. 

Remember the viper : — 'twas close at your feet, 

How you started, and threw yourself into my arms : 

Not a strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet 
As the lips which I kiss'd, to subdue your alaniis. 

As I pull'd down the clusters of nuts for my fair, 

What a blow I received from a strong-bending bough ; 

Tho' Lucy and other gay lasses were there, 

Not one of them show'd such compassion as you. 

And was it compassion ? by Heaven 'twas more ! 

A tell-tale betrays you ; — that blush on your cheek — 
There come, dearest maid, all your trifling give o'er, 

And whisper what candour will teach you to speak. 

Can you stain my fair honour with one broken vow ? 

Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain ? 
On truth's honest base let your tenderness grow ; 

I swear to be faithful, again and again. 

Robert Bloomfield. 


There are some wishes that may start, 
Nor cloud the brow, nor sting the heart. 
Gladly then would I see how smiled 
One who now fondles with her child j 

2o6 Lyra Elegantiarum, 

How smiled she but six years ago, 

Herself a child, or nearly so. 

Yes, let me bring before my sight 

The silken tresses chained up tight, 

The tiny fingers tipt with red 

By tossing up the strawberry-bed; 

Half-open lips, long violet eyes, 

A little rounder with surprise. 

And then (her chin against her knee), 

" Mamma ! who can that stranger be ? 

How grave the smile he smiles on me ! " 

Walter Savage Landor. 


I ne'er could any lustre see 

In eyes that would not look on me : 

I ne'er saw nectar on a lip. 

But where my own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid who seeks my heart 

Cheeks of rose untouch'd by art ? 

I will own their colour true, 

When yielding blushes aid their hue. 

Is her hand so soft and pure ? 
I must press it, to be sure ; 
Nor can I e'en be certain then. 
Till it grateful press again. 
Must I with attentive eye. 
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
I will do so — when I see 
That heaving bosom sigh for me. 

Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 


What I shall leave thee none can tell, 
But all shall say I wish thee well : 
I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, 
Both bodily and ghostly health. 

Lyra EleganHarum, Txyj 

Not too much wealth, nor wit come to thee, 

So much of either may undo thee. 

I wish thee learning, not for show. 

Enough for to instruct, and know. 

Not such as gentlemen require, 

To prate at tabk- or at fire. 

I wish thee all thy mother's graces, 

Thy father's fortune — and his places, 

I wish thee .""riends, and one at Court, 

Not to build on, but support. 

To keep thee, not in doing many 

Oppressions, but from sufl'ering any. 

I wish thee peace in all thy ways, 

Nor lazy nor contentious days ; 

And when thy soul and body part, 

As innocent as now thou art. 



Ne'er were the Zephyrs known disclosing 
More sweets, than when in Tempe's shades 

They waved the lilies, where reposing 
Sat four-and-twenty lovely maids. 

Those lovely maids were called "the Hours," 
The charge of Virtue's flock they kept; 

And each in turn employ'd her powers 
To guard it while her sisters slept. 

False Love, how simple souls thou cheatest ! 

In myrtle bower that traitor near 
Long watch'd an Hour — the softest, sweetest- 

The evening Hour, to shepherds dear. 

In tones so bland he praised her beauty, 
Such melting airs his pipe could play ; 

The thoughtless Hour forgot her duty, 
And fled in Love's embrace away. 

Meanwhile the fold was left unguarded ; 

The wolf broke in, the lambs were slain ; 
And now from Virtue's train discarded, 

With tears her sisters speak their pain. 

2o8 Lyra Elegantim-iim. 

Time flies, and still they weep ; lor never 

The fugitive can time restore ; 
An Hour once fled, has fled for ever, 

And all the rest shall smile no more ! 

Matthew G. Lavis. 


Ah ! what avails the sceptred race ! 

Ah ! what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace ! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 

Walter Savage Landor 

A RING to me Cecilia sends — 

And what to show ? — that we are friends ; 

That she with favour reads my lays. 

And sends a token of her praise ; 

Such as the nun, with heart of sno\\% 

Might on her Confessor bestow ; 

Or which some favourite nymph would pay, 

Upon her grandsire's natal day. 

And to his trembling hand impart 

The offering of a feeling heart. 

And what shall I return the fair 

And flattering nymph? — a verse ? — a prayer?- 

For were a Ring my present too, 

I see the smile that must ensue ; — 

The smile that pleases tho' it stings. 

And says, " no more of giving rings : 

Remember, thirty years are gone, 

Old friend, since you presented one !" 

Lyra Elegantiartim. 20g 

Well ! one there is, or one shall be. 
To give a ring instead of me ; 
And with it sacred vows for life 
To love the fair— the angel-wife : 
In that one act may every grace, 
And eveiy blessing have their place — 
And give to future hours the bliss, 
The charm of life, derived from this : 
And when even love no more supplies — 

When weary nature sinks to rest ; — 
May brighter, steadier light arise, 

And make the parting moment blest ! 

GeoTge Crabbi. 



Oft I've implored the gods in vau^. 

And pray'd till I've been weary : 
For once I'll seek my wish to gain 

Of Oberon, the fairy. 

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, 

Who lurk'st in woods unseen ; 
And oft by Cynthia's silver light, 

Trip'st gaily o'er the gi-een ; 

If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, 

As ancient stories tell ; 
And for th' Athenian maid who loved, 

Thou sought'st a wondrous spell ; 

O, deign once more t'exert thy power, — 

Haply some herb or tree, 
Sovereign as juice of western flower, 

Conceals a balm for me. 

I ask no kind return of love — 

No tempting chaiTn to please ; 
Far from the heart those gifts remove. 

That sighs for peace and ease ! 

Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know. 

That, like the needle true, 
Turns at the touch of joy or woe ; 

But, turning, trembles too. 


Lyra Eleganfiarum. 

Far as distress the soul can wound, 

'Tis pain in each degree : 
'Tis bhss but to a certain bound ;— 

Beyond is agony. 

Then take this treacherous sense of mine, 
Which dooms me still to smart ; 

Which pleasure can to pain refine, 
To pain new pangs impart. 

O haste to shed the sovereign balm, — 
My shatter'd nerves new string : 

And for my guest serenely calm, 
The nymph Indifference bring ! 

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 

See Expectation fly ! 
And Disappointment in the rear, 

That blasts the promised joy. 

The tear which pity taught to flow, 

The eye shall then disown ; 
The heart that melts for others' woe, 

Shall then scarce feel its own. 

The wounds which now each moment bleed, 
Each moment then shall close ; 

And tranquil days shall still succeed 
To nights of calm repose. 

O Faiiy Elf ! but grant me this, 

This one kind comfort send ; 
And so may never-fading bliss 

Thy flowery paths attend ! 

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light 

Thy tiny footsteps lead 
To some new region of delight. 

Unknown to mortal tread ! 

And be thy aconi goblet fill'd 
With Heaven's ambrosial dew : 

From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, 
That shed fresh sweets for you ! 

Lyra Elegant iarum. 

And what of life remains for me, 

I'll pass in sober ease ; 
Half-pleased, contented will I be, 

Content but half to please. 

Mrs. Fanny Greville. 



Life! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me's a secret yet. 

Life ! we have been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; — 
Then steal away, give little warning. 

Choose thine own time ; 
Say not good night, — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me good morning. 

A. L. Barbauld. 


Go, rose, my CUoe's bosom grace 

How happy should I prove, 
Might I supply that envied place 

With never-fading love ! 
There, Phanix-like, beneath her eye, 
Involved in fragrance, bum and die. 

Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find 

More fragrant roses there, 
I see thy withering head reclined 

With envy and despair ; 
One common fate we both must prove ; 
You die with envy, I with love. 

John Gay. 

12 Lyra Elegaittiaritm. 


Sent by a Yorkist Gentleman to his Lancastrian Mistress, 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Twill blush to find itself less white, 

And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy, — 

As kiss it thou mayst deign, — 
With envy pale 'twill lose its dye. 

And Yorkist turn again. 

Ascribed to James Somerville. 


Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile. 

Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes. 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, 

And move, and breathe delicious sighs — 

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 

Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know. 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 

Her fair hands folded on her breast. 
And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 

A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure ! above control. 

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ! 
A.nd may the secret of thy soul 

Remain within its sanctuary ! 

Samuel Rogers. 

Lyra Elegantiarufii. 213 



Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
How glad I am to see you here, 

A lovely convalescent ; 
Risen from the bed of pain and fear, 

And feverish heat incessant. 

The sunny showers, the dappled sky, 
The little birds that warble high, 

Their vernal loves commencing, 
Will better welcome you than I 

With their sweet influencing. 

Believe me, while in bed you lay, 
Your danger taught us all to pray : 

You made us grow devouter ! 
Each eye look'd up and seem'd to say, 

How can we do without her ? 

Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew 
They had no need of such as you 

In the place where you were going ; 
This world has angels all too few. 

And Heaven is overflowing ! 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



Dear child of nature, let them rail !— 
There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbour and a hold ; 
Where thou, a friend and wife, slialt see 
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 

A light to young and old. 

214 Lyra Elegantiaritm . 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
And treading among flowers of joy 

Which at no season fade, 
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
Shalt show us how divine a thing 

A woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave ; 
But an old age serene and bright, 
And lovely as a Lapland night, 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. 

William Wordstvortk, 



Oh ! that the chemist's magic art 

Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 

Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 

Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 
The spring of sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 

In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 

Than any gem that gilds the mine. 

Benign restorer of the soul ! 

"Who ever fly'st to bring relief. 
When first we feel the rude control 

Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 
In eveiy clime, in every age ; 

Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream. 
In Reason's philosophic page. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 215 

That very law which moulds a tear, 

And bids it trickle from its source, 
That law preserves the earth a sphere, 

And guides the planets in their course. 

Samuel Rogers. 

TO . 

Go — you may call it madness, folly. 
You shall not chase my gloom away; 

There's such a charm in melancholy, 
I would not, if I could, be gay. 

O, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
That fills my bosom when I sigh, 
You would not rob me of a treasure 
Monarchs are too poor to buy. 

Samuel Rogers. 


Timely blossom, Infant fair. 
Fondling of a happy pair, 
Every morn and every night 
Their solicitous delight. 
Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
Pleasing without skill to please ; 
Little gossip, blithe and hale. 
Tattling many a br ken tale. 
Singing many a tuneless song, 
Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
Simple maiden void of art, 
Babbling out the very heart, 
Yet abandon'd to thy will, 
Yet imagining no ill. 
Yet too innocent to blush ; 
Like the linnet in the bush. 
To the mother-linnet's note 
Moduling her slender throat ; 
Chirping forth thy pretty joys. 
Wanton in the change of toys, 
Like the linnet green, in May 

2i6 Lyra Eleqantiarum. 

Flitting to each bloomy spray ; 

Wearied then and glad of rest, 

Like the linnet in the nest : — 

This thy present happy lot, 

This, in time, will be forgot : 

Other pleasures, other cares, 

Ever-busy Time prepares ; 
And thou shalt in thy daughter see 
This picture, once, resembled thee. 

Ambrose Philips, 


O, TALK not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our gloiy; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet tvvo-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, tho' ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and cro^vns to the brow that is wrinkled? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

O, Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When its spark led o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

Lord Byron. 

Lyra Eleganiiariim. 21 j 


In ihe downhill of life when I find I'm declining, 

May my fate no less fortunate be, 
I'han a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, 

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; 
With an ambling pad pony to pace o'er the lawn, 

While I carol away idle sorrow; 
And, blythe as the lark that each day hails the dawn. 

Look forward with hope to To-morrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too, 

As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; 
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade, too. 

With a barn for the use of the flail : 
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, 

And a purse when a man wants to borrow, 
I'll envy no nabob, his riches or fame. 

Or what honours may wait him To-morrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely 

Secured, by a neighbouring hill ; 
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly. 

By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
And while peace and plenty I find at my board, 

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, 
With my friends let me share what to-day may afford, 

And let them spread the table To-morrow. 

And when I, at last, must throw off this frail covering, 

Which I've worn for threescore years and ten, 
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, 

Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again ; 
But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey. 

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, 
As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, 

May become Everlasting To-morrow. 

— Collins. 

Lyra Eleganiiarum, 


Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

Tlie swallow, oft beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 

And share my m.eal, a welcome guest 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 

And Lucy, at her wheel shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees. 

Where first our marriage-vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Satmiel Rogers. 



The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade. 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves. 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat. 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat. 
And tlie scene, where his melody charm'd me before, 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 219 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
Have a being less durable even than he. 

Will/am Ccni'per. 

I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, 

And I said, ' ' if there's peace to be found in the world, 
A heart that was humble might hope for it here ! " 

It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around 

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. 

And, " here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd, 
' ' With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, 

Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed. 
How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! 

" By the shade of yon sumach, whose red beiTy dips 
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recUne, 

And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips. 

Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine ! " 

Thomas Moore. 



Dear is my little native vale. 

The ringdove builds and murmurs there ; 

Close to my cot she tells her tale 
To cveiy passing villager. 

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 

And shells his nuts at liberty. 

220 Lyra Elegantia7-nm. 

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 

I charm the fairy-footed hours 

With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 

Or crowns of living laurel weave. 

For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
The canzonet and roundelay 

Sung in the silent green-wood shade ; 
These i^imple joys, that never fail, 
Shall bind me to my native vale. 

Samuel Rogers. 


If I had but two little wings, 
And were a little feathery bird, 

To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things. 

And I stay here. 

But in ray sleep to you I fly : 

I'm always with you in my sleep. 

The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where am I ? 

All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
So I love to wake ere break of day : 
For tho' my sleep be gone, 
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, 
And still dreams on. 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 



To Lady Throckmorton. 

Maria ! I have every good 

For thee wish'd many a time. 
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood, 

But never yet in rhyme. 

Lyra Elegantianim. 

To wish thee fairer is no need, 
More pnident or more sprightly, 

Or more ingenious, or more freed 
From temper-flaws unsightly. 

What favour then not yet possess 'd. 

Can I for thee require. 
In wedded love already bless'd 

To thy whole heart's desire ? 

None here is happy but in part : 

Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
There dwells some wish in every heart. 

And doubtless one in thine. 

That wish, on some fair future day, 
Which Fate shall brightly gild, 

('Tis blameless, be it what it may) 
I wish it aU fulfill'd. 

William Cowfer. 



'Tl3 not the lily brow I prize, 

Nor roseate cheeks nor sunny eyes, — 

Enough of lilies and of roses ! 
A thousand fold more dear to me 

The look that gentle love discloses, — 
That look which Love alone can see. 

Samuel T. Colefidgc 


When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place we may not well supply, 
Though we among a thousand try 

With vain endeavour. 
A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 

And her together. 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step, did indicate 

Of pride and joy no common rate 

That flush'd her spirit : 
I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call ; if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 

She did inlierit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was train'd in Nature's school 

Nature had blest her. 
A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 

Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore 

Some summer morning — 
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 

A sweet fore- warning ? 

Charles Lamb, 

My Lilla gave me yestennorn 
A rose, methinks in Eden bom, 
And as she gave it, little elf! 
She blush'd like any rose herself. 
Then said I, full of tenderness, 

"Since this sweet rose I owe to you, 
Dear girl, why may I not possess 

The lovelier Rose that gave it too ? " 


Lyra Eleganttanim. 223 



Margaret's beauteous — Grecian arts 

Ne'er drew form completer, 
Yet why, in my heart of hearts, 

Hold I Dora's sweeter ? 

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue 

Pass all paintings' reach. 
Ringdove's notes are discord to 

The music of her speech. 

Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, 

And on canvas show it ; 
But for perfect worship leave 

Dora to her poet. 

Thomas Catnpbell. 


In Clementina's artless mien, 
Lucilla asks me what I see, 
And are the roses of sixteen 

Enough for me ? 

Lucilla asks, if that be all. 

Have I not cuU'd as sweet before — 
Ah, yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 

I still deplore. 

I now behold another scene, 

\Vhere Pleasure beams with heaven's own light, 
More pure, more constant, more serene, 
And not less bright. 

Faith on whose breast the Loves repose, 

Wliose chain of flowers no force can sever, 
And Modesty, who when she goes, 
Is gone for ever. 

WaXttr Savage Landor, 

224 Lyra Elegantiarum. 



"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool ; 
She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so : " 
Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool. 
And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, 

Dear Fanny, 
'Tis not the first time I have thought so. 

' ' She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss fly ; 
'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season ; " 
Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
That Love reasons much better than Reason, 

Dear Fanny? 
Love reasons much better than Reason. 

ThotJiai Moore. 


Too late I stay'd ! forgive the crime, 

Unheeded flew the hours ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 

That only treads on flowers ! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 

Time's happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of Paradise have lent 

Their plumage for his wings ? 

Honble. William R. Spencer. 

Lyra Elegaiitiarum. 225 


Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, 
Of numerous charms possess'd, 

A warm dispute once chanced to wage, 
Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete 

Had both alike been mild : 
But one, altho' her smile was sweet, 

Frown'd oftener than she smiled. 

And in her humour, when she frown'd, 
Would raise her voice, and roar, 

And shake with fuiy to the ground 
The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast. 

From all such frenzy clear. 
Her frowns were seldom known to last. 

And never proved severe. 

To poets of renown in song 
The nymphs referr'd the cause. 

And, strange to tell, all judged it wrong, 
And gave misplaced applause. 

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, 

The flippant and the scold. 
And tho' she changed her mood so oft 

That failing left untold. 

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad. 

Or so resolved to err — 
In short, the channs her sister had 

They lavish'd all on her. 

Then thus the god, whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call, 
Was heard, one genial summer's day, 

To reprimand them all. 

226 Ly7-a Elegantiariim. 

" Since thus ye have combined," he said, 
" My fav'rite nymph to slight, 

Adorning May, tlaat peevisli maid, 
With June's undoubted right ; 

The minx shall, for your folly's sake. 

Still prove herself a shrew, 
Shall make your scribbling lingers ache, 

And pinch your noses blue." 

William Coivper. 


Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more tine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of Venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can, 

I have heard that on a day 

Mine host's signboard flew away 

Nobody knew whither, till 

An astrologer's old quill 

To a sheepskin gave the story — 

Said he saw you in your glory 

Underneath a new-old Sign 

Sipping beverage divine. 

And pledging with contented smack 

The Mermaid in the Zodiac ! 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 227 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known — 
Happy (ield or mossy cavern — 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

John Keats. 


'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses, 
With the dust of dead ages to mix ; 

Time's chamel for ever encloses 

The year Eighteen hundred and six ! 

Though many may question thy merit, 

I duly thy dirge will perform. 
Content, if thy heir but inherit 

Thy portion of sunshine and storm ! 

My blame and my blessing thou sharest. 
For black were thy moments in part, 

But O ! thy fair days were the fairest 
That ever have shone on my heart. 

If thine was a gloom the completest 

That death's darkest cypress could throw, 

Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest 
That life in full blossom could show I 

One hand gave the balmy corrector 
Of ills which the other had brew'd ; 

One draught of thy chalice of nectar 
All taste of thy bitters subdued. 

'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses ! 

With mine tears more precious will mix, 
To hallow this midnight which closes. 

The year Eighteen hundred and six. 

Honble. William R. Spencer. 

228 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


Young Jessica sat all the day, 

With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining ; 
Her needle bright beside her lay, 

So active once ! — now idly shining. 
Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle heai'ts 

That love and mischief are most nimble ; 
The safest shield against the darts 

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 

The child, who with a magnet plays. 

Well knowing all its arts, so wily, 
The tempter near a needle lays, 

And laughing, says, " we'll steal it slily. " 
The needle, having nought to do, 

Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle, 
Till closer, closer come the two. 

And off, at length, elopes the needle. 

Now, had this needle tum'd its eye 

To some gay reticule's construction, 
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie. 

Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. 
Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts. 

Your snowy fingers must be nimble ; 
The safest shield against the daits 

Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 

Thomas Moore. 



Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
In vain, recorded in historic page, 
They court the notice of a future age : 

Lyra Elegantiarttm. 229 

These twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
Lethsean giilfs receive them as they fall, 
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 

So when a child, as playful children use. 
Has burn'd to tinder a stale last year's news, 
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire ! 
There goes the parson, oh, illustrious spark ! 
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk! 

William Ctnuper 



Hisum teneatis, amici 1 — 

" The longer one lives the more one learns," 

Said I, as off to sleep I went, 
Bemused with thinking of tithe concerns. 
And reading a book by the liishop of Ferns, 

On the Irish Church Establishment. 
But, lo ! in sleep not long I lay, 

When Fancy her usual tricks began, 
And I found myself bewitch'd away 

To a goodly city of Hindostan — 
A city, where he, who dares to dine 

On aught but rice, is deem'd a sinner ; 
Where sheep and kine are held divine, 

And accordingly — never drest for dinner. 

" But how is this? " I wondering cried, 
As I walked that city, fair and wide. 
And saw in every marble street, 

A row of beautiful butchers' shops — 
" What means, for men who don't eat meat, 

This granri display of loins and chops ? " 
In vain I ask'd — 'twas plain to see 
That nobody dared to answer me. 

So, on, from street to street I strode : 
And you can't conceive how vastly odd 

230 Lyra Blegantiarum. 

The butchers look'd — a roseate crew, 
Inshrined in Btalls with nought to do ; 
While some on a bench, half dozinjr, sat, 
And the Sacred Cows were not more fat. 

Still posed to think what all this scene 

Of sinecure trade was ineant to mean, 

" And pray," asked I, " by whom is paid 

The expense of this strange masquerade ? " — 

" The expense ! Oh, that's of course defray'd," 

Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers, 

" By yonder rascally rice-consumers." — 

"What! they,vi\io mustn't eat meat!" — " No matter 

(And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter), 

" The rogues may munch their Paddy crop, 

But the rogues must still support our shop. 

And, depend upon it, the way to treat 

Heretical stomachs that thus dissent. 
Is to burthen all that won't eat meat 

With a costly Meat Estahlislunent. " 

On hearing these wonls so gravely said, 

With a volley of laughter loud 1 shook ; 
And my slumber fled, and my dream was sped. 
And I found I was lying snug in bed, 

With my nose in the Bishop of Ferns's book.' 

Thomas Moore. 

When Love came first to earth, the Spring 
Spread rose-beds to i-eceive him, 

And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing 
To Heaven, if she should leave him. 

But Spring departing, saw his faith 
Pledged to the next new comer — 

He revell'd in the warmer breath 
And richer bowers of Summer. 

Lyra Elegantianim. 231 

Then sportive Autumn claim'd by riglits 

An Archer for her lover, 
And even in Winter's dark cold nights 

A charm he could discover. 

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, 

For this time were his reasons — 
In short, young Love's a gallant boy, 

That likes all times and seasons. 

Thomas Campbell. 

When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented, 
(The list of what Fate for each mortal intends) 

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented. 
And slipt in three blessings — Avife, children, and friends. 

In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, 
For justice divine could not compass her ends ; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, 

For earth becomes heaven with wife, children, and friends 

If the stock of our bliss is in sti^anger hands vested, 
The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends; 

But the heart issues bills which are never protested 

When drawn on the firm of Wife, Children, and Friends. 

Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers, 
The death-wounded tar who his colours defends. 

Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 

How blest was his home with wife, children, and friends. 

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story. 

Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 
With transport would barter whole ages of glory 

For one happy day with wife, children, and friends. 

Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, 
Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends, 

The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
The bower where he sat with wife, children, and friends. 

The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, 

Alone on itself for enjopnent depends ; 
Dut drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 

No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends. 

232 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish 
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends, 

O'er me wave the willow ! and long may it flourish 
Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and friends. 

Let us drink — for my song, growing graver and graver. 

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
Let us drink — pledge me high — Love and Virtue shall llavour 

The glass which I fill to wife, childr-en, and friends. 

Honhle. William R. Spencer. 


When I was a maid, 

Nor of lovers afraid, 
My mother cried, " Girl, never listen to men.'' 

Her lectures were long, 

But I thought her quite wrong, 
And said I, " Mother, whom should I listen to, then? "' 

Now teaching, in turn, 

"What I never could learn, 
I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ; 

Men ever deceive, — 

Silly maidens believe. 
And still 'tis the old story over again. 

So humbly they woo, 

What can poor maidens do 
But keep them alive when they swear they must die 1 

Ah ! who can forbear, 

As they weep in despair, 
Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry? 

Yet, wedded at last, 

When the lioneymoon's past, 
The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain ; 

Our vanity's clieck'd. 

And we ne'er can expect 
They will tell us the old story over again. 

yames A'emty. 

Lyra Elegantiantm. 233 



O, NEVER talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Altho' her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 

Prometheus-like from Heaven she stole 

The fire that thro' those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll. 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 

Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession ; 
But, born beneath a brighter sun. 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
And who, — when fondly, fairly won — 

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 

The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, tho' it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long, and love you dearly 

The Spanish girl that meets your love 
Ne'er taunts )'0u with a mock denial ; 

For every thought is bent to prove 
Her passion in the hour of trial. 

234 Lyra Elegaiiharum. 

When thronging foemen menace Spain 
She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 

And should her lover press the plain, 
She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 

And when beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero; 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Chiistian knight or Moorish hero ; 
Or counts her beads with faiiy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper ; 
Or joins devotion's choral band 

To chant the sweet and hallow'd vesper : 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her : 
Then let not maids less fair reprove, 

Because her bosom is not colder ; 
Thro' many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 

Lord ByroK. 

The time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scom'd the lore she brought me, 

]\Iy only books 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly's all they taught nie. 

Her smile when Beauty gi'anted, 
1 hung with gaze enchanted. 

Like him the sprite 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
Like him, too, Beauty won me; 
But when the spell was on me, 

If once their ray 

Was tuincd away, 
O ! winds could not outrun me. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 235 

And are those follies going ? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or \vise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing ? 
No— vain, alas ! th' endeavour 
From bonds so sweet to sever ; — 

Poor Wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever. 

Thomas Moore. 


If I freely may discover 

What would please me in my lover, 

I would have her faire and wittie, 

Savouring more of court than cittie ; 

A little proud, but full of pittie : 

Light and humorous in her toying, 

Oft building hopes, and soone destroying 

Long but sweet in the enjoying, 

Neither too easie, nor too hard. 

All extremes I would have barr'd. 

She should be allow'd her passions, 
So they were but used as fashions. 
Sometimes froward and tlien frowning. 
Sometimes sickish and then swooning. 
Every fit with change still crowning. 
Purely jealous, I would have her. 
Then onely constant when I crave her. 
'Tis a virtue should not save her. 
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me, 
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me. 

Btn Jonson. 

236 Lyra Elegantiaritrn. 



From oil hoard the Lisbon Packet. 

Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going, 

Our embargo's off at last ; 
Favourable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gi;n is fired ; 
Sailors swearing, women screaming, 
Tell us that our time's expired. 
Here's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the Custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking. 
Cases cracking: 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring. 

And all hands must ply the oar ; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering, 

We're impatient — push from shore. 
" Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 

Stop the boat — I'm sick— O lord! " 
" Sick, ma'am, hang it, you'll be sicker 
Ere you've been an hour on board." 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Ganmai, ladies, servants, Jacks; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling. 
Stuck together close as wax, — 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the Captain , 
Gallant Kidd commands the crew ; 

Passengers their berths are clapt in. 
Some to grumble — some to spew. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 237 

"Heyday! call you that a cabin? 

Why 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
Who the deuce can harbour there?" 
" Who, sir?— plenty- 
Nobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill. " 
"Did they? Bacchus, 
How you pack us ! 
Would to Heaven they did so still : 
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
Bear a hand you jolly tar, you ! 

Here's a rope's-end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses 
As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits forth — and d — s our souls. 
"Here's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help!" — "A couplet?" — "No, a cup 
Of wami water" — 
" What's the matter?" 
"Zounds, my liver's coming up; 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this bmtal Lisbon Packet." 

Now at length we're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is. 

As philosophers allow, 
Still to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things. 
Great and small th.ings. 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we're quaffing, 
Let's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more ? 

238 Lyra Elegant iar urn. 

Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
Even on board the Lisbon Packet? 

Lord Byron. 

cccxx. • 


As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, 

With a pitcher of milk from tlie fair of Coleraine, 

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, 
And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. 

O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, 
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 

'Twas the pride of my dairy, O, Barney M 'Leary, 
You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. 

I sat down beside her, — and gently did chide her. 
That such a misfortune should give her such pain, 

A kiss then I gave her, — before I did leave her, 
She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 

'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, 
Misfortunes will never come single, — that's plain, 

For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster. 
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 

Edward LysagliL 


In London I never know what I'd be at, 
Enraptured with this, and enchanted %vith that ; 
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan. 
And Life seems a blessing too happy for man. 

But the Country, Lord help me ! sets all matters riglit, 
So calm and composing from morning to night ; 
Oh ! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen 
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green. 

In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope. 
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope ; 
What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days ? 
It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. 

Lyra Elegantiartim. 239 

111 the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, 
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ; 
Or go crawling from window to window, to see 
A pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree. 

In London, if folks ill together are put, 
A bore may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut ; 
We change without end ; and if lazy or ill, 
All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. 

In the country you're nail'd, like a pale in the park, 
To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark ; 
And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down, 
You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town. 

In London how easy we visit and meet. 
Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat : 
Our morning's a round of good-humour'd delight. 
And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. 

In the country, how sprightly ! our visits we make 
Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake ; 
With tiie coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, 
And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog. 

In London the spirits are cheerful and light. 
All places are gay and all faces are bright ; 
We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim, 
Each day on a fresli tide of pleasure we swim. 

But how gay in the country ! what summer delight 
To be waiting for winter from morning to night ! 
Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee 
To relish the sweet rural subjects we see. 

In town we've no use for the skies overhead. 
For when the sun rises tlien we go to bed ; 
And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon, 
She shines out of season, like satin in June. 

In the country these planets delightfully glare 
Just to sliow us the object we want isn't there ; 
O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise. 
To sit and gaze round witli the tears in one's eyes ! 

240 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

But 'tis in the country alone we can find 
That happy resource, that relief of the mind, 
When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, 
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake : 

Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete 

To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ; 

But what is all that to the transport we feel 

Wlren we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel ? 

I have heard tho', that love in a cottage is sweet. 
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet : 
That's to come — for as yet I, alas ! am a swain 
Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. 

Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees, 
And chatter their transports in groves, if they please : 
But a house is much more to my taste than a tree. 
And for groves, O ! a good grove of chimneys for me. 

In the countr)', if Cupid should find a man out. 
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about ; 
But in London, thank Heaven ! our peace is secure. 
Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. 

I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy, 

That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye ; 

But in London these devils so quick fly about. 

That a new devil still drives an old devil out. 

In town let me live then, in to\%'n let me die. 
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. 
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, 
O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ! 

Captain Charles Morris 



For many a winter in Billiter-lane, 

My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain 

At Christmas the family met there to dine 

On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. 

Lyra Elegantiarnin. 24 1 

Our bark has now taken a contrary heel, 
My wife has found out that the sea is genlccl. 
To Brighton we duly go scampering down, 
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, 
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors, 
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind. 
Our arm-chair and sofo, are all left behind. 
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window'd box, 
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks ; 
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown, — 
L)Ut nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time. 

The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme. 

The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen. 

We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen : 

These pastimes gave oil to Time's round-about wheel, 

Before we began to be growing genteel ; 

'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown. 

But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, 
Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop ; 
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff. 
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the Cliff : 
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt, 
With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt, 
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown, 
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon, 
And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon; 
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot. 
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut. 
At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane, 
And murmur in secret,— " Oh, Billiter-lane !" 
But would not express what I tliink for a crown. 
For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, 
His Majesty never invilcs me to dine ; 
The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the pier, 
Which makes me suspcut that I'm nobody here. 


i^i Lyra Elegantiaritnt. 

If that be the case, why then welcome again 
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane. 
Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, 
That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 

James Smith. 


As Dick and I 

Were a-sailing by 
At Fnlham bridge, I cock'd my eye, 

And says I, " Add-zooks ! 

Tha"e's Theodore Hook's, 
Whose Sayings and Doings make such pretty books. 

*' I wonder," says I, 

Still keeping my eye 
On the house, "if he's in — I should like to try ;" 

With his oar on his knee. 

Says Dick, says he, 
" Father, suppose you land and see !" 

" What land and sea" 

Says I to he, 
" Together ! why Dick, why how can that be ? " 

And my comical son. 

Who is fond of fun, 
I thought would have split his sides at the pun. 

So we rows to shore. 

And knocks at the door — 
When William, a man I've seen often before, 

Makes answer and says, 

" Master's gone in a chaise 
Call'd a homnibus, drawn by a couple of bays." 

So I says then, 
"Just lend me a pen : " 
" I will, sir," says William, politest of men; 
So having no card, these poetical brayings, 
Are the record I leave of my doings and sayings. 
Richard H, Barham. 

Lyra £legantiarum. 243 


Jenny kiss'd me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief ! wlio love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in. 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have miss'd me ; 
Say I'm growing old, but add — 

Jenny kiss'd me ! 

Leigh Hunt. 


Skrene and tranquil was the night. 
The night that closed the summer day, 

And brilliant was the moon and bright 
And soft and tender was her ray. 

How like our loves, the husband cried, 

As on his arm Louisa hung ; 
Louisa was but just a bride, 

And both were fond and both were young, 

This moon how like our love, my dear, 
He said, and clasp'd her round the waist, 

'Tis pure and perfect and sincere, 
Tender and true and warm and chaste. 

Time flew — the youthful pair again 

Enjoyed at eve the stilly vale, 
The moon still shone, but in her wane, 

Her form less round, her face more pale* 

This too is like our love — my queen, 
For tho' less radiant and less bright, 

Yet still o'er all this sylvan scene 
She sheds a mild and pleasing light. 

244 Lyra Elegantiarutn. 

Louisa gently bow'd her head, 
And yet a sigh escaped her breast, 

Perhaps the fair one would have said, 
She liked the first bright moon the best. 




Tell me not of joy : there's none 
Now my little sparrow's gone ; 
He, just as you 
Would toy and woo, 
He would chirp and flatter me, 
He would hang the wing awhile. 
Till at length he saw me smile, 
Lord, how sullen he would be ! 

He would' catch a crumb, and then 
Sporting let it go again. 
He from my lip 
Would moisture sip. 
He would from my trencher feed, 
Then would hop, and then would run. 
And cry " Philip " when h' had done, 
O whose heart can choose but bleed ? 

O, how eager would he fight ! 
And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite : 
No mom did pass 
But on my glass 
He would sit, and mark, and do 
What I did : now I'uffle all 
Plis feathers o'er, now let 'em fall, 
And then straightway sleek 'em too. 

Whence will Cupid get his darts 
Feather'd now to pierce our hearts ? 
A wound he may, 
Not love convey. 
Now this faithful bird is gone. 
O let mournful turtles join 
With loving red-breasts, and com bins 
To sing dirges o'er his slone. 

William CarLwright. 

Lyra Elegatiiiarum. 245 


Try not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain, 
To stop your tears, to hide your pain, 

Or check your honest rage ; 
Give son'ow and revenge their scope, 
My present joy, your future hope, 

Lies murder'd in his cage. 

Matzel's no more ! ye Graces, Loves, 
Ye hnnets, nightingales, and doves. 

Attend th' untimely bier ; 
Let every sorrow be express'd, 
Beat with your wings each mournful breast. 

And drop the nat'ral tear. 

For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine, 
Who loved thy tuneful notes, shall join 

In thy funereal verse ; 
My painful task shall be to write 
Th' eternal dirge which they indite. 

And hang it on thy hearse. 

In height of song, in beauty's pride, 
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died — 

But vengeance shall have way. 
On pains and tortures I'll refine ; 
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine 

His nine will ill repay. 

In vain I loved, in vain T moum 
My bird, who never to return, 

Is fled to happier shades, 
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare 
The place most charming and most fair 

Of all the Elysian glades. 

There shall thy notes in cypress grove 
Soothe wretched ghosts that died for love 
There shall thy plaintive strain 

246 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Lull impious Phaedra's endless grief, 
To Procris yield some short relief, 
And soften Dido's pain. 

Till Proserpine by chance shall hear 
Thy notes, and make thee all her care, 

And love thee with my love ; 
While each attendant's soul shall praise 
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays. 

And all his songs approve. 

Sir Charles H. Williams, 



'TwAS on a lofty vase's side, 
Where China's gayest art had dyed 

The azure flowers that blow ; 
Demurest of the tabby kind, 
The pensive Selima, reclined, 

Gazed on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declared : 
The fair round face, the snowy beard, 

The velvet of her paws. 
Her coat that with the tortoise vies. 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes — 

She saw ; and purr'd applause. 

Still had she gazed ; but midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 

The genii of the stream : 
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple to the view 

Betray'd a golden gleam. 

The hapless nymph with wonder saw: 
A whisker first, and then a claw. 

With many an ardent wish. 
She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize, 
What female heart can gold despise ? 

What cat's averse to fish? 

Lyra Elegatitiarum. 247 

Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
Again she stretch'd, again she bent, 

Nor knew the gulf between. 
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled 

She tumbled headlong in. 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mew'd to every watery god, 

Some speedy aid to send. 
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd ; 
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard — 

A favourite has no friend ! 

From hence ye beauties undeceived, 
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved. 

And be with caution bold : 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts is lawful prize. 

Nor all, that glisters, gold. 

Thomas Gray. 


Time was when I was free as air, 
The thistle's downy seed my fare, 

My drink the morning dew; 
I perch'd at will on every spray. 
My form genteel, my plumage gay, 

My strains for ever new. 

3ut gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, 
And form genteel, were all in vain, 

And of a transient date ; 
For caught, and caged, and stai^ved to death, 
In dying sighs my little breath 

Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes. 
And thanks for this effectual close 
And cure of every ill ! 

248 . Lyra Elegantiaritiii. 

More cruelty could none express ; 

And I, if you had shown me less, 

Had been your prisoner still. 

Willia/n Cowper. 



The greenhouse is my summer seat ; 
My shrubs displaced from that retreat 

Enjoy'd the open air; 
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song 
Had been their mutual solace long, 

Lived happy piisoners there. 

They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
That flutter loose on golden wing, 

And frolic where they list ; 
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, 
But that delight they never knew, 

And therefore never miss'd. 

But nature works in eveiy breast. 

Instinct is never quite suppressVl ; 
And Dick felt some desires. 
Which, after many an effort vain. 
Instructed him at length to gain 
A pass between his wires. 

The open windows seem'd t' invite 
The freeman to a farewell flight ; 

But Tom was still confined ; 
And Dick, although his way was clear. 
Was much too generous and sincere. 

To leave his friend behind. 

For, settling on his gi-ated roof, 

He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof 

That he desired no more ; 
Nor would forsake his cage at last 
Till gently seized I shut him fast, 

A prisoner as before. 

Lyra Elegant ianitn. 249 

O ye, who never knew the joys 
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, 

Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
A prison with a friend preferr'd 

To liberty without. 

William Cowper. 


Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue 
Nor swifter greyhound follow. 

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo. ^ 

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
Who, nursed with tender care. 

And to domestic bounds confined, 
Was still a wild Jack-hare. 

Though duly from my hand he took 

His pittance every night. 
He did it witli a jealous look. 

And, when he could, would bite. 

His diet was of wheaten bread, 
And milk, and oats, and straw ; 

Thistles, or lettuces instead. 
With sand to scour his maw. 

On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd, 

On pippins' russet peel. 
And, when his juicy salads fail'd, 

Sliced carrot pleas'd him well. 

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, 

Whereon he lov'd to bound. 
To skip and gambol like a fawn. 

And swing his rump around. 

His frisking was at evening hours. 

For then he lost his fear, 
But most before approaching showers, 

Or when a storm drew near. 

250 Lyra Elegatitiamm. 

Eight years and five round-rolling moons 

He thus saw steal away, 
Dozing out all his idle noons, 

And every night at play. 

I kept him for his humour's sake, 

For he would oft beguile 
My heart of thoughts that made it ache, 

And force me to a smile. 

But now beneath his walnut shade 
He finds his long last home, 

And waits, in snug concealment laid, 
Till gentler Puss shall come. 

He, still more aged, feels the shocks, 
From which no care can save. 

And, partner once of Tiney's box, 
Must soon partake his grave. 

William Cowper. 


Wanton droll, whose harmless play 

Beguiles the rustics' closing day. 

When, drawn the evening fire about, 

Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, 

And child upon his three-foot stool, 

Waiting till his supper cool ; 

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose. 

As bright the blazing faggot glows, 

Who, bending to the fiiendly light, 

Plies her task with busy sleight ; 

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, 

Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coil'd and crouching low. 
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe, — 
The housewife's spindle whirling round. 
Or thread or straw, that on the ground 
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye: 

Lyra Elegantiarmn. 251 

Then onward stealing, fiercely spring 

Upon the futile faithless thing. 

Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, 

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 

As oft beyond thy curving side 

Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 

And see ! — the start, the jet, the bound, 

The giddy scamper round and round, 

With leap and toss and high curvet, 

And many a whirling somerset. 

The featest tumbler, stage bedight. 
To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains ; 
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requite him oft with praises loud. 
But, stopp'd awhile thy wanton play. 
Applauses too thy pains repay, 
For now, beneath some urchin's hand 
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, 
While many a stroke of kindness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides. 
Dilated swells thy glossy fur 
And loudly sings thy busy purr 
As, timing well the equal sound. 
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground. 
And all their harmless claws disclose, 
Like prickles of an early rose ; 
While softly from thy whiskered cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage fire 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire. 
Even he, whose mood of gloomy bent. 
In lonely tower or prison pent, 
Reviews the coil of fonner days. 
And loathes the world and all its ways. 
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
Hath roused him from his moody dream, 
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat, 
liis heart of pride less fiercely beat. 
And smiles, a link in thee to find. 
That joins it still to living kind. 

252 Lyra Elegaittiarurn. 

Whence liast thou, then, thou witless puss ( 

The magic power to chann us tlius ? 

Is it that in thy glaring eye 

And rapid movements, we descry — 

Whilst we at ease, secure from ill, 

The chimney comer snugly fill, — 

A lion darting on its prey, 

A tiger at his ruthless play? 

Or is it that in thee we trace 

With all thy varied wanton grace, 

An emblem, view'd with kindred eye, 

Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 

Ah ! many a lightly sportive child. 

Who hath like thee our wits beguiled, 

To dull and sober manhood grown, 

With strange recoil our hearts disown. 

And so, poor kit ! must thou endure. 
When thou becom'st a cat demure. 
Full many a cuff and angry word, 
Chas'd roughly from the tempting board. 
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 
So oft our favour'd playmate been. 
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, 
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love. 
Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat 
A comely, careful, mousing cat, 
Whose dish is, for the public good. 
Replenished oft with savoury food. 
Nor, when thy span of life is past, 
Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast, 
But gently borne on goodman's spade. 
Beneath the decent sod be laid; 
And children show with glistening eyes 
The place where poor old pussy lies. 

Joanna Baillie. 



Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said. 
When piping winds are hush'd around, 
A small note wakes from underground, 

Where now his tiny bones are laid. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 253 

No more in lone and leafless gi'oves, 

With niffled wing and faded breast, 
His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 

— Gone to the world where birds are blest ! 
Where never cat glides o'er the green, 
Or schoolboy's giant form is seen ; 
But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring 
Inspire their little souls to sing ! 

Samuel Rogers. 


Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast 

Three kittens sat ; each kitten looked aghast. 

I, passing swift and inattentive by, 

At the tliree kittens cast a careless eye; 

Not much concerned to know what they did there ; 

Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 

But presently a loud and furious hiss 

Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, " What's this?" 

Wlien lo ! upon the threshold met my view, 

With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 

A viper, long as Comit de Grasse's queue. 

Forth from his head his forked tongiic he throws, 

Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 

Who, never having seen, in field or house, 

The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; 

Only projecting, with attention due, 

Her whisker'd face, she asked him, " Who are you?' 

On to the hall went I, wAxSx pace not slow, 

But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 

Witli which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, 

To find tlie viper, but I found him not. 

And, turning up the leaves and shnibs around, 

Found only tliat he was not to be found. 

But still the kittens, sitting as before. 

Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 

" I hope," said I, " the villain I would kill 

Has slipt between the door and the door-sill; 

And if I make despatch, and follow hard, 

No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:" 

254 Lyra Elegantianim. 

For long ere now it should have been rehears'd, 
'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat 
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat ; 
As curious as the kittens erst had been 
To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight, 
And fearing every moment he would bite, 
And rob our household of our only cat 
That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door. 
And taught him never to come there no more. 

Willi am Cowper, 



There is a bird, who by his coat. 
And by the hoarseness of his note, 

Might be supposed a crow ; 
A great frequenter of the church, 
Where bishop-like he finds a perch, 

And dormitory too. 

Above the steeple shines a plate, 
That turns and turns, to indicate 

From what point blows the weather : 
Look up — your brains begin to swim, 
'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him, 

He chooses it the rather. 

P'ond of the speculative height, 
Thither he wings his airy flight, 

And thence securely sees 
The bustle and the rareeshow 
That occupy mankind below, 

Secure and at his ease. 

Vou think, no doubt, he sits and muses 
On future broken bones and bruises, 

If he should chance to fall. 
No ; not a single thought like that 
Employs his philosophic pate, 

Or troubles it at all. 

Lyra Eleganiiarum. 25 

He sees that this great roundabout, 
The world, with all its motley rout, 

Church, army, physic, law, 
Its customs, and its businesses, 
Is no concern at all of his. 

And says — what says he? — Caw. 

Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 
Much of the vanities of men ; 

And, sick of having seen 'em. 
Would clicerfully these limbs resign 
For such a pair of wings as thine. 

And such a head between 'em. 

William Cowper. 



Behold with downcast eyes and modest glance. 
In measur'd step, a well-dress'd pair advance. 
One hand on hers, the other on her hip, 
« • • * 

For thus the law's ordain'd by Baron Trip. 
'Twas in such posture our first parents moved. 
When hand in hand tliro' Eden's bowers they roved, 
Ere yet the devil, with practice foul and false, 
Turn'd their poor heads, and taught them how to waltz. 
Rt. Iloiible. Richard B, Sheridan. 



DE.A.R Joseph — five and twenty years ago — 
Alas, how time escapes ! — 'tis even so — 
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet. 
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
A tedious hour — and now we never meet ! 
As some grave gentleman in Terence says 
('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), 
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings — 
Strange fluctuation of all human things! 

256 Lyra Eleganiiariiin. 

True. Changes will befall, and friends may part. 
But distance only cannot change the heart : 
And, were I call'd to prove th' assertion tme. 
One proof should serve — a reference to you. 

Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life. 
Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, 
We find the friends we fancied we had won. 
Though num'rous once, reduced to few or none? 
Can gold grow worthless, that has stood the touch ? 
No ; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. 

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, 
Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, 
Dreading a negative, and overaw'd 
Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
Go, fellow! — whither? — turning short about — 
Nay. Stay at home — you're always going out. 
'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. — 
For what? — An please you, sir, to see a friend. — 
A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start — 
Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. — 
And fetch my cloak ; for, though the night be raw, 
I'll see him too — the first I ever saw. 

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, 
And was his plaything often when a child ; 
But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close. 
Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd. 
His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; 
Perhaps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth. 
The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. 
Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, 
Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 

But not to moralise too much, and strain 
To prove an evil, of which all complain, 
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun), 
One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
Once on a time an emp'ror, a wise man, 
No matter where, in China or Japan, 
Decreed, that whosoever should offend 
Against the well-known duties of a friend. 
Convicted once should ever after wear 
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
That all was naught within, and all found out. 

Lyra Elegatitiarum. 2^^ 

O happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
Else, could a law, like that which I relate, 
Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
Some few, that I have known in days of old. 
Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold ; 
While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, 
I^Iight traverse England safely to and fro, 
An honest man, close button'd to the chin, 
Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. 

IVilHam Ccnvper. 


Addressed to Miss Stapleton. 

She came — she is gone — we have met — 

And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 

And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina has fled like a dream — 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
But has left a regret and esteem, 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last ev'ning ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress was often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
We paused under many a tree. 

And much she was chann'd with a tone 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

My numbers that day she had sung. 

And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard, I esteem'd 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And e'en to myself never seem'd 

So tuneful a poet before. 

258 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 

In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 

Would feel herself happier here; 
For the close-woven arches of limes 

On the banks of our river, I know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught that the city can show. 

So it is, when the mind is endued 

With a well-judging taste from above ; 
Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 

'Tis nature alone that we love. 
Th' achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our wonder excite, 
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice, 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds. 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, 

To wing all her moments at home ; 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire. 

As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
She will have just the life she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear. 
And ours would be pleasant as hers. 

Might we view her enjoying it here. 

William Ccnvfer. 



Distracted with care. 
For Phillis the fair. 
Since nothing can move her, 
Poor Damon, her lover, 

Lyra Elegant iarinit. 259 

Resolves in despair 
No longer to languish, 
Nor bear so much anguish ; 
But, mad with his love, 

To a precipice goes, 
Where a leap from above 

Will soon finish his woes. 

When, in rage, he came there, 

Beholding how steep 
The sides did appear, 

And the bottom how deep ; 
His tonnents projecting, 
And sadly reflecting 
That a lover forsaken 

A new lover ma}- get ; 
But a neck, when once broken, 

Can never be set : 

And that he could die 

Whenever he would ; 
But that he could live 

But as long as he could ; 
How grievous soever 

The torment might gi'ow, 
He scom'd to endeavour 

To finish it so. 
But bold, unconcem'd. 

At the thoughts of the pain. 
He calmly retum'd 

To his cottage again. 

William Walsh. 



A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, 
While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; 
A river ran mournfully murmuring by. 
And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 

" O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore ! " 
" O, never was maid so deserted before! " 

26o Lyra Elegaittiarum. 

" From life and its woes let us instantly fly, 
And jump in together for company!" 

They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, 
But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; 
" How tiresome it is ! " said the fair with a sigh ; 
So they sat down to rest them in company. 

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; 
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height ! 
"One mournful embrace;" sobb'd the youth, "ere we die !' 
So kissing and ciying kept company. 

" O, had I but loved such an angel as you ! " 
" O, had but my swain been a quarter as true !" 
" To miss such perfection how blinded was I !" 
Sure now they were excellent company ! 

At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, 
" The weather is cold for a watery bier ; 
When summer returns we may easily die, 
Till then let us sorrow in company." 

Regitiald Ilcber. 



I THINK, whatever mortals crave. 

With impotent endeavour, — 
A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, — 

The world goes round for ever : 
I think that life is not too long ; 

.iVnd therefore I determine. 
That many people read a song 

Who will not read a sermon. 

I think you've look'd through many hearts. 

And mused on many actions. 
And studied Man's component parts. 

And Nature's compound fractions : 
I think you've pick'd up truth by bits 

From foreigner and neighbour ; 
T think the world has lost its wits, 

And you have lost your labour. 

Lyra Elegantiantm. 261 

I think the studies of the wise, 

The hero's noisy quarrel, 
The majesty of Woman's eyes, 

The poet's cherish'd laurel, 
And all that makes us lean or fat. 

And all that charms or troubles,- - 
This bubble is moie bright than that, 

But still they are all bubbles. 

I think the thing you call Renown, 

The unsubstantial vapour 
For which the soldier burns a town. 

The sonnetteer a taper. 
Is like the mist which, as he flies. 

The horseman leaves behind him ; 
He cannot mark its wreaths arise, 

Or if he does they blind him. 

I think one nod of Mistress Chance 

Makes creditors of debtors, 
And shifts the funeral for the dance. 

The sceptre for the fetters : 
I think that Fortune's favour'd guest 

May live to gnaw the platters, 
And he that wears the purple vest 

May wear the rags and tatters. 

I think the Tories love to buy 

"Your Lordship"s and "your Grace"s, 
By loathing common honesty. 

And lauding commonplaces : 
T think that some are very wise. 

And some are very funny, 
And some grow rich by telling lies, 

And some by telling money. 

I think the Whigs are wicked knaves^ — 

(And very like the Tories) — 
Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, 

And ask the price of glories : 
I think that many fret and fume 

At what their friends are planning, 
And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham 

As much as Mr. Canning. 

262 Lyra Elegantiarjtm. 

I think that friars and their hoods, 

Their doctrines and their maggots, 
Have lighted up too many feuds, 

And far too many faggots : 
I think, while zealots fast and frown, 

And fight for two or seven. 
That there are fifty roads to Town, 

And rather more to Heaven. 

I think that, thanks to Paget's lance, 

And thanks to Chester's learning, 
The hearts that bum'd for fame in France 

At home are safe from burning : 
I think the Pope is on his back ; 

And, though 'tis fun to shake him, 
I think the Devil not so black 

As many people make him. 

I think that Love is like a play, 

Where tears and smiles are blended, 
Or like a faithless April day. 

Whose shine with shower is ended : 
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough. 

Like trade, exposed to losses. 
And like a Highland plaid, —all stuff. 

And very full of crosses. 

I think the world, though dark it be, 

Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
Conceal'd in life's monotony. 

For those who seek the treasure ; 
One planet in a starless night. 

One blossom on a briar, 
One friend not quite a hypocrite. 

One woman not a liar ! 

I think poor beggars court St. Giles, 

Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; 
And Death looks down with nods and smiles. 

And makes the odds all even : 
I think some die upon the field, 

And some upon the billow, 
And some are laid beneath a shield. 

And some beneath a willow. 

Lyra Elegant iariun. 26: 

I think that veiy few have sigh'd 

When Fate at last has found them> 
Though bitter foes were by their side, 

And barren moss around them : 
I think that some have died of drought, 

And some have died of drinking; 
I think that nought is worth a thought, — 

And I'm a fool for thinking ! 

VVinthrop M. Fraed. 


'TwAS in heaven pronounced — it was mutter'd in hell, 
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest. 
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd. 
'Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder, 
Be seen in the light'ning, and heard in the thunder. 
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath. 
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death : 
Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health. 
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. 
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care. 
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, 

With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd. 

Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, 

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! 

In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found. 

Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd. 

'Twill not soften the heart ; and tho' deaf be the ear, 

It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 

Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, 

Ah, breathe on it softly — it dies in an hour. 

Catherine Fanshawe. 

264 Lyj-a Elegantiariim. 


Come from my First, ay, come ; 

The battle dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 

Are calling thee to die ; 
Fight, as thy father fought ; 

Fall, as thy father fell : 
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; 

So, forward ! and farewell ! 

Toll ye my Second, toll ; 

Fling high the flambeau's light; 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul 

Beneath the silent night ; 
The helm upon his head. 

The cross upon his breast. 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed ; 

Now take him to his rest ! 

Call ye my Whole, go, call ; 

The Lord of lute and lay ; 
And let-him greet the sable pall 

With a notsle song to-day : 
Ay, call him by his name ; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's grave ! 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



So look the mornings, wben the sun 
Paints them witli fresh vemiilion ; 
So cherries blush, and Catherine pears, 
And apricots, in youtliful years ; 
So corals look more lovely red, 
And rubies lately polished ; 

Lyra Elegaiitianini. 265 

So purest diaper doth thine, 
Stained by the beams of claret wine; 
As Juha looks, when she doth dress 
Her either cheek with bashfulness. 

Robert Ilerrick. 


Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead, 
With nothing in the world to do. 

But just to blow a shepherd's reed, 
The silent seasons thro' : — 

And just to drive a flock to feed, — 
Sheep, — quiet, fond, and few! 

Pleasant to breathe beside a brook, 

And count the bubbles, love- worlds, there; 

To muse within some minstrel's book, 
Or watch the haunted air ; — 

To slumber in some leafy nook, — 
Or idle anj'^vhere. 

And then, a draught of nature's wine, 
A meal of summer's daintiest fruit ; 

To take the air with forms divine ; 
Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute; 

Descending, if the night be fine, 
In a star-parachute. 

Give me to live with Love alone, 

And let the world go dine and dress; 

For Love hath lowly haunts — a stone 
Holds something meant to bless. 

If life's a flower, I choose my own — 
'Tis "Love in Idleness." 

Larnan Blaiichard. 

266 Lyra Elegantiartun. 


I ASKED my fair one happy day, 
What I should call her in my lay ; 

By what sweet name from Rome or Greece 
Lalage, Necera, Chloris, 
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 

Arethusa or Lucrece. 

" Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 
"Beloved, what are names but air? 

Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
Call me Lalage or Doris, 

Only, only call me thine." 

Samuel T. Coleridi^e. 



Why write viy name 'midst songs and flowers, 

To meet the eye of lady gay ? 
I have no voice for lady's bowers — 

For page like this no fitting lay. 

Yet tho' my heart no more must bound 
At witching call of sprightly joys, 

Mine is the brow that never frown'd 
On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes. 

No — though behind me now is clos'd 

The youthful paradise of Love, 
Yet can I bless, with soul compos'd, 

The lingerers in that happy grove ! 

Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take ! 

Where'er amid its charms you roam ; 
Or where, by western hill or lake. 

You brighten a serener home. 

Lyra Elegaiitiarum, 267 

And while the youthful lover's name 

Here with the sister beauty's blends, 
Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim, 

That to their list would add a friend's ! 

Francis, Lord Jeffrey. 



Thou record of the votive throng, 

That fondly seek this fairy shrine, 
And pay the tribute of a song 

Where worth and loveliness combine, — 

What boots that I, a vagrant wight 

From clime to clime still wandering on, 

Upon thy friendly page should write 
— Who'll think of me when I am gone ? 

Go plough the wave, and sow the sand ! 

Throw seed to ev'ry wind that blows ; 
Along the highway strew thy hand, 

And fatten on the crop that grows. 

For even thus the man that roams 
On heedless hearts his feeling spends ; 

Strange tenant of a thousand homes, 

And friendless, with ten thousand friends ! 

Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace. 

To ask in after times a thought ! 
To say that here a resting-place 

My wayworn heart has fondly sought. 

So the poor pilgrim heedless strays, 
Unmoved, thro' many a region fair ; 

But at some shrine his tribute pays 
To tell that he has worshipp'd there. 

\Vashi)igton Ij-ving. 

268 Lyra Elegantiariun . 


A Bard, dear muse, unapt to sing, 

Your friendly aid beseeches. 
Help me to touch the lyric string, 

In praise of Burnham-beeches. 

What the' my tributary lines 

Be less like Pope's than Creech's, 

The theme, if not the poet, shines. 
So bright are Burnham-beeches. 

O'er many a dell and upland walk. 

Their sylvan beauty reaches, 
Of Birnam-wood let Scotland talk. 

While we've our Burnham-beeches. 

Oft do I linger, oft return, 

(Say, who my taste impeaches) 

Where holly, juniper, and fern, 

Spring up round Burnham-beeches. 

Tho' deep embower'd their shades among, 
The owl at midnight screeches. 

Birds of far merrier, sweeter song, 
Enliven Burnham-beeches. 

If "sermons be in stones," Til bet 

Our vicar, when he preaches. 
He'd find it easier far to get 

A hint from Burnham-beeches. 

Their glossy rind here winter stains, 
Here the hot solstice bleaches. 

Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, graceful planes 
Ye match not Burnham-beeches. 

Gardens may boast a tempting show 
Of nectarines, gra]3es, and peaches, 

But daintiest truffles lurk below 
The boughs of Burnham-beeches. 

Lyra Ekgantiarum. 269 

Poets and painters, hither hie, 

Here ample room for each is 
With pencil and with pen to try 

His hand at Burnham-beeches. 

When monks, by holy Church well schooled, 

Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches, 
Cnred souls and bodies, judged or ruled. 

Then flourished Burnham-beeches, 

Skirting the convent's walls of yore, 

As yonder ruin teaches. 
But shaven crown and co\\'l no more 

Shall darken Burnham-beeches. 

Here bards have mused, here lovers true 

Have dealt in softest speeches, 
Wliile suns declined, and, parting, threw 

Their gold o'er Burnham-beeches. 

O ne'er may woodman's axe resound, 

Nor tempest, making breaches 
In the sweet shade that cools the ground 
Beneath our Burnham-beeches. 

Hold ! tho' I'd fain be jingling on. 

My power no further reaches — 
Again that rhyme ? enough — I've done, 
Farewell to Burnham-beeches. 

Henry Luttrell. 


Love me, Sweet, with all thou art. 

Feeling, thinking, seeing : 
Love me in the lightest part, 

Love me in full being. 
Love me with tliine open youth 

In its frank surrender ; 
With the vowing of thy mouth, 

With its silence tender. 
Love me with thine azure eyes, 

jNIade for earnest granting ; 
Taking colour from the skics, — 

Can Heaven's truth be wanting ? 

270 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Love me with their lids, that fall 

Snow-like at first meeting ; 
Love me with thine heart, that all 

Neighbours then see beating. 

Love me with thine hand, stretched out 

Freely, open-minded : 
Love me with thy loitering foot, — 

Hearing one behind it. 
Love me with thy voice, that turns 

.Sudden faint above me ; 
Love me with thy blush, that burns 

When I murmur, Lovt rat ! 
Love me with thy thinking soul, 

Break it to love-sighing ; 
Love me with thy thoughts, that roll 

On through living — dying. 

Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 

When the world has crown'd thee ; 
Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 

With the angels round thee. 
Love me pure, as musers do, 

Up the woodlands shady; 
Love me gaily, fast and true, 

As a winsome lady. 
Through all hopes that keep us brave, 

Further off or nigher, 
Love me for the house and grave, 

And for something higher. 
Thus, if thou wilt prove me. Dear, 

Woman's love no fable, 
I will love thee — half a year, 

As a man is able. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



Where the Author of the "Pleasures of Memory'''' was ac 
customed to sit, appear the following lines. 

Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell. 
To me, those pleasures that he sang so well. 

Lord Holland. 

Lyra EUgantiarum. 271 


How happily shelter'd is he who reposes 
In this haunt of the poet, o'ershadovv'd with roses, 
While the sun is rejoicing, unclouded, on high. 
And summer's full majesty reigns in the sky ! 

Let me in, and be seated. — I'll try if, thus placed, 
I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste, 
Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain. 
Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain. 

Well — now I am fairly install'd in the bower, 
How lovely the scene ! How propitious the hour ! 
The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs ; 
All is beauty around me ; — but nothing occurs. 
Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here and alone. 
Not a line can I hit on, that Rogers would own. 
Though my senses are ravish'd, my feelings in tune, 
And Holland's my host, and the season is June. 

The trial is ended. Nor garden, nor grove. 
Though poets amid them may linger or rove. 
Nor a seat e'en so hallow'd as this can impart 
The fancy and fire that must spring from the heart. 
So I rose, since the Muses continue to frown. 
No more of a poet than when I sat down ; 
While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can strike 
Their lyre, at all times, in ail places, alike. 

Henry Luttrell. 



Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise or witty, — 
Ere I had done with writing themes. 

Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty ; — 
Years — years ago, — while all my joy 

Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lily. 

272 Lyra Elegantiaritm. 

I saw her at the County Ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle, 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that set young hearts romancing ; 
She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 

And then she danced — O Heaven, her dancing ! 

Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ! 
Her every look, her every smile. 

Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 

And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. 

She talk'd, — of politics or prayers, — 

Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, 
Of danglers — or of dancing bears, 

Of battles — or the last new bonnets. 
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock. 

To me it matter'd not a tittle ; 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they mui^mur'd Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : 
My mother laugh'd ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
My father frown'd ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling ? 

She was the daughter of a Dean, 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
She had one brother, just thirteen. 

Whose colour was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother for many a year 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second cousin was a peer. 

And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 273 

But titles, and the three per cents., 
And mortgages, and great relations, 

And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, 
Oh wliat are they to love's sensations ? 

Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks- 
Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses 

He cares as little for the Stocks, 
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 

She sketch'd ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
She botanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; 

She made the Catalani jealous : 
She touch'd the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home, 

Well fill'd with all an album's glories ; 
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, 
And autographs of Prince Leboo, 

And recipes for elder-water. 

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored ; 

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted ; 
Her poodle dog was quite adored. 

Pier sayings were extremely quoted ; 
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, 

As if the taxes were abolish'd ; 
She frown'd, and eveiy look was sad, 

As if the Opera were demolish'd. 

She smiled on many, just for fun, — 

I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
I was the first — the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute. — 
I knew it, for she told me so, 

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand, — and oh! 

How sweetlv all her notes were folded ! 

274 L}Ta Elegantiarum. 

Our love was like most other loves ; — 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 

And " Fly not yet " — upon the river ; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir, 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
A miniature, a lock of hair. 

The usual vows, — and then we parted. 

We parted ; months and years roll'd by ; 

We met again four summers after : 
Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers ; 
And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 

But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing, 

When I was six and you were four ; 
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, 

Were pleasures soon to please no more. 
Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, 

With little playmates, to and fro. 
We wander'd hand in hand together ; 

But that was sixty years ago. 

You grew a lovely roseate maiden. 

And still our early love was strong ; 
Still with no care our days were laden, 

They glided joyously along ; 
And I did love you veiy dearly — 

How dearly, words want power to show ; 
I thought your heart was touched as nearly ; 

But that was fifty years ago. 

Then other lovers came around you, 

Your beauty grew from year to year, 
And many a splendid circle found you 

The centre of its glittering sphere- 

Lyra Eleganiiarum. 275 

I saw you then, first vows forsaking, 

On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; 
O, then, I thouglit my heart was breaking, — 

But tliat ^^'as forty years ago. 

And I lived on, to wed another : 

No cause she gave me to repine ; 
And when I heard you were a mother, 

I did not wish the children mine. 
My own young flock, in fair progression. 

Made up a pleasant Christmas row : 
My joy in them was past expression ; — 

But that was thirty years ago. 

You grew a matron plump and comely, 

You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ; 
My earthly lot was far more homely ; 

But I too had my festal days. 
No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd 

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow. 
Than when my youngest child was christen'd:^ — 

But that was twenty years ago. 

Time past. My eldest girl was married. 

And I am now a grandsire grey ; 
One pet of four years old I've carried 

Among the wild-fiower'd meads to play. 
In our old fields of childish pleasure. 

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow. 
She fills her basket's ample measure, — 

And that is not ten years ago. 

But tho' first love's impassion'd blindness 

Has pass'd away in colder light, 
I still have thought of you with kindness, 

And shall do, till our last good-night. 
The ever-rolling silent hours 

Will bring a time we shall not know, 
When our young days of gathering flowers 

Will be an hundred years ago. 

Thomas L. Peacock 

276 Lyra ElegaJitiaritm. 


" A Temple to Friendship," said Laura, enclianted, 

"I'll build in this garden, — the thought is divine !" 
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted 

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. 
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; 
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer 

Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 

" O never," she cried, " could I think of enshrining 

An image whose looks are so joyless and dim : — 
But yon little god, upon roses reclining, 

We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him." 
So the bargain was strack : with the little god laden 

She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove : 
" Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the fii-st maiden 

Who came but for Friendship and took away Love." 

Thomas Moore. 

TO . 

Composed at Rotterdam. 

I GAZE upon a city, — 
A city new and strange, — 
Down many a watery vista 
My fancy takes a range ; 
From side to side I saunter, 
And wonder where I am ; 
And caxvyou be in England, 
And / at Rotterdam ! 

Before me lie dark waters 
In broad canals and deep, 
Whereon the silver moonbeams 
Sleep, restless in their sleep ; 

Lyra FAegantiarum. 877 

A sort of vulgar Venice 
Reminds me where I nm ; 
Yes, yes, you are in England, 
And I'm at Rotterdam. 

Tall liouses with quaint gables, 
Where frequent windows shine, 
And quays that lead to bridges, 
And trees in formal line. 
And masts of spicy vessels 
From western Surinam, 
All tell me you're in England, 
But I'm in Rotterdam. 

Those sailors, how outlandish 
The face and fonn of each ! 
They deal in foreign gestures, 
And use a foreign speech ; 
A tongue not learn' d near Isis, 
Or studied by the Cam, 
Declares that you're in England, 
And I'm at Rotterdam. 

And now across a market 
My doubtful way I trace, 
Where stands a solemn statue 
The Genius of the place ; 
And to the great Erasmus 
I offer my salaam ; 
Who tells me you're in England 
But I'm at Rotterdam. 

The coffee-room is open — 
I mingle in its crowd, — 
The dominos are noisy — 
The hookahs raise a cloud; 
The flavour, none of Fearon's, 
That mingles with my dram, 
Reminds me you're in England, 
And I'm at Rotterdam. 

Then here it goes, a bumper— 
The toast it shall he mine. 
In Schiedam, or in sherry, 
Tokay, or hock of Rhine ; 

278 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

It well desei'ves the brightest, 
Where sunbeam ever swam — 
" The Girl I love in England" 
I drink at Rotterdam ! 

Thomas Hood. 



Some years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turn'd our parish topsy-tui"vy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy. 
The man who lost his way, between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Tliicket, 
Was always shown across the green. 

And guided to the Parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle. 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through' clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to say — 

" Our master knows you — you're expected.' 

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 
The lady laid her knitting down. 

Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Barrow ; 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reach'd his journey's end, 

And warm'd himself in Court or College, 
He had not gain'd an honest friend 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, — 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love or liquor, — 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame. 

And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 

Lyra Elegantiaiiim. 279 

His talk was like a stream, which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipt from politics to puns, 

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; 
And when, by dint of page and line. 

He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error, 
The Baptist found him far too deep; 

The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow ; 
And the lean Levite went to sleep, 

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His semion never said or show'd 

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius : 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them. 
For all who understood admired, 

And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote, too, in a quiet way. 

Small treatises, and smaller verses. 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 

And hints to noble Lords — and nurses; 
True histories of last year's ghost. 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban. 
And trifles for the Morning Post, 

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair. 

Although he had a knack of joking ; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Altliough he had a taste for smoking; 
And when religious sects ran mad. 

He held, in spite of all his learning. 
That if a man's belief is bad, 

It will not be improved by burning. 

28o Ly7-a Elegantiantm. 

And he was kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, 
And praise the farmer's homely wit, 

And share the widow's homelier pottage: 
At his approach complaint grew mild ; 

And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, 
The clammy lips of fever smiled 

The welcome which they could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Cresar, or of Venus; 
From him I learnt the rule of three, 

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Qua genus . 
I used to singe his powder'd wig. 

To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
And make the puppy dance a jig. 

When he began to quote Augustine. 

Alack the change ! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, — 
The level lawn, the trickling brook. 

The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled : 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more. 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you'll hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 

Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid ? — look down. 

And construe on the slab before you, 
^^ Hie jacet Gvliehnvs Brown, 

Vir nulla non donandns lauru." 

Winthrop M. Praed. 



Paris, March 30, 1832. 
You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, 
How I came thus to bolt witliout saying farewell; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 281 

And the truth is, —as tmth you will have, my sweet railer, — 

There are two worthy persons I always feel loth 
To take leave of at starting, — my mistress and tailor, — 

As somehow one always has scenes with them both : 
The Snip in ill-humour, the Syren in tears. 

She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney, — 
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, 

A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey. 

But, to come to the point, — tho' you think, I daresay, 
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, 
'Pon honour you're wrong: — such a mere bagatelle 

As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears: 
And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell, 

To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers ; 
This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of. 
Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of, 
This coinage oi nobles, — coin'd, all of them, badly, 
And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly. 

Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation, 
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation ; 
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, 
And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction, — 
Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of, 
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of! 

The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose 

(My particular friend) says is perfectly true, 
That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 

'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do ; 
And Sir George even doubts, — could he choose his disorder,— 
'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order. 

This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 
'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma ; 
And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain 

To 've left idol inio without an addio, 
Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan 

I'll send you — some news of Bellini's last trio. 

N.B. — Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out, 
Things a tourist in Italy caii't go witliout — 
Viz., a pair of,^'a;//j-^^rrtj-,.from old Iloubigant's shop. 
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. 

282 Lyra Elegantiartim. 

Small presents for ladies, — and nothing so wheedles 

The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. 

A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd, 

To think one knows Latin, when — one, perhaps, doesn't. 

With some little book about heathen mythology, 

Just large enough to refresh one's theology : 

Nothing on ea.rth being half such a bore as 

Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras, 

Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, 

And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls. 

Thomas Moore. 


From Miss Aledora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Aratnin/a 
Vavasour, in London. 

You tell me you're promised a lover, 

My own Araminta, next week ; 
Why cannot my fancy discover 

The hue of his coat and his cheek ? ' 
Alas ! if he look like another, 

A vicar, a banker, a beau, 
Be deaf to your father and mother, 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 

Taught us both how to sing and to speak. 
And we loved one another with passion. 

Before we had been there a week : 
You gave me a ring for a token ; 

I wear it wherever I go ; 
I gave you a chain, — is it broken? 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

O think of our favourite cottage. 

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! 
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 

And drank of the stream from the brook ; 
How fondly our loving lips falter'd 

" What further can grandeur bestow?" 
My heart is the same ; — is yours alter'd ? 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

Lyra Elcgaiitiamm, 283 

Remember the thrilling romances 

We read on the bank in the glen ; 
Remember the suitors our fancies 

Would picture for both of us then. 
They wore the red cross on their shoulder, 

They had vanquish'd and pardon'd their foe — 
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage 

Drove off with your cousin Justine, 
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage. 

And whisper'd " How base she has been ! " 
You said you were sure it would kill you, 

If ever your husband look'd so ; 
And you will not apostatize, — will you? 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

When I heard I was gomg abroad, love, 

I thought I was going to die; 
We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love, 

We look'd arm in arm to the sky; 
And I said " When a foreign postillion 

Has hurried me off to the Po, 
Forget not Medora Trevilian : 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' " 

We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 

Reach far over valley and hill ; 
I muse o'er your exquisite letters. 

And feel that your heart is mine still ; 
And he who would share it with me, love, — 

The richest of treasures below, — 
If he's not what Orlando should be, love, 

My own Araminta, say "No ! " 

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 

If he comes to you riding a cob. 
If he talks of his baking or brewing, 

If he puts up his feet on the hob. 
If he ever diinks port after dinner. 

If his brow or his breeding is low. 
If he calls himself " Thompson" or " Skinner,'' 

My own Araminta, say "No ! " 

284 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

If he studies the news in the papers 

While you are preparing the tea, 
If he talks of the damps or the vapours 

While moonlight lies soft on the sea, 
If he's sleepy while you are capricious, 

If he has not a musical " Oh ! " 
If he does not call Werther delicious. 

My own Araminta, say *' No ! " 

If he ever sets foot in the City 

Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 
If he has not a heart full of pity, 

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
If his lips are not redder than roses, 

If his hands are not whiter than snow. 
If he has not the model of noses, — 

My own Araminta, say " No ! " 

If he speaks of a tax or a duty. 

If he does not look grand on his knees, 
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty. 

Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
If he dotes not on desolate towers. 

If he likes not to hear the blast blow. 
If Jie knows not the language of flowers, — 

My own Araminta, say "No !" 

He must walk— like a god of old story 

Come down from the home of his rest ; 
He must smile— like the sun in his glory 

On the buds he loves ever the best ; 
And oh ! from its ivory portal 

Like music his soft speech must flow ! — 
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal. 

My own Araminta, say "No ! " 

Don't listen to tales of his bounty. 

Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
Don't look at his seat in the county. 

Don't calculate what he is worth; 
But give him a theme to write verse on. 

And see if he turns out his toe ; 
If he's only an excellent person, — 

My own Araminta, say " No !" 

Winthrop M. Praed 

Lyra Elegaiitiarum. 285 


Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately, 
On whose tender rind — 'twas a little one then — 

We carved her initials; though not very lately, 
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. 

Ves, here is the G which proclaim'd Georgiana; 

Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew; 
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a 

Conviction it now looks much more like a Q. 

This should be the gi'eat D, too, that once stood for Dobbin, 

Her loved patronymic — Ah ! can it be so ? 
Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing : 

A D ? we'll be Deed if it isn't an O ! 

Alas ! how the soul sentimental it vexes, 

That thus on our labours stem Chronos should frown ; 
Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes, 

And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down ! 

Richard H. Barhain. 


You'll come to our Ball; — since we parted, 

I've thought of you more than I'll say ; 
Indeed, I was ha"lf broken-hearted 

For a week, when they took you away. 
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 

Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
And echo'd the musical numbers 

Which you used to sing to me then. 
I know the romance, since it's over, 

'Twere idle, or worse, to recall : 
I know you're a terrible rover ; 

But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball ! 

It's only a year, since, at College, 

You put on your cap and your gown ; 

But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge. 
And changed from tlie spur to the crown : 

286 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

The voice that was best when it falter'd 

Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
And the smile that should never have alter'd — 

Dear Clarence — it is not your own : 
Your cravat is badly selected ; 

Your coat don't become you at all; 
And why is your hair so neglected? 

You must have it curl'd for our Ball. 

I've often been out upon Haldon 

To look for a covey with pup ; 
I've often been over to Shaldon, 

To see how your boat is laid up : 
In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 

I've ridden the filly you broke ; 
And I've studied your sweet little Dante 

In the shade of your favourite oak : 
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 

I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, 

Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. 

You'll find us all changed since you vanish'd ; 

We've set up a National School; 
And waltzing is utterly banish'd. 

And Ellen has married a fool ; 
The Major is going to travel. 

Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, 
The walk is laid down with fresh gi^avel. 

Papa is laid ujd with the gout ; 
And Jane has gone on with her easels. 

And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; 
And Fanny is sick with the measles, — 

And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 

You'll meet all your Beauties ; the Lily, 

And the Fairy of Willowbrook FaiTn, 
And Lucy, who made me so silly 

At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; 
Miss INIanners, who always abused you 

For talking so much about Hock, 
And her sister, who often amused you 

By raving of rebels and Rock ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 287 

And something which surely would answer. 

An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; 
So, though you were seldom a dancer, 

You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 

But out on the World ! from the flowers 

It shuts out the sunshine of tiiith : 
It blights the green leaves in the bowers, 

It makes an old age of our youth; 
And the flow of our feeling, once in it. 

Like a streamlet beginning to freeze. 
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute. 

Grows harder by sudden degrees : 
Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; 

Sweet honey is turn'd into gall ; 
Perhaps you have no recollection 

That ever you danced at our Ball ! 

You once could be pleased with our ballads, — 

To-day you have critical ears ; 
You once could be charm'd with our salads^ 

Alas ! you've been dining with Peers ; 
You trifled and flirted with many, — 

You've forgotten the when and the how; 
There was one you liked better than any, — 

Perhaps you've forgotten her now. 
But of those you remember most newly, 

Of those who delight or enthrall. 
None love you a quarter so truly 

As some you will find at our Ball. 

They tell me you've many who flatter. 

Because of your wit and your song : 
They tell me — and what does it matter? — 

You like to be praised by the throng : 
They tell me you're shadow'd with laurel : 

They tell me you're loved by a Blue : 
They tell me you're sadly immoral — 

Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! 
But to me, you are still what I found you, 

Before you grew clever and tall; 
And you'll think of the spell that once bound you; 

And you'll come — won't you come? — to our Ball ! 
Winthrop M. Praed. 

288 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


Sweet Nea ! — for your lovely sake 

I weave these rambling numbers, 
Because I've lain an hour awake, 

And can't compose my slumbers ; 
Because your beauty's gentle light 

Is round my pillow beaming. 
And flings, I know not why, to-night, 

Some witchery o'er my dreaming! 

Because we've pass'd some joyous days. 

And danced some merry dances ; 
Because we love old Beaumont's plays, 

And old Froissart's romances ! 
Because whene'er I hear your words 

Some pleasant feeling dingers; 
Because I think your heait has cords 

That vibrate to your fingers ! 

Because you've got those long, soft curls, 

I've sworn should deck my goddess ; 
Because you're not, like other girls. 

All bustle, blush, and boddice ! 
Because your eyes are deep and blue, 

Your fingers long and rosy; 
Because a little child and you 

Would make one's home so cozy ! 

Because your little tiny nose 

Turns up so pert and funny ; 
Because I know you choose your beaux 

More for their mirth than money ; 
Because I think you'd rather twirl 

A waltz, with me to guide you. 
Than talk small nonsense with an earl, 

And a coronet beside you ! 

Because you don't object to walk, 
And are not given to fainting ; 

Because you have not learnt to talk 
Of flowers, and Poonah-painting; 

Lyra Eleganfiai-um. 289 

Because I think you'd scarce refuse 

To sew one on a button ; 
Because I know you'd sometimes choose 

To dine on simple mutton ! 

Because I think I'm just so weak 

As, some of those fine morrows, 
To ask you if you'll let me speak 

My story — and my sorrows ; 
Because the rest's a simple thing, 

A matter quickly over, 
A church — a priest — a sigh— a ring — 

And a chaise and four to Dover. 

Edward Fitzgerald. 

By a Young Invalid. 

I'm only nine-and-tvventy yet, 

Though young experience makes me sage ; 
So, how on earth can / forget 

The memory of my lost old age ? 
Of manhood's prime let others boast ; 

It comes too late, or goes too soon : 
At times the life I envy most 

Is that of slipper'd pant.aloon ! 

In days of old — a twelvemonth back ! — 

I laugh'd, and quaff'd, and chaff'd my fill ; 
And now, a broken-winded hack, 

I'm weak and worn, and faint and ill. 
Life's opening chapter pleased me well ; 

Too hurriedly I turned the page ; 
I spoil'd the volume — who can tell 

What mijlit have been my lost old age ? 

I lived my life ; I had my day ; 

And now I feel it more and more. 
The game I have no strength to play 
Seems better than it seem'd of yore. 

zgo Lyra Elegantiarum. 

I watch the sport with earnest eyes, 
That gleam with joy before it ends ; 

For plainly I can hear the cries 

That hail the triumph of my friends. 

We work so hard, we age so soon. 

We live so swiftly, one and all, 
That ere our day be fairly noon 

The shadows eastward seem to fall. 
Some tender light may gild them yet , 

As yet, it's not so very cold ; 
And, on the whole, I won't regret 

My slender chance of growing old ! 

W . J. Prowse, 


Once on a time, when sunny May 

Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers: 
Happy — he knew not whence or how, — 

And smiling, — who could choose but love him ? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow, 

Was the blue heaven that beam'd above him. 

Old Time, in most appalling wrath. 

That valley's green repose invaded ; 
The brooks grew dry upon his path, 

I'he birds were mute, the lilies faded. 
But Time so swiftly wing'd his flight. 

In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 
That Childhood watch'd his paper kite, 

And knew just nothing of the matter. 

With curling lip and glancing eye 
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; 

But Childhood's glance of purity 
Had such a holy spell within it, 

Lyra Elegantiariim . 291 

That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his baflled pinion, 
And hid his envy and despair, 

Self-tortured in his own dominion. 

Then stepp'd a gloomy phantom up, 

Pale, cypress-crown'd, Night's awful daughter, 
And proffer'd him a fearful cup 

Full to the brim of bitter water : 
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name ; 

And when the beldame mutter'd — " Sorrow," 
He said, — " Don't interrupt my game ; 

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.'.' 

The Muse of Pindus thither came. 

And woo'd him with the softest numbers 
That ever scatter'd wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
Though sweet the music of the lay. 

To Childhood it was all a riddle, 
And ' ' Oh, " he cried, ' ' do send away 

That noisy woman with the fiddle ! '' 

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 

And taught him with most sage endeavour, 
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall. 

And why no toy may last for ever. 
She talk'd of all the wondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses. 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 

Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's dreams 

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure. 
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, 

Of cherish'd love, or hoarded treasure : 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given. 
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, 

And glimpses of I'emember'd Heaven ! 

Wmthrop M. Praed. 

292 Lyra Elegantiariitn. 

I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower, 

Where roses and lilies and violets meet ; 
Roving for ever from flower to flower, 

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet ! 
I'd never languish for wealth, or for power; 

I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet : 
I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower. 

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. 

O could I piUer the wand of a fairy, 

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ; 
Their summer days' ramble is sportive and airy. 

They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
Those who have wealth must be watchful any wary; 

Power, alas ! nought but misery biiiigs ! 
I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy, 

Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings ! 

What, though you tell me each gay little rover 

Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day ! 
Surely 'tis better when summer is over 

To die when all fair things are fading away. 
Some in life's winter may toil to discover 

Means of procuring a weary delay — 
I'd be a Butterfly; living, a rover, 

Dying when fair things are fading away ! 

Tho?nas U. Bayly. 



Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you 

All life is joyous yet ; 
Your hearts have all things to pursue, 

And nothing to regret ; 
And every flower to you is fair : 

And every month is May : 
You've not been introduced to Care, - 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Lyra Elegantiaruni. 293 

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long 

Upon those sunn)- eyes ; 
The voice wliose every word is song 

Will set itself to sighs ; 
Your quiet slumbers, —hopes and fears 

Will chase their rest away : 
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears, — 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Oh yes, if any truth is found 

In the dull schoolman's theme. 
If friendship is an empty sound, 

And love an idle dream. 
If muth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue 

Too soon on life's long way, 
At least he'll run with you a league ; — 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright 

As childhood's hues depart ; 
You may be lovelier to the sight 

And dearer to the heart ; 
You may be sinless still, and see 

This earth still green and gay; 
But what you are you wiU not be : 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

O'er me have many winters crept 

With less of grief than joy ; 
But I have learn'd, and toil'd, and wept ; 

I am no more a boy ! 
I've never had the gout, 'tis true ; 

My hair is hardly grey ; 
But now I cannot laugh like you : 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

I used to have as glad a face, 

As shadowless a brow ; 
I once could run as blithe a race 

As you are running now ; 
But never mind how I behave ! 

Don't interrupt your play ; 
And though I look so verj' grave, 

Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 

Winthrop M. Praed, 

2g4 Lyra Elegantiarum. 



Twelve years ago I made a mock 

Of filthy trades and traffics : 
I wonder'd what they meant by stock ; 

I wrote dehghtful sapphics i 
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 

I supp'd with Fates and Furies, — 
Twelve years ago I was a boy, 

A happy boy, at Dairy's. 

Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought 

Of faded pains and pleasures 
Those whisper'd syllables have brought 

From Memory's hoarded treasures ! 
/he fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 

The glories and disgraces, 
The voices of dear friends, the looks 

Of old familiar faces ! 

Kind Mater smiles again to me, 

As bright as when we parted ; 
I seem again the frank, the free, 

Stout-limb'd, and simple-hearted! 
Pursuing every idle dream. 

And shunning every warning ; 
With no hard work but Bovney stream, 

No chill except Long Morning : 

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 

That rattled like a rocket ; 
Now hearing Wentworth's " Fourteen all !" 

And striking for the pocket ; 
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 

Now drinking from the pewter ; 
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch. 

Now laughing at my tutor. 

Where are my friends ? I am alone ; 

No playmate shares my beaker: 
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, 

And some — before the Speaker; 

Lyra Elcganiiariiin. 295 

And some compose a tragedy, 

And some compose a rondo ; 
And some draw sword for Liberty, 

And some draw pleas for John Doe. 

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 

Without the fear of sessions ; 
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities, 

As much as false professions ; 
Now Mill kedps order in the land, 

A magistrate pedantic; 
And Medlar's feet repose unscann'd 

Beneath the wide Atlantic. 

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. 

Does Dr. Martext's duty; 
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, 

Is married to a Beauty ; 
And Darrell studies, week by week. 

His Mant, and not his Manton ; 
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 

Is very rich at Canton. 

And I am eight-and-twenty now ;- 

The world's cold chains have bound me; 
And darker shades are on my brow 

And sadder scenes around me : 
In Parliament I fill my seat. 

With many other noodles ; 
And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 

And sip my hock at Boodle's. 

But often, when the cares of life 

Have set my temples aching. 
When visions haunt me of a wife. 

When duns await my waking. 
When Lady Jane is in a pet. 

Or Hoby in a hurry. 
When Captain Hazard Avins a bet, 

Or Beaulieu spoils a curiy,— 

For hours and hours I think and talk 

Of each remember'd hobby ; 
I long to lounge in Poets' walk, 

To shiver in the lobby; 

296 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

I wish that I could run away 

From House, and Court, and Levee, 

Where bearded men appear to-day 
Just Eton boys grown heavy, — 

That I could bask in childhood's sun 

And dance o'er childhood's roses. 
And find huge wealth in one pound one, 

Vast wit in broken noses, 
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 

And call the milk-maids Houris, — 
That I could be a boy again, — 

A happy boy, — at Drury's. 

Winthrop M. Pra^d. 


Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! 
That classic house, those classic grounds 

My pensive thought recalls ! 
What tender urchins now confine. 
What little captives now repine. 

Within yon irksome walls ? 

Ay, that's the veiy house ! I know 
Its ugly wndows, ten a-row ! 

Its chimneys in the rear ! 
And there's the iron rod so high, 
That drew the thunder from the sky 

And tum'd our table-beer ! 

There I was birch'd ! there I was bred ! 
There like a little Adam fed 

From Learning's woeful tree I 
The weary tasks I used to con ! — 
The hopeless leaves I M'ept upon ! — 

Most fruitless leaves to me ! — 

The summon'd class ! — the awful bow !— 
I wonder who is master now 
And wholesome anguish sheds ! 

Lyra Elegatttiarum. zgj 

How many ushers now employs, 

How many maids to see the boys 

Have nothing in tlieir heads ! 

And Mrs. S * * *?— Doth she abet 
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet 

Some favour'd two or three, — 
The little Crichtons of the hour. 
Her muffin-medals that devour, 

And swill her prize — bohea ? 

Ah, there's the playground ! there's the lime. 
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 

So wildly I have read ! — 
Who sits there ficna, and skims the cream 
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 

Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 

Who stmts the Randall of the walk ? 
Who models tiny heads in chalk? 

Who scoops the light canoe ? 
What early genius buds apace? 
Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? 

Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? 

Alack ! they're gone — a thousand ways ! 
And some are serving in "the Greys," 

And some have perish'd young ! — 
Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ; 

And blithe Carew — is hung ! 

Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
To Savages at Owj'hee ; 

Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
All, all are gone— the olden breed ! — 
New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 

"And push us from our fonns ! " 

Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
And leap, and skip, and mob about, 

At play where we have play'd ! 
Some hop, some run, (som.e fall,) some twine 
Their crony arms ; some in the shine, — 

And some are in the shade ! 

298 Lyra Elegantiai-um. 

Lo there what mix'd conditions run ! 
The oi-phan lad ; the widow's son ; 

And P'ortune's favour'd care — 
The wealthy-born, for whom she hath 
Mac-Adamised the future path — 

The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 

Some brightly starr'd — some evil born, — 
For honour some, and some for scorn, — 

For fair or foul renown ! 
Good, bad, indiff' rent — none may lack ! 
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black ! 

And there's a Creole brown ! 

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
And wish theii- ' frugal sires would keep 

Their only sons at home ;' — 
Some tease the future tense, and plan 
The full-grown doings of the man, 

And pant for years to come ! 

A foolish wish ! There's one at hoop ; 
And four tX fives ! and five who stoop 

The marble taw to speed ! 
And one that curvets in and out, 
Reining his fellow Cob about, — 

Would I were in his stead ! 

Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
That boyish harness off, to swop 

With this world's heavy van — 
To toil, to tug. O little fool ! 
Whilst thou canst be a horse at school, 

To wish to be a man ! 

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
To wear a crown, — to be a king ! 

And sleep on regal down ! 
Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; 
Far happier is thy head that wears 

That hat without a crown ! 

And dost thou think that years acquire 
New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 
More happy than his son ? 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 299 

That manhood's mirth ? — Oh, go thy ways 

To Drury-lane when plays. 

And see how forced our fun ! 

Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare ! — 
Our tops are spun with coils of care, 

Our dumps are no delight ! — 
The I'^lgin marbles are but tame, 
And 'tis at best a sorry game 

To fly the Muse's kite ! 

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead 

Like balls with no rebound ! 
And often with a faded eye 
We look behind, and send a sigh 

Towards that merry ground ! 

Then be contented. Thou hast got 
The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 

There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast — 
Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 

A sorry breaking-up ! 

Thomas Hood. 

Lord Harry has written a novel, 

A stoiy of elegant life ; 
No stuff about love in a hovel. 

No sketch of a commoner's wife : 
No trash, such as pathos and passion, 

Fme feelings, expression and wit ; 
But all about people of fashion. 

Come look at his caps — how they fit I 

O, Radcliffe ! thou once wert the charmer 

Of girls who sat reading all night ; 
Thy heroes were striplings in armour. 

Thy heroines damsels in white. 
But past; are thy terrible touches. 

Our lips in derision we curl. 
Unless we are told how a Duchess, 

Conversed with her cousin the Earl. 

300 Lyra Elegantiariim. 

We now have each dialogue quite full 

Of titles — •" I give you my word, 
My lady, you're looking delightful." 

" O dear, do you think so, my lord ! '' 
" You've heard of the marquis's marriage, 

The bride witli her jewels new set, 
Four horses, new travelling carnage, 

And dijeuner a la fourckette." 

Haul Ton finds her privacy bi-oken, 

We trace all her ins and her outs ; 
The veiy small talk that is spoken 

By very great people at routs. 
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of 

The book from the innkeeper's wfe. 
And reads till she dreams she is one of 

The leaders of elegant life. 

Thomas H. Bayly. 


From the Greek. 

My temples throb, my pulses boil, 

I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad — 
So Thyi'sis, take the midnight oil, 

And pour it on a lobster salad. 
My brain is dull, iiiy sight is foul, 

I cannot write a verse, or read, — 
Then Pallas take away thine Owl, 

And let us have a Lark instead. 

Thomas Hood. 



hi the Modern Taste. 1733. 

Fluttering spread thy purpl^ pinions, 
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart; 
I a slave in thy dominions; 
Nature must give way to art. 

Lyra Elegatitiarum. 301 

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, 
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, 
See my weary days consuming 
All beneath yon flowery rocks. 

Thus the Cjq^rian goddess weeping 
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth : 
Him the boar, in silence creeping, 
Gored with unrelenting tooth. 

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; 
Fair Discretion, string the lyre! 
Soothe my ever- waking slumbers ; 
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. 

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, 
Arm'd in adamantine chains, 
Lead me to the crystal mirrors 
Watering soft Elysian plains. 

Mournful cypress, verdant willow, 
Gilding my Aurelia's brows, 
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, 
Hear me pay my dying vows. 

Melancholy smooth Mreander, 
Swiftly purling in a round. 
On thy margin lovers wander, 
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. 

Thus when Philomela drooping, 
Softly seeks her silent mate, 
See the bird of Juno stooping; 
Melody resigns to fate. 

'Jonathan Siin/t. 



Alone, across a foreign plain, 
The Exile slowly wanders. 

And on his Isle beyond the main 
With sadden'd spirit ponders: 

302 Lyra Elegantiarum, 

This lovely Isle beyond the sea, 
With all its household treasures ; 

Its cottage homes, its merry birds, 
And all its rural pleasures : 

Its leafy woods, its shady vales. 
Its moors, and purple heather ; 

Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars 
His childhood loved to gather : 

When lo ! he starts, with glad surprise, 
Home-joys come rushing o'er him. 

For "modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd," 
He spies the flower before him ! 

With eager haste he stoops him down, 

His eyes with moisture hazy, 
And as he plucks the simple bloom, 

He murmurs, " Lawk-a-daisy !" 

Thomas Hood. 



Why flyest thou away with fear? 
Trust me there's nought of danger near, 

I have no wicked hooke 
All cover'd with a snaring bait, 
Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate. 

And dragge thee from the brooke. 

harmless tenant of the flood, 

1 do not wish to spill thy blood, 

For Nature unto thee 
Perchance hath given a tender wife. 
And children dear, to charm thy life. 

As she hath done for me. 

Enjoy thy stream, O haimless fish ; 
And when an angler for his dish. 

Through gluttony's vile sin. 
Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, 
God give thee strength, O gentle trout. 

To pull the raskall in! 

Dr. John Wokot. 

Lyra Eleganiiariim. 303 


Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 

This dungeon, that I'm rotting in, 
I think of those companions true 
Who studied with me in the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 

-niversity of Gottingen. 

( Weeps, and pulls otU a blue ^kerchief, with which he 
wipes his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.) 

Sweet 'kerchief check'd with heavenly bkie. 

Which once my love sat knotting in, 
Alas, Matilda then was true, 
At least 1 thought so at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 

-niversity of Gottingen. 

{^At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains 
in cadence.) 

Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift ye flew, 

Her neat post-waggon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
Forlorn I languish'd at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 

-niversity of Gottingen. 

This faded form ! this pallid hue ! 

This blood my veins is clotting in. 
My years are many — they were few 
When first I enter'd at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 

-niversity of Gottingen. 

There first for thee my passion gi"ew, 
Sweet ! sweet Matilda Pottingen ! 
Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
-tor, Law Professor at the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen — 

-niversity of Gottingen. 

304 Lyra Elegantianim. 

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, 
TJbat kings and priests are plotting in ; 
Here doom'd to starve on water-gru- 
-el, never shall I see the U- 

-niversity of Gottingen ! — 
-niversity of Gottingen ! 
(^During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head re- 
peatedly agauist the walls of his prison; and, 
finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. 
He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. 
The C2irtaiti drops — the m-usic still contimiing to 
play till it is wholly fallen.) 




No morning ever seem'd so long ! — 
I tried to read with all my might ! 
In my left hand " My Landlord's Tales," 
And threepence ready in my right. 

'Twas twelve at last — my heart beat high !- - 

The Postman rattled at the door ! — 

And just upon her road to church, 

I dropt the " Bride of Lammermoor ! " 

I seized the note — I flew up stairs — 
Flung-to the door, and lock'd me in — 
With panting haste I tore the seal — 
And kiss'd the B in Benjamin ! 

'Twas full of love — to i-hyme with dove — 
And all that tender sort of thing — 
Of sweet and meet — and heart and dart — 
But not a word about a ring ! — 

In doubt I cast it in the flame, 
And stood to watch the latest spark — 
And saw the love all end in smoke — 
Without a Parson and a Clerk ! 

Thomas Hood. 

Lyra Elegaitlianwi . 305 



Farewei.i., farewell to my mother's own daughter, 
The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave ! 

The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water, 
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. 

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, 
This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall. 

And, stranger, O stranger! this song ihat you hear 
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all ! 

Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan, 

My mother's own daughter — the last of her race — 
She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, 
And sleeps in the water that washes her face. 

Thomas Hood. 


I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore: 
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door : 
So he call'd upon Lucy —'twas just ten o'clock — 
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. 

Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, 
"Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-izX : 
So l>ucy ran up — and in two seconds more 
Hid question'd the stranger and answer'd the door. 

The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe ; 
For the moment will come when such comers must go. 
So she kiss'd him, and whisper' d — poor innocent thing — 
"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." 

Thomas Hood. 

If the man who turnips cries, 
Cry not when his father dies, 
'Tis a proof that he had rather 
Have a turnip than his father. 

Samuel yohnson. 

306 Lyra Elegantiariim, 



Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows. 
To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 

With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; 

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear. 

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find. 

That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 

Then holding the spectacles up to the court — • 

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, 

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
Design'd to sit dose to it, just like a saddle. 

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) 

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 

Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then ? 

On the whole it appears, and my argimient shows. 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn. 

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), 

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 
But what were his arguments few people know, 

For the court did not think they were equally wise. 

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone, 
Decisive and clear, without one if ox but — 

That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be shut ! 

William Caivper. 

Lyra Elegantianiin. 307 


There is a sound that's dear to me, 

It haunts me m my sleep; 
T wake, and, if I hear it not, 

I cannot choose but weep. 
Above the roaring of the wind, 

Above the river's flow, 
Methinks I hear the mystic cry 

Of "Clo!— oldClo!" 

The exile's song, it thrills among 

The dwellings of the free. 
Its sound is strange to English ears, 

But 'tis not strange to me ; 
For it hath shook the tented field 

In ages long ago, 
And hosts have quail'd before the cry 

Of "Clo!— old Clo!" 

O, lose it not ! forsake it not ! 

And let no time efface 
The memory of that solemn sound, 

The watchword of our race ; 
For not by dark and eagle eye, 

The Hebrew shalt thou know, 
So well as by the plaintive cry 

Of "Clo! -old Clo!" 

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks. 

Or Sidon's sunny walls, 
Where, dial-like, to portion time, 

The palm-tree's shadow falls. 
The pilgrims, wending on their way, 

\\'\\\ linger as they go. 
And listen to the distant cry 

Of "Clo!— old Clo!" 

William E. Ayioitn. 

3o8 Lyra Elegaiitiaruni. 



My mother bids me spend my smiles 
On all who come and call me fair, 

As crambs are thrown upon the tiles, 
To all the sparrows of the air. 

But I've a darling of my own 

For whom I hoard my little stock — 

What if I chirp him all alone, 

And leave mamma to feed the flock ! 

Thomas Hood, 



There is a river clear and fair, 
'Tis neither broad nor narrow ; 

It winds a little here and there — 

It winds about like any hare ; 

And then it takes as straight a course 

As on the turnpike road a horse, 
Or through the air an arrow. 

The trees that grow upon the shore. 
Have gro\\'n a hundred years or more ; 

So long there is no knowing. 
Old Daniel Dobson does not know 
When first these trees began to grow ; 
But still they grew, and grew, and grew, 
As if they'd nothing else to do, 

But ever to be growing. 

The impulses of air and sky 

Have rear'd their stately heads so high. 
And clothed their boughs with green ; 

Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, — 
And when the wind blows loud and keen, 

I've seen the jolly timbers laugh. 

And shake their sides with merry glee- 
Wagging their heads in mockery. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 309 

Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, 

Where winds can never blow ; 
But visitings of deeper birth 

Have reach'd their roots below. 
For they have gain'd the river's brink, 
And of the living waters drink. 

There's little Will, a five years child — 

He is my youngest boy ; 
To look on eyes so fair and wild, 

It is a very joy : — 
He hath conversed with sun and shower, 
And dwelt with every idle flower, 

As fresh and gay as them. 
He loiters with the briar rose, — 
The blue-belles are his play-fellows. 

That dance upon their slender stem. 

And I have said, my little Will, 
Why should not he continue still 

A thing of Nature's rearing ? 
A thing beyond the world's control— 
A living vegetable soul, — 

No human sorrow fearing. 

It were a blessed sight to see 
That child become a Willow-tree, 

His brother trees among. 
He'd be four times as tall as me, 

And live three times as long. 

Catherine M. Faiishawe 



What's life but full of care and doubt, 

With all its fine humanities, 
With parasols we walk about, 

Long pigtails and such vanities. 

We plant pomegranate trees and things, 

And go in gardens sporting, 
With toys and fans of peacock's wings, 

To painted ladies courting. 

3IO Lyra Elegantiarnm. 

We gather flowers of every hue, 

And fish in boats for fishes, 
Build summer-houses painted blue, — 

But life's as frail as dishes. 

Walking about their groves of trees, 

Blue bridges and blue rivers, 
How little thought them two Chinese, 

They'd both be smash'd to shivers. 

Thomas Hood. 



By a beau of the last century. 

Now cease the exulting strain, 

And bid the warbling lyre complain ; 

Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear, 

And mingle notes far other than of mirth. 

E'en with the song that greets the new-bom year, 

Or hails the day that gave a monarch birth. 

That self-same sun whose chariot wheels have roU'd 

Thro' many a circling year, with glorious toil. 

Up to the axles in refulgent gold. 

And gems, and silk, and crape, and flowers, and foil ; 

That self-same sun no longer dares 

Bequeath his honours to his heirs. 

And bid the dancing hours supply 

As erst, with kindred pomp, his absence from the sky. 

For ever at his lordly call 

Uprose the spangled night ! 

Leading, in gorgeous splendour bright, 

The minuet and the Ball. 

And balls each frolic hour may bring. 

That revels through the maddening spring. 

Shaking with hurried steps the painted floor : 

But Minuets are no more ! 

No more the well-taught feet shall tread 
Thefigure of the mazy Zed : 

Lyra Eleganfiaruni. 3 1 1 

The beau of other times shall niouni, 
As gone, and never to return, 
The graceful bow, the curtsy low, 
The floating fonns, that undulating glide, 
(Like anchar'd vessels on the swelling tide,) 
That rise and sink, alternate, as they go, 
Now bent the knee, now lifted on the toe, 
The side-long step that works its even way, 
The ?Xo\w pas-gravi;, and slower balance — 
Still with fixed gaze he eyes the imagined fair, 
And tui'ns the corner with an easy air. 
Not so his partner — from her tangled train 
To free her captive foot, she strives in vain ; 
Her tangled train, the struggling captive holds 
(Like great Alcides) in its fatal folds ; 
The laws of gallantry his aid demand. 
The laws of etiquette withhold his hand. 
Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er. 
And beau and etiquette shall soon exist no more ! 

In their stead, behold advancing, 

Modem men and women dancing ! 

Step and dress alike express, 

Above, below, from head to toe, 

Male and female awkwardness. 

Without a hoop, without a ruffle. 

One eternal jig and shuffle ; 

Where's the air, and where's the gait? 

Where's the feather in the hat ? 

Where's the frizzed toupee ? and where, 

O, where's the powder for the hair ? 

Where are all their former graces ? 

And where three-quarters of their faces? 

With half the forehead lost and half the chin ? 

We know not where they end, or where begin, 

Mark the pair, whom favouring fortune 

At the envy*d top shall place. 
Humbly they the rest imp5rtune 

To vouchsafe a little space. 

Xot the graceful arm to wave in, 

Or the silken robe expand ; 
All superfluous action saving. 

Idly drops the hfeless hand. 

312 Lyra Elegantiariim. 

Her downcast eye the modest beauty 
Sends, as doubtful of their skill, 
To see if feet perform their duty, 
And their endless task fulfil : 
Footing, footing, footing, footing. 
Footing, footing, footing, still. 

While the rest in hedgerow state. 

All insensible to sound, 
With more than human patience wait, 

Like trees fast rooted to the ground. 

Not such as once, with sprightly motion, 

To distant music stirred their stumps. 
And tript from Pelion to the Ocean, 

Performing avenues and clumps : 
What time old Jason's ship, the Argo, 

Oi-pheus fiddling at the helm, 
From Colchis bore her golden cargo, 

Dancing o'er the azure main. 
But why recur to ancient story, 

Or balls of modern date ? 

Be mine to trace the Minuet's fate, 
And weep its fallen glory : 
To ask, Who rang the parting knell ? 

If Vestris came the solemn dirge to hear ? 

Genius of Valoiiy, didst thou hover near ? 
Shade of Lepicq ! and spirit of Gardel ! 

I saw their angiy forms arise 

Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies 

Above St. James's steeple : 
I heard them curse our heavy heel. 
The Irish step, the Highland reel, 

And all the United Peojile. 
To the dense air the curse adhesive clung, 
Repeated since by many a modish tongue. 
In words that may be said, but never shall be sung 
What cause untimely urged the Minuet's fate ? 
Did war subvert the manners of the Slate ? 
Did savage nations give the barbarous law, 
The Gaul Cisalpine, or the Gonoquaw ? 
Its fall was destined to a peaceful land, 
A sportive pencil, and a courtly hand ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum . 313 

They left a name, that time itself might spare, 
To grinding organs and the dancing bear. 
On Avon's banks, where sport and laugh 

Careless pleasure's sons and daughters, 
Where health, the sick, and aged quaff, 

From good King Bladud's healing waters ; 
While genius sketch'd, and humour group'd. 
Then it sicken'd, then it droop'd : 
Sadden'd with laughter, \vasted with a sneer. 
And " the long minuet " shorten'd its career. 
With cadence slow, and solemn pace, 
Th' indignant mourner quits the place — 
For ever quits — no more to roam 
From proud Augusta's regal dome. 
Ah ! not unhappy who securely rest. 

Within the sacred precincts of a court ; 
Who, then, their timid steps shall dare arrest ? 

White wands shall guide them, and gold sticks support 
In vain — these eyes with tears of horror wet. 
Read its death-warrant in the Court Gazette ! 
" No ball to-night ! " Lord Chamberlain proclaims ; 
" No ball to-night shall grace thy roof, St. James ! " 
" No ball ! " the Globe, the Sim, the Star repeat. 
The morning paper and the evening sheet ; 
Thro' all the land the tragic news has spread, 
And all the land has mourned the Minuet dead. 
So power completes ; but satire sketch'd the plan. 
And Cecil ends what Bunbury began. 

Catherine M. Fanshawe. 



GoOD-NiGiiT ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill 
Which severs those it should unite ; 

Let us remain together still, 
Then it will be Good-m^t. 

How can I call the lone night good. 

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 

Be it not said, thought, understood, 
That it will be Good-m<A\\.. 

314 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

To hearts which near each other move 
From evening close to morning hght, 

The night is good ; because, my Love, 
They never say Good-niglit. 

Fei'cy B. Shelley, 



Good-night to thee. Lady ! tho' many 

Have join'd in the dance of to-night. 
Thy form was the fairest of any, 

Where all was seducing and bright ; 
Thy smile was the softest and dearest, 

Thy form the most sylph-like of all. 
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest 

That e'er held a partner in thrall. 

Good-night to thee. Lady ! 'tis over — 

The waltz, the quadrille, and the song — 
The whisper'd farewell of the lover, 

The heartless adieu of the throng ; 
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure. 

The eye-lid that long'd for repose — 
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure, 

The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 

'Tis over^the lights are all dying. 

The coaches all driving away ; 
And many a fair one is sighing, 

And many a false one is gay ; 
And Beauty counts over her numbers 

Of conquests, as homeward she drives — 
And some are gone home to their slumbers, 

And some are gone home to their wives. 

And I, while my cab in the shower 

Is waiting, the last at the door. 
Am looking all round for the flower 

That fell from your wreath on the floor. 
I'll keep it — if but to remind me. 

Though wither'd and faded its hue — 
Wherever next season may find me — 

Of England — of Almack's — and you ! 

Lyra Elegantiariim. 315 

There are tones that will haunt us, tho' lonely 

Our path be o'er mountain, or sea ; 
Tliere are looks that will part from us only 

When memoiy ceases to be ; 
There are hopes which our burthen can lighten, 

Tho' toilsome and steep be the way ; 
And dreams that, like moonlight, can Ijrighten 

With a light that is clearer than day. 

There are names that we cherish, tho' nameless, 

For aye on the lip they may be ; 
There are hearts that, tho' fetter'd, are tameless, 

And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free ! 
And some are too grave for a rover. 

And some for a husband too light, — 
The Ball and my dream are all over — 

Good-night to thee, Lady, Good-night ! 

Edward Fitzgerald. 



Fair cousin mine ! the golden days 

Of old romance are over; 
And minstrels now care nought for bays, 

Nor damsels for a lover ; 
And hearts are cold, and lips are mute 

That kindled once with passion. 
And now we've neither lance nor lute, 

And tilting's out of fashion. 

Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time 

When Love found words in -flowers ; 
When softest sighs were breathed in rhyme, 

And sweetest songs in bowers ; 
Now wedlock is a sober thing — ■ 

No more of chains or forges ! — • 
A plain young man — a plain gold ring — 

The curate — and St. George's. 

Then every cross-bow had a string. 

And every heart a fetter; 
And making love was quite the thing, 

And making verses better .; 

3i6 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

And maiden-aunts were never seen, 

And gallant beaux were plenty ; 
And lasses married at sixteen, 

And died at one-and-twenty. 

Then hawking was a noble sport. 

And chess a pretty science ; 
And huntsmen learnt to blow a morte. 

And heralds a defiance ; 
And knights and spearmen show'd their might, 

And timid hinds took warning ; 
And hypocras was wami'd at night 

And coursers in the morning. 

Then plumes and pennons were prepared. 

And patron -saints were lauded ; 
And noble deeds were bravely dared, 

And noble dames applauded ; 
And Beauty play'd the leech's part, 

And wounds were heal'd with syrup ; 
And warriors sometimes lost a heart, 

But never lost a stirrup. 

Then there was no such thing as Fear, 

And no such word as Reason ; 
And Faith was like a pointed spear. 

And Fickleness was treason ; 
And hearts were soft, though blows were hard ; 

But when the fight was over, 
A brimming goblet cheer'd the board. 

His Lady's smile the lover. 

Ay, these were glorious days ! The moon 

Had then her true adorers ; 
And there were lyres and lutes in tune, 

And no such thing as snorers; 
And lovers swam, and held at nought 

Streams broader than the Mersey; 
And fifty thousand would have fought 

For a smile from Lady Jersey. 

Then people wore an iron vest, 

And had no use for tailors ; 
And the artizaiis who lived the best 

Were armourers and nailers : 

Lyra Elegantiaruin. 317 

And steel was measured by the ell, 

And trousers lined with leather ; 
And jesters wore a cap and bell, 

And knights a cap and feather. 

Then single folks might live at ease. 

And married ones mi[^ht sever; 
Uncommon doctors had their fees. 

But Doctors Commons never; 
O ! had we in those times been bred, 

Fair cousin, for thy glances, 
Instead of breaking Priscian's head, 

I had been breaking lances ! 

Edzoavd Fitzgerald. 



Little Ellie sits alone 
'Mid the beeches of a meadow 

By a stream-side on the grass, 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow 

On her shining hair and face. 

She has thro\vn her bonnet by, 
And her feet she has been dipping 

In the shallow water's flow: 

Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 

While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone, 
And the smile she softly uses 

Fills the silence like a speech, 

While she thinks what shall be done. 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses 

For her future \vithin reach. 

Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooses — " I will have a lover. 

Riding on a steed of steeds : 

He shall love me without guile, 
And to hi/n I will discover 

The swan's nest among the reeds. 

3l8 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

" And the steed shall be red-roan. 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breatli 

And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble, 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

'* And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure, 

And the mane shall swim the wind • 

And tlie hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure, 

Till the shepherds look behind. 

" But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in, 

When he gazes in my face : 

He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in, 

And I kneel here for thy grace ! ' 

"Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, 
With the red-roan steed anear him, 

Which shall seem to understand. 

Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
For the world must love and fear him 

Wliom I gift with heart and hand.' 

" Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 

Witli z. yes I must not say, 

Nathless maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' 
I will utter, and dissemble — 

' Light to-morrow with to-day!' 

" Then he'll ride among the hills 
To the wide world past the river, 

There to put away all wrong ; 

To make straight distorted wills. 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which tlie wicked bear along. 

" Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb tlie mountain, 

Lyra Elegantiarmn. 3I9 

And kneel down beside my feet — 
' 1^0, my master sends this gage, 
Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 
What wilt thou exchange for it?' 

" And the first time, I wll send 
A little rose-bud for a guerdon, 

And the second time, a glove ; 

But the third time — I may bend 
From my pride, and answer— ' Pardon, 

If he comes to take my love.' 

" Then the young foot-page will run, 
Then my lover will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

' I am a duke's eldest son, 
Thousand serfs do call me master, 

But, O Love, I love but theeP 

" He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then, and lead me as a lover 

Through the crowds that praise his deeds : 

And, wlien soul-tied by one troth, 
Unto him I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds." 

Little Ellie, with her smile 
Not yet ended, rose up gaily. 

Tied the bonnet, donn'd tlie shoe, 

And went homeward round a mile. 
Just to see, as she did daily. 

What more eggs were with the two. 

Pushing thro' the elm-tree copse. 
Winding up the stream, light-hearted, 

Where the osier pathway leads, 

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. 
Lo, the ^^'hite swan had deserted ! 

And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds ! 

Ellie went home sad and slow. 
If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steeds. 

Sooth I know not ; but I know 
She could never show him — never, 

That swan's nest among the reeds. 

Elizabeth B. Broivnins 

Lyra Elcgantiarutn. 


That out of sight is out of miiid 
Is true of most we leave behind ; 
It is not sure, nor can be tme, 
My own, my only love, of you. 

They were my friends, — 'twas sad to part; 
Almost a tear began to start ; 
But yet as things run on they find, 
That out of sight is out of mind. 

For men that will not idlers be, 
Must lend their hearts to things they see , 
And friends who leave them far behind, 
When out of sight are out of mind. 

I blame it not ; I think that when 
The cold and silent meet again, 
Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind, 
'Twas " out of sight " was "out of mind." 

That friends, however friends they were. 
Still deal with things as things occur, 
And that, excepting for the blind. 
What's out of sight is out of mind. 

But Love, the poets say, is blind ; 
So out of sight and out of mind 
Need not, nor will, I think, be tme. 
My own, and only love, of you. 

Arthur H. Clough. 



Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 

At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. 

lie stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. 

His motlier's doves and team of sparrows ; 

Loses them too, and down he throws 

The coral of his lip — the rose 

Growing on's cheek, but none knows how 5 

With these the crystal on his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin ; 

All these did my Campaspe win : 

At last he set her both his eyes — 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, hath she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas, become of me ! 

John Lyly. 



Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son, 
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire. 
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the lire 
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 

32S Lyra Elesantiarum. 

From the hard season gaining? Time will run 
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire 
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, 
Of Attic taste, Avith wine, whence we may rise 
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice 
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air? 
lie who of those delights can judge, and spare 
To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 

John Milton. 

Of all the torments, all the cares. 

With which our lives are curst ; 
Of all the plagues a lover bears, 

Sure rivals are the worst ! 
By partners of each other kind, 

Afflictions easier grow ; 
In love alone we hate to find 

Companions of our woe. 

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see 

Are labouring in my breast, 
I beg not you would favour me, 

Would you but slight the rest. 
How great soe'er your rigours are, 

With them alone I'll cope : — 
I can endure my own despair. 

But not another's hope. 

William Walsh. 



The Lady Mary Villiers lies 
Under this stone : with weeping eyes 
The parents that first gave her birth. 
And their sad friends, laid her in earth. 
If any of them, Reader, were 
Known unto thee, shed a tear ; 

Lyra Ekgantiarum. 323 

Or if thyself possess a gem, 
As dear to thee as this to them ; 
The' a stranger to this place, 
Bewayle in theirs tliine own hard case, 
For thou, perhaps, at thy returne 
Mayst find thy darling in an urne. 

Thomas Careiu. 


Cyriac, whose grandsire, on the royal bench 
Of British Themis, with no mean applause, 
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, 
Which others at their bar so often wrench ; 
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 
In mirth, that after no repenting draws : 
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause. 
And what the Swede intends, and what the French. 
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; 
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, 
And disapproves that care, tho' wise in show, 
That with superfluous burthen loads the day. 
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 

John Milton. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed : 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face. 
That makes simplicity a grace : 


324 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Btn Jonson. 


Shall I, like a hermit, dwell 
On a rock, or in a cell. 
Calling home the smallest part 
That is miosing of my heart, 
'i"o bestow it where I may 
Meet a rival every day? 
If she undervalue me, 
What care I how fair she Lc ? 

Were her tresses angel gold. 
If a stranger may be bold, 
Unrebuked, unafraid. 
To convert them to a braid, 
And with little more ado 
Woik them into bracelets too ; 
If the mine be grown so free, 
W^hat care I how rich it be ? 

Sir Walter Ealevjh. 


Since shed nor cottage I have none, 
I sing the more that thou hast one. 
To whose glad threshold and free door 
I may a poet come, though poor. 
And eat with thee a savoury bit, 
Paying but common tlianks for it. 
Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see 
An over-leaven look in thee, 
To sour the bread, and turn the beer 
To an exalted vinegar ; 

Lyra Ehgantiarum. 325 

Or shouldst thou prize me as a dish 

Of thrice boiled worts, or third day's fish, 

I'd rather hungry go and come, 

Than to thy house lie burdensome : 

Yet in my depth of grief I'd be 

One that should drop his beads for thee. 

Robert Herriclc. 


Come, let us now resolve at last 

To live and love in quiet ; 
We'll tie the knot so very fast, 

That Time shall ne'er untie it. 

The truest joys they seldom prove 

Who free from quarrels live ; 
'Tis the most tender part of love 

Each other to forgive. 

When least I seemed concerned, I took 

No pleasure, nor no rest ; 
And when I feign'd an angry look, 

Alas ! I loved you best. 

Own but the same to me, you'll find 

How blest will be your fate : 
O, to be happy, to be kind. 

Sure never is too late. 

John, Duke of Bucl:i)njlmm. 

c cxcix. 


Often I have heard it said 
That her lips are ruby-red. 
Little heed I what they say, 
I have seen as red as they. 
Ere she smiled on other men, 
Real rubies were they then. 

326 Ly7-a EleganHaru7>i, 

When she kiss'd me once in play, 
Rubies were less bright than they, 
And less bright were those that shone 
In the palace of the Sun. 
Will they be as bright again? 
Not if kiss'd by other men. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

It often comes into my head 

That we may dream when we are dead, 

But I am far from sure we do. 
O that it were so! then my rest 
Would be indeed among the blest ; 

I should for ever dream of you. 

Walter Savage Landor. 


Nature ! thy fair and smiling face 
Has now a double power to bless, 

For 'tis the glass in which I trace 
My absent Fanny's loveliness. 

Her heavenly eyes above me shine, 
The rose reflects her modest blush, 

She breathes in every eglantine, 
She sings in every warbling thrush. 

That her dear form alone I see, 

Need not excite surprise in any, 
For Fanny's all the world to me. 

And all the world to me is Fanny. 

Horatio Smith. 


Ariel to Miranda : — Take 
This slave of Music, for the sake 
Of him who is the slave of thee ; 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 327 

And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou can'st, and only Ux)U, 
Make the delighted spirit glow, 
Till joy denies itself again, 
And, too intense, is turned to pain. 
For by permission and command 
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
Of more than ever can be spoken ; 
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
From life to life must still pursue 
Your happiness, for tlms alone 
Can Ariel ever find his own. 
From Frospero's enchanted cell, 
As the mighty verses tell, 
To the throne of Naples, he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea. 
Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent moon 

Li her interlunar swoon 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel. 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen star of birth, 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life, from your nativity. 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel ^till 

Has tracked your steps and served your will. 

Now, in humbler, happier lot. 

This is all remembered not ; 

And now, alas ! the poor Sprite is 

Imprisoned for some fault of his 

In a body like a grave : 

From you he only dares to crave, 

For his service and his sorrow, 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought 
To echo all harmonious thought. 
Felled a tree while on the steep 
The woods were in their winter sleep, 

323 Lyra Elegantiartim. 

Rocked in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine, 

And dreaming, some of autumn past, 

And some of spring approaching fast, 

And some of April buds and showers, 

And some of songs in July bowers. 

And all of love. And so this tree — 

Oh, that such our death may be ! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 

To live in happier form again : 

From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, 

The artist wrought the loved Guitar; 

And taught it justly to reply 

To all who question skilfully, 

In language gentle as thine own ; 

Whispering in enamoured tone 

Sweet oracles of woods and dells. 

And summer winds in sylvan cells. 

For it had learnt all harmonies 

Of the plains and of the skies, 

Of the forests and the mountains, 

And the many-voic6d fountains ; 

The clearest echoes of the hills. 

The softest notes of falling rills. 

The melodies of birds and bees, 

Tlie murmuring of summer seas, 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 

And airs of evening ; and it knew 

That seldom -heard, mysterious sound 

Wliich, driven on its diurnal round, 

As it floats through boundless day, 

Our world enkindles on its way : 

All this it knows ; but will not tell 

To those who cannot question well 

The Spirit that inhabits it. 

It talks according to the wit 

Of its companions ; and no more 

Is heard than has been felt before 

By those who tempt it to betray 

These secrets of an elder day. 

But, sweetly as its answers will 

Flatter hands of perfect skill, 

It keeps its highest, holiest tone 

For our beloved Jane alone. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

Lyra Elegant ianim. 329 

Tu his young Rose an old man said, 
" You will be sweet when I am dead : 
Where skies are brightest we shall meet, 
And there will you be yet more sweet, 
Leaving your winged company 
To waste an idle thought on me." 

Walter Savage Landor. 


There falls with every wedding-chime 
A feather from the wing of Time. 
You pick it up, and say, " How fair 
To look upon its colours are ! " 
Another drops, day after day, 
Unheeded ; not one word you say : 
When bright and dusky are blown past, 
Upon the hearse there nods the last. 

Walltr Savage Landor, 

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife ; 

Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art ; 
I warm'd both hands before the tire of life ; 

It sinks, an i I am ready to depart, 

Walter Savage Landor. 


Health, strength, and beauty, who would not resign, 
And be neglected by the world, if you 

Round his faint neck your loving arms would twine. 
And bathe his aching brow with pity's dew ? 

Walter Savage Landor. 

330 Lyra Ele^aniiarum. 
" WHEN I LOVED V0[/." 
(TO .) 

When I loved you, I can't but allov." 
I had many an exquisite minute ; 

But the scorn that I feel for you now 
Hath even more luxury in it ! 

Thus, whether we're on or we're off, 
Some witchery seems to await you ; 

To love you is pleasant enough, 
But oh ! 'tis delicious to hate you ! 

Thomas Moore. 


In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! 

Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew's ear ; 

Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear ; 

And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. 

Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines ! 

What air of fragrance Rosamond throws around ! 

How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! 

Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few lines 

Have bragged in verse. Of coarsest household stuH" 

Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can 

You Barbara resist, or Marian ? 

And is not Clare for love excuse enough ? 

Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess. 

These all, than Saxon Edith, please me less. 

Charles Lcnnh. 


On deck, beneath the awning, 
I dozing lay and yawning ; 

Lyra Ele^anliaruiii. 331 

It was the grey of dawning, 

Ere yet the sun arose ; 
And above the funnel's roaring, 
And the fitful wind's deploring, 
I heard the cabin snoring 

With universal nose. 
I could hear the passengers snorting — 
I envied their disporting — 
Vainly I was courting 

The pleasure of a doze ! 

So I lay, and wondered why light 
Came not, and watched the twilight, 
And the glimmer of the skylight. 

That shot across the deck ; 
And the binnacle pale and steady, 
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 
And the sparks in fiery eddy 

That whirled from the chimney neck. 
In our jovial floating prison 
There was sleep from fore to mizen, 
And never a star had risen 

The hazy sky to speck. 

Strange company we harboured ; 
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard, 
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarl)ered — ■ 

Jews black, and brown, and gray ; 
With terror it would seize ye, 
And make your souls uneasy, 
To see those Rabbis greasy, 

Who did nought but scratch and pray : 
Their dirty children puking — • 
Their dirty saucepans cooking — 
Their dirty fingers hooking 

Their swarming fleas away. 

To starboard, Turks and Greeks were — 
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were— 
Enormous wide their breeks were, 

Their pipes did puff alway ; 
Each on his mat allotted 
In silence smoked and squatted, 
Whilst round their children trotted 

In pretty, pleasant play. 

332 Lyra Elegantiariim. 

He can't but smile who traces 
The smiles on those brown faces, 
And the pretty prattling graces 
Of those small heathen gay. 

And so the hours kept tolling, 
And through the ocean rolling 
Went the brave " Iberia " bowling 
Before the break of day — 

When A SQUALL, upon a sudden, 
Came o'er the waters scudding ; 
And the clouds began to gather. 
And the sea was lashed to lather, 
And the lowering thunder grumbled. 
And the lightning jumped and tumbled, 
And the ship, and all the ocean, 
Woke up in wild commotion. 
Then the wind set up a howling, 
And the poodle dog a yowling, 
And the cocks began a crowing, 
And the old cow raised a lowing, 
As she heard the tempest blowing ; 
And fowls and geese did cackle. 
And the cordage and the tackle 
Began to shriek and crackle ; 
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels. 
And down the deck in runnels ; 
And the rushing water soaks all, 
From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
To the stokers whose black faces 
Peer out of their bed-places ; 
And the captain he was bawling. 
And the sailors pulling, hauling, 
And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
Was shivered in the squalling; 
And the passengers awaken, 
Most pitifully shaken ; 
And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
For the necessary basins. 

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, 
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, 

Zjra Elegaiitiarum. 333 

As the plunging waters met them, 
And splashed and overset them ; 
And they call in their emergence 
Upon countless saints and virgins ; 
And their marrow-bones are bended, 
And they think the world is ended. 
And the Turkish women for'ard 
Were frightened and hehorror'd ; 
And shrieking and bewildering, 
The mothers clutched their children ; 
The men sung " Allah ! Illah ! 
Mashallah ! Bismillah 1 " 
As the waning waters douced them 
And splashed them and soused thorn, 
And they called upon the Prophet, 
And thought but little of it. 

Then all the fleas in Jewry 

Jumped up and bit like fury ; 

And the progeny of Jacob 

Did on the main-deck wake up 

(I wot those greasy Rabbins 

Would never pay for cabins) ; 

And each man moaned and jabbered in 

His filthy Jewish gal>erdine, 

In woe and lamentation, 

And howling consternation. 

And the splashing water drenches 

Their dirty brats and wenches ; 

And they crawl from bales and benches 

In a hundred thousand stenches. 

This was the White Squall famous, 

Which latterly o'ercame us. 

And which all will well remember 

On the 28th September ; 

When a Prussian captain of Lancers 

(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 

Came on the deck astonished. 

By that wild squall admonished, 

And wondering cried, " Potztausend, 

Wie ist der Stiirm jetzt brausend ? " 

And looked at Captain Lewis, 

Who calmly stood and blew his 

334 Lyra Ek'^antiarum. 

Cig^ir in all the bustle, 

And scorned the tempest's tussle, 

And oft we've thought thereafter 

How he beat the storm to laughter ; 

For well he knew his vessel 

With that vain wind could wrestle ; 

And when a wreck we thought her, 

And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 

How gaily he fought her. 

And through the hubbub brought her, 

And as the tempest caught her, 

Cried, " George, some brandy and water !" 

And when, its force expended, 
The harmless storm was ended, 
And as the sunrise splendid 

Came blushing o'er the sea ; 
I thought, as day was breaking, 
My little girls were waking, 
And smiling, and making 

A prayer at home for me. 

William Makepeace Thacheray. 


Tell me not what too well I know 
About the bard of Sirmio — 

Yes, in Thalia's son 
Such stains there are — as when a Grace 
Sprinkles another's laughing face 

With nectar, and runs on. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 
Four not exempt from pride some future day. 

Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek. 
Over my open volume you will say, 
*' This man loved me!" then rise and trip away. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

Lyra Eleganiiamm. 335 

How many voices gaily sing, 

" O happy morn, O liappy spring 

Of life ! " Meanwhile there comes o'er me 

A softer voice from memory, 

And says, " If loves and hopes have flown 

With years, think too what griefs are gone ! 

Walter Savage Landor, 


His book is successful, he's steeped in renown, 
His lyric effusions have tickled the town ; 
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, aie eager to trace 
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face ; 
While, proud as Apollo, with peers tete-a-tete. 
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate. 
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain, 
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane. 

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks, 

Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks, 

Send forth, vellum-covered, a six o'clock card. 

And get up a dinner to peep at the bard ; 

Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth 

And soup (I la reine, little better than broth. 

While, past his meridian, but still with some heat, 

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street. 

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits, 
Remeniber'd by starts, and forgotten by fits. 
Now artists and actors, the bardling engage. 
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage. 
Now soup h la rt:ine bends the knee to ox-cheek. 
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak. 
While, still in translation employ'd by " the Row," 
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho. 

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink, 
Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink, 

336 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Now squat city misses tlieir albums expand, 

And woo the worn rhymer for " something off-hand ; " 

No longer with stinted effrontery fraught, 

Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought, 

And (O, what a classical haunt for a bard !) 

The Poet of Fashion dines out in Birge-yard. 

Jamts Smith. 


{A Reminiscence of '■^ David Garrich" and " The Castle of 

Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary 
With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar. 
With my shilling I stood rapping — only very gently tapping — 
For the man in charge was napping— at the money-taker's door. 
It was Mr. Buckstone's play-house, where I linger'd at the door; 
Paid half price and nothing more. 

Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September — 
Though it might have been in August, or it might have been 

before — 
Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow ; 
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor, 
And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor ; 
(I have been so once before.) 

I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain, 
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before ; 
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking 
With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er ; 
Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er ; 
Twenty years ago or more. 

Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no 

" Miss," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. 
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the 

To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlighten'd shore? " 
Fori know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore j 
Adaptations — nothing more ! 

T.yra Elegantiariim . 337 

So I put ihe question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly, 
"It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore. 
'Tis an Andalusian story of a ensile old and hoary, 
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor ! " 
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue ivas poor ; 
Very Hat, and nothing more.) 

But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center'd 
In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore. 
And the .^lightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'd 
To my neighbour, " Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore. 
Who's that rare and radiant maiden ? Tell, oh, tell me ! I 

(^uoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore." 

Then I ask'd in quite a tremble — it was useless to dissemble— 
" Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more ; 
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow 

In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door? " 
(With a bust of Julius Caesar up above the study door.) 
(^luoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore." 

I've her photograph from Lacy's ; that delicious little face is 
Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door), 
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls 
From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second floor 
(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second floor), 
Comes an eclio, " Nelly Moore ! " 

Henry S. Leigh. 


Sure, 'tis time to have resign'd 
All the dainties of the mind, 
And to take a little rest 
.After Life's too lengthen'd feast. 
Why then turn the Casket-key? 
^Vhat is there witliin to see ? 
\^'hose is this dark twisted hair? 
^Vhose this other, crisp and fair ? 

338 Lyra Elegantianim.. 

Whose the slender ring ? now broken, 
Undesignedly, a token. 
Love said Mine ; and Friendship said 
So I fear, and shook her head. 

Walter Savage. Landor. 



Why, why repine, my pensive friend, 

At pleasures slipt away ? 
Some the stern Fates will never lend, 

And all refuse to stay. 

I see the rainbow in the sky, 

The dew upon the grass, 
I see them, and I ask not why 
They glimmer or they pass. 

With folded arms I linger not 
To call them back ; 'twere vain ; 

In this, or in some other spot, 
I know they'll shine again. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



My noble, lovely, little Peggy, 
Let this my First Epistle beg ye. 
At dawn of morn, and close ot even. 
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. 
In double duty say your prayer : 
Our Father first, then Notre Pere. 
And, dearest Child, along the day, 
In every thing you do and say. 
Obey and please my lord and lady, 
So God shall love and angels aid ye. 

If to these precepts you attend, 
No Second Letter need I send. 
And so I rest your constant friend. 

Mattheiv Prior. 

Lyra Elcgantiarnm. 339 



Rii'iNG from Coleiaine 

(Famed for lovely Kilty), 
Came a Cockney bound 

Unto Derry city ; 
Weary was his soul, 

Shivering and sad, he 
Bumped along the road 

Leads to Limavaddy. 

Mountains stretch'd around, 

Gloomy was their tinting, 
And the liorse's hoofs 

iMade a dismal dinting ; 
Wind upon the heath 

Howling was and piping. 
On the heath and bog, 

Black with many a snipe in. 
Mid the bogs of black. 

Silver pools were flashing. 
Crows upon their sides 

Picking were and splashing. 
Cockney on the car 

Closer folds his plaidy. 
Grumbling at the road 

Leads to Limavaddy. 

Through the crashing woods 

Autumn brawl'd and blusler\i. 
Tossing round about 

I>caves the hue of mustard ; 
Yonder lay Lough Foyle, 

Which a storm was whipping, 
Covering with mist 

Lake, and shores and shipping. 
Up and down the hill 

(Nothing could be bolder). 
Horse went with a raw 

Bleeding on his shoulder. 

340 Lyra Elegatifiarum. 

" Where are horses changed ? " 
Said I to the laddy 

Driving on tlie box : 
" Sir, at Limavaddy." 

Limavaddy inn's 

But a humble bait-house, 
Where you may procure 

Whisky and potatoes ; 
Landlord at the door 

Gives a smiling welcome 
To the shivering wights 

Who to his hotel come. 
Landlady within 

Sits and knits a stocking, 
With a wary foot 

Baby's cradle rocking. 
To the chimney nook 

Having found admittance, 
There I watch a pup 

Playing with two kittens ; 
(Playing round the fire, 

Which of blazing turf is, 
Roaring to the pot 

Which bubbles with the murphies.) 
And the cradled babe 

Fond the mother nurst it. 
Singing it a song 

As she twists the worsted • 

Up and down the stair 

Two more young ones patter 
(Twins were never seen 

Dirtier nor fatter). 
Both have mottled legs. 

Both have snubby noses, 
Both have — Here the host 

Kindly interposes : 
" Sure you must be froze 

With the sleet and hail, sir : 
So will you have some punch. 

Or will you have some ale, sir ? " 

Lyra Ekgantiarum. 341 

Presently a maid 

Enters with the liquor 
(Half a pint of ale 

P'rothing in a beaker). 
Gads ! I didn't know 

What my lieating heart meant : 
Hebe's self I thought 

Entered the apartment. 
As she came she smiled, 

And the smile bewitching, 
On my word and honour, 

Lighted all the kitchen ! 

Willi a curtsy neat 

Greeting the new comer, 
Lovely, smiling Peg 

Offers me the rummer ; 
But my trembling hand 

Up the beaker tilted, 
And the glass of ale 

Every drop I spilt it : 
Spilt it every d:op 

(Dames wlio read my volumes, 
Pardon such a word) 

On my what-d'ye-call;'ems 1 

Witnessing the sight 

Of that dire disaster. 
Out began to laugh 

Missis, maid, and master ; 
Such a merry peal 

'Specially Aliss Peg's was 
(As the glass of ale 

Trickling down my legs was), 
That the joyful sound 

Of that mingling laughter 
Echoed in my ears 

Many a long day after. 

Such a silver peal ! 

In the meadows listening, 
You who've heard the bells 

Ringing to a christening ; 

342 Lyra Elegant iarum. 

You who ever heard 

Caradori pretty, 
Smiling like an angel, 

Singing " Giovinetti ; " 
Fancy Peggy's laugh, 

vSvveet, and clear, and cheerful, 
At my pantaloons 

With half a pint of beer full ! 

When the laugh was done, 

Peg, tlie pretty hussy, 
Moved about the room 

Wonderfully busy ; 
Now she looks to see 

If the kettle keep hot ; 
Now she rubs the spoons. 

Now she cleans the teapot ; 
Now she sets the cups 

Trimly and secure : 
Now- she scours a pot. 

And so it was I drew her. 

Thus it was I drew her. 

Scouring of a kettle, 
(Faith ! 'her blushing cheeks 

Redden'd on the metal !) 
Ah ! but 'tis in vain 

That I try to sketch it ; 
Tlie pot perliaps is like, 

But Peggy's face is wretched. 
No ! the best of lead 

And of indian-rubber 
Never could depict 

That sweet kettle-scrubber ! 

See her as she moves ! 

Scarce the ground she touehes, 
Airy as a fay. 

Graceful as a duchess ; 
Bare her rounded arm, 

Bare her little leg is, 
Vestris never show'd 

Ankles like to Peggy's. 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 343 

Bi aided is her hair, 

Soft her look and modest. 
Slim her little waist, 

Comfortably bodiced. 

This I do declare, 

Happy is the laddy 
Who the heart can share 

Of Feg of Limavaddy. 
JIarried if she were, 

Blest would be the daddy 
Of the children fair 

Of Peg of I.imavaddy. 
Beauty is not rare 

In the land of Paddy, 
Fair beyond compare 

Is Peg of Limavaddy. 

Citizen or Squire, 

Tory, Whig, or Radi- 
cal would all desire 

Peg of Limavaddy. 
Had I Homer's fire. 

Or that of Serjeant Taddy, 
Meetly I'd admire 

Peg of Limavaddy. 
And till I expire. 

Or till I grow mad, I 
Will sing unto my lyre 

Peg of Limavaddy ! 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 


All ! do not drive off grief, but place yom- hand 

Upon it gently ; it will then subside. 
A wish is often more than a command. 

Either of yours would do ; let one be tried. 

Walter Savaye Landor. 

344 Lyra Elegantiarum. 



Irfxand never was contented. 
Say you so ? You are demented. 
Ireland was contented when 
All could use the sword and pen, 
And when Tara rose so high 
That her turrets split the sky, 
And about her courts were seen 
Liveried angels robed in green, 
Wearing, by 8t. Patrick's bounty. 
Emeralds big as half a county. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Fair maiden ! when I look at thee, 
I wish I could be young and free ; 
But both at once, ah ! who could be? 

Walter Savage Landor, 


In Britain's isle, no matter where. 
An ancient pile of building stands ; 

Tlie Huntingdons and Hattons there 
Employ'd the power of fairy hands 

To raise the ceiling's fretted height, 

Each pannel in achievements clothing, 

Rich windows that exclude the lipht. 
And passages, that lead to nothing. 

Full oft within the spacious walls, 
When he had fifty winters o'er him. 

My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls ; 
The seals and maces danc'd before him, 

Lyra Elegautiariim. 345 

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, 
His liigh-crown'd hat and satin doublet, 

Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen, 

Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. 

What, in the very first beginning! 

Shame of the versifying tribe ! 
Your iiistory whither are you spinning! 

Can you do nothing but describe ? 

A house there is (and that's enough) 
From whence one fatal morning issues 

A brace of warriors, not in butf. 

But rustling in their silks and tissues. 

The first came cap-a-pee from France, 

Her conquering destiny fulfilling, 
Whom meaner beauties eye askance. 

And vainly ape her art of killing. 

The other Amazon kind heav'n 

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire: 

But Cobham had the polish giv'n. 

And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature. 

To celebrate her eyes, her air — 

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her, 

Melissa is her Nom de Guerre. 

Alas, who would not wish to please her ! 

With bonnet blue and capuchine. 

And aprons long, they hid their armour ; 

And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen. 
In pity to the country farmer. 

Fame, in the shape of J\lr. P — t 

(By this time all the parish know it), 
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd 

A wicked imp, they call a Poet, 

Who prowl'd the country far and near, 
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants. 

Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer. 

And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants. 

346 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 

My Lady heard their joint petition, 
Swore by her coronet and ermine, 
• She'd issue out her high commission 

To rid the manor of such vermin. 

The Heroines undertook the task, 

Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, 
Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, 

But bounce into the parlour enter'd. 

The trembling family they daunt. 

They flirt, tliey sing, they laugh, they tattle, 

Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, 
And upstairs in a whirlwind rattle : 

Each hole and cupboard they explore. 
Each creek and cranny of his chamber. 

Run hurry-skurry round the floor, 
And. o'er the bed and tester clamber ; 

Into the drawers and china pry, 
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! 

Under a tea-cup he might lie. 
Or creased, like dog's-ears, in a folio. 

On the first marching of the troops, 
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, 

Convey'd him underneath their hoops 
To a small closet in the garden. 

So Rumour says : (Who will, believe.) 

But that they left the door ajar, 
Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve. 

He heard the distant din of war. 

Short was his joy. He little knew 
The power of magic was no fable ; 

Out of the window, whisk, they flew, 
But left a spell upon the table. 

The words too eager to unriddle, 
The Poet felt a strange disorder ; 

Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle, 
And chains invisible the border. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 347 

So cunning was the apparatus, 

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, 
That, will he, nill he, to the Great House 

He went, as if the Devil drove him. 

Yet on his way (no sign of grace. 

For folks in fear are apt to pray), 
To Phoebus he preferr'd his case, 

And liegg'd his aid that dreadful day. 

The Godhead wou'd have back'd his quarrel ; 

But with a blush on recollection, 
Own'd that his quiver and his laurel 

'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. 

The Court was sate, the Culprit there, 

Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, 

The Lady Janes and Joans repair, 
And from the gallery stand peeping : 

Such as in silence of the night 
Come (sweep) along some winding entry 

(Styack has oiten seen tiie sight). 
Or at the chapel-door stand sentry : 

In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd. 

Sour visages, enough to scare ye, 
High dames of honour once, that garnish'd 

The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary. 

The Peeress comes. The audience stare. 
And doff their hats with due submission : 

She curtsies, as she takes the chair, 
To all the people of condition. 

The Bard, with many an artful fib, 

Had in imagination fenc'd him, 
Disprov'd the arguments of Squib, 

And all that Groom could urge against him. 

But soon his rhetoric forsook him. 

When he the solemn hall had seen ; 
A sudden fit of ague shook liim. 

He stood as mute as poor Macleane. 

348 Lyra EUgantiarum. 

Yet something he was heard to mutter, 
" How in the, park beneath an old tree, 

(Without design to liurt the butter, 
Or any malice to the poultry,) 

" He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet ; 

Yet hop'd that he might save his bacon : 
Numbers would give their oaths upon it, 

He ne'er was for a conjurer taken." 

Tlie ghostly prudes, with hagged face, 
Already had condemn'd the sinner. 

My Lady rose, and with a grace — 

She smil'd, and bid him come to dinner. 

"Jesu-Maria ! Madam Bridget, 
Why, what can the Viscountess mean ? " 

(Cried the square-hoods in woful fidget) 
" The times are alter'd quite and clean ! 

" Decorum's turn'd to mere civility; 

Her air and all her manners show it. 
Commend me to her affability ' 

Speak to a Commoner and Poet ! " 

[Here 500 Stanzas arc lost.] 

And so God save our noble King, 

And guard us from long-winded lubbers, 

That to eternity would sing, 

And keep my Lady from her rubbers. 

Thomas Gray. 



I HARDLY kncnv one flower that grows 

On my small garden plot ; 
Perhaps I may have seen a Rose, 

And said, Forgot'ine-not. 

Walter Savage Lundor. 

Lyra Elegant i arum. 349 



Unless my senses are more dull, 
Sighs are become less plentiful. 
Where are they all ? these many years 
Only my own have reacli'd my ears. 

Walter Savage, Lander. 


Children, keep up that harmless play, 
Your kindretl angels plainly say. 
By God's authority, ye may. 

Be prompt His holy word to hear, 
It teaches you to banish fear ; 
The lesson lies on all sides near. 

Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad 
In Nature's face will look more sad, 
And ask, where are those smiles she had ? 

Ere many days the last will close. 

Play on, play on, for then (who knows ?) 

Ye who play here may here repose. 

Walltr Savage Lander. 



A Study. 

He stood, a worn-out City clerk — 
Who'd toil'd, and seen no holiday, 

For forty years from dawn to dark — 
Alone beside Caermarthen Bay, 

350 Lyra Elegantim~um. 

He felt the salt spray on his lips ; 

Heard children's voices on the sands ; 
Up the sun's path he saw the ships 

Sail on and on to other lands ; 

And laugh'd aloud. Each sight and so.nid 
To him was joy too deep for tears ; 

He sat him on the beach, and bound 
A blue bandanna round liis ears ; 

And thought how, posted near liis door. 
His own green door on Camden Hill, 

Two bands at least, most likely more, 
Were mingling at their own sweet will 

Verdi with Vance. And at the thought 
He laugh'd again, and softly drew 

That Morning Herald that lie'd bought 
Forth from his breast, and read it through. 

G. S. Calverley. 


Often, when o'er tiee 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 
AH 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. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 331 

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 min 1, 
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, 

Thro' 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 1 became as others ; 
Learned to blunt my moral feelings 

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 thro' 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. 

352 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

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 mornin'^ ; 

Striven to part my backhair straigh.t ; 
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," betake me, 

In my "solitary fly. " 

C, S. Calverley. 



A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields 
Rue Neuve des Petit Champs its name is— 

The New Street of the Little Fields. 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A soit of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron. 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 
All these you eat at tkrre's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Lyra Eleganiiarum. 353 

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, . 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling red-cheeked ecailiere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is TERRE still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace : 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur terre, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder— 

" Monsieur is deatl this many a day ? " 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner, 

So honest TERRe's run his race." 
" What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

" Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer j 

" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" 
" Tell me a good one." — " That I can, Sir : 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustom'd corner place ; 
" He's done with feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustom'd corner here is. 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since Inst I took. 
When first I saw ye, cari liioghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

2 A 

354 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces. 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing TOM is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old fred in the Gazette; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 

* ♦ ♦ * 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss, 
Her hand that trembled and withdrew ; 

She bent her head before my kiss, 
My heart was sure that hers was true. 

Lyra Bkgantiarum. 35S 

Now I have told her I must part, 

She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, 
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! 

Hers never was the heart for you. 

Walttr Savage Landor. 

You smiled, you spoke, and I lielicved, 

By every word and smile deceived. 
Another man would hope no more ; 

Nor liope I what I lioj^ed before : 
But let not this last wish be vain ; 

Deceive, deceive me once again ! 

Walter Savage Landor. 



From you, lantlie, little troubles pass 
Like little ripples down a sunny river ; 

Your ]ilcasures spring like daisies in the grass, 
Cut down, a id up again as blythe as ever. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Oh, the days were ever shiny 

When I ran to meet my Jove ; 
When I press'd her liand so tiny 

Through her ti:iy tiny glove. 
Was I very deeply smitten ? 

Oh, I loved like atiything ! 
But my love she is a kitten, 

And my heart's a ball of string. 

She was pleasingly poetic. 
And she loved my little rliymes ; 

Fur our tastes were sympathetic, 
In the old and happy times. 

3S6 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Oh, tlie ballads I have written, 
And have tauglit my love to sing ! 

But my love she is a kitten, 
And my heart's a ball of string. 

Would she listen to my offer, 

On my knees I would impart 
A sincere and ready proffer 

Of my hand and of my heart. 
And below her dainty mitten 

I would fix a wedding ring — 
But my love she is a kitten. 

And my heart's a ball of string. 

Take a warning, happy lover, 

P'rom the moral that I show ; 
Or too late you may discover 

What I learn'd a month ago. 
We are scratch'd or we are bitten 

By the pets to whom we cling. 
Oh, my love she is a kitten. 

And my heart's a ball of string. 

Henry S. Leigh. 



Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries. 

Nor seen thy girlish sweet vicissitude. 

Thy mazy motions, striving to elude. 

Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes, — 

Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes, 

And lovelv all : methinks thy scornful mood 

And bearing high of stately womanhood. 

Thy brow where Beauty sits to tyrannize 

O'er humble love, had made me sadly lear thee ; 

For never sure was seen a Royal Bride, 

Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride. 

My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee : 

liut when I see thee at thy father's side, 

Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. 

Hartley Coleridge. 

Lyra Elegantiaruvu 357 



Thou who, when fears attack, 
Bidst them avaunt, and Black 
Care, at the horseman's back 

Perching, unseatest ; 
Sweet when the morn is gray; 
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 
Ihainless as chimpanzees. 

Meagre as lizards; 
Go mad, and beat their wives ; 
riunge (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 tn 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 ? 

353 Lyra Elegantiarum, 

We're not as tabbies are : 
Smith, take a fresh cigar ! 
Jones, the tobacco-jar ! 

Here's to thee, Bacon ! 

C 8. Caloerley. 

ccccxxxv. • 

Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers 

Would swell, not soothe their pain; 

Ah, if she look but at these tears, 
They do not fall in vain. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Gracefully shy is yon gazelle : 

And are those eyes, so clear, so mild, 
Only to shine upon a wild, 

And be reflected in a shallow well ? 

Ah ! who can tell ? 

If she grows tamer, who shall pat 

Her neck ? who wreathe the flowers around ? 
Who give the name ? who pace the ground ? 
Pondering these things a grave old Dervish sat. 
And sigh'd. Ah ! who can tell ? 

Walter Savage Landor. 



Christmas is here : 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill, 
Little care we : 
Little we fear 
Weather without. 
Sheltered about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 359 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night-biids are we : 
Here we carouse, 
Singing like them, 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport, 
Boys, as we sit ; 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on. 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true, 
Gentle and just. 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait ; 
Happy we'll be ! 
Drink, every one ; 
Pile up the coals, 
Fill the red bowls, 
Round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup. — 
Friend, art afraid ? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet ; 
Let us forget, 
Rovind the oW tree. 

360 Lyra Eleg&ntiarum. 

Sorrows, begone ! 
Life and its ills, 
Duns and their bills, 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn, 
Blue-devil sprite, 
Leave us to-night 
Round the old tree. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 


{A Fragment.) 


While her laugh, full of life, without any controul 
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over, — 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 
* * * * * 

Thomafi Moore. 



They seemed to those who saw them meet 
The casual friends of every day. 
Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, 
His courtesy was free and gay. 

But yet if one the other's name 
In some unguarded moment heard. 
The heart you thought so calm and tame. 
Would struggle like a captured bird : 

And letters of mere formal phrase 
Were lilislered with repeated tears, — 
And this was not the work of days. 
But had gone on for years and years ! 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 361 

Alas ! that Love was not too strong 
For niai len sliame and manly pride ! 
Alas ! that they delayed so long 
The goal of mutual bliss beside. 

Yet what no chance could then reveal. 
And neither woukl jje lirst to own, 
Let fate and courage now conceal, 
When truth could bring remorse alone. 

Richard, Lord Houghton. 

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow. 
If not quite dim, yet rather so, 
Yet yours from others they shall know 
Twenty years hence. 

Twenty years hence, tho' it may hap 
Tiiat I be call'd to take a nap 
In a cool cell where thunder-clap 
Was never heard. 

There breathe but o'er my arch of grass 
A not too-sadly sigh'd Aias, 
And I shall catch, ere you can pass, 
That winged word. 

Walter Savage Lander. 



^Vhy do our joys depart 
For cares to seize the heart ? 
I know not. Nature says, 
Obey ; and man obeys. 
I see, and know not why 
Thorns live and roses die. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

362 Lyi-a Ele^^anHarum. 

While thou wert by 

With laughing eye, 
I felt the glow and song of spring ; 

Now thou art gone 

I sit alone, 
Nor heed who smile nor hear who sing, 

Walter Savage Landor. 



The day of brightest dawn (day soonest flown !) 
Is that when we have met and you have gone. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the dove, 

The linnet and thrush say, " I love and I love ! " 

In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong; 

What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, 

And sinii,ing and loving — all come back together. 

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 

The green fields beneath him, the blue sky above. 

That he sings and he sings, and for ever sings he — 

" I love my love, and my love loves me ! " 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



The Boy and his Top. 

A LITTLE boy had bought a top. 
The best in ail the toyman's shop ; 
He made a whip with good eel's skin, 
He lash'd the top, and made it spin ; 

Lyra Eleganfiarutn. 363 

All the children within call, 

And the servants, one and all, 

Stood round to see it and admire. 

At last the top began to tire ; 

He cried out, " Pray, don't whip me, master, 

You whi|) too hard ; I can't spin faster ; 

I can spin quite as well without it." 

The little boy replied, " I doubt it ; 

I only whip you for your good. 

You were a foolish lump of wood ; 

By dint of whipping you were raised 

To see yourself admired and praised. 

And if I left yon, you'd remain 

A foolish lump of wood again." 


Whipping sounds a little odd, 

It don't mean whipping with a rod, 

It means to teach a boy incessantly. 

Whether by lessons or more pleasantly, 

Every hour and every day. 

By every means, in every way, 

By reading, writing, rhyming, talking. 

By riding to see sights, and walking : 

If you leave off he drops at once, 

A lumpish, wooden-headed dunce. 

John Hoohham Frere.. 



In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars. 
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, 
Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 

But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure 

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 

Is grand through the chimney-jiots over the way. 

364 Lyi-a Elegantiarum, 

This smig little chamber is craiiim'd in all nooks 

With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, 

And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 

Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. 

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), 

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; 

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; 

What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

No better divan need the Sultan require. 
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 
A Makeluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, 
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times ; 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie, 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 
There's one that I love and I cherish the best ; 
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, 
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. 

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 

A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms ! 

I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; 

I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place. 

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! 

A smile on lier face, and a rose in her hair. 

And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

Lyra Eleganiiarum. 365 

And so I liave valued my cliair ever since, 

Like ihe shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; 

Saint Fanny, my patroness, sweet I declare. 

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone. 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. 
And yonder she sits in my caned^ottom'd chair. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 


One year ago my path was green, 
My footstep li.^ht, my brow serene ; 
Alas ! and could it have been so 
One year ago ? 

There is a love that is to last 
When the hot days of youth are past : 
Such love did a sweet maid bestow 
One year ago. 

I took a leaflet from her braid 
And gave it to another maid. 
Love ! broken should have been thy bow 
One year ago. 

Walter Savage Landor. 




Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
Of other blood reposes. 
Her cheek is clear and pale as peail, 
Amiil that wild of roses. 

366 Lyra Elegantiayum. 

Beside a northern pine a boy 
Is leaning fancy-bound, 
Nor listens where with noisy joy 
Awaits the impatient hound. 

* Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, — 
Relaxed the frosty twine, — 
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, 
The palm-tree of the pine. 

As soon shall nature interlace 
Those dimly-visioned boughs, 
As these young lovers face to face 
Renew their early vows ! 

Richard, Lord Houghton. 

Lines written to an AUmm Print. 

As on this pictured page I look, 
This pretty tale of line and hook, 
As though it «ere a novel-book, 

Amuses and engages : 
I know them both, the boy and girl ; 
She is the daughter of the Earl, 
The lad (that has his hair in curl) 

My lord the County's page is. 

A pleasant place for such a pair ! 
The fields lie basking in the glare ; 
No breath of wind the heavy air 

Of lazy summer quickens. 
Hard by you see the castle tall ; 
The village nestles round the wall, 
As round about the hen its small 

Young progeny of chickens. 

It is too hot to pace the keep ; 
To climb the turret is too steep ; 
My lord the Earl is dozing deep, 
His noonday dinner over : 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 367 

The postern warder is asleep 
(Perhaps they've bribed hini not to peep) : 
And so from out the gate they creep ; 
And cross the fields of clover. 

Their lines into the brook they launch ; 
He lays his cloak upon a branch, 
To guarantee his Lady Blanche 

s delicate complexion : 
He takes his rapier from his haunch, 
That beardless, doughty champion staunch ; 
He'd drill it through the rival's paunch 
That question'd his affection ! 

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack ! 
You never mark, though trout or jack. 
Or little foolish stickleback, 

Your baited snares may capture. 
What care has she for line and hook ? 
She turns her back upon the brook, 
Upon her lover's eyes to look 

In sentimental rapture. 

O loving pair ! as thus I gaze 
Upon the girl who smiles always, 
The little hand that ever plays 

Upon the lover's shoulder ; 
In looking at your pretty shapes, 
A sort of envious wish escapes 
(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) 

The Poet, your beholder. 

To be brave, handsome, twenly-lwo ; 
\Vith nothing else on earth to do. 
But all day long to bill and coo : 

It were a pleasant calling. 
And had I such a partner sweet ; 
A tender heart for mine to beat, 
A gentle hand my clasp to meet ; — 
I'd let the world flow at my feet. 

And never heed its brawling. 

William Makepeace Thackeray 

Lyra Elegantiarum, 


He talked of daggers and of darts, 

Of passions and of pains, 
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts, 

Of kisses and of chains ; 
He said, though Love was Icin to Grief, 

She was not born to grieve ; 
He said though many rued belief 

She safely inight believe ; 
But still the lady shook her head, 

And swore by yea and nay 
My Whole was all that he had said. 

And all that he could say. 

He said, my First, whose silent car 

Was slowly wandering by, 
Veiled in a vapour, faint and far. 

Through the unfathomed sky. 
Was like the smile whose rosy light 

Across iier young lips passed. 
Yet oh ! it was not half so bright, 

It changed not half so fast ; 
But still the lady shook her head, 

And swore by yea and nay 
My Whole was all that he had said, 

And all that he could say. 

And then he set a cypress wreath 

Upon his raven hair. 
And drew his rapier from its sheath. 

Which made the lady stare ; 
And said, his life-blood's purple flow 

My Second there should dim, 
If she he served and worshipped so 

Would weep one tsar for him ; 
Bui still the lady shook her head, 

And swore by yea and nay, 
My Whole was all that he had said, 

And all that he could sav. 

Winthrop M. Praed, 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 369 


Sleep, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep 
You take away from others, keep : 
A night, no distant one, will come 
When those you took your sUuiihers from, 
Generous — ungenerous — will confess 
Their joy that you have slumber'd less, 
And envy more than they condemn 
The rival who avenges them. 

VValtcr Savar/e Lundor. 



The maid I love ne'er thought of me 
Amid the scenes of gaiety ; 
But when her heart or mine sank low, 
Ah, then it was no longer so. 

From the slant palm she raised her head, 
And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fled. 
Angels ! some future day for this, 
Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

Nov. 27, 1852. 

Two friends within one grave we place 

United in our tears, — 
Sisters, scarce parted for the space 

Of more than eighty years ; 
And she whose bier is borne to-day, 

The one the last to go. 
Bears with her thoughts that force their way 

Above the moment's woe ; 


370 Lyra Elegantiaruin, 

Thoughts of the varied human life 

Spread o'er that field of time — 
The toil, the passion, and the strife, 

The virtue and the crime. 
Yet 'mid this long tumultuous scene, 

The image on our mind 
Of these dear women rests scene 

In happy bounds confined. 

Within one undisturbed abode 

Their presence seems to dwell, 
From which continual pleasures flowed, 

And countless graces fell ; 
Not unbecoming this our age 

Of decorative forms. 
Yet simple as the hermitage 

Exposed to Nature's storms. 

Our English grandeur on the shelf 

Deposed its decent gloom, 
And every pride unloosed itself 

Within that modest room ; 
Where none were sad, and few were dull, 

And each one said his best, 
And beauty was most beautiful 

With vanity at rest. 

Brightly the day's discourse rolled on, 

Still casting on the shore 
Memorial pearls of days bygone, 

And worthies now no more ; 
And little tales of long ago 

Took meaning from tho^e lips, 
Wise chroniclers ol joy and woe, 

And eyes without eclipse. 

No taunt or scoff obscured the wit 

That there rejoiced to reign ; 
They never could have laughetl at it 

J fit had carried pain. 
There needless scandal, e'en though true, 

Provoked no bitter smile. 
And even men-of-fashion grew 

Benignant for a while. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 371 

Not that there lacked tlie nervous sconi 

At every public wrong, 
Not that a friend was left torlorn 

When victim of the strong : 
Free words, expressing generous blood, 

No nice punctilio weighed. 
For deep and earnest womanhood 

Their reason underlaid. 

As generations onward came, 

They loved from all to win 
Revival of the sacred flame 

That glowed tluir hearts within. 
While others in Time's greedy mesh 

The faded garlands flung, 
Their hearts went out and gathered fresh 

Affections from the young. 

Farewell, dear ladies ! in your loss 

We feel the past recede. 
The gap our harids could almost cross 

Is now a gulf indeed : 
Ye, and the days in which your claims 

And charms were early known. 
Lose substance, and ye stand as names 

That History makes its own. 

Farewell ! the pleasant social page 

Is read, but ye remain 
Examples of ennobled age. 

Long life without a stain ; 
A lesson to be scorned by none, 

Least by the wise and brave, 
Delightful as the winter sun 

That gilds this open grave. 

Richard, Lord Houghton. 



The Archery meeting is fixed for the third 
The fuss that it causes is truly absurd ; 

372 Lyra Elegantiartcm. 

I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, 
And now I must buy each an arcliery dress ! 
Without a green suit they would bhish to be seen. 
And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green ! 

Poor fat little Rosa ! she's shooting all day ! 
She sends forth an arrow expertly they say ; 
But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms, 
And she seems to me getting such muscular arms ; 
And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed, 
Prize bracelets could never be clasped on her wrist ! 

Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face. 

Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place ; 

But as for the shooting — she never takes aim ; 

She talks so, and laughs so ! the beaux are to Ijlame ; 

She doats on flirtation — but oh 1 by-the-bye, 

'Twas awkward hei' shooting out INlrs. Flint's eye ! 

They've made my poor husband an archer elect ; 
He dresses the part with prodigious effect ; 
A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist. 
And a quiver of course in which arrows are placed ; 
And a bow in his hand — oh ! he looks of all things 
Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings ! 

They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas ! 
Must sit on camp stools with our feet in the grass ; 
My Rosa and Bessy no partners attract ! 
The Archery men are all cross Beaux in fact ! 
Among the young Ladies some hits there may be, 
But still at my elbow two misses I see ! 

Thomas H. Bayly, 

Lyra Elcganiiarum. 373 



Althoi.'GH I enter not, 
Yet rouiul about the spot 

Oft-times I hover : 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The Minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming : 
They've hush'd the Minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell . 

She's coming, she's coming 

My lady comes at last, 

Timid, and stepping fast. 

And hastening hither. 

With modest eyes downcast : 

She comes — she's here — she's past- 
May heaven go with her ! 

Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint ! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute 
Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 

William Makepeace Thaclceray. 

374 Lyra Eleganliarum. 



Ho ! pretty page with the dimpled chin, 

That never has known the Barber's shear, 

All your wish is woman to win, 

Tliis is the way that boys begin — 

Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains. 
Billing and cooing is all your cheer; 

Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 

Under Bonnybell's window panes — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — 

Then you know a boy is an ass, 

Then you know the worth of a lass. 

Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Pledfje me round, I Ind ye declare, 

AH good fellows whose beards are grey, 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was pass'd away? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 

May pray and whisper, and we not list. 

Or look away, and never be missed. 

Ere yet ever a month is gone. ^ 

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, 

How I loved her twenty years syne ! 

Marian's married, but I sit here 

Alone and merry at Forty Year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray, 

Lyra ElcgantiaT^m. 375 



Tell me, perverse youn:; year ! 
Why is the morn so drear ? 

Is tliere no flower to twine? 
Away, thou churl, away! 
'Tis Rose's natal day, 

Reserve thy frowns for mine. 

Walter Savage Landor. 


The grateful heart for all things blesses ; 

Not only joy, but giief endears : 
I love you for your few caresses, 

I love you for your many tears. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



When along the light ripple the far serenade 
Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, 
She may open the window that looks on the stream, — 
She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream ; 
Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, 
" I am coming — Stall — but you know not for whom ! 
Stall — not for whom ! " 

Now the tones become clearer, — you hear more and more 
How the water divided returns on the oar, — 
Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair ? 
Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare? 
Oh ! they faint on the ear as tlie lamp on the view, 
" I am coming — Premi — but I stay not for you ! 
^ Premi — not for you ! " 

Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear. 
Then awake not, fair sleeper — believe he is here ; 
For the young and the loving no sorrow endures, 
If to-day be another's, to-morrow is yours ; — 
May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, 
" I am coming — Sciir — and for you and to you ! 
Scikr — and to you ! " 

Richard. Lord I/oiighton. 

376 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


The Alphabet rejoiced to hear 

That Monckton Milnes was made a Peer ; 

For in this present world of letters 

But few, if any, are his betters : 

So an address by acclamation, 

They voted of congratidation, 

And H, O, U, G, T, and N, 

Were chosen the address to pen ; 

Possessing each an interest vital 

In the new Peer's baronial title. 

'Twas done in language terse and telling, 

Perfect in grammar and in spelling : 

Hut when 'twas read aloud, oh, mercy ! 

There sprang up such a controversy 

About the true pronunciation 

Of said baronical appellation. 

The vowels O and U averred 

They were entitled to be heard ; 

The consonants denied their claim. 

Insisting that they mute became. 

Johnson and Walker were applied to, 

Sheridan, Bailey, Webster, tried too ; 

But all in vain, lor each picked out 

A word that left the case in doubt. 

O, looking round upon them all, 

Cried, " If it be correct to call 

T, H, R, O, U, G, H, 'throo,' 

H, O, U, G, H, must be ' Hoo,' 

Therefore there can be no dispute on 

The question, we should say, ' Lord //ooton.'" 

U brought "bought," "lought," and "sought," 

to show 
He should be doubled and not O, 
For sure if " ought " was " awt," then " nought " on 
Earth could the title be but " Ilawion." 
H, on the other hand, said he, 
In " cough " and " trough," stood next to G, 
And like an F was thus looked soft on. 
Which made him think it should be " L/o/ton." 
But G corrected H, and drew 
Attention other cases to. 

Lyra Eletmntiarum. 377 

" Tough," " rough," and " chough " more than " enough " 

To prove O, U, G, II, spelt " tiff,'' 

And growlctl out in a sort of gruft'tone, 

Tliey must pronounce the title "^//^ton." 

N said emphatically " No ! " 

There is D, O, U, G, H, '' doh," 

And thozigh (look there again ! that stuff 

At sea, for fun, they nicknamed " duff," 

They should propose they took a vote on 

The question, " Should it not be Hoiow ? " 

Besides in French 'twould liave such force, 

A lord was of " Hautton," of course. 

Iliglier and higher contention rose, 

From words they almost came to blows, 

Till T, as yet who hadn't spoke. 

And dearly loved a little joke. 

Put in his word and said, " Look tliere ! 

' Plough ' in this mv must have its s/iii7-e." 

At this atrocious pun each page 

Of Johnson whiter turned with rage ; 

Bailey looked desperately cut up, 

And Sheridan completely shut up ; 

Webster, who is no idle talker, 

Made a sign indicating " Walker !" 

While Walker, who had been used badly. 

Just shook his dirty dog's-ears sadly. 

But as we find in prose or rhyme 

A joke made happily in time, 

However poor, will often tend 

The hottest argument to end, 

And smother anger in a laugh, 

So T succeeded with his chaff 

(Containing as it did some wheat) 

In calming this fierce verbal heat. 

Authorities were all conflicting, 

And T there was no contradicting ; 

P, L, O, U, G, H, was;>/ow. 

Even " enough " was called " encnu ; " 

And no one who preferred "enough " 

Would dream of saying " Speed the Pluff ! " 

.So they considered it more wise 

With T to make a compromise, 

And leave no loop to hang a doubt on 

By giving three cheers for " Lord | ^^^^ j- ton 1 

James Rohbison Planchd. 

378 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


Behold what homnge to his idol paid 

The tuneful suppliant of Valclusa's shade. 

His verses still the tender heart engage, 

They charm'd a rude, and please a polish'd age : 

Some are to nature and to passion true, 

And all had been so, had he lived for you. 

Walttr Savage Landor. 


Beyond the vague Atlantic deep, 
Far as the farthest prairies sweep. 
Where forest-glooms the nerve appal, 
Where burns the radiant Western fall, 
One duly lies on old and young, — 
With filial piety to guard, 
As on its greenest native sward, 
The glory of the English tongue. 
That ample speech ! That subtle speech ! 
Apt for the need of all and each : 
Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend 
Wherever human feelings tend. 
Preserve its force — expand its powers ; 
And through the maze of civic life. 
In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, 
Forget not it is yours and ours. 

Richard, Lord Houghton 


Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is, — 

I hate all your Frenchified fuss ; 
Your silly entries and made dishes 

Were never intended for us. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 379 

No footman in lace and in ruffles 

Need dandle behind my arm- chair ; 
And never mind seekinj; for triiftles, 

Although they be ever so rare. 

But a ]5lain leg of mutton, my Lucy, 

I prithee get ready at three : 
Have it smoking, and tender and juicy, 

And wliai better meat can there be ? 
And when it has feasted the master, 

'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; 
Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster. 

And tipple my ale i.i the shade. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



* * * 

" Hush ! in the canal below 
Don't you hear the plash of oars 
Underneath the lantern's glow, 
And a thrilling voice begins 
To the sound of mandolins ? — 
Begins singing of amore 
And delire and dolore — 
O the ravishing tenore ! 

** Lady, do you know the tune ? 

Ah, we all of us have hummed it ! 

I've an old guitar has thrummed it, 

Under many a changing moon. 

Shall I try it ? Do ke MI * * 

What is this ? Ma foi, tiie fact is, 

That my hand is out of practice, 

And my poor old fiddle cracked is, 

And a man — I let the truth out, — 

Who's had almost every tooth out. 

Cannot sing as once he sung. 

When he was young as you are young. 

When he was young and lutes were strung. 

And love-lamps in the casement hung." 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

33o Lyra Eleganiiarum. 


There's a tempting l;it of greenery— of rus in nrbe scenery— 

That's haunled by the London " upper ten ; " 
Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back 

Little fits of tedium vitce now and then. 

Oh ! the times that I have been there, and tlie types that I have, 
seen there ^^ 

Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the " swell ; 
And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders) : 

Are considerably more than I can tell. | 

When first the warmer weather brought these people all together/ 
And the crowds ijegan to thicken through the Row, , 

I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, mhalmg 
All the spirits that the breezes could bestow. 

And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers 

Left me lonely in the thickest of the throng. 
Not a touch upon my shoulder— not a nod from one beholder— 

As the stream of Art and Nature went along. 

Rut I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage, 

Of a figure and a face— ah, such a face ! 
Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest of creatures 

On my memory, as Love alone can trace. 

Did I hate the little dandy in the wjiiskers, (they were sandy,) 
Whose absurd salute was honour'd by a smile ? 

Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness, 
When she evidently loathed him all the while ? 

Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted, 

Since the day (it seems a century ago) 
When ■my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter, 

On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row ! 

Henry S. Leigh. 

Lyra Elesantiarum. 381 


(Historical Contrast. ) 

When one whose nervous English verse, 

Public and party hates defied, 
Who bore and bandied many a curse 

Of angry times — when Dryden died, 

Our royal Abbey's Bishop-Dean 

Waited for no suggestive prayer, 
But, ere one day closed o'er the scene. 

Craved as a boon to lay him there. 

The wayward faith, the faulty life, 

Vanished before a nation's pain ; 
" Panther " and " Hind " forgot their strife, 

And rival siatesmen thronged the fane. 

O gentle Censor of our age ! 

Prime master of our ampler tongue ! 
Whose word of wit and generous page 

Were never wroth except with wrong, — 

Fielding — without the manners' dross, 

Scott — with a spirit's larger room, 
What prelate deems thy grave his loss? 

What Ilaliflax erects thy tomb ? 

But may be, He who so could draw 

The hidden great, the humble wise, 
Yielding with them to God's good law, 

Makes the Pantheon where he lies. 

Richard, Lord Ilo^tghton. 


All through the sultry hours of June, 
From morning blithe to golden noon. 

And till the star of evening climbs 
The gray-blue East, a world too soon. 

There sings a Thrush amid the limes, 

382 Lyra Elegantiarum. 

God's poet, hid in foliage tureen, 
Sings endless songs, himself unseen ; 

Right seldom come his silent times. 
Linger, ye summer hours serene ! 

Sing on, dear Thrusli, amid the limes ! 

Nor from these confines wander out. 
Where with old gun bucolic lout 

Commits all day his murderous crimes : 
Though cherries ripe are sweet, no doubt, 

Sweeter thy song amid the limes. 

May I not dream God sends thee there. 
Thou mellow angel of the air, 

Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes 
With music's soul, all praise and prayer? 

Is that thy lesson in the limes ? 

Closer to God art thou than I : 

His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly 

Through silent aether's summer climes. 
Ah, never may thy music die ! 

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes ! 

Mortimer Collms. 



Blue as the sky were the simple flowers 

We gathered together that day, 
Tho' dead and dry they recall the hours 

Of a happiness pass'd away. 

They grew mid the rushes so tall and green, 

Low down in the sedges cool. 
We drew them out of their home, unseen, 

In a fortunate fairy pool. 

And you gave me some and I took them home, 
And treasured those blossoms blue, 

Tho' never a flower was needed less 
To be given to me by you. 

Charlotte AIuKjton Barnard. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 383 


A LOVKI.Y young lady I mourn in my rhymes, 

She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil (sometimes), 

Her figure was good, she had very fine eyes. 

And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise. 

Her adorers were many, and one of them said, 

" She waltzed rather well — it's a pity she's dead." 

George John Cayley. 



Hayrick some do spell thy name. 
And thy verse approves the same ; 
For 'tis like fresh-scented hay, — 
With country lasses in't at play. 

William Allinghcim. 



Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot, 

A wreath presaging life, we twine ; 
If (iod be Love, what sleeps below was not 

Without a spark divine. 

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 



When Lclty had scarce passed her third glad year, 

And her young, artless words began to flow. 
One day we gave the child a coloured sphere 

Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know 
By tint and outline all its sea and land. 

She patted all the world ; old empires peeped 
Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand 

Was welcome at all frontiers ; how she leaped, 


384 Ly7-a Elegantiartcm. 

And laughed, and prattled in her pride of bliss ! 

But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye, 
On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry, 

" Oh )'es ! I see it, — Letty's home is there ! " 
And while she hid all England witii a kiss, 

Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 

Etv. Charles Tennyson-Turner. 



It once might have been, once only : 
We lodged in a street together, 

You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, 
I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 

Your trade was with sticks and clay. 

You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished. 

Then laughed, " They will see some day 
"Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 

My business was song, song, song ; 

I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, 
" Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, 

" And Grisi's existence embittered ! " 

I earned no more by a warble 
Than you by a sketch in plaster ; 

You wanted a piece of marble, 
I needed a music-master. 

We studied hard in our style?, 

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, 

For air, looked out on the tiles, 
For fun, watched each other's windows. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 385 

You lounged, like a boy of tlie South, 
Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard too 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
With fingers the clay adhered to. 

And I — soon managed to find 

Weak points in the flower-fence facing, 
Was forced to put up a blind, 

And be safe in my corset lacing. 

No harm ! It was not my fault 

If you never turned your eye's tail up, 

As I shook upon E in alt, 

Or ran the chromatic scale up : 

For spring bade the sparrows pair, 
And the boys and girls gave guesses. 

And stalls in our street looked rare 
With bulrush and water-cresses. 


Why did not you pinch a flower 
In a pellet of clay and fling it ? 

Why did not I put a power 

Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? 

I did look, sharp as a lynx 

(And yet the memory rankles). 
When models arrived, some minx 

Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. 

2 C 

386 Lyra Elegantiarum. 


But I think I gave you as good ! 

" That foreign fellow, — who can know 
" IIow she pays, in a playful mood, 
" For his tuning her that piano ? " 

Could you say so, and never say, 

" Suppose we join hands and iortunes, 

" And I fetch her from over the wjay, 
" Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes? " 

No, no : you would not be rash, 
Nor I rasher and something c>ver 

You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, 
And Grisi yet lives in clover. 

But you meet the Prince at the Board, 
I'm queen myself at hals-pair, 

I've married a rich old lord. 

And you're dubbed knight and an R.A. 

Each life unfulfilled, you see ; 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy : 
We have not sighed deep, laughed and free, 

Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy. 

And nobody calls you a dunce, 

And people suppose me clever: 
This could but have happened once, 

And we missed it, lost it for ever. 

Robert Browning. 

Lyra Ele^antiartim. 387 


The. Flower's Name. 


Here's the garden she walked across, 

Arm in my aim, such a short while since : 
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges and^iakes them wince ! 
Slie must have reached this shrub ere she turned. 

As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; 
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spuned, 

To feed and forget it the leaves among. 


Down this side of the gravel-walk 

Siie went while her robe's edge brushed the box : 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Roses ranged in a valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed you by ! 
She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 

Eut yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie ! 


This flower she stooped at, finger on lip, 

Stooped over, in cloubt, as settling its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip. 

Its soft meandering Spanish name : 
What a name ! Was it love or praise ? 

Speecii half-asleep or song half-awake ? 
I must learn Spanisii, one of these days. 

Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 


Roses, if I live and do well, 

I may bring her, one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell. 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ; 
But do not detain me now ; for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground. 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Lyra Elegantiarum. 

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 

Stay as you are and be loved for ever ! 
Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not : 

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! 
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn and down they nestle — 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 


Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me ? 
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall ! 
— Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces — 

Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 

Bohert Browning. 



'Tis bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid " Good-night," 

" God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all," 

Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall. 

Another minute you will shut them quite. 

Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, 

And tuck you up, altho' you are so tall ! 

What will you give me, Sleepy One, and call 

My wages, if I settle you all right ? 

I laid her golden curls upon my arm, 

I drew her little feet within my hand. 

Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, 

Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm j 

She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, 

I'aid me my precious wages — *' Baliy's kiss." 

Francis, Earl of Rosslyn. 

Lyra Elegant iarum. 389 



You have a great name of your own, 

By nature and reason endeared : 
A name thro' the Universe known — 

Admired, beloved, and revered ! 

But since, under Hymen's control, 
That name you are destined to lose, 

There is not in Heraldry's roll 

A brighter than Villiers to choose. 

But not on his title or birth 

Alone, would your choice have been placed : 
I am told of his talents and worth — ■ 

We, have proof of his sense and his taste ! 

Of You, to yourself I suppress 

How dearly your merits I prize ! — 
But I may be allowed to confess 

That I view you with Villiers' eyes. 

May Heaven behold with its grace 

A union that blends and secures 
The splendour and fame of his race 

With the genius and virtues of yours ! 

The Eirjhi Hon. John Wilson Croler. 



.Aldrich, Dean (1G17— 1710) 

Keasons for drinking — ccl. 

Allinghaji. William (1S2S— 1SS9) 

To tlie Author of Hesperiiles— cccclxx. 

ALLIS0^f, Kichard (1606) 

Cherry ripe — xxxv. 

An'ti-Jacobin (1797—1708) 

The friend of humanity— cxcv 
Song of llogero— cccLXXiv. 

Ayton, Sir Robert (1570—1638) 

Woman's inconstancy — xi 

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair— xvi. 

Aytoun, William E. (1S13— 1865) 

'Ihe lay of the Levite— ccclxxx. 

Baillie, Joanna (1762 — 1851) 

To a kitten— cccxxxir. 

Barbauld, Anna Letitia(1743 — 1825) 

Life ! I know not what thou art— cclxxxiii. 

Baruam, Richard 11. (1788—1845) 

Lines left at Theodore Hook's House— cccxxiu 
The i)oplar— cccr.x. 

Barnard, Charlotte Alington (1830— 18G9) 
Korget-rae-nots— ccccLxviii. 

Barnard, Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Limerick (1727— ISOo) 
On mending his faults — cli. 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797— 1S39) 
I'd be a butterfly— ccclxv 
A fashionable novel — cccLXix 
The archery meeting — ccccliv, 

392 Index of Writers. 

Beazley, Samuel (17S6— 1851) 

When I'm dead, on my tomb-stone I hope they will 
say — ocLiv. 

Bedisofielt), William 

Tlie lover's choice — cxxxii 
Contentment — ccLiii. 

Beiin, Aphra (1640—1689) 

The alternative — lxvi. 

BicKERSTAFF, Isaac (1735 — 1812 ?) 

An expostulation — ccxxxvii. 

Bishop, Rev Samuel (IVSl— 1795) 

To his wife, with a knife — cxvi 
To his wife, with a ring — cxvii. 

Blanchard, Laman (1804 — 1845) 

Dolce far niente— cccxlv. 

Bloomfield. Robert (1766—1823) 

AV^hy he thinks she loves him — cclxxv. 

Brereton, Mrs. Jane (1685—1740) 

On Nash's picture at Bath — cxl. 

Breton, Nicholas (1555—1624) 

Phillida and Corydon — ix. 

Brome, Alexander (1620—1666) 
Why I love her — lvi 
To a coy lady— lviii. 

Brooks, Charles Shirley (1816— 1874) 

Dixit, et in Mensam — ccxviii. 

Browne, William (1591—1645) 

What wight he loved — xxiv. 

Brovvni}«g, Elizabeth Barrett (1809—1861) 
A man's requirements — cccl 
The romance of the swan's nest — ccclxxxviii. 

Browninc, Robert (1812—1890) 

Youth and Art — cccclxxiii 
Garden fancies — ccccLXxiv. 

BucKlNCHAM, John, Duke of (1649—1720) 

Come, let us now resolve at last— cecxcviii. 

Butler, Samuel (1612—1680) 

He that will win his dame — ilxxv. 

Byron, George, Lord (1788—1824) 

To Thomas Moore — cclviii 
Fill the goblet again — ccex 
Love and glory — ccxcii 
The girl of Cadiz— cccxvi 
To Mr. Hodgson — cccxix. 

Index of Writcis. 393 

Calverley, C. S. (1831— 18S4) 
Peace— ccccxxvi 
Hie vir, liic est— ccccxxvii 
Ode to Tobacco— coccxxxiv 
Beer ) 

Motherhood ^ .See Preface. 
Forever ) 

C.VMPiiELL, Thomas, LL.D. (1777-1844) 
Margaret and Dora — ccciii 
Young love's a gallant boy — cccxiii. 

Canning, Et. Hon. George (1770—1827) 

Epistle from Lord Boringdon to Lord Granville— clxxxix 

A political despatch — cxcvi 

Fragment of an oration— cxcvii 

The pilot that weathered the storm — cxcix. 

Cabew, Thomas (iriS9— 1639) 

He that loves a rosy cheek — xxi 

The inquiry — xxv 

The primrose — xxvii 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows — xxx 

Ungrateful beauty threatened — lix. 

Carey, Henry (IG — 1743) 

With an honest old friend and a merry old song — coxlvii 
Cato's advice— cc'XLViii 
Mediocrity in love rejected — nv 
Epitaph on Lady Mary Villiers— cccxciii. 

CARTWRKiiiT, AVilliam (1611— 1G13) 
To Chloe— LI 
Lesbia on her sparrow— cccxxvi. 

Cayley, George John 

An epitaph — cccclxix. 

Chestebfibld, Earl of (1694 — 1773) 

The picture of Nash at Bath — cxli 
Advice to a lady in autmnn — cxLir 
On Lord Islay's garden— cxliii. 

Cleveland, John (1613— 1659) 
Epigram— CLXYli. 

Clougti, Arthur H. (1S19— 1861) 

Sjiectator ab extra — cclxiii 

Out of sight, out of mind — ccclxxxix. 
CoLElUDi'.E, Hartley (1796-1819) 

To a proud kinswoman— coccxxx in 
CoLERiBoE, Samuel Taylor (1772— 1834) 

On Job^ccxxxviii 

Cologne — ccxL 

To a young lady on her recovery from a fever — cclxxxvii 

Something childish but very natural— ccxcviii 

To a lady— ccc 

Names— cfcxLvi 

What the birds say— ccccxliv. 

394 Index of Writers. 

Collins, John (17 — 1S08) 

Good old things — ccxlix 
The golden farmer — cclxiv 
To-morrow — ccxciii. 

Collins, Mortimer (1827—1876) 

My thrush— ccocLxvii. < 

CoLMAN, George (1762—1836) 

My muse and I— clxxvi. 

CoNOREVE, William (1670—1720) 

Tell me no more I am deceived — lxxxv 
Fair Amoret is gone astray — lxxxvii 
False tho' slie be to me and love — xcvii. 

Corbet, Richard (1582-1635) 

To his son Vincent — cclxxviii. ' 

Cowley, Abraham (1618-1667) 

Love in her sunny eyes — lxi 
The wish — lxxxi. 

Cowper, William (1731—1800) 

To his cousin, Anne Bodham— ccxiii 

The poplar field— ccxov 

The poet's new year's gift— ccxcix 

The judgment of the poets— cccvir 

On some names of little note — cccxi 

On a goldfinch starved to death— cccxxix 

The faithful bird — cccxxx 

Epitaph on a hare — cccxxxi 

The Colubriad — cccxxxiv 

The jackdaw — cecxxxv 

To Joseph Hill-cccxxx\ii 

Catharina — cccxxxviii 

Report of an adjudged case — rccLxxix. 

Crabbe, George (1754—1832) 

To Cecilia— ccLXXXi. 

Crashaw, Richard (1615—1652) 

On Mr. George Herbert's book— cciv. 

Croker, The Right Hon. John AVilson (17S0— 1851) 

To Miss Peel : on the announcement of lier intended 
marriage— c'cccLxxvi. 

Cunningham, John (1729—1773) 

Kate of Aberdeen— cLXXViii. 

Daniel, Samuel (1562—1619) 

Love is a sickness full of woes — iv. 

Davenant, Sir William (1606-1668) 

'1 lie soldier going to the field — xxxvi 
Tlie dying lover — cxxxvii. 

De la Waure, Earl of (1729—1777) 
Fair Hebe— ocvii. 

Index of Writers, 395 

, John (ir)73-lC31) 

Send back my long stray'd eyes to me— x. 
Dorset, Earl of (1637—1700) 

Phillis, for shame — i,xxiii 

Dorinda — i.xxv 

Written at sea — lxxvi. 
Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings (1810—1888) 

Epitaph on a favourite dog— cccci.xxi. 
Dry DEN, John (1031—1700) 

On Fortune — lxxxvi 

A pair well matched — lxxxix 

The fair stranger — cxiv. 

EoEEMONT, Charles AVyndham, Earl of (1710-1703) 

The fair thief — ccxx. 
Elliot, Sir Gilbert ( —1777) 

Amynta— cxxxiii. 
Essex, Robert, Earl of (1567—1601) 

There is, O, none but you — lxxxiv. 
ERKCiE, Sir George (1C36— 1094) 

A warning to swains —lxviii 

< 'arpe diem — lxx. 

Fansiiawe, Miss Catherine M. (1764—1-34) 

Kiddle on the letter H— occxLil 

Imitation of Wordsworth — ccclxxxii 

Elegy on the hirtb-night ball — occlxxxiv. 
Fielding, Henry (1707— 17.')4) 

On a halfpenny— cxxxviii 

An epistle to Sir R. Walpole— clxxxi 

To Sir E. Walpole— ('Lxxxii 

To ( 'elia— cLXxxv. 

Fitzgerald, Edward (cu-ca 1820) 

Because — ccclxii 

(iood-night — ccclxxxvi 

Chivalry at a discount— ccoLxxxvir. 
Flatman, Thomas (1035— IGSS) 

On marriage — cxviii. 
Fox, Right Hon. Charles James (1748-1800) 

To Mrs. Crewe— cLxxxviii. 
Frere, the Right Hon. John Hookhani (1709—1846) 

A fable for five years t>ld — ccccxlv. 

Garrick, David (1710-1779) 

Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must 
shea I' — cxLvii 

Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore — cxlvii i 

Advice to the Marquis of Rockingham— c.xciii. 
Gay, John (lOSS— 1732) 

Damon and Cupid — xciii 

Phyllida — xcv 

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace— oclxxxiv. 

39^ Index of IVn'/ers, 

Goldsmith, Oliver (1728—1774) 

The retaliation — cxlvi 

The haunch of venison — ex. 
Gray, Thomas (1716—1771) 

On tlie death of a favourite cat— cccxxviii 

A long story — ccccxxii. 
Geeene, Robert (1560—1592) 

Happy as a shepherd— viii 

Content — lxxx. 
Greville, Mrs. Fanny (1720?— ) 

Prayer for indifference — ccxxxxii. 

Harrington, Sir John (1561—1612) 

Treason — ccxxiv. 
Heber, Reginald, Bishop of Calcutta (1783-1826) 

Sympathy — cccxl. 
Herrick, Robert, The Rev. (1591—1674) 

A dialogue between himself and Mrs. Eliza Wheeler- 


To his mistress objecting— XXIX 
Julia's bed — xxxi 
Upon Julia's clothes — xxxii 
Delight in disorder — xxxiii 
The night piece —xxxix 
To the virgins to make much of time— xl 
The head-ache — xli 
The ring— xLiii 
To Dianeme — lx 
To carnations — lxii 
The bag of the bee — c 
The bracelet- cxxv 
To laurels— cLxiii 

I'Pon ;i lady that died in cliild-bed— clxiv 
How springs came tirst — clxxix 
An ode to Ben Jonson — ccxlii 
The kiss— ccLxvi 
The maiden blush — cccxliv 
To Mr. John Wicks— cccxcvii. 
Hill, Aaron (1684-5—1749-50) 

Modesty and beauty dangerous— ccxxvii. 

Holland, Lord (1773—1840) 

On Samuel Roger's seat— cccli. 
Hood, Thomas (1798-1845) » 

I'm not a single man — ccxvi 

To , (composed at Rotterdam)— ccclvi 

On a distant view of Clapham academy— cccLxviii 

To Minerva— cccLxx 

The flower- cccLXxii 

The burning of the love letter— ccclxxv 

The water Peri's song— ccclxxvi 

"Please to ring the belle" — ccclxxvii 

I've a darling of my own — c^clxxxi 

The broken dish-cccLxxxui. 

, Index of Writers. 397 

HosKiss, John (l.')50— l(j3s) 

On the loss of Time— cm 

To his little child Benjamin— CLxxii. 

IIovGHTox, Richard, Lord (IS09— 18S5) 
Shadows ii.— cccoxxxix 
Shadows iii.— ccicxlviii 
Mary and Agnes Berry— ccccliii 
Tlie Venetian serenade— cccclix 
An envoy to an American lady — ccccLXil 
I)ryden and Thackeray— cccolxvi. 

HrxT, Leigh (17S4-1859) 

Jenny kiss'd me— cccxxiv. 

iRviNCi, AVashington (17S3 — 1859) 

Album verses— cccxLviii. 

J.voo, Richard (1715— 17S1) 
Absence — clvi. 

Jeffrev, Francis, Lord (1773 — 1850) 
Verses— cccxLvii. 

Jenyns, Soame (1704 — 1787) 

Too plain, dear youth, those tell-tale eyes — lxlix. 

JoiissoN, Samuel (1709—1784) 

To Mrs. Thrale— CXI 

It the man who turnips cries — ccclxxviii 

On the death of Mr. Robert Levet — colxxi. 

Jones, Miss Mary 

The lass of the hill — CLXXXiri. 

Jones, Sir William (174C— 1794) 

To an infant newly born— cLXXiir. 

JoNSON, Ben (1574—1637) 

To C'elia — xviii 

Charis— her triumph — xx 

Kpitaph on the Countess of Pembroke — cLxii 

j;pitapli on Salathiel Parry— xxii 

If I freely may discover — ccixviii 

Still to be neat, still to be drest— cccxcv. 

Ke.vts, John (1795—1821) 

Tlie Mermaid Tavern— cccviii. 

Kex.vy, James (1770—1849) 

The old story over again— cccxv. 

Lami;, Charles (1775— 1835) 

To Hester Savory — ccci 

A sonnet on Christian names — ccccvili. 
Landok, Walter Savage (1775— 1SG4) 

To my ninth decade — ccxXix 

On Southey's death — ccxxxii 

Tlie dragon tty— ccxliii 

398 Index of Writers, 

Landor, Continued — 

A retrospect — cclxxvi 

Eose Aylnier — cclxxx 

Clementina and Lucilla— ccciv 

Her lips — cccxcix 

Dreams : To lanthe— cccc 

To his young Kose— ccccill 

Feathers — cccciv 

I strove with none — ccccv 

On one in illness — ccccvi 

On Catullus — ccccx 

Proud word you never spoke— ccccxi 

How many voices gaily sing — ccccxii 

The casket — ccccxv 

Why repine ? — ccccxvi 

To one in grief — ccccxix 

Ireland — cccoxx 

To a fair maiden — ccccxxi 

Ignorance of botany — ccccxxiii 

AVhere are sighs V — ccooxxiv 

Children playing in a churchyard— ccccxxv 

I held her hand the pledge of bliss— cccoxxixi 

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed— lcucxxx 

To lanthe — ccccxxxi 

Tears — ccccxxxv 

Destiny uncertain — ccccxxxvi 

Twenty years hence — ccccxl 

Hoses and thorns — ccccxli 

While thou wert by — ccccxlii 

The sliortest day — ccccxliii 

One year ago— ccccxlvii 

La Promessa Sposa — ccccli 

Sympathy in sorrow— cccclii 

Hose's birtliday — cccclvii 

The grateful lieart — cccclviii 

With Petrarch's sonnets — cccclxi. 

Leigh, Henry S. (1S3G— 1883) 

Chateau D'Espagne — ccccxiv 
My love and my heart — ccccxxxii 
Eotten Row — cccclxv. 

L'EsTiiANOE, Sir Roger (1G16— 1704) 

Loyalty confined -lxxviii. 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory (1773— ISIS) 

Lord Erskine on woman presuming to rail— ccxxxix. 
The hours — cclxxix. 

LocKiiAiiT, J. G. (1791— ISnj; 

When youthful faith hath lied— ccxix. 

Lovelace, Colonel Richard (1618— I60S) 

To Lucasta, on going to the wars — xlv 
The merit of inconstancy — lii 
To Lucasta, on going beyond the seas— liv 
To Althea— Lxxvii. 

Index of Writers. 399 

LlJTTliELL, Ileniy (1771— 1S51) 

On Miss Maria Tree— ccxxxi 
liunilKiiu-IJeeches — cccxlix 
At Holland House— cccLll. 

Lvi.v, Jolin (1534— IGOO) 

Cupid and Campaspe— cccxc. 

Lysaoht, Edward (17G3— ISIO) 

Kitty of Coleraine — ccoxx. 

Lyttelton, George, Lord (1709—1773) 
Hope and Love — ccxxv. 

Macaulay, Thomas B., Lord (ISOO— 1859) 

As 1 sate down to breakfast in state— ecu 
Valentine to the Honble. M. C. Stanhope — ccxvii. 

Maiiony, Frank (1S05—1S65) 

The Shandon bells— cclvii. 

Meliwukkk, "William Lamb, Viscount (1779— 1S4S) 
'Tis late, and 1 must haste away — cxc. 

Milton, John (1608-1674) 

To Mr. Lawrence — cccxci 
To Cyriac Skinner — cccxciv. 

MoNTAciU, Lady Mary Wortley (1690-1762) 
T)ie lover — oi 
On Sir Robert Walpole— clxxxiv. 

Moore, Edward (1712—1757) 

The joys of wedlock— cxiv. 

MooiiE, Thomas (17S0— 1S52) 

I'add.v's metamor])liosis — cxciv 

King Crack and his idols — cxcviil 

Farewell !— but whenever you welcome the hour— cclvi 

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefuMy curl'd— ccxcvi 

Dear Fanny— cccv 

Minerva's thimble— cccx 

A dream of Hindostan — cccxil 

The time I've lost in wooing— cccxvii 

A temple to friendship — ccclv 

From tlie Honble. Henry— to Lady Emma—. — cccxviii 

Keason, folly, and beauty — cccLxm 

When I loved you— ccccvii 

Woman's laughter— ccccxxxviii. 

MoKiiis, Captain Charles (1740—1832) 
The toper's apology— cclv 
The contrast -cucxxi. 

MoTTEUX, Peter Anthony (16G0— 1718) 
A roundelay— cxxiv. 

Xlhient, Robert, Earl (1709-1788) 

1 loved thee, beautiful and kind— ci. xxviii. 

400 Index of Writers. 

Oldmixon, John (1673—1742) 

I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste^cxxxix. 

Oldys, William (1096—1761) 
The fly— c'cxLiv. 

Orford, Horace Walpole, Earl of (1717—1797) 

To Madame de Damas learning English -ccxxvi. 

Orford, Robert Walpole, Earl of (1676—1745) 
To the sunflower — clxxxvi. 

Oxford, Edward Vere, Earl of (1534— 1G04) 
A renunciation — vii 
Were I a king — clx. 

Parnell, Dr. Thomas (1079—1717) 

When thy beauty appears — cvi. 

Peacock, Thomas Love (1785— 1S66) 

In his last binn Sir Peter lies— ccltx 
Ricli and poor — cclxv 
Love and age — cccliv. 

Peterbobouoh, Lord (1658—1735) 

Song by a person of quality — cxxxi. 

Philips, Ambrose (1071 — 1749) 

To Charlotte Pulteney— fu'xci. 

Planche, James Robinson (1796-1880) 
A literary squabble — cccclx. 

Pope, Alexander (1688-1744) 

To Mr. Thomas Sontherne— xlvii 

The contented man — lxxxiii 

To Mrs. Martha Blount— cxx 

Answer to the question — What is prudery ?— cxxi.k 

The town and country mouse — cxxxvi 

Epitaph for one who would not be buried in Westmiubtcr 

Abbey — clxviii 
On the collar of a dog — ccxxxv. 

PoRSON, Richard (1759— ISOS) 

Epigram — ccxxxvi. 

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth (1802— 1S39) 
Mars disarmed by Love — cu 
Verses on seeing the Speaker asleep — cci 
Sketch of a young lady — cc.xiv 
The chaunt of the brazen head — cccxn 
Enigma — cccxLiri 
The belle of the ball-room — cccliii 
The Vicar— cccLvii 
A letter of advice — ccclix 
Our ball — ccclxi 

Childhood and his visitors — ccclxiv 
My little cousins — ccclxvi 
School and schoolfellows — cccLxvii 
Moonshine : a charade — ccccl. 

Index of Writers. 401 

Prior, Matthew (ICO-l— 1721) 

Cupid mistaken — xci 

The question to Lisetta — xcii 

Answer to Chloe jealous— xciv 

The female Phaeton — xcvi 

Her right name— xcviii 

The garland— o 

The mercliant, to secure his treasure — cii 

The remedy worse than the disease -CLXf 

For liis own monument— CLXVi 

To liis soul — cj^xxiv 

Tlie secretary — cr.xxxvii 

To a child of quality — ccx 

The lady who offers her looking-glass to Venus — ccxxxiii 

To a lady : she refusing to continue a dispute with me — 


To Lady Margaret Cavendish HoUes-Harley — ccccxvii. 

Prowse, "William Jeffery (1S36— 1870) 
My lost old age— cccLXiu 

Raleigh, Sir Walter (1552—1618) 
The silent lover— xii 

The shepherd's description of love— xxviti 
The nymph's reply to the shepherd— XLix 
Her love admits no rival — rccxcvi. 

Recnier, the Abbe (1573—1613) 

Gaily I lived as ease and nature tau »ht— CLXXi. 

Reynolds, J. Hamilton (1796—1853) 

On Charles Kemble — ccLXir. 

Rochester, Earl of (164S— 16S0) 

The present moment — LXiir 

The victor and the vanquishei' — lxiv 

Rogers, Samuel (1762-1855) 

To asleep— ccLXxxvi 

On a tear — cclxxxix 

To , — ccxc 

A wish— ocxciv 

An Italian song — ccxcvii 

Epitaph on a robin redbreast — cccxxxiii. 

RoNSARD, After Pierre de (1524-1585) 
On twin sisters— clxix. 

RossLYN, Francis, Earl of (1833—1890) 
Bedtime— cccclxxv. 

Sedley, Sir Charles (1639—1701) 

Phillis is my only joy — XIV 
To Phillis— Lxv 
To Chloris— Lxvii 
To Celia— LXix. 

402 Index of Writers. 

Shakspeee, William (1564— 1C16) 
My flocks feed not — vi 

mistress mine, where are you roaming ? — xv 

Shelley, Percy B. (1792— 1S22) 

Good-night — ccclxxxv 
With a guitar to Jane — cccoii. 

Sheridan, Dr. Thomas (1684— 173s) 
Dr. Delany's villa — cxxii. 

Sheridan, Et. Honble. E. B. (1751— 1S16) 

On Lady Margaret Fordyce — cclxxiv 

1 ne'er could any lustre see — cclxxvii 
The waltz — cccxxxvi. 

Shen^tone, William (1714—1763) 

Written at an inn — clvii. 

Skelton, Eev. John (1463- -1529) 

To Mrs. Margaret Hussey — i. 

Smith, Horatio (1779—1849) 
To Fanny— cccci. 

SiMiTH, James (1775—1839) 

< liristmas out of town — rccxxTi 
Tlie Poet of Fashion— ccccxiii. 

Smollett, Tobias (17-21-1771) 

Her fascination — clxxvii. 

SoMERViLLE. James (1692—1742) 

The white rose— cclxxxv 

SPENCER,lHonble. Wm. Eobt. (1770—1834) 
To Lady Anne Hamilton — cccvt 
Epitajjli upon the year 1806 — ccctx 
Wife, children, and friends— cccx7v. 

Strode, William (1600—1644) 
Kisses— ccLXVii. 

Suckling, Sir John (1608 or 9—1641) 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?— xxxvri 

The siege— XLii 

I pr'ythee send me back my heart — xltv 

A ballad upon a wedding — xlvi 

Love and debt — xlviii 

Out upon it, I have loved — i. 

Surrey, Earl of (1516—1547) 

The means to attain a happy life — lxxix. 

Index of Writers. 403 

Swift, Jonathan (1067— 1745) 

Mrs. Harris's jietition — cv 

Stella's birthday, 1718— cvii 

Stella's birthday, 1720— cviii 

Stella's birthday, 1721 — cix 

Stella's birthday, 1726— rx 

'J'he grand question debated — cxix 

On the little house by the churchyard of Castleknock— 

A love song in the modern taste— ccclxxi 

SVDN-EY, Sir Philip (1554— 15S0) 
The serenade — 111 
A ditty— V. 

Tennysox-Turner, the Rev. Charles (1808— 1S79) 
Sonnet — cccclxxii. 

Tri.vcKEEAY, William Makepeace (1811—1863) 
Tlie white squall — ccccix 
Peg of Limavaddy — occcxviii 
The ballad of Bouillabaisse — ccccxxvm 
The maliogany tree — ccccxxxvii 
The cane-bottom'd chair — occcxLVi 
Piscator and Piscatrix — ooccxLix 
At the cliurcli gate — cccclv 
The age of wisdom — cccolvi 
Ad ministram — ccccLxiii 
On an old lamp — ccccLxiv. 

TiCKELL, Thomas (16SS -1740) 

On a woman of fashion— cxliv. 

Vanbruoii, Sir John (1060— 172G) 

Fable related by a beau to .Esop— lxxxviii. 

Walker, Sidney (1795-1840) 

To a girl in her 13th year— ccxv. 

Waller, Edmund (1605-1087) 

Of English verse— Lxxi 

Tlie story of Phcebus and r)ai)hne applied — lxxii 
To Chloris singing a song of his composing— lxxiv 
On a girdle— cxxvi. 

Walsh, William (1663—1708) 

The despairing lover— cccix 
Kivals in love— cccxcii. 

Walton, Izaak (1593—1683) 

Tlie angler's wish— Lxxxir. 

Williams, Sir Charles Hanbury (1709—1759) 
An ode to the Earl of Bath — oxci 
The statesman— cxiii 
An ode on Jliss Harriet llanbury— ccxi 
A song upon Miss Harriet Hanbury— ccxii 
On the death of Matzel - cccxxvii. 

404 Index of Writers. 

Wither, George (1588—1667) 

On a stolen kiss— xvii 

A madrigal— XIX 

Shall I, wasting in despair ?—xxxviii. 

WoLCOT, John (1738—1819) 

What is prudence ? — fxxx 
To sleep— ccxLi 
To a kiss — cclxviii 
Marian's complaint — cclxxii 
To a fish— cccLxxiii. 

Wordsworth, William (1770 — 1S50) 

To a young lady who had been reproached for taking long 
walks in the country — cclxxxviii. 

WoTTON, Sir Henry (1568-1639) 

Upon the death of Sir A. Mor en's wife— rxxv 
On his mistress the Queen of ohemia — cciii. 

Wyat, Sir Thomas (1503—1542) 

The one he would love — 11. 


Since I first saw your face I vowed — xiii 

I'ain would I, Chloris, ere I die — xxiii 

My Love in her attire dotli show her wit — xxxiv 

Love not me for comely grace— liii 

Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature — Lv 

The peremptory lover — lvii 

His excuse for loving — xcix 

To Winifreda — txii 

A man may live thrice Nestor's life — cxiii 

On the Marriage Act— cxv 

Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast — cxxi 

To a glove — cxxvii 

Susan's complaint — cxxvili 

Strephon, when you see me fly — cxxxiv 

AVhat is a woman like ?— cxxxv 

Last Sunday at St. James's prayers — CXLV 

When Molly smiles beneath her cow — CLii 

Kobin's complaint — cliii 

A Lover's message — clv 

As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass'd— (.LViir 

Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight — clix 

Wind, gentle evergreen, to forma shade — clxx 

The nymph and the swain — olxxx 

The constant swain and virtuous maid — ccv 

You say you love, — and twenty more— ccvi 

The courtship and wedding — covin 

On Lord King's motto — ccix 

A husband to a wife — ccxxi 

No truer friend than woman man discovers — ccxxii 

Till death I Sylvia must adore — ccxxni. 

My heart still hovering round about you — ccxxx 

Index of Writers. 405 

UNKXOVVX, Continued— 

Karly rising — ccxxxiv 

The Sages of old, in prophecy told — tvxi.v 

Says Plato, why should man be vain '? — fcxLVi 

On breaking a china mug — cci.! 

The country wedding— cclu 

On a kiss— ccLxix 

The auburn lock — cclxx 

Secret love — cclxxiii 

My 1/ilia gave me yestermorn— crcii 

The honeymoon— cocxxv. 


A BAND, a bob-wig, and a feather 

A bard, dear muse, unapt to sing 

About fifty years since, in tlie days of our daddies 

About the sweet-bag of a bee 

A face that sliould content me wondrous well 

A funeral stone, or verse, I covet none 

Ah, Ben ! say how or when . 

Ah ! Chloris ! could I now but sit 

Ah ! do not drive off grief, but place your hand 

Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! 

Ah ! what avails tlie sceptred race ! 

Ah, what is love ! it is a pretty thing . 

A knife, dear girl, cuts love, they say . 

A knight and a lady once met in a grove 

A little boy had bought a top. 

All my past life is mine no more . 

All through the sultry hours of June . 

All travellers at first incline . 

All you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-TIall beer 

Alone, across a foreign plain 

A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes 

Although I enter not .... 

A man may live thrice Nestor's life 

Amaryllis 1 did woo .... 

Amongst the myrtles as I walk'd . 

Among thy fancies, tell me this . 

A pretty task, ]\Iiss S , to ask . 

Ariel to Miranda : — Take 

A ring to me Cecilia sends 

As after noon, one summer's day . 

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 

Asl Dick and I were a-sailing by . 

As doctors give physic by way of prevention 

As down in the meadows I chanced to pass 

As gilly-flowers do but stay ... 

As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself 

As I sate down to breakfast in state 

As I went to the wake that is held on the grt 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows . 





















Index of First Lines, 


Ask me why I send you here 

As lamps burn sik-nt with unconscious light 

As Nancy at lier toilet sat . 

As on this pictureil pa,'e I look 

Asses' milk, lialf a pint, take at seven, or bef( re 

As t'other day o'er the sreon meadow I pass'd 

A street there is in Paris famous . 

A sweet disorder in the dress 

As when a beauteous nymph decays 

"A temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchantet 

At length, by so much importunity press'd . 

Away, let nousjht to love displeasing . 

A woman is like to— but stay 

Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child . 

Ay, here stands the poplar, so tall and so stately 

Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blov/ 
Before tlie urcliin well could go . . 
Behold wliat liomage to his idol paid . 
Behold with downcast eyes and modest glanve 
Beneatli an Indian palm a girl 
Between Nose and Eye? a strange contest arose 
Beyond the vague Atlantic deep . 
Blue as tlie sky were the simple flowers 
Busy, curious, thirsty fly ! . 


CiiiLDKKK, keop up that harmless play 
Chloe, why wisli you that your years . 
Chloris, yourself you so excel . . 

Christmas is here 

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast . 

Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we 

Come from my First, ay, come 

Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer 

Come let us now resolve at last 

Come, lovely lock of Julia's hair . 

Cupid and my Campaspe play'd . 

Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal btncli 

Deau child of nature, let them rail ! — 
Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face I 
Dear Doctor of St. ilarj's .... 
Dear is my little native vale .... 
Dear Joseph, — five-and-twenty years ago — . 
Dear little, pretty, favourite ore . 
Dear Love, let me this evening die 
Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is • 
Did ever swain a nymph adore 

Distracted with care 

Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes . 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 

Faik would I, Chloris, ere I die 
Fair Amoret is gone astray 

, shear 


Index of First Lines. 

Fair cousin mine ! the golden days 

Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design 

Fair Iris 1 love, and hourly I die . . 

Fair maiden ! when I look at thee 

Pair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries . 

Fair marble, tell to future days 

False tho' she be to me and love . 

Farewell ! all good wishes go with him to-day 

Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the hour 

Farewell ! farewell to my mother's own daughter 

Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions . 

For many a winter in Billiter-lane 

Fortune, that, with malicious joy . 

Friends, hear the words my wandering thoughts would say 

From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 




Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught 129 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 26 

Give me more love, or more disdain 72 

Good-night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill 313 

Good-night to thee. Lady ! tho' many 314 

Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace 211 

Go, virgin kid, with lambent kiss 97 

Go — you may call it madness, folly 215 

Gracefully shy is yon gazelle 358 

Great Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er 143 

Great Sir, as on each levee day 135 

Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom 

Hail ! day of music, day of love . 

Hail ! pretty emblem of my fate ! . 

Happy and free, securely blest 

Happy the man whose wish and care 

Hayrick some do spell thy name . 

Health, strength and beauty, who would not 

He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried 

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue 

Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell 

Here's the garden she walked across 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee 

Heroes and kings ! your distance keep . 

He stood, a worn-out city clerk 

He talked of daggers ancl of darts 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

He that will win his dame must do 

His book is successful, he's steeped in i-enowi 

Ho ! pretty page, with the diniijled chin 

How blest has my time been ! Vvhat joys have I known 

How happily shelter'd is he who reposes 

How happy a thing were a wedding 

How many voices gaily sing 

Hush ! in tl;e canal below 

Huzza i Hovlgson, we,are {,'oing . , . 







Index of First Lines. 409 


AM his Highness' do;; at Kew 175 

asked my fair one happy day '200 

'd be a butterfly Ijorn in a bower "^it'i 

do confess thou'rt smooth and fair IT 

f all be true that I do think Isi 

f all the world and love were youni; 34 

f hush'd the loud whirlwind that rutilcd the deep . . . 150 

f I freely may discover -35 

f I had but two little wings 220 

feed a flame within, which so torments me .... 204 

f life be time that here is lent 71 

f the man who turnips cries 305 

f this fair rose offend thy sight 212 

f to be absent were to be 37 

f women could be fair, and yet not fond 5 

gaze upon a city, — 276 

hardly know one flower that grows 348 

hate the town, and all its ways 137 

held her hand, the pledge of bliss 354 

in these flowery meads would be 56 

knew by the smoke tliat so gracefully curl'd .... 21'* 

lately thought no man alive 119 

lately vowed, but twas in haste 107 

'11 tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore ... 305 

loved thee, beautiful and kind 174 

loved thee once, I'll love no more S 

'm like Archimedes for science and skill 149 

mmortal Newton never spoke . 107 

'm often asked Ijy plodding souls 187 

'ra only nine-and-twenty yet 2^9 

n Britain's isle, no matter where 344 

n Christian world INIary the garland wears 330 

n Clementina's artless mien 223 

ne'er could any lustre see 200 

n his last l)inn Sir Peter lies 192 

n Koln, a town of monks and bones 170 

n London I never know what I'd be at 238 

n matters of commerce, the fault of tlie Hutch . . . 148 

n tatter'd old slippers that toast at tlie bars .... 363 

n the downhill of life when I find I'm declining . . . 217 

n the dajs of my youth I've been frequently told . . . 181 

n the merry month of May 6 

play'd witli you mid cowslips blowing 274 

pr'ythee leave this foolish fashion 40 

pr'ythee send me back my heart 29 

reland never was contented 344 

said to my heart, between sleeping and waking ... 99 

sent for Ilatcliffe ; was so ill 126 

strove with none, for none was worth my strife . . . 329 

tell thee, Dick, where I have been 30 

think, whatever mortals crave 260 

t is not, C'elia, in your power 45 

t often comes into my head 326 

t once miglit have been, once only 384 

Jenny kiss'd me when we met 243 

Julia, I bring 28 

4IO Index of First Lines. 


KiNa Crack was the best of all possible kings . . . ISO 

Know, Celia (since thou art so proud) 40 

Know you, fair, on what you look ? 157 

Last Sunday at St. James's prayers 110 

Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you 292 

Lawrence, of virtuous father, virtuous son 321 

Let it not your wonder move 07 

Life ! I know not what thou art 211 

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream 178 

Little Ellis sits alone 317 

Lord Erskine, on woman presuming to rail 17G 

Lord Harry has written a novel 299 

Lords, knights and squires, the numerous band .... 101 

Love in her sunny eyes does basking play 41 

Love is a sickness full of woes 3 

Love me, Sweet, with all thou art 269 

Love not me for comely grace 37 

Man is for woman made 95 

Margaret's beauteous — Grecian arts 223 

Maria ! I have every good 220 

Mark'd you her cheek of roseate hue? 204 

Martial, the things that do attain ■ 54 

Merry Margaret 1 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 218 

Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers 358 

My boat is on the shore 191 

My dearest love, since thou wilt go 18 

My flocks feed not 4 

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore 104 

My head doth ache 27 

My heart still hovering round about you 174 

My Lilla gave me yestermorn 222 

My little Ben, since thou art young 129 

My love and I for kisses play'd 201 

My love in her attire doth show her wit 22 

My mother bids me spend my smiles 308 

My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled 130 

My noble, lovely, little Peggy '338 

My pretty, budding, breathing flower 164 

Myrtilla, early on the lawn 175 

My sheep I neglected, I broke my shesp-hook .... 101 

My temples throb, my pulses boil 300 

My true love hath my heart, and I have his .... 3 

Nature, thy fair and smiling face 320 

Needy knife-grinder ! whither are you going"? .... 147 

Ne'er wei-e the Zephyrs known disclosini; 207 

No morning ever seemed so long ! 304 

None, without hope, e'er lov'd the brightest fair . . . 173 

Not, Celia, that I juster am 45 

Not hopeless, round this calm sepnlchi-al spot .... S83 

No truer friend than woman man discovers .... 172 

Now cease the exulting strain 310 

Now, don't look so glum and so sanctified, please . . . 109 

Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes .... 12 

Index of First Lines. 


O, BE thou blest witli all that Heaven can send 
Of all the torments, all the cares . 
Of old, when Scarron his companions iuviteil 
Often I have heard it said .... 
Often, when o'er tree and turret . 

Oft in danger, yet alive 

Oft I've implored the gods in vain 

Oft you have ask'd me, Granville, why 

Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 

Oil ! that the chemist's magic art . 

Oh, the days were ever shiny 

Old Islay, to show his fine delicate taste 

O mistress mine, where are you roaming ? . 

Once on a time, so runs the fable . 

Once on a time, when sunny May 

Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord 

On deck beneath the awning 

O, never talk again to n;e .... 

One year ago my path was green . 

On parents' knees, a naked new-born child . 

On the brow of a hill a young Shepherdess dwelt 

On this Tree if a nightingale settles an<l sings 

O, talk not to me of a name great in story . 

Out upon it, I have loved .... 





Phillis, for shame ! let us improve '7 

Phillis is my only joy . . 10 

rhillis, men say that all ray vows 43 

I'hilosopliers pretend to tell 201 

Phyllida, that loved to dream 04 

Poets may boast, as safely vain 40 

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing 130 

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl 23 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will sneak . . . 334 

Pr'ythee, Chloe. not so fast 91 

Prudence, Sir William, is a jewel IJ'J 

Uksigx'd to live, prepared to die 
Hiding from Coleraine . 


Says Plato, why should man be vain 179 

See'st thou that cloud as silver clear 21 

See the chariot at hand here of Love 13 

Send back my long stray'd eyes to me 7 

Serene and tranquil was the night 243 

Shall I, like a hermit, dwell 324 

Shall I tell you whom I love ? 16 

Shall I, wasting in despair 24 

She came — she is gone— we have met — 25r 

She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cuol . . 224 

"Shepherd, what's love?" I pray thee tell 1 " .... 19 

Since first I saw your face I vowed _^10 

Since shed nor cottage I have none 324 

-Since truth ha' left the shepherds tongue 203 


Index of First Lines. 


Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair 153 

Sleep, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep 369 

Sleej) on, and dream of Heaven awhile 21'2 

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions 176 

Soft child of Love — thou balmy bliss 
So look the mornings, when the sun 
Some yeai's ago, ere time and taste 
Soon as the day begins to waste 
Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead 
Souls of poets dead and gone 
Spare, gen'rous Victor, spare the slavi 
Stay while ye will, or go 
Stella this day is tliirty-four 




Still to be neat, still to be drest 323 

Strephon, when you see me fly . . . 
Such were the lively eyes and rosy hue 
Sure 'tis time to have resign'd 
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content 
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes . 
Sweet Nea ! — for your lovely sake 





Ti'.LL me no more I am deceived . 

Tell me not of joy : there's none . 

Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind . 

Tell me not what too well I know 

Tell me, perverse young year ! . . . 

Thanks, my Lord, for your venison— for finer or 

That out of sight is out of mind . 

That which her slender waist confined 

The Alphabet rejoiced to hear 

The Archery meeting is fixed for the third . 

The day of brightest dawn (day soonest flown) 

" Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed " . 

The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride 

The Germans in (Jreek 

The grateful heart for all things blesses 

The greenhouse is my summer seat 

Tlie Lady Mary Villiers lies .... 

" The longer one lives, the more one learns " 

The maid I love ne'er thought of me . ' . 

The merchant, to secure his treasure 

Then, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat 

The poor man's sins are glaring 

The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 

The pride of every grove I chose . 

There are some wishes that may start . 

There falls with every wedding chime . 

There is a bird, who by his coat 

There is a garden in her face 

There is a river clear and fair 

There is a sound that's dear to me 

'J'here is none, none but you 

There's a tempting bit of greenery— of rxis, m ur 

There's one request I make to Him 

The Sages of old, in jirophecy told 

be scenery 











Index of First Lines. 



These springs were maidens once that loved 

The silver moon's enauiour'd beam 

Tlie sun was now witlnlrawn 

The time I've lost in wooing 

They seemed to those who saw them meet 

This day, whate'er the Fates decree 

This picture placed these busts between 

Though British accents your attention fire 

Thou record of the votive throng . 

Thou wert too good to live on earth with mi 

Thou who, when fears attack 

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young . 

Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of can 

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train 

Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays 

Till death, T Sylvia must adore 

Timely blossom. Infant fair 

Time was when I was free as air . 

'Tis bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid "Good-night 

'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses 

'Tis late, and I must haste away . 

'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her I 

'Tis not the lily brow I prize 

'Tis not the spleiiiiour of the place 

'Tis not your beauty nor your wit 

'Tis not your saying that you love 

'Tis now, since I sat down before 

To all you ladies now on land 

To fix her, — 'twere a task as vain . 

To his young Eose an old man said 

To hug yourself in perfect ease 

To my ninth decade I have tottered on 

Too late I stay'd 1 forgive the crime 

Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes 

To thee, fair Freedom ! I retire . 

To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of 

Tread lightly here, for here 'tis said 

Treason doth never prosper — What's the reas 

Try not, my Stauhoi>e, 'tis in vain 

'Twas in heaven pronounced, it was mutter' 

'Twas on a lofty vase's side 

Twelve years ago I made a mock . 

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow 

Two friends within one grave we place 

Two nymphs, both neaily of an age 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Unless my senses are more dull . 

Vents, take my votive glass 


d in Iiell 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play . 
Weepe with me all you that read . 
Well may they, Wentworth, call thee young 
Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain 

414 Index of First Lines. 


Well then ; I now do plainly see 55 

Wert thou yet fairer in tliy feature 38 

Well tried thro' many a varying year 202 

Were I a king, I could command content Vlh 

What Cato advises most certainly wise is 181 

What I shall leave thee none can tell 206 

What is Prudery? 'Tis a beldam 98 

What nymph should I admire, or trust 62 

What's life but full of care and doubt 309 

What statesman, wliat hero, what king 144 

When along the light ripple the far serenade .... 375 

When as in silks my Julia goes 21 

Whene'er the cruel hand of death 182 

Wliene'er with haggard eyes I view 303 

When I loved you, I can't but allow 330 

When I am dead, on my tomb-stone I hope tli;y wiil s.ay . 186 

When I tie about thy wrist 96 

When I was a maid 232 

When late I attempted your pity to move 176 

When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year . . . 383 

When Love came first to earth, the Spring .... 230 

When Love with unconfined wings .51 

When maidens such as Hester died 221 

When Molly smiles beneath her cow 121 

When one whose nervous English verse 381 

When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presenteil . . 231 

When thy beauty appears 75 

When youthful faith hath fled 171 

Where the loveliest expression to features is join'd . . . 140 

While at the helm of State you rido 134 

While her laugh, full of life, without any controul . . . 300 

While I'm blest with health and plenty 198 

While on those lovely looks I gaze 42 

While thou wert by 362 

While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix . . . 139 

Whoever pleaseth to inquire . . ' 93 

"Who is it that this dark night 2 

Why dost thou say I am forsworn 37 

Why do our joys depart 361 

Why fly est thou away with fear? 302 

Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 213 

Why should I thus employ my time 102 

Why so iiale and wan, fond lover ? 24 

Why, why repine my pensive friend 338 

Why write my name 'mid songs and flowers .... 266 

Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 129 

AVith an honest old friend and a merry old song . , . ISO 

With deep afl'ectiou 1S9 

AVith leaden foot Time creeps along Ii3 

AVould you that Delville I describe ? 92 

AVrong not, sweet empress of my heart 9 

Years, — years ago,— ere yet my dreams .... 271 

Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore .... 115 

Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free .... 44 

Index of First Lines. 415 


Ye little nymphs that houilj- wait 123 

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me ju'esunie . . . 205 

You bid me explain, my dear angry ma'amsflle . . . "281 

You, Damon, covet to possess 100 

You'll come to our Ball ; — since we parted •isr> 

You meaner beauties of the night ir>7 

Young Colin protests I'm liis joy and delight .... lih 

Young Jessica sat all the day 228 

You say I love not, 'cause 1 do not play 20 

You say you love, and twenty more 159 

You smiled, you spoke, and 1 believed 355 

You tell me you're promised a lover 282 


II. Wyat distinguished himself by the ability with which he 

discharged the duties of Ambassador at the court of Spain. 
At one time he commanded a ship of war. 

VIII. Greene is said to have been the first Englisliman who wrote 

for bread. Hallam says of him that lie "succeeded pretty 
well in that florid and gay style, a little redundant in 
images, which Shakespere frequently gives to his princes 
and courtiers." 

XIII. Another stanza is sometimes added to this poem ; but it 
does not appear to be by the same hand. 

XIV. Sedley was a boon companion of the Merry Monarch. His 
daughter became mistress to James II., who created her 
Countess of Dorchester. In the time of the Eevolution, 
Sedley used his influence against James, and in favour of 
William and Mary, and when asked the reason, replied : 
"From isrincijiles of gratitude, for, since his Majesty has 
made my daughter a countess, it is tit I should do all I can 
to make his daughter a queen." 

xviI.Li Wither was a Puritan soldier. His life was spared by 

Bj Charles II. at the intercession of Deiiham, who urged for 

1 1 him the singuhir plea tliat, " wliile "Wither lived, lie (Den- 

I \ ham) could not be accounted the worst poet in England." 

XXV. and xxvii. Poems almost similar to these are to be found in 
Herrick's " Hespeiides." 

XXVIII. In Dr. Hannah's " Courtly Poets," this is signed, " [S. W. 
R.] Ljiioto," with the following footnote: "In 'England's 
Helico.i,' 1600, with the first signature obliterated ; and 
ascribed to ' S. W. Rawly' in F. Davison's list, Havl. MS. 
280 fol. 99. It is anonymous in Davison's ' Poetical Rhap- 
sody,' 1002, etc., as 'The Anatomy of Love,' with no dis- 
tinction of dialogue, and the first line running, ' Now what 
is love, I pray thee tell?' An imperfect cop.v of the first 
and last stanzas form ' the third song ' in T. Hey wood's 
' Rape of Lucrece,' IOCS, etc." 



XLV. Lovelace was a soldier and senator, and was distinguished 

for the beauty of his person, and tlie dignity and courtesy 
of his manners. 

XLVi. This is one of Suckling's best poems, and, as Leigh Hunt 
says, " his fancy is so full of gusto as to border on 
imagination." The bridegroom is said to have been Lord 
Bro,'hiIl, and the bride i^a<ly Margaret Howard, daughter of 
the Karl of Suffolk. Three stanzas of this joem have been 
necessarily omitted. 

XLVii. The best known of Southerne's plays was " Oroonoko." 
The dinner described in the poem given by ''Kind 
Boyle " (Lord Orrery) in order to celebrate the dramatist's 

LXi. There is a good deal in Cowley which is well-nigh absurd. 

He said of the big stone with which Cain slew his brother : — 

" I saw him fling the stone, as if lie meant 
At once his murther and his monument." 

And of the sword taken from Goliath : — 

" A sword so great that it was only fit 
To cut off his great head that came with it." 

LXXi. Leigh Hunt said that Waller wrote like an inspired 

gentleman usher. I wish we had more such "gentlemen- 

Lxxvil. It is said that this poem was written in the Gateliouse of 

Lxxviii. These lines have also been attributed to .\rthur, Lord Capel. 

Lxxix. Surrey was a warrior as well as a poet and courtier. He 
distinguished himself at the siege of Landrecy, and coni- 
mandeil afterwards at Guisnes and at Boulogne, and 
received the order of the Garter. He was beheaded on 
Hnow Hill. 

Lxxxii. Walton said of himself that: "When the lawyer was 
swallowed up with business, and the statesman contriving 
l)lots, lie sat on cowsiipbanks hearing the biriU sing, and 
possessed himself in as much (luietness as the silent 
silver stream which rippled softly beside him." 

^ci. It is said of Prior that, after having spent the evening with 

Oxford, Bolingbroke. I'ope, and Swift, he wouldgo tosmokea 
pipe and drink a bottle of ale with a common soldier and 
Ills wife, in Long Acre, before he went to bed This is 
stated as a proof of his propensity to sordid converse, but 
before we judge him we ought to know what sort of man 
the soldier was, and the scope of his social gift. 

xciv. Cowper, the poet, says, " Every man conversant with verse- 

making knows, and knows by painful experience, thit the 
familiar style is of all styles the most dillicult to succeed in. 

2 E 

41 8 Notes. 


To make verse speak the language of prose, without being 
prosaic, to marshal the words of it in such an order as they 
miglit naturally take in falling from the lips of an extera- 
Ijorary speaker, yet without meanness, harmoniously, ele- 
gantly, and without seeming to displace a syllable for the 
sake of the rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a poet 
can undertake. He that could accomplish this task was 
Prior : many have imitated his excellence in this particular, 
but the best copies have fallen short of the original." 

Of this poem, " To Chloe .Jealous," Thomas Moore said, 
" The last two stanzas are objected to as ungrammatical, 
correctness requiring ' than she,' and ' than I,' but it is far 
prettier as it is." 

xcv'i. Kitty was Lady Katherine Hyde, afterwards Duchess of 
Queensberry. Lady Jenny was Lady Jane Hyde, then 
Countess of Essex. 

CI. Lady Mary W. Montagu wrote smartly. Lord Lyttelton 

once sent her some highly didactic and sentimental lines, 
beginning, " The councils of a friend, Belinda, hear," of 
which Lady Mary made the following concise summary : — 
" Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet. 
In short, my deary, kiss me and be quiet." 
Her verses on Sir Robert Walpole are not bad, but they in- 
evitably recall the exquisite couplets of Pope: — 
1" Seen him I have, but in his happier hour 
Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power; 
Seen him, uncumber'd with the venal tribe, 
Smile without art, and win without a bribe." 

cm. John Hoskin was originally a Fellow of New College, where 

he graduated M.A. in 1592, but some sarcasm which he in- 
dulged in as Tcme Filias for that year led to his expulsion 
from the University. A prosperous marriage enabled him 
afterwards to enter at the Middle Temple, and he became a 
member of Parliament, when a desperate allusion to the 
Sicilian Vesper consigned him to the Tower, June 7, 16141 
He spent about a year in the Tower, and was afterwards 
successively a reader to the Temple, sergeant-at-lavv, 
a judge for Wales, and a member of the Council of the 

cv. Perhaps this s one of the most humorous pieces of verse in 

the English language. One or two slight expressions have 
been softened down, both here and in other pieces, to suit 
the taste of the day. " Whittle " was the Earl of Berkeley's 
valet; "Dame VVadger " was the deaf old housekeeper; 
" Lord Colway " means Galway ; "Lord Dromedary " means 
Drogheda ; "Cary" was clerk of the kitchen ; "Mrs. Dukes" 
was a servant, and wife to one of the footmen. " The 
Chaplain " refers to Swift himself. 

Cxii. Dr. Percy supposed this to be a translation from the ancient 

British language. It has a very modern ring about it. 



cxvi. Bishop was a Master of Merchant Taylors' School. Had he 
lived in tlie nineteenth instead of the eighteenth century, 
he would probably iiave shown Ids good sense by being an 
eutliusiastie reader of Mr. Coventry I'atmore. 

cxix. A marked quality of Swift's satire is shown in the 

Ijrecise and business-lilie air with which he carries on an 
argument tliat is absolutely baseless. The gravity not only 
adds to the humour, but gives a wonderful air of jilausi- 
bility to the statements tliemselves. 

uxx. Martha and Teresa Blount, who were sisters and members of 

tlie ancient Catholic family of Blount of Mapleduiham, 
were acquainted with the poet from liis boyhood. To 
tlie former I'ope wrote tlie day after liis fatlier's death : — 
'■ My poor Father died last night — Believe, since I do not 
forget you this moment, I never shall." 

o.x.xiit. Archdeacon "Walls" was tlie business adviser of Swift. 
••Raymond ' was Dr. Raymond of Trim, a correspondent 
and friend of Bope's. 

ox.xix. Miss Lepell, a lady of beauty and wit, was Maid of Honour 
to Queen Caroline. She afterwards married Lord Hervey. 
Mary Howe, also a Maid of Honour to Queen Caroline, 
was daughter of tlie first Viscount Howe. She married 
llie Earl of Bembroke, and after liis deatli, John Mordaunt, 
brotlier to tlie Earl of Peterborough. Miss Meadows was 
the eldest daughter of Sir Bliilip Meaiiows. 

c.KXX. Wolcot was a rough, tough, scurrilous, but funny wag. 
There is the true caper of the Satyr in his style, and if he 
Iiated anybody, he fell foul of that person's sister, mother, 
or grandmother. 

c.xxxiii. Sir Gilbert Elliot, father of tlie first Earl of Minto, was 
Treasurer of the Navy, Keeper of the Signet in Scotland, 
and an eloquent Parliamentary orator. 

CXL. and cxli. A picture of Beau Nash (the celebrated Master of 
the Ceremonies of Bath) once hung between the busts of 
Newton and I'ope in Wiltshire's ball-room, and it was on 
that juxtaposition that Mrs. Brereton wrote lier lines. (See 
the " Historic Guide to Bath,") 

cXLil. Lord Cliesterfield also wrote some excellent lines, in con- 
junction with Lord Bath, on Miss Lepell: but, happily, 
taste and manners are so altered that it would be im- 
possible to give them. 

cxuv. Thomas Moore thought that these lines were the joint- 
production of Sheridan and his friend Tickell. 

c.XLVr. Dr. (ioldsmilh and some of his friends occasionally dined 
at the St. James's Coffeehouse, where one day it was pro- 
posed to write epitaphs on him. He was challenged to 
retaliate, and these lines were the result. '•Our Dean," 
Dr. Barnard, Deau of Derry ; Edmund Burke ; Mr. Wm. 



Burke, M.P. for Bedwin ; Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of 
Grenada ; Cumberland, the dramatist ; Dr. Douglas, Canon 
of Windsor; Counsellor John Kidge, an Irish barrister; 
Hickey, an eminent attorney ; Townshend, M.l'. for Whit- 
church ; Dr. Dodd, the popular preacher; Dr. Kenrick 
lectured at the Devil's Tavern; Macpherson of "Ossian" 
celebrity ; Mr. Woodfall was printer of the Morning 

CLi. Dr. Barnard had asserted, in Dr. Johnson's presence, that 

men did not improve after the age of forty-five. "That is 
not true, sir," said Johnson. " You, who perhaps are forty- 
eight, may still improve, if you will try ; I wisli you would 
set about it. And I am afraid," he added, "there is great 
room for it." John.son afterwards greatly regretted his 
rudeness to the bishop, who took the insult in good part, 
wrote the following verses next day, and sent them to Sir 
Joshua lleynolds. 

CLiv. Of Dryden, whom Landor called "The Bacon of the 

Rhyming creed," it should be said, as also of Milton, that 
he is very inadequately represented in this volume. It is 
impossible to do justice to his genius by such selections as 
are of necessity given here. 

CLV. This poem has been ascribed to '! homas Alexander, Earl of 

Kellie, who was born in 1732 ; but Ritson, in his " Collection 
of English Songs, ' states that the lines may be fojjnd in the 
Mjisical Mhcci/any, published in London in 1729. * 

CLXXVI. Colman's friend. Dr. Kitchiner, who was very regular in his 
habit-^, had a placard on which was written, "Conje at 
Seven, go at Eleven," placed over his drawing-room chim- 
ney-piece ; but Colman, when the Doctor's back was turned, 
inserted an "it" after the "go," thus materially altering 
the reading. 

CLXXSix. Lord Boringdon, afterwards Earl of Morley, and Lord 
Granville, were old friends of Canning, and the "Lady 
Elizabeth " alluded to in this poem was one of the daugliters 
of the Duke of Marlborough, and sister to Lord Henry 
Spencer. She married Mr. bpencer, the son of Lord 
Charles Sjjencer. 
cxci. Williams was of the old family of Hanbury. His mother 

was a Selwyn. He got into Parliament and made himself 
useful to Walpole. He was Envoy at Dresden and at St. 
Petersburg, but all his gaiety and success ended in insanity 
and it is believed in suicide. He said of the Irish : — 
"Nature, indeed, denies them sense, 
ut gives them legs and impudence 
That beat all understanding." 

cxcii. Lady Bath with a bad temper had much wit. Lord Bath 
said to her in one of her passions, " Pray, my dear, keep 
your temper." .She replied, "Keep my temper! I don't 
like it io well ; I wonder you should." " A great monarch" 
was George III. " The minister fell ' refers to Walpole. 



Tliis is a parody (said to be tlie joint production of Can- 
ning and Frere) of Southey's Sappliics— entitled "The 
AViilow." " In tliis piec-," says a writer in Chambers' 
Kncijcloprdin nf Eixfish Litcraturi^, "Canning ridicules 
the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he 
says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a 
natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the 
ricli. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afford a tempting 
subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the 
followine stanza, lest lie should be suspected of painting 
from fancy and not from life : — 

' Cold was the night- wind : drifting fast the snows fell ; 
Wids were the downs, and shelterless and naked ; 
■\Vlien a poor wanderer struggled on lier journey, 

Weary and way-sore.' " 

Mr. Falck, the Dutch Min'ster in 1820, having made a 
proposition by whicli a considerable advantage would 
have accrued to Holland, this poet cal despatch was 
actually sent by Canning to Sir Charles Bagot, the English 
Ambiissador at the Hague, and soon afterwards an Order 
in Council was issued to put into effect the intention so 

A parody on part of Mr. Whitbread's speech on the trial 
of Lord Melville, put into verse by Mr. Canning at the 
time it was delivered. 

It is rather difficult to make a selection from Thomas 
Moore : nearly everything that he has written might be 
claimed as vers de sociMi', whether it be epitaph, epigram, 
ballad, or sacred song. He could not help being wilty 
and sparkling, and perha])s a little artificial. How com- 
placently he carolkd to his IJessy on Love, Death and 
Eternity ! He is the most brilliant of our squib writers, 
as Swift is the most powerful. !Moore had a charming 
fancy and an airy and sprightly wit. Never was there a 
neater swordsman, nor one who wore a prettier plume of 

This song was composed for the dinner at jSIerchant 
Taylors' Hall, in celebration of Mr. Pitt's birthday (1802). 
Lord Spencer was chairmm. Mr. Pitt was not present. 

These verses express, with much force, grace, and humour, 
the feelings of the British nation on military affairs after 
the close of the long struggle with France. Five-and- 
twenty years of almost incessant fighting had made people 
heartily weary of soldiers and soUliering. But at the 
present era of nonintervention the poem has a satirical 
application which Praed probably did not intend. 

This appeared in the Times on the 14th of May, 1827, 
when Mr. William Bankes was a candidate for the repre- 
sentation of the University of Cambridge. 







Elizabeth of Bohemia was a daughter of James I. and 
ancestor to Sophia of Hanover. 

" Miss S " was in all probability the daughter of 

Horace Smith, who wrote "Rejected Addresses" con- 
jointly with James Smith. 

"Thy great kinsman,"— the statue of Pitt. 

Captain Morris's convivial songs were at one time in 
high repute. It is stated in "Two Centuries of Song," 
that when the original of Thackeray's Costigan died and 
was buried under the windows of Uffley's, Captain Morris 
read a mock funeral service from the window above, and 
then poured a crown bowl of punch upon the grave. 

Francis Mahoney, better known by his twm. de plume of 
" father Prout," a celebrated wit and litterateur, was 
born at Cork about 180.5. He was educated in a Jesuit 
College in France and in the University of Rome; and 
took priest's orders, but, being expelled from the Society 
of .Jesuits, adopted literature as his profession. 

Thomas Hood married Hamilton Reynolds' sister. Charles 
Kemble was especially admirable in the characters of 
Macduff, Cassio, Falconbridge, and Romeo. 

Mrs. Greville was the wife of Fulke Greville of Wilbury. 
She was the daughter of General McCartney, and mother 
of the celebrated beauty, Mrs. Crewe, Her grandson, 
Charles, was the author o( the " Greville Memoirs," pub- 
lished in 1874. 

These lines obtained for their author the nickname of 
" Namby-Pamby, " although the people who so called 
him could not, in all probability, have written them half 
as well. 

This song, the grace and simplicity of which Rogers never 
excelled, was written in 178t). The language may be 
conventional, the idea commonplace, and the wish obvi- 
ously insincere, but it is, neveitlieless, a graceful little 
])oem, and should survive many more jiretentious pro- 
ductions. The lines, 

" .A. viUovij brook, that twns a mill, 
AVith many a fall, shall linger near," 

are skilful examples of "representative" metre, the words 
printed in italics being very suggestive of a winding 
stream of water. 

The "Mermaid" was the tavern frequented by Shake- 
speare, Ben Jonson, and their friends. 

It has been proposed that the last line but one, which is 
grammatically incomplete, be altered to, " If one must in 
a villa in summer time dwell ; " but the poem is printed 
here as Captain Morris wrote it. 



cccxxviii. Dr. Johnson said of this poem, "If v^hnt gUstcncd had 
been yold, the cat would not liave gone into the water ; 
and, if she had, would not less have been drowned." 

cccxxxii. This has been cut down to bring it within the scope of the 
coUectiiin. 1 think it has not suffered in consequence. 

cccxxxvii. Tliis is an admirable specimen of vers de sociite. Cowper 
is a master of playful irony. 

cccxi.ii. This riddle has been published as Lord Byron's ; but 
there is no doubt about its autliorsliip. The Rev. Mr. 
Harness, who edited Miss Fanshawe's " Literary Re- 
mains," says he remembers her reading it at the Deep- 
dene in the summer of 1S1(J, and the admiration with 
which it was received. Some excellent riddles liave been 
attributed to the late Lord Macaulay ; but I have good 
reason for knowing that he nevtr wrote a riddle in his 

cocxux. "Creech's." 

" Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech 

To take it in the very words of Creech." — A. Pope. 
" Yonder Ruin " refers to Burnham Abbey. 

occLiv. Thomas L. Peacock was the friend of Shelley, and the 
son of a London merchant, and held an appointment in 
the India House. He was an excellent classic, and wrote 
several very clever novels. Tliere is a remarkable fresh- 
ness about the best of his verses. 

cccLx. The flexibility and variety of Barham's rhythm is remark- 

able. Tom Moore, Praed, and Prior could hardly have 
produced a more graceful piece of drollery than these 

cccLXVi. There is a wonderful vivacity about Praed's " Letter of 
Advice," and '" J he Belle of the Dell ; " but this poem is, 
perhaps, the most perfect of his verses. 

cccLXXi. This is sometimes attributed to Pope. 

cccLXXiv. I believe there is little doubt but tliat this was written 
by Mr. Canning, assisted by Mr. Frere. 

CCCLx'xxiv. " But never shall be sung." " Go to the devil and shake 
yourself," the name of a favourite country dance. " The 
long minuet ' was a celebrated caricature by liunbury. 
" Cecil " refers to Lord Salisbury, the then Lord Chamber- 

CCCLXXXVI. Mr. Fitzgerald wrote in the style of Praed, and perhaps 
exaggerated Praed's defects, but tliere are noteworthy 
stanzas by him scattered tlirougli tlie magazines. It is 
said that Praed assisted Fitzgerald in his compositions. 

cccxcii. Walsh was the friend of Pope, and is referred to in com- 
plimentary terms in the " Essay on Criticism." 



ccccxi. It has been said with truth that poetry, in the most com- 
prehensive application of the term, is the flower of any 
kind of experience, vested in truth, and issuing fortli in 
beauty. It should spring out of a real imjiulse, be con- 
sistent in its parts, and shajjed in some characteristic 
harmony of verse. With these requisites the humbler 
poetry may survive much that is superior to itself, as a 
good ajiple is better tlian an insipid peach. 

ccccxxii. The "ancient pile of buildings," referred to in tliis poem, 
was the Old Manor House at Stoke-Pogis. Tlie "Grave 
Lord Keejjer " was Sir Christopher Hatton, who, it must 
be remarked, was never the owner or occupier of the 

mansion. Mr. P 1 was Mr. Kobert Purt, a Fellow of 

King's College, Cambridge, who died of the small-pox, 
April, 1752, soon after the publication of the poem. He 
was a neighbour of Grays at Stoke ; "Styack," mentioned 
in the poem, was the Housekeeper; " Squib " was the 
Steward, and "Groom," the Groom of the Chamber. 
" Macleane " was a famous highwa,yzuan, who had re- 
cently been hanged. 

ccccxxvii. In Calverley's volume the following lints from Gray 
are added as a footnote to the last verse : — 

" Poor moralist, and what art thon 1 
A solitary fiy." 

cciCCXLV. John Hookham Frere, the friend of Canning, was in 1799 
appointed Under-Secretary of State for P'oreign Affairs, 
and afterwards Envoy to Portugal, and then to Spain. 
His abilities and accomplishment need no eulogy. It is 
enough to say that, in conjunction with Canning, he com- 
posed the best pieces in the "Anti-Jacobin." 

ccccL. "It was Praed," says Walter Thornbury, "who first 

raised the charade to the rank of a poem. It was, per- 
haps, a waste of time and a misplacing of talent." 

ccccLiir. The sisters Mary and Agnes Berry were greatly distin- 
guished in European society for their high-bred manners, 
and conversation, and for tlieir personal beauty. During 
half a century, they were the friends and correspondents 
of many prominent literary and political personages — 
,race Walpole among others. They died within a year 
of each other, and the Memorial Verses quoted, ajspeared 
after their death in the Times. Tlie late Lord Houghton's 
" Monographs " contain a paper upon these distinguished 
ladies. Their Memoirs were edited by Lady Theresa 
Lewis, the wife of the llight Hon. Sir (jeorge Cornewall 

LXVI. A bust of Thackeray lias now been placed in Westminster 
Abbey Ijy public subscription, and with the sanction of 
Dean Stanley. The " Bishop Dean " referred to in the 

Notes. 425 

second verse was Dr. Spratt, Bishop of Kochester and 
Dean of AVestminster. 

The following note is appended to the poem in Lord 
Hoiiprliton's Poetical Works : — 

" The Lord Halifax sent to the Lady Elizabeth and 
Mr. Charles Dryden, her son, that if they would give 
him leave to bury Mr. Dryden, he would inter him with 
a gentleman's private funeral, and afterwards bestow five 
hundred pounds on a monument in the Abbey : which, 
as they had no reason to refuse, they accepted." — Biog. 

ccccLXViii. Charlotte Alington Barnard was the wife of Mr. Charles 
Cary Barnard, and published many charming songs and 
poems under the name of "Claribel." She died in Jan- 
uary, 1869, and is buried at St. James's Cemetery, Dover. 




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