The Bijou Annual, 1828

Figure 1: The Child and Flowers

painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, engraved by W. Humphreys

The Child and Flowers By Mrs. Hemans

[1]

All good and guiltless thou art.
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart,
Griefs that along thy altered face
Will breathe a more subduing grace,
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.
WILSON To a Sleeping Child

HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee?

Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free?

With the hare through to copses and the dingles wild?

With the butterfly over the heath, fair child?

Yes: the light fall of thy bounding feet5

Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat;

Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells,

And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song

Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;10

The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,

The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim:

[2]

These are old words, that have made each grove

A dreary haunt for romance and love;

Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie15

A place for the gushings of Poesy.

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore

Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er;

Enough for thee are the dews that sleep

Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep;20

Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell

Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell;

And the by the blossoming sweet-briars shed,

And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.

Oh! Happy child in thy fawn-like glee!25

What is remembrance or thought to thee?

Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,

O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;

Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon--

What if to droop and to perish soon?30

Nature hath mines of such wealth--and thou

Never wilt prize its delights as now!

For a day is coming to quell the tone

That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!

And to dim thy brow with a touch of care.35

Under the gloss of its clustering hair;

[3]

And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes

Into the stillness of autumn skies;

And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part,

Midst the hidden things of each human heart!40

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this?

Life hath enough of yet holier bliss!

Such be thy portion!--the bliss to look

With a reverent spirit, through nature's book;

By fount, by forest, by river's line,45

To track the paths of a love divine;

To read its deep meanings--to see and hear

God in earth's garden--and not to fear.

Ballad from the Norman French By J.G. Lockhart Esq.

[4]

Here beginneth a song which made in the Wood of Bel-Regard by a Good Companion,
who put himself there to eschew the horrible Creature of Justices Trail-Baston.

IN rhyme I clothe derision, my fancy takes thereto

So scorn I this provision, provided here of new;

The thing whereof my geste I frame I wish 'twere yet to do,

An guard not God and Holy Dame, 'tis war that must ensue.

I mean the articles abhorred of this their Trail-baston;5

Except the king himself our lord, God send his malison

On the devisers of the same: cursed be they everyone,

For full they be of sinful blame, and reason have they none.

[5]

Sir, if my boy offended me now, and I my hand but lift

To teach him by a cuff or two what's governance and thrift:10

This rascal vile his bill doth file, attaches me of wrong;

Forsooth, find bail, or lie in gaol, and rot the rogues among.

'Tis forty pennies that they ask, a ransom fine for me;

And twenty more ('tis but a score) for my Lord Sheriff's fee:

Else of his deepest dungeon the darkness I must dree;15

Is this of justice, masters?-- Behold my case and see.

Away, then, to the greenwood! to the pleasant shade away!

There evil none of law doth wonne, nor harmful perjury.

I'll to the wood of Bel-regard, where freely flies the jay,

And without fail the nightingale is chaunting of her lay.20

But for that cursed dozen,God [sic] shew them small pitie!

Among their lying voices, they have indicted me

Of wicked thefts and robberies and other felonie,

That I dare no more, as heretofore, among my friends to be.

[6]

In peace and war my service my lord the king hath ta'en,25

In Flanders, and in Scotland, and in Gascoyne his domain;

But now I'll never, while I wis, be mounted man again,

To pleasure such a man as this I've spent much time in vain.

But if these cursed jurors do not amend them so

That I to my own country may freely ride and go,30

The head that I can come at shall jump when I've my blow;

Their menacings, and all such things, them to the winds I throw.

The Martin and the Neville are worthy folk indeed;

Their prayers are sure, albeit we're poor-- salvation be their meed!

But for Belflour and Spigurnel, they are a cruel seed;35

God send them in my keeping-- ha! They should not soon be freed!

I'd teach them well this noble game of Trail-baston to know;

On every chine I'd stamp the same, and every nape also;

[7]

O'er every inch in all their frame I'd make my cudgel go;

To lop their tongues I'd think no shame, nor yet their lips to sew.40

The man that did begin it first, without redemption

He is for evermore accurst-- he never can atone:

Great sin is his, I tell ye true, for many an honest man

For fear hath joined the outlaw's crew, since these new laws began.

There's many a wildwood thief this hour was peaceful man whil'ere,45

The fear of prison hath such power even guiltless breast to scare:

'Tis this which maketh many a one to sleep beneath the tree;

And he that these new laws begun, the curse of God take he!

Ye merchants and ye wandering freres, ye may well curse with me,

For ye are painful travellers, while laws like this shall be;50

The king's broad letter in your hand but little can bestead,

For he perforce must bid men stand, that hath nor home nor bread.

[8]

All ye who are indicted! I pray you come to me

To the greenwood, the pleasant wood, where's niether suit nor plea,

But only the wild creatures and many a spreading tree55

For there's little in common law but doubt and misery.

If at your need you've skill to read, you're summon'd ne'er the less

To shew your lore the Bench before, and great is your redress;

Clerk the most clerkly though you be, expect the same penance:

'Tis true a Bishop turns the key: God grant deliverance.60

In honesty I speak--for me, I'd rather sleep beneath

The canopy of the green tree, yea, on the naked heath,

Than lie even in a Bishop's vault for many a weary day;

And he that 'twixt such choice would halt, he is a fool I say.

I had a name that none could blame, but that is lost and gone,65

For lawyer-tricks have made me mix with people that have none.

[9]

I dare not shew my face no mo among my friends and kin:

The poor man now is sold I trow, whate'er the rich, may win.

To risk I cannot fancy much, what, lost, is ne'er repaid

To put my life within their clutch in truth I'm sore afraid;70

This is no question about gold that might be won again,

If once they had me in their hold 'tis death they'd make my pain.

Some one perchance my friend will be, such hope not yet I lack;

The men that speak this ill of me, they speak behind my back;

I know it would their hearts delight, if they my blood could spill,75

But God, in all the devil's spite, can save me if he will.

There's one can save me life and limb, the blessed Mary's child,

And I can broadly pray to him; my soul is undefiled:

The innocent he'll not despise, by envious tongues undone.

God curse the smiling enemies that I have leaned upon!80

[10]

If meeting a companion I shew my archerie,

My neighbour will be saying, "He's of some companie,

He goes to cage him in the wood, and worke his old foleye,"

Thus men do hunt me like the boar, and life's no life for me.

But if I seem more cunning about the law than they,85

"Ha! ha! Some old conspirator well trained in tricks," they'll say;

O wheresoe'er doth ride the Eyre, I must keep well away:--

Such neighbourhood I hold not good; shame fall on such I pray.

I pray you, all good people, to say for me a prayer,

That I in peace may once again to mine own land repair:90

I never was a homicide--not within my will--I swear,

Nor robber, christian folk to spoil, that on their way did fare.

This rhyme was made within the wood, beneath a broad bay tree;

There singeth merle and nightingale, and falcon hovers free:

I wrote this skin, because within was much more sore memory,95

And here I lay it by the way--that found my rhyme may be.

Sonnets By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart

[11]

WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame,

And the dull heart beats languid, notes of praise

May issue the desponding sprite to raise:

But weekly strikes the voice of slow-sent fame;5

Empty we deem the echo of a name:

Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays;

Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze;

Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim!

Thus strange is fate:-- we meet the hollow cheer,10

When struck by age the cold insensate ear

No more with trembling extasy can hear,

But yet one thought a lasting a joy can give

That we, as not for self alone we live,

To others bore the boon, we would from them receive!15

[12]

II.

TEXTURE of the mightiest splendor, force and art,

Wove in the fine loom of the subtlest brain,

The brilliance of thy colours shines in vain,

If steeped not in the fountains of the heart!20

If those pure waves no added strength impart,

If thence the web no new attraction gain,

Sure is the test, no genuine muse would deign

Her inspiration on the work to dart!

High intellect, magnific though thou be,25

Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow

Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee

Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw;

Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray;

And worthless shall thy splendour die away!30

The City of the Dead By L.E.L.

[13]

'Twas dark with cypresses and yews which cast

Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers--

Affections latest signs. * * *

Dark portal of another world-- the grave--

I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks,5

If I may make my own heart oracle,--

The many long to enter thee, for thou

Alone canst reunite the loved and lost

With those who pine for them. I fear thee not;

I only fear mine own unworthiness,10

Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make

Another parting in another world.

*************************************************************************

LAUREL! Oh fling thy green boughs on air,15

There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do there?

Thou art worn on the conquerors shield,

When his country receives him from glory's red field;

Thou that art wreathed round the lyre of the bard,

When the song of its sweetness has won its reward.20

Earth's changeless and sacred-- thou proud laurel tree!

The ears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?

[14]

Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright,

Thou whose whole life is noe breath of delight;25

Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind

Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind.

Fair tablet, still vowed to the thoughts of the lover,

Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over;

Fragrant as blooming-- thou lovely rose tree!30

The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?

Dark cypress I see thee-- thou art my reply,

Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees lie;

That laurel it wreathed the red brow of the brave,35

Yet thy shadow lies black on the warriors grave.

That rose was less bright than the lip which it prest,

Yet thy sad branches sweep o'er the maiden's last rest:

The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping,

I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping.40

Yet sunbeam of heaven thou fall'st on the tomb--

Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom?

Before thee the grove and the garden are spread;

Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead?45

[15]

Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere,

Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here.

Thou art as a herald of hope from above:--

Weep mourner no more o'er thy grief and thy love;

Still thy heart in its beating, be glad of such rest,50

Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best.

Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie,

Weep no more the the loved and the loving must die

Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your feet,

But gaze on yon starry world-- there ye shall meet.55

O heart of mine! Is there not One dwelling there

To whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer?

For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day,

As a link in the fetters that keep me away;60

When I think of the glad and the beautiful home,

Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come;

That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest;

That I may be with thee at home and at rest:

When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore,65

I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no more;

While death holds such hope forth to soothe and to save,

Oh sumbeam of heaven thou mayest will light the grave.

Night and Death By the Rev. Joseph Blanco White

[16]

Dedicated to S.T. Coleridge, Esq. By his sincere friend, Joseph Blanco White.

MYSTERIOUS night, when the first man but knew

Thee by report, unseen, and heard they name,

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,

This glorious canopy of light and blue?

Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew5

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,

Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came,

And lo! creation widened on his view!

Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, oh Sun? Or who could find,10

Whil'st fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,

That to such endless orbs thou mad'st us blind?

Weak man! Why to shun death, this anxious strife?

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

The Wanderings of Cain: A Fragment. By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

[17]

1 "A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little farther, and we shall come into the open moonlight!" Their road was through a forest of fir- trees; at its entrance the trees stood at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern.

2 "It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, "but the path under our feet is mooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the open moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply?"

3 "Lead on my child," said Cain, "guide me, little child." And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his father. "The fir branches drip upon thee my son." -- "Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the

[18]

cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir trees! they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, that I might play with them, but they leapt away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they leap, and in amoment I beheld them on antoher tree. Why, O my fahter, would they not play with me? Is it because we are not so happy as they? Is it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest?" Then Cain stopped and stifling his groans, he sank to the earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness beside him; and Cain lifted up his voice, and cried bitterly, and said, "The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand- blast he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air, O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die -- yea, the things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth -- behold they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the breath of his nostrils, so I might abide in darkness and blackness, and an empty space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice; and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the mighty one who is against me speaketh in

[19]

the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence I am dried up." Then Enos spake to his father, "Arise my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place where I found the cake and the pitcher;" and Cain said, "How knowest thou?" and the child answered -- "Behold, the bare rocks are a few of they strides distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would raise him, and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed the child. The path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness the child was affrighted, for the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and his countenance was dark and wild, and told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.

4 The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could reach, it was desolate; the bare rocks faced each other, and left a long and wide interval of their white sand. You might wander on and look round and round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks, and discover nothing that acknowledged the in-

[20]

fluence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no autumn, and the winter's snow that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coilds of the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not; steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps by the terrible groan the earth gave when our first father fell. Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, and between its points and the sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they arrived there they beheld a human shape; his back was towards them, and they were coming up unperceived when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, "Wo, is me! wo, is me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger."

5 The face of Cain turned pale; but Enos said, "Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that

[21]

I heard that voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice. O my father! this is it;" and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. Enos crept softly round the base of the rock, and stood before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel whom he had killed; and Cain stood like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness of a dream; and ere he had recovered himself from the tumult of his agitation, the Shape fell at this feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter outcry, "Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery." Then Cain closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands -- and again he opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos "What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?" "Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up the shape that was like Abel, and said, "The creator of our father, who had

[22]

respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child; "I know where the cold , waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher?" but Cain said, "Didst thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy god?" The Shape answered, "The Lord is God of the living only, the dead have another god." Then the child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. "Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, "who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away from his power and his dominion." Having uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands, and Cain said in his heart, "The curse of the lords is on me -- but who is the God of the dead?" and he ran after the shape, and the Shape fled

[23]

shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was not like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that theman had fallen upon the ground; and Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, "he has passed into the dark woods," and walked slowly back to the rocks, and when he reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon the ground; and Cain once more sat beside him, and said -- "Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks and by thy pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovest, that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than I already am?" The Shape arose and answered -- "O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me, son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee:" and they three passed over the white sands between the rocks, silent as their shadows.

Verses for an Album By Charles Lamb, Esq.

[24]

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,

A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright.

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care --

And friends and foes, in foul or fair,5

Have "written strange defeature" there.

And time, with heaviest hand of all,

Like that fierce writing on the wall,

Hath stamp'd sad dates -- he can't recall.

And error, gilding worst designs -- 10

Like speckled snake that strays and shines --

Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot --

And good resolves, a moment hot,

Fairly began -- but finished not.15

A fruitless late remorse doth trace --

Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace --

Her irrecoverable race.

[25]

Disjointed numbers -- sense unknit --

Huge reams of folly -- shreds of wit -- 20

Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook,

Upon this ink- blurr'd thing to look.

Go -- shut the leaves -- and clasp the book! --

Lines Written in the Vale of Zoar, Coast of Arabia By Charles Lamb, Esq.

[25]

A SCENE of Araby! -- but not the blest; --

Behold a multitude of mountains wild

And bare and cloudless to the skies up- piled

In forky peaks, and shapes uncouth, possest

Of grandeur stern indeed, but beauty none;5

Their sterile sides, by herb, or blade undrest,

Burning and whitening in the ardent sun.

Amid the crags -- her undisputed reign --

Pale Desolation sits, and sadly smiles,

And half the horror of her state beguiles,10

To see her empire spreading to the plain;

For there even wandering Arabs seldom stray,

Or, coming, do but eye the drear domain,

And haste, as from the vale of Death, away!

An Aged Widow's Own Words By James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd

[26]

O IS he gane my good auld man?

And am I left forlorn?

And is that manly heart at rest,,

The kindest e'ver was born?

We've sojourned here through hope and fear5

For fifty years and three,

And ne'er in all that happy time,

Said he harsh word to me.

And mony a braw and boardly son

And daughters in their prime,10

His tremling hand laid in the grave;

Lang, lang afore the time.

I dinna greet the day to see

That he to them has gane,

But O 'tis feafu' thus to be15

Left in a world alane.

Wi' a poor worn and broken heart,

Whose race of joy is run,.

And scarce has little opening left,

For aught aneath the sun.20

My life nor death I winna crave,

Nor fret for yet despond,

But a' my hope is in the grave

And the dear hame beyond.

From the Italian By Unknown

[27]

MY LILLA gave me yester morn

A rose methinks in Eden born,

And as she gave it, little elf,

Blushed like another rose herself

Then said I, full of tenderness,5

"Since this sweet rose I owe to you,

"Dear girl, why may I not possess

"The lovelier rose that gave it too?"

Work Without Hope. Lines Composed on a Day in February By S.T. Coleridge, Esq.

[28]

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair --

The bees are stirring -- birds are on the wing --

And WINTER slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,5

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,

Have traced the forest whence streams of nectar flow.

Bloom, O ye Amaranths! Bloom for whom ye may --

For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!10

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:

And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?

WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,

And HOPE without an OBJECT cannot live.

The Poet Warrior By Allan Cunningham

[29]

STAYED is the war- horse in his strength,

Broke is the barbed arrow,

The spell has conquered on Nithside,

Which won of yore on Yarrow.5

O did he bear a charmed sword

That for no mail would tarry,

And on his youthful head a helm

Was forged in land of fairy.

Did Saxon shaft and war axe dint10

Fall on charm's mail and elfin flint?

His spell was valour, and he came

When warrior's hearts were coldest,

And poured his fire through peasant's souls,15

And led and ruled the boldest.

He with flushed brow, and flashing eyes,

And right arm bare and gory,

[30]

Rushed reeking o'er the lives of men,

And turned our shame to glory.20

A hero's soul was his, and higher

The minstrel's love, and poet's fire.

Seek for a dark and down cast eye,

A glance 'mongst men the mildest,25

Seek for a bearing haught and high

Can daunt and awe the wildest.

Seek one whose soul is tenderness

Is steeped -- who to the lyre

Can pour out song as fast and bright30

As heaven can pour its fire.

Seek him, and when thou find'st him, kneel,

Though thou hadst gold spurs on thy heel.

The Rose By Sir Thomas E. Croft, Bart.

[31]

La rose que ta main chérie

Hier a sauvé de la mort,

Est aujourd'hui pâle et flétrie; --

Tel est des fleurs le triste sort.

Reconnaissante de ta peine,5

En mourant cette aimable fleur,

Légue a tes joues sa rougeur,

Son doux parfum à ton haleine.

The rose, alas! Thy guardian hand

Sav'd yesterday from dying,10

Pale, wan, and wither'd from its stem,

Is now in ruins lying:

But the fond flower, to shew she still

Was grateful, e'en in death,

Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed,15

Her perfume to thy breath.

To My Child By B.C.

[32]

CHILD of my heart! My sweet, belov'd first-bórn!

Thou dove, who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!

Thou rainbow, who dost come when all the showers

Are past, -- or passing! Rose which hath no thorn, --

No pain, no blemish, -- pure and unforlorn,5

Untouched -- untainted -- O, my flower of flowers!

More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, --

To seamen stranded life-assuring morn.

Welcome! a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings

Round all, seems loosening now her snake-like fold!10

New hope springs upwards, and the bright world seems

Cast back into her youth of endless springs! --

-- Sweet mother, is it so? -- or grow I old,

Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?

Figure 2: Sir Walter Scott and Family

painted by David Wilkie, Esq., engraved by W. H. Worthington

Letter from Sir Walter Scott, Bart. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

[33]

1 LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON, DESCRIPTIVE OF A PICTURE PAINTED AT ABBOTSFORD BY DAVID WILKIE, ESQ. R. A., AND EXHIBITED AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1818.

2 MY DEAR ADAM -- The picture you mention has something in it of rather a domestic character, as the personages are represented in a sort of masquerade, such being the pleasure of the accomplished painter. Nevertheless, if you, the proprietor, incline to have it engraved, I do not see that I am entitled to make any objection.

3 But Mr. * * * mentions besides, a desire to have anecdotes of my private and domestic life, or, as he expresses himslef, a portrait of the author in his nightgown and slippers; -- and this form you, who, I dare say, could furnish some anecdotes of our younger days which might now seem ludicrous enough. Even as to my night gown and slippers, I believe the time has been when the articles of my wardrobe were as familiar to your memory as Poins's

[34]

to Prince Henry, but that period has been for some years past, and I cannot think it would be interesting to the public to learn that I had changed my old robe-de-chambre for a handsome douillette, when I was last at Paris.

4 The truth is, that a man of ordinary sense cannot be supposed delighted with the species of gossip which, in the dearth of other news, recurs to such a quiet individual as myself; and though, like a well-behaved lion of twenty years standing, I am not inclined to vex myself about what I cannot help, I will not, in any case in which I can prevent it, be acessary to these follies. There is no man known at all in literature who may not have more to tell of his private life than I have: I have surmounted no difficulties either of birth or education, nor have I been favored by any particular advantages, and my life has been as void of incidents of importance, as that of the "weary knife-grinder."

5 "Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir."

6 The follies of youth ought long since to have passed away; and if the prejudices and absurdities of age have come in their place, I will keep them, as Beau Tibbs did his prospect, for the amusement of my domestic friends. A mere enumeration of the persons in the sketch is all which I can possible permit to be published respecting myself and my

[35]

family; and, as must be the lot of humanity when we look back seven or eight years, even what follows cannot be drawn up without some very painful recollections.

7 The idea which our inimitable Wilkie adopted ws to represent our family group in the garb of south-country peasants, supposed to be concerting a merry-making, for which some of the preparations are seen. The place is the terrace near Kayside, commanding an extensive view toward the Eildon-hills. 1. The sitting figure, in the dress of a miller, I believe, represents Sir Walter Scott, author of a few scores of volumes, and proprietor of Abbotsford, in the County of Roxburgh. 2. In front, and presenting, we may suppose, a country wag somewhat addicted to poaching, stands sir Adam Ferguson, Knight, Keeper of the Regalia of Scotland. 3. In the background is a very handsome old man, upwards of eighty-four years old at the time, painted in his own character of a shepherd. He also belonged to numerous clan of Scott. He used to claim credit for three things unusual among the southland shepherds: first, that he had never been fou in the course of his life; secondly, that he never had struck a man in anger; thirdly, that though entrusted with the the management of large sales of stock, he had never lost a penny for his master by a bad debt. He died soon aterwards at Abbotsford. 4, 5, 6. Of the three female figures

[36]

the elder is the late regretted mother of the family represented. 5. The young person most forward in the group is Miss Sophia Charlotte Scott, now Mrs. John Gibson Lockhart; and 6, her younger sister, Miss ann Scott. Both are represented as ewe-milkers, with their leglins, or milk-pails. 7. On the left hand of the shepherd, the young man holding a fowling-piece is the eldest son of Sir Walter, now Captain in King's Hussars. 8. The boy is the youngest of the family, Charles Scott, now of Brazen Nose College, Oxford. The two dogs were distinguished favorites of the family; the large one was a stag-hound of the old Highland breed, called Maida, and one of the hansomest dogs that could be found; it was a present to me from the chief of Glengary, and was highly valued, both on account of his beauty, his fidelity, and the great rarity of the breed. The other is little Highland terrier, called Ourisk (goblin), of a particualr kind, bred in Kintail. It was a present from the honorable Mrs. Stuart Mackenzie, and is a valuable specimen of race which is now also scarce. Maida, like Bran, Lerath, and other dogs of distinction, slumbers "beneath his stone," distinguished by an epitaph, which to the honour of Scottish scholarship be it spoken, has only one false quantity in two lines.

8 Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida

9 Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis.

[37]

10 Ourisk still survives, but like some other personages in the picture, with talents and temper rather the worse for wear. She has become what Dr. Rutty, the Quaker, records himself in his journal as having sometimes been -- sinfully dogged and snappish.

11 If it should suit Mr. * * *'s purpose to adopt the above illustrations, he is heartily welcome to them, but I make it my especial bargain that nothing more is said upon such a meagre subject.

12 It strikes me, however, that there is a story about old Thomas Scott, the shepherd, which is characteristic, and which I will make your friend welcome to. Tom was, both as a trusted servant, and as a rich fellow in his line, a person of considerable importance among his class in the neighbourhood, and used to stickle a good deal to keep his place in public opinion. Now, he suffered, in his own idea at least, from the consequence assumed by a country neighbour, who, though neither so well reputed for wealth or sagacity as Thomas Scott, had yet an advantage over him, from having seen the late King, and used to take precedence upon all occasions when they chanced to meet. Thomas suffered under this superiority. But after this sketch was finished, and exhibited in London, the newspapers made it known that his present majesty had condescended to take some notice of it. Delighted with the circumstance, Thomas Scott set out on a most oppressively hot day, to walk five miles to Bowden,

[38]

where his rival resided. He had no sooner entered the cottage when he called out in his broad forest dialect -- "Andro', man, did ye anes sey (see) the King?" "In troth did I, Tam," answered Andro'; "sit down, and I'll tell ye a' about it: -- ye sey I was at Lonon, in a place they ca' the park, that is, no like a hained hog-fence, or like the four-nooked parks in this country -- " "Hout awa," said Thomas, "I have heard a' that before: I only came ower the know now to tell you, that, if you have seen the king, the king has seen mey" (me). And so he returned with a jocund heart, assuring his friends "it had done him muckle gude to settle accounts with Andro'."

13 Jocere haec -- as the old Laird of Restalrig writes to the Earl of Gowrie -- farewell my old, tried, and dear friend of forty long years. Our enjoyments must now be of a character less vivid than those we have shared together,

14 But still at our lot it were vain to repine, Youth cannot return, or the days of Lang Syne.

15 Your's Affectionately,

16 Walter Scott.

17 Abbotsford, 2d August, 1827.

The Night before the Battle of Montiel: A Dramatic Sketch From the Spanish of Don Juan Algalaba

[39]

[The battle of Montiel was that which determined the fate of Pedro the Cruel. Just ten years before it took place he and Edward the Black Prince had utterly defeated at Nejara Henry (called of Transtamara) Pedro's natural brother, the competitor for the throne of Castile: But in the interval Pedro's cruelties had alienated the affection of his subjects, and the murder of his wife Blanche of Bourbon, sister to the King of France, had stirred up an enemy whom, being deserted by the English Prince, he had no longer any sufficient means to resist.

Pedro's famous mistress, Maria de Padilla, was in the castle of Montiel when the battle was fought, and after her lover was slain received the body and was permitted to bury it.

The French army was commanded by the illustrous Bertrand du Guesclin -- in whose memoirs the highly picturesque details of the conflict, the subsequent meeting of the brothers, and the death of Pedro, may be found. Le Begue was the French knight who stabbed Pedro.]

SCENE I.

SCENE I -- The Camp of Henry.

ALAIN DE LA HOUSSAYE AND LE BEGUE.

HOUSSAYE.

I do remember even on such a sky

Kind Pedro's banner flaunted, even so calm

And heavy hung yon selfsame royal blazon

Upon the air, as the slow sun went down

The night before Nejara.5

[40]

LE BEGUE.

‘Twas in Paris,

I heard the tidings of that filed; -- I knew not

That my old friend rode in Prince Henry's host

Else had I not rejoiced.

HOUSSAYE.

Rejoiced? 10

LE BEGUE.

Yes, Alain -- --

I had heard many things against Don Pedro,

Yet, truth to speak, it seemed to me foul scorn,

That one whose mother never had been married,

Should put his hand forth -- clutching at the crown.15

HOUSSAYE.

I hope we'll have no thoughts like these to-morrow.

LE BEGUE.

Not I, the fleurdelys will be i'the van.

HOUSSAYE.

My thoughts shall be upon the Lady Blanche.

LE BEGUE.

Aye, well they may --

That bloody Jewess -- is it known if she20

Be still with Pedro? Follows she the camp?

HOUSSAYE.

They say she doth -- but see! Lord Onis comes,

And he can tell us further.

LE BEGUE.

The old lord

Walks very solemnly methinks to-night,25

His pace is sober as a hooded priest.

HOUSSAYE.

Aye, and I'll warrant ye his thoughts more sober,

Than oft lie hid beneath the gown and cowl.

LE BEGUE.

In the hot hour

[41]

The chance is equal! be we French or Spaniard -- 30

But if the day go darkly, and Don Henry

Find on Montiel the fortune of Nejara, --

No ransom for a traitor.

HOUSSAYE.

Look upon him!

There sits no selfish fear on Onis' brow;35

He is a Spaniard, and we war in Spain.

The rival chiefs are brothers -- and the swords

That glow even now in many a strenuous hand

As they receive the polish and the point,

Must gleam ere long before the eyes of kindred.40

Where'er may fall the chance of victory,

Yon stream, amidst to-morrow's noontide brightness,

Will be more purple with Castilian blood,

Than now the broad sun sinking paints its face.

LE BEGUE.

He passes on -- he takes no note of us.45

HOUSSAYE.

We greet you well, Lord Onis!

ONIS.

Ha! fair Sirs!

I crave your pardon. Whither be ye bound?

HOUSSAYE.

Du Guesclin's trumpet hath not sounded yet?

ONIS.

They are together in the royal tent.50

Anon we shall be summoned.

LE BEGUE.

Doth the prince,

(I crave your grace, the king) doth he to-morrow

Charge on the centre of his brother's battle?

ONIS.

I would it were not so; but, if I know him,55

It would be heavy tiding for his ear,

[42]

That any sword but his had found its sheath

Within the breast of Pedro.

HOUSSAYE.

Don Pedro's cuirass hath turned swords ere now --

And wielded by as ready hands as Henry's.60

ONIS.

You speak the truth, Sir Alain de la Houssaye,

LE BEGUE.

You look for stubborn work, my Lord of Onis.

ONIS.

Sir Alain Houssaye has seen Pedro's plume

Rising and falling like a falcon's wing,

As far i'the front as e'er Plantagenet65

Shewed his black crest.

LE BEGUE.

And yet the old adage

Hangs cruelty and cowardice together.

ONIS.

The man that coined the phrase had known no Pedro.

The old ancestral sense of dignity70

Exalts our excellence if we be good,

And even if we be vicious, that high pride

Is not more inborn than inalienable;

At least ‘tis so with Pedro. ‘Twas the same

When Pedro stood no higher than his hilt,75

A most imperious boy. God he defies,

And man he never feared.

LE HOUSSAYE.

This nobleness

Of kingly nature props e'en now a cause

That, had he been in aught a vulgar villain80

[43]

Had been as bare of man's aid as of God's; --

But hark! The trumpet.

LE BEGUE.

Let us to the tent.

[Exeunt Houssaye and Le Begue.

ONIS.

Beautiful Valley! What a golden light

Is on thy bosom. Ha! the bells are ringing85

In the church towers along yon green hill side

The vesper chaunt! Alas! What dreary knells

Must shake, next sunset, their gray pinnacles!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The Tent of Henry of Transtamara.

HENRY -- DU GUESCLIN -- BISHOP PEREZ -- ONIS -- HOUSSAYE -- LE BEGUE.

HENRY.

Sit, gentlemen. Onis, we waited for thee.

DU GUESCLIN.

There is no need we should be long together;

We may do better service in our quarters:

My humble mind it was, most certainly,

That you, sir king, should take the right to-morrow,5

Where, if our scouts bring true intelligence,

Don Pedro plants his Moors ---

HENRY.

Noble Du Guesclin,

We fight on Spanish ground, and I have here

Three thousand true men of Castile and Leon10

Who serve me as their king -- the which I am

[44]

By the free choice of nobility

In open Cortes, aiding right of blood,

My brother having forfeited all title

By bloody acts of murder and oppression15

Not to be counted -- some of them ye know --

The which dissolved all claim to our allegiance,

And left us free (I mean the Lords of Spain)

To choose another wearer for the crown

Of old Pelayo; -- of Pelayo's line20

Am I, and justly now I wear that crown,

Though once there was a baton on my shield,

That stain being erased and nullified

By the decree I spake of --- Now their hearts

Would scarcely brook to see the post of honour25

Filled by a stranger, howsoever noble

In blood, and whatsoever pennon rearing,

When I their king am present. Other reasons

I have already to your private ear

Sufficiently expounded. Is there need30

That I recount them also?

DU GUESCLIN.

Since his highness

Is so resolved in this, my Lord of Onis,

I yield the matter -- for myself I speak:

What says La Houssaye?35

HOUSSAYE.

May it please the king,

Although your courtesy, noble Du Guesclin,

Hath brought me to the council, I am here

Not to oppose my voice to voice of yours --

[45]

But having learned your pleasure and my part,40

To tender, if need be, humble suggestion

Touching what falls to me -- and crave your guidance --

Ride we then on the right?

DU GUESCLIN.

You and Le Begue,

Be there with Burgundy and Picardy,45

Ye'll have the Moors to deal withal. Myself

Will set my light-limbed Bretons on the left;

Perchance, while that King Henry from our centre

Bears with his Spaniards on the bridge, the old ford

May serve our need as well. I think ‘tis certain,50

Don Pedro, with his own Castilian spears,

Will bide your highness' onset—Spain to Spain!

HENRY.

Ay, and for Spain.

BISHOP.

Now God protect King Henry!

The Lord of Hosts will battle for the right.55

LE BEGUE.

We all shall do our best, my good Lord Bishop.

ONIS.

[Aside to La Houssaye.]

'Twere vain you see for anyone to fight

Against the king's determination.

HOUSSAYE.

‘Tis a most wild one! Heaven defend the issue.

HENRY.

What says La Houssaye?60

LE BEGUE.

He prays heaven, my lord,

To send fair issue of to-morrow's field.

[46]

HENRY.

'Tis well; and now brave gentlemen of France

Good e'en be with you all. Let the dawn find us

Each at his post.65

DU GUESCLIN.

My word shall be—QUEEN BLANCHE!

HENRY.

And mine—KING HENRY!

DU GUESCLIN.

They'll do well together.

[The lords rise from their seats; a Trumpet is heard.

HENRY.

What means this trumpet? thrice, too?

[The Enter a Castilian Herald in his tabard, attended by Officers &c.

HERALD.

By my mouth70

Thus to King Sancho's baseborn son, Don Henry

Of Transtamara, speaks his rightful liege

The King, Don Pedro of Castille. Bold bastard,

That darest, not remembering the black curse

Which lies upon the memory of Count Julian,75

To ape his ancient treason, and become

The guide of foreign spears into the heart

Of the fair Spanish land -- I, born thy prince,

The lawful son and heir of thy dead father,

Whose erring love begot thee of a slave,80

Bearded by thee within mine heritage,

Thee and the Bourbon's vassals whom thou guidest,

I full of scorn and wrath, as well I may be,

Have pity on all of those their fair allegiance

[47]

Due to the Majesty of France hath led85

Thus far within my realm -- albeit their swords

Are girded on their thighs to serve the cause

Of my most sinful rebel; nor against

Even those, my own born liegemen, whom thy cunning

Hath led astray, so that forgetting oath90

And fealty and solemn plight of homage,

They stand with thee against their sovereign's banner,

Am I entirely steeled. Therefore, in presence

Of brave Du Guesclin and his captains and

The Spaniards that are with them, I make offer95

Of truce from this time till to-morrow's sunset,

Within which space -- at the cool dawn ‘twere best --

Let lists be set upon the open field

Between these camps; and let the Lord Du Guesclin,

Upon the part of Henry Transtamara,100

And the most noble Castro upon mine,

Be umpires of the day -- and man to man,

And horse to horse -- with lance, sword, mace, and knife --

Let two, whose hostile banners bear one sign,

Appeal to the unseen eye of God for judgment105

On their conflicting titles; let the winner

Be undisputed king; unfearing love

Rest between him, whoever he may be,

[48]

And all that are this day encamped here,

Moor, Frenchman, Spaniard; and let him who loses110

Have death or exile; so shall knightly blood

Keep knightly veins, and wives' and mothers' eyes

On either side the rugged Pyrenees

Retain their tears unwept; so France in honour,

And Spain in peace, sweep from all memory115

The traces of this tumult. I, the king,

Speak so: -- Don Henry, called of Transtamara,

[Flings down his gauntlet.

Liftest thou King Pedro's glove?

ONIS.

Now heaven defend!--

That voice! --120

HENRY.

[Stepping forward.]

Right willingly ----

DU GUESCLIN.

[rising, and laying his own hand on Henry's arm.]

Forbear, rash king!

Herald! go back in safety as thou camest,

And tell thy master that the King Don Henry

Would willingly have lifted up the glove125

Thy had flung down -- but that Du Guesclin stayed him.

HENRY.

French Lord, I do command thee, let me pass.

DU GUESCLIN.

Nay, nay King Henry -- thou art not my king.

HENRY.

Thou art the vassal of my brother of France,

[49]

And thou art here because my quarrel's his.130

DU GUESCLIN.

Yes; but his quarrel is not thine, Lord King ----

Nor, when he kissed my baton at the Louvre

Did he command me to entrust the vengeance,

For which dead Blanche's blood doth cry to heaven

And him, the royal brother of her blood,135

To any Spanish hand -- prince's or king's.

We, De la Houssaye, and Le Begue, and I,

And ten good score of noblemen besides,

With all the spears that love or chivalry

Has clustered at our backs -- must we stand by140

And let the murderer of the Lady Blanche,

The sister of our king, conquer or fall,

According as one Spaniard or another

Couches his lance the firmest, in our sight --

Had Henry of Transtamara ne'er been crowned --145

Aye, had ne'er been born, thinkest thou my king

Would have sat still upon his father's throne,

And bid his priests sing masses for the soul

Of unrevenged Blanche.

I lift this glove;150

I place it in the front of this my basnet,

Which here, for lack of worthier, represents

The coronetted helmet of King Philip.

Do as ye will, thou, and the Lord of Onis,

This bishop, and as many Spaniards more155

As are encamped with us -- I speak for France,

[50]

And I will have a field, an open field,

A bloody field for Blanche!

HERALD.

A bloody field!

So be it—I shall know my glove again.160

DU GUESCLIN.

Thy glove?

HERALD.

King Pedro's glove. I speak for him.

DU GUESCLIN.

Thou speakest in safety whatsoe'er thou speakest.

HERALD.

[taking of his cap.]

I speak in safety since Du Guesclin says so,

I am King Pedro! Doth Henry know me? Kneel slave!165

HENRY.

[starting back, and drawing his sword.]

Thou murderer! hast no sword?

DU GUESCLIN.

If he had fifty none were drawn to-night.

This sacred garb which God and man respect,

And mine own words do save thee. Go in peace.

PEDRO.

I came not hither to make speeches, nor170

See I fit judge to sit and hold the balance

Between my breath and thine. Therefore, Du Guesclin,

Farewell. We meet to-morrow. Ynigo Onis

Thou hadst a playmate once. Ha! Father Joseph,

Who drew that bare scalp from a monkery,175

And clapped a mitre on't? Sweet lords, good night.

[Exit Pedro.

[51]

DU GUESCLIN.

Le Begue, attend the Herald to the barrier.

[Exit Le Begue.

Bold, dark, and haughty soul. I knew him not.

ONIS.

There was something in the voice -- and yet

I could not think but that I dreamed. ----180

HENRY.

Ten years

Have changed my brother much. His brow is wrinkled,

His hairs are grey.

LA HOUSSAYE.

His fierce eye is the same.

HENRY.

Once more, kind gentlemen, farewell.185

[Exeunt Du Guesclin, &c.]

Lord Bishop.

Do thou remain with some little space.

[Aside.]

stage>I've seen my brother -- something whispers me

That one more meeting, and no more shall be.

SCENE III.

The French Camp.

[Enter Pedro, Le Begue, & a crowd of soldiers.

FIRST SOLDIER.

I warrant ye lie has worn both plate and mail,

His stuffed tabard sits like a shirt upon him.

SECOND SOLDIER.

And fifty lances!

I never heard of herald so attended.

FIRST SOLDIER.

He is some noble gentleman, besure,5

[52]

The Lord Le Begue, you see, is squiring him.

THIRD SOLDIER.

Faith! and I think he walks a-foot behind him.

PEDRO.

Le Begue de Villaines? Ha! a noble name!

A very noble race of Burgundy;

I've heard of them ere now. My Lord Le Begue10

You've had a hasty march from Salamanca,

Some fifteen days, I think. I have been near you,

Almost as near as now within that time.

LE BEGUE.

An' please your Highness, had we known thereof,

We should, as now, have tendered ye our escort.15

PEDRO.

I doubt it not. You've chosen your quarters shrewdly.

I know the spot of old. There is a well

Beside yon oak that ye may slake your thirst in,

If ye were thrice as many as I count ye.

A very pleasant fountain, --20

LE BEGUE.

I have not drunk thereof.

PEDRO.

A true Burgundian! -- Well, Sir, blood flows out

And wine flows in -- such is the soldier's course.

I wish I had ye in Montiel this night. --

Your lads, I see, have lips of the same savour,25

By Jove they seem right merry underneath

These old trees -- there's no lack of skins among them.

Well, drink to-night. If some of these red lips

[53]

Be white enough, and dry withal ere long,

The blood ye might have kept, and the good wine30

Ye might have drunk—I shall be blamed for neither.

Captain, are these your soldiers?

LE BEGUE.

Some of them?

PEDRO.

Yon tall black fellow, leaning on his spear,

Is he not Spanish?35

LE BEGUE.

Is his leathern doublet?

I know him not -- his face is new to me.

PEDRO.

But not to me -- Rodrigo Perez! Look ye

Sir knight, how the slave bends. His Spanish blood

Is not all washed from out his veins. --40

LE BEGUE.

An' please you, Sir,

I can permit no talk -- the barrier's near,

I'll see you safe among your followers.

PEDRO.

What? stop a Herald's mouth! well well, pass on,

[throwing money to the soldiers.]

Drink all men's friend, the Herald, when he's gone.45

[Exit Pedro.]

[54]

FIRST SOLDIER.

Thanks for the largess! Fill a cup to him.

[drinks.]

SECOND SOLDIER.

Aye, sure; a noble generous gentleman.

[drinks.]

OLD SPEARMAN.

Why do ye not pledge the toast?

He is your countryman. ----

RODRIGO PEREZ.

If ye knew his face50

As well as I, ye would not fill so cheerily.

FIRST SOLDIER.

You've seen him heretofore? how runs his name?

A don I'll warrant ye, and then some dozen

Of fine high sounding long words after it.

You've half an ell of names yourself, I'll swear.55

PEREZ.

A short one serves him. --

FIRST SOLDIER.

Speak it out.

PEREZ.

Your pardon -----

FIRST SOLDIER.

Old man you stare as if this lordly Herald

Had been your father's ghost. Come, speak, who is he?60

He spoke to you; he called you by your name.

SECOND SOLDIER.

By our Lady,

It seems as if this Pedro's coat of arms

Painted upon a fool's coat, were enough

To frighten some that must expect to see65

His floating banner and his dancing crest,

Ere long -- if, as they say, we fight to-morrow.

PEREZ.

Talk on, young men: to-morrow's not far off.

THIRD SOLDIER.

No, and for that cause my most sober comrade,

It is my mind that we should drink to-night,70

To-morrow we'll have neither shade nor wine.

PEREZ.

Nor thirst it may be --

[Exit.

FIRST SOLDIER.

[sings.]

To-morrow when the sun is high

[55]

Up in the glowing burning sky,

When trumpets sound, and pennons fly,75

And lances gleam.

No resting on the spear

To drain the wine cup clear:

Of jollity and cheer

I shall not dream.80

SECOND SOLDIER.

To-morrow when the sun is low,

For some a jovial cup may flow,

But who can tell, and who can know

For me? -- for whom?

A cold earth bed perchance,85

Beside a broken lance,

Far, far from merry France,

May be my doom.

THE TWO SOLDIERS.

To-night yon sun goes down in gold,

His purple clouds around him rolled,90

What eyes his next descent behold,

May none reveal.

Fill, fill your goblets high,

Bright as yon glorious sky,

Wine will not make us die95

On hot Montiel.

THIRD SOLDIER.

Pass round the cup -- I think our dry old Spaniard

Has moved himself.

[56]

FOURTH SOLDIER.

Now saw ye e'er a man

Look wilder when yon Herald as he passed100

Fixed his black eye, and named him?

FOURTH SOLDIER.

Quite aghast!

SCENE IV.

Another part of the camp.

RODRIGO PEREZ.

[alone.]

It was but yesterday this King and Onis

Stood by while I was digging here i the ditch,

And looked upon me for some minutes' space,

I did not work less lustitly because

There eyes were on me -- by my troth I watered5

The clay with my best sweat -- but never a word --

"Rodrigo Perez, hot work, old Rodrigo ----"

To say so much had been no mighty matter,

"The ditch will do." "The barrier will be good,"

Good! good! good barrier! nothing of good soldier.10

Well, ‘tis all one.

Enter GIL FRASSO.

GIL.

Perez, comrade Perez,

Hast heard this story?

PEREZ.

Story! I've heard none --

What is't?15

GIL.

I scarcely can believe 'tis true --

The old king -- black Don Pedro, man, -- Yon Herald

Whose trumpet we all heard -- they say ‘twas he --

[57]

'Twas he himself -- and that he came disguised

In those gay trappings to fling down his glove,20

And challenge Henry face to face to the combat --

The single combat -- but Du Guesclin barred it.

PEREZ.

Where hast thou heard this news?

GIL.

Why, but this moment

I left a knot of our companions gathered25

Beneath the big oak, close beside the well,

And this was all their talk.

PEREZ.

The single combat!

By Saint Iago, in my humble mind,

Du Guesclin did Don Henry a good turn.30

GIL.

Hush! do not say so. Dost thou then believe it?

PEREZ.

Why not, Gil Frasso? Pedro's worst of foes

Will scarce deny that give them equal chance

Of wind and sun, within a guarded ring,

The old King mounted as we all have seen him,35

Might raise a clatter on the new King's helm

In spite of the fair coronet that girds it.

GIL.

Faith! Pedro always had a heavy hand.

But can ye credit it that he came here?

PEREZ.

Why that I scarce can doubt. I saw him Frasso,40

I saw him, man, with mine own eyes.

GIL.

And knew him?

PEREZ.

Aye, Gil—what's stranger, may be, he knew me.

[58]

GIL.

Nay, nay, old Perez, I can scarce go with you --

But come let's hear the story.45

PEREZ.

Look'ye, Gil,

It was down yonder, where those gay French sparks

Are drinking and carousing in the shade;

I stood beside them leaning on my spear,

To see the Herald passing to the barrier;50

Well, up he came, the Lord Le Begue came with him,

And as they passed us, suddenly the Herald

(We had ta'en notice of his lordly step,)

Halted, and said "are these your soldiers, Sir?"

And then he pointed with his finger thus,55

"My Lord Le Begue," quoth he, "there stands a Spaniard,"

And then he loooked more sternly yet, and waved

His hand, and named my name "Rodrigo Perez."

These were his words -- they're ringing in my ears.

Rodrigo Perez! -- Well, say what they will,60

It is no shame I think, even for a King,

To know an old man that has shed his blood

Beneath his banner. -- 'Twill be just ten years

Next Thursday (if we see it) since Nejara --

GIL.

It was a noble day -- a glorious day!65

RODRIGO.

Say that within the hearing of Lord Onis --

GIL.

No 'faith -- but yet it was a glorious field.

RODRIGO.

Aye, and the morrow after, I remember

[59]

I wakened stiff enough -- this arm was bandaged,

And this leg too -- I woke and sat upright,70

And looked about me, in the crowded place

All full of comrades shattered like myself,

Some worse, some better, and there stood the King,

Aye there he stood himself among the leeches

And priests (they all were busy), and he said --75

It seems as if all had passed but yestereven, --

"Lie down good fellow, rest a day or two,

And ye'll be well again."

GIL.

I would he had not slain the Lady Blanche.

RODRIGO.

She was a pretty lady -- so say all --80

But French -- why seek they wives from France? -- I love not

The men -- no nor the women of that land.

GIL.

No more did Pedro. -- He should have not killed her

And for a Jewess too!

RODRIGO.

We hear black tales:85

Who knows what may have been before she died?

GIL.

In faith I know not, Perez.

RODRIGO.

So we had at Nejara: There Don Henry

Was beat -- aye, man, like chaff, before black Wales

[60]

And the old king. He wants those English spears,90

None better ever thrust, but as men speak,

There are some thousands of the Moorish horse

Within Montiel to-night. Our gay French comrades

May find the scimitar's as good's the sword.

And old De Castro is with Pedro still.95

GIL.

God knows the issue. Would the day were over.

RODRIGO.

Aye, would it were. If riding in the front

Among the Bishop's men it so fall out,

That we come near the king -- I mean King Pedro, --

And I behold him charging on the French --100

I know not. --

GIL.

Comrade. --

RODRIGO.

He's but a bastard,

We may get easily beyond the barrier --

Down yon Green Lane -- your hand: -- The true old king105

Will let us in, I warrant him, right kindly.

Why, Gil, I think it would have chilled our bloods,

And made our arms like withs, if we had seen

King Pedro's plume at work, and heard his voice

High above all the meacute;leacute;e as of yore,110

And we old followers, Nejara-men,

Been there against him.

GIL.

That oath to the bishop

Sticks in my gizzard.

RODRIGO.

So, man, gulp it down115

[61]

While yet he was but plain old Father Joseph --

And Henry -- my Lord Bastard ---

I had ta'en oaths enough to serve Don Pedro.

Hark to yon Frenchmen how they boose and sing.

GIL.

Come -- we'll have cups of welcome from the king.120

Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A chamber in the Castle of Montiel.

MARIA DE PADILLA, her SON, and SARAH, seated by a window.

MARIA.

Your father will come home anon, my love.

SARAH.

The sun's gone down, and if it please my lady

I'll see him to his chamber.

BOY.

Let me stay

Until my father be come home again,5

I will not sleep till he has said good night,

And kissed me.

MARIA.

Kiss me darling --

So, -- you shall stay and get the other too.

Speak truly, Sarah -- they're the king's own eyes.10

SARAH.

In part 'tis so; the long lids are the same --

'Tis a sweet mixture -- fair and gentle boy!

MARIA.

Aye, fair and gentle now -- gentle and fair!

[62]

But look beneath the shadow of the oak,

And see how delicate the nursling plant15

Fruit of some late chance-scattered acorn shews

Its smooth slim stem, its tiny trembling shoots --

Its little glossy leaves—one scarce could dream,

That in the course of nature these must be

Transformed into the rough wide girdled trunk20

Scornful of tempests, and the giant boughs,

Whose massive umbrage darkens noon below them --

And yet 'tis so -- when the stout parent tree

Has mouldered into age's dust, or yielded

Perchance to the dread flash of heavenly fire --25

Aye, or been battered down before its day,

By common woodman's axe -- that little budling

Shall be the pride of all the grove around. --

One down -- another rises -- this smooth chin

Will ere men think that many years have flown,30

Be rough and back enow -- this ivory forehead

Plaited with wrinkled lines, the legacy

Of sorrows, it may be -- most certainly

Of cares -- the wind, the sun, foul weather

Will all have done their work to tan this cheek,35

And this white shoulder, (now it hath a dimple,

The prettiest bride in all Castile might envy),

Will be deep ploughed with trace of buckled mail,

And clasped plate -- Pedro will be a man --

I hope a noble soldier like his father.40

SARAH.

Aye, and a prince as once his father was

[63]

And in God's time a king as he is now.

MARIA.

I hope my god will hear my nightly voice,

And let me sleep in dust before that day --

For my fair child -- come Pedro to my knee --45

My sinless child, or ere thou close thine eyes

This night, be sure thou kneel – alone -- for I

Must not be with thee then, and pray to God

To send down victory on thy father's sword --

Pray strongly for thy father: -- simple child,50

See, Sarah, how he stares with his black eyes!

SARAH.

Now, prithee, cease my lady,

You'll send us all a weeping to our beds

If you look thus. I met the Lord de Castro

But now as I was coming through the court,55

He smiled upon me courteously and gaily:

I'm sure he thinks 'twill all go well to-morrow.

MARIA.

The old soldier will not let shis eye betray him.

His counsel and his prudence are my hope

Next to the strong arm of my fearless king.60

As for these Moors --

I cannot trust them -- Yon old crafty Zagal,

Although his words be of the readiest

I doubt he he'll pause before he sheds much blood

Of faithful Mussulmen in this debate: --65

SARAH.

If you suspect him, speak it to the king.

MARIA.

I would the king were here -- he tarries long.

[64]

SARAH.

He hath rode something further than he thought for

In reconnaissance -- he will soon be here;

De Castro, Zagal, and the other lords70

Are but assembling in the hall as yet.

MARIA.

Sleepy, my boy? Well, Sarah, carry him

Up to his chamber: when the king returns

We both will come together -- soon I hope.

SARAH.

Come, darling, you have watched too long already.75

[Exit with the boy.

MARIA.

And now 'tis dark all over -- hot and dark --

The heavens must be relieved from this oppression --

We from this doubting which is worse than death.

What matters it whether the thunder growl

Once or a thousand times? If it light here --80

The spirit of one must be unclad -- a king

Or nothing ---- I -- what must I be? -- no matter --

At least if things go darkly I can share

His gloomier destiny -- have my full half

Of all that brings -- and be at least his equal85

As well as bedfellow within the grave.

The grave! Dead Blanche I fear thee --

And yet God gives to kings the arbitrement

Of life and death -- and Pedro is a king --

She knew that I had lain on Pedro's breast,90

And yet she couched her curls there: -- my sweet boy

On thee she had no pity, nor thy mother --

[Scene closes.

Jessy of Kibe's Farm By Miss M.R. Mitford

[65]

1 ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard, have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact, scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to live at a large farm about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colts and heifers that run in the orchard and an adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young family.

2 The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now thickly studded with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's farm it widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy

[66]

frame. A little way farther on the lane again widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of beautiful meadows; then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amidst the rushes and the willows of Hartley Moor. A foot-bridge is flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane, which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every season a pretty rural picture.

3 Kibe's farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine, which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moonlight, of an ivy-mantled tower. One side extends the ample but disused farm buildings; on the other the old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit forest. Behind the house is an ample kitchen-garden, and before a neat flower court, the exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife Dinah, served in some sort as domestics.

4 Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her

[67]

husband had been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle through the world as best she might. She was an accomplished woman, and at first, settled in great town, and endeavoured to improve her small income by teaching music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to fancy that her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance and pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there apparently for life.

5 We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy, romping bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate friend at Aberleigh rectory caused me frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw this interesting family again under my observation.

6 The first time that I saw them was on a bright

[68]

summer evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briar rose blossoming in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely and elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively up and down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about like bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her arm; and now feeding a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious and active colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, coming long before she called them at their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and bustling patience the showers of grain which she flung to them across the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, and health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile, accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly, and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness, and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by an object no less charming, although in a very different way.

7 It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger than the pretty romp of the flower

[69]

garden, not unlike her in form and feature, but totally distinct in colouring and expression.

8 She sate in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and honeysuckle, with the western sun floating around her like a glory, and displaying the singular beauty of her chesnut hair, brown with a golden light, and the exceeding delicacy of ther smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her whole face and form had a bending and statue-like grace, encreased by the adjustment of her splendid hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered up behind in a large knot -- a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up to her with a handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile -- such a smile! -- spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers in her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and then resumed her seat and her work, imitating better than I have ever heard them imitated, the various notes of a

[70]

nightingale who was singing in the opposite hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.

9 The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased tenfold -- for I then knew that Jessy was blind -- a misfortune always so touching, especially in early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal character of the individual. We soon became acquainted, and even intimate under the benign auspices of the kind mistress of the rectory; and every interview served to encrease the interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind girl.

10 Never was any human being more gentle generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her character arose as I soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced incurable; but from coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude. "She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands in the house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing:

[71]

and some day or other she would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which her dear brother William had written upon a groupe of wild flowers, which she had begun before her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject of such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good to her, and so was Emma; but William -- oh she wished that I knew William! No one could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made for her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's meadow; he had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get across without danger, even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet; he had constructed the wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so comfortable and evenly; could write letters to him, and say her own self all that she felt of love and gratitude. And that," she continued with a deep sigh, "was her chief comfort now; for William was gone, and they should never meet again -- never alive -- that she was sure of -- she knew it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William was so much too good for this world: there was nobody like William! And he was gone for a soldier. Old General Lucas, her father's uncle, had sent for him abroad;

[72]

had given him a commission in his regiment; and he would never come home -- at least they should never meet again -- of that she was sure -- she knew it."

11 This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the cause that far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition, some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the calamity which in other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from her trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit which had always characterised the object of her love -- a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but too apt to overtask his body.

12 However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark cloud over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all, the fear that is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse away those sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's letters, and above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.

13 The letters came punctually and gaily; letters

[73]

that might have quieted the heart of any sister in England, except the fluttering heart of Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved health, of increased strength, of actual promotion, and expected recal. At last he even announced his return under auspices the most gratifying to his mother, and the most beneficial to her family. The regiment was ordered home, and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection he had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to accompany him to Kibe's farm, to be introduced to his nephew's widow and daughters, especially Jessy, for whom he expressed himself greatly interested. A letter from General Lucas himself, which arrived by the same post, was still more explicit: it adduced the son's admirable character and exemplary conduct as reasons for befriending the mother, and avowed his design of providing for each of his young relatives, and of making William his heir.

14 For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters, Jessy was happy -- till the peril of a Winter voyage (for it was deep January) crossed her imagination, and checked her joy. At length, long before they were expected, another epistle arrived, dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the next vessel to that which conveyed their previous dispatches, and might be expected hourly at Kibe's farm. The voyage was past, safely past, and the weight seemed

[74]

now really taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and smiled; yet still it was a fearful and a trembling joy, and somewhat of fear was mingled even with the very intensity of her hope. It had been a time of rain and wind; and the Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water, had overflowed its boundaries, and swelled the smaller streams which it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed Kibe's lane had washed away part of the foot-bridge, destroying poor William's railing, and was still foaming and dashing like a cataract. Now that was the nearest way; and if William should insist on coming that way! To be sure, the carriage road was round by Grazely Green, but to cross the brook would save half a mile; and William, dear William, would never think of danger to get to those whom he loved. These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed impossible, for no postillion would think of breasting that roaring stream; but the fond sister's heart was fluttering like a new caught bird, and she feared she knew not what.

15 All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened, and listened and stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense of sound which seemed to come with her fearful calamity, and that fine sense, quickened by anxiety, expectation, and love, she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she heard the sound of a carriage rapidly advancing on the

[75]

other side of the stream. "It is only the noise of the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear a carriage, the horses, the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at once, with the double purpose of meeting William, and of warning the postillion of crossing the stream. Emma and her mother followed, fast! fast! But what speed could vie with Jessy's, when the object was William? They called, but she neither heard nor answered. Before they had to won to the bend in the lane she had reached the brook; and, long before either of her pursuers had gained the bridge, her foot had slipt from the wet and tottering plank, and she was borne resistlessly down the stream. Assistance was immediately procured; men, and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind girl was beloved of all, and many a poor man perilled his life in a fruitless endeavor to save Jessy Lucas; and William, too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not deceived her. William was there, struggling with all the strength of love and agony to rescue that dear and helpless creature; but every effort -- although he persevered until he too was taken out senseless -- every effort was vain. The fair corse was recovered, but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction was verified to the letter; and the brother and his favourite sister never met again.

Song By T.K. Hervey, Esq.

[76]

COME, touch the harp, my gentle one!

And let the notes be sad and low,

Such as may breathe, in every tone,

The soul of long ago!

That smile of thine is all too bright5

For aching hearts, and lovely years,

And, dearly as I love its light,

To- day I would have tears!

Yet weep not thus, my gentle girl!

No smile of thine has lost its spells;10

By heaven! I love thy lightest curl,

Oh! more than fondly well!

Then touch the lyre, and let it wile

All thought of grief and gloom away,

While thou art by, with harp and smile,15

I will not weep, to- day!

Figure 3: Sans Souci

painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Brandard

Sans Souci By L.E.L.

[77]

COME ye forth to our revel by moonlight,

With your lutes and your spirits in tune;

The dew falls to- night like an odour,

Stars weep o'er our last day in June.

Come maids leave the loom and its purple,5

Though the robe of a monarch were there;

Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest,

And be it to- night your sole care.

Braid ye your curls in their thousands,

Whether dark as the raven's dark wing,10

Or bright as that clear summer colour,

When sunshine lights every ring.

On each snow ankle lace silken sandal,

Don the robes like the neck they hide white;

Then come forth like planets from darkness,15

Or like lilies at day- break's first light.

[78]

Is there one who half regal in beauty,

Would be regal in pearl and in gem;

Let her wreath her a crown of red roses,

No rubies are equal to them.20

Is there one who sits languid and lonely,

With her fair face bowed down on her hand,

With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash,

And careless locks 'scaped from their band.

For a lover not worth that eye's tear- drop,25

Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss,

Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness;

I know not the lover that is.

Let her bind up her beautiful tresses;

Call her wandering rose back again;30

And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage,

A hundred shall carry her chain.

Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful,

With hearts like the light plumes ye wear;

Eyes all but divine light our revel,35

Like the stars in whose beauty they share.

Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling,

Some clear as the morning's first light;

Others touched with the evening's last crimson,

Or the blush that may meet ye to night.40

[79]

There are plenty of sorrows to chill us,

And troubles last on to the grave;

But the coldest glacier has its rose- tint,

And froth rides the stormiest wave.

Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,45

With plumage as bright as before;

And pleasures like lamps in a palace,

If extinct, you need only light more.

When one vein of silver's exhausted,

'Tis easy another to try;50

There are fountains enough in the desert,

Though that by your palm- tree be dry:

When an India of gems is around you,

Why ask for the one you have not?

Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,55

Be contented with what you have got.

Come to- night, for the white blossomed myrtle

Is flinging its love- sighs around;

And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties,

The violets peep from the ground.60

Seek ye for gold and for silver,

There are both on these bright orange- trees;

And never in Persia the moonlight

Wept o'er roses more blushing than these.

[80]

There are fireflies sparkling by myriads,65

The fountain wave dances in light;

Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking,

And soft steps break the sleeping of the night.

Then come all the young and the graceful,

Come gay as the lovely should be,70

'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble,

To let one midnight pass Sans Souci.

Figure 4: The Warriors

painted by Thomas Stothard, Esq., engraved by Mr. Augustus Fox

A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry By Thomas Hood, Esq.

[75b]

Well hast thou cried, departed Burke,

All chivalrous romantic work,

Is ended now and past! --

That iron age -- which some have thought

Of mettle rather overwrought -- 5

Is now all over- cast!

Aye, -- where are those heroic knights

Of old -- those armadillos wights

Who wore the plated vest, --

Great Charlemagne, and all his peers10

Are cold -- enjoying with their spears

An everlasting rest! --

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound,

So sleep his knights who gave that Round

[76b]

Old Table such eclat!15

Oh Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!

And none engage at turneys now

But those who go to law!

No Percy branch now perserveres

Like those of old in breaking spears -- 20

The name is now a lie! --

Surgeons, alone, by any chance,

Are all that ever couch a lance

To couch a body's eye!

Alas! for Lion- Hearted Dick,25

That cut the Moslems to the quick,

His weapon lies in peace, --

Poetess Archive: Collections