Читать книгу A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker - Frederick Locker-Lampson - Страница 3
ОглавлениеTHE JESTERS MORAL
I wish that I could run away
From House, and Court, and Levee:
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys grown heavy.—W. M. Praed.
Is human life a pleasant game
That gives a palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame?
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say, I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
Alas, not one! for rest assured
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late—and granted
'Tis even better—still 'tis not
Exactly what we wanted.
My school-boy time! I wish to praise
That bud of brief existence,
The vision of my youthful days
Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here,
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
Such thoughts just now disturb my soul
With reason good—for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And crossed the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who used rare sport to show me:
My Mentor once on snares and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
"Goodlord!" at last exclaimed the churl,
"Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?"
And then he fell to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remembered pranks,
In half forgotten places.
It pleased the man to tell his brief
And somewhat mournful story,
Old Bliss's school had come to grief—
And Bliss had "gone to glory."
His trees were felled, his house was razed—
And what less keenly pained me,
A venerable donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And where have all my playmates sped,
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's prior—
And Travers, the attorney's son,
Is member for the shire.
Dame Fortune, that inconstant jade,
Can smile when least expected,
And those who languish in the shade,
Need never be dejected.
Poor Pat, who once did nothing right,
Has proved a famous writer;
While Mat "shirked prayers" (with all his might!)
And wears, withal, his mitre.
Dull maskers we! Life's festival
Enchants the blithe new-comer;
But seasons change, and where are all
These friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track—
Cold looks attend the meeting—
We only greet them, glancing back,
Or pass without a greeting!
I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride
Constrains me to postpone 'em,
He taught me something, 'ere he died,
About nil nisi bonum. I've met with wiser, better men, But I forgive him wholly; Perhaps his jokes were sad—but then He used to storm so drolly.
I still can laugh, is still my boast,
But mirth has sounded gayer;
And which provokes my laughter most—
The preacher, or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what
Once made us laugh so freely,
For Nestroy and Grassot are not—
And where is Mr. Keeley?
O, shall I run away from hence,
And dress and shave like Crusoe?
Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense,
Forbid that I should do so.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss—
Or get proposed for Boodle's.
We prate of Life's illusive dyes,
Yet still fond Hope enchants us;
We all believe we near the prize,
Till some fresh dupe supplants us!
A bright reward, forsooth! And though
No mortal has attained it,
I still can hope, for well I know
That Love has so ordained it.
Paris, November, 1864.
BRAMBLE-RISE.
What changes greet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
Once smallest of its shire?
How altered is each pleasant nook!
The dumpy church used not to look
So dumpy in the spire.
This village is no longer mine;
And though the Inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger:
The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook—the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,
The trees have cut their ancient sticks,
Or else the sticks are stunted:
I'm sure these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once these pigs
More musically grunted.
Where early reapers whistled, shrill
A whistle may be noted still—
The locomotive's ravings.
New custom newer want begets—
My bank of early violets
Is now a bank for savings!
That voice I have not heard for long!
So Patty still can sing the song
A merry playmate taught her;
I know the strain, but much suspect
'Tis not the child I recollect,
But Patty—Patty's daughter;
And has she too outlived the spells
Of breezy hills and silent dells
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Then Life was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.
Whence comes the change? 'Twere easy told
That some grow wise, and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble:
If Life an empty bubble be,
How sad are those who will not see
A rainbow in the bubble!
And senseless too, for mistress Fate
Is not the gloomy reprobate
That mouldy sages thought her;
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My frisky little daughter.
Come hither, Pussy, perch on these
Thy most unworthy father's knees,
And tell him all about it:
Are dolls but bran? Can men be base?
When gazing on thy blessed face
I'm quite prepared to doubt it.
O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf,
Some day a pet just like thyself,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes—
Accept her childish ecstacies—
If need be, share her sorrow!
The wisdom of thy prattle cheers
This heart; and when outworn in years
And homeward I am starting,
My Darling, lead me gently down
To Life's dim strand: the dark waves frown,
But weep not for our parting.
Though Life is called a doleful jaunt,
In sorrow rife, in sunshine scant,
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis;
'Tis something in a desert sere,
For her so fresh—for me so drear,
To find in Puss, my daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!
April, 1857.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
The Widow had but only one,
A puny and decrepit son;
Yet, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
A loving child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.
The Widow's might—yes! so sustained,
She battled onward, nor complained
When friends were fewer:
And, cheerful at her daily care,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then—and now I see,
Though cheerful and resigned, still she
Has sorrowed much:
She has—He gave it tenderly—
Much faith—and, carefully laid by,
A little crutch.
ON AN OLD MUFF
Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Covered with fluff?
Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? no, it can't—
Yes—I declare 'tis Aunt
Prudence's Muff!
Years ago—twenty-three!
Old Uncle Barnaby
Gave it to Aunty P.—
Laughing and teasing—
"Pru., of the breezy curls,
Whisper these solemn churls,
What holds a pretty girl's Hand without squeezing?"
Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful: if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice: Glossy was then this mink Muff, lined with pretty pink Satin, which maidens think "Awfully nice!"
I see, in retrospect,
Aunt, in her best bedecked,
Gliding, with mien erect,
Gravely to Meeting:
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peeped from the muff of Pru.—
Young men—and pious too—
Giving her greeting.
Pure was the life she led
Then—from this Muff, 'tis said,
Tracts she distributed:—
Scapegraces many,
Seeing the grace they lacked,
Followed her—one, in fact,
Asked for—and got his tract
Oftener than any.
Love has a potent spell!
Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's sweet susceptible
Heart undermining,
Slipped, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff—triple-cornered ones—
Pink as its lining!
Worse even, soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade!)
Whilst her friends thought that they'd
Locked her up tightly:
After such shocking games
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest—and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.
In female conduct flaw
Sadder I never saw,
Still I've faith in the law
Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray—
Smoked, joked, and swore away—
Sworn by, he's now, by a
Large congregation!
Changed is the Child of Sin,
Now he's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin—
Blest be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore—
Preacher was never more
Prized than is Uncle for
Pulpit or platform.
If all's as best befits
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff, and its
Fair Owner pardon:
All's for the best—indeed Such is my simple creed— Still I must go and weed Hard in my garden.
A HUMAN SKULL.
A human skull! I bought it passing cheap—
It might be dearer to its first employer;
I thought mortality did well to keep
Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer.
Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin,
Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender;—
Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chin,
And never had my doubt about its gender!
Did she live yesterday or ages back?
What colour were the eyes when bright and waking?
And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little head! that long has done with aching?
It may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry—or Baron Byron's,
The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts—
Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens!
But this I surely knew before I closed
The bargain on the morning that I bought it;
It was not half so bad as some supposed,
Nor quite as good as many may have thought it.
Who love, can need no special type of death;
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
"Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?
O, cara mine, what lines of care are these? The heart still lingers with the golden hours, An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees, And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers?
If life no more can yield us what it gave,
It still is linked with much that calls for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.
TO MY GRANDMOTHER.
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)
This relative of mine
Was she seventy and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen—
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste—
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette Falbala; Were Romney's limning true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love—
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?—
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come."
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity, in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite,
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:—
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit—
Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropt away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest—
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there—
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.
