Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;-
If he's only an excellent person,
My own Araminta, say "No!"
Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]
"There are plenty of roses" (the patriarch speaks)
"Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks;
Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare,
Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair.”
THE glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone, for the others have flitted
To dine with a neighbor at Kew:
Alone, but I'm not to be pitied-
I'm thinking of you!
I wish you were here! Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am dressed in your favorite color-
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fastened askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A Darling as you?
I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"?
I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.
That story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.
They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures;—
It was you that first told me of Browning,-
. That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A Foet as you!
I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Folly is making
Her Idol of you!
Alas for the World, and its dearly
Bought triumph,—its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless Miss;
But, perhaps, one is blest with "a measure
Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My Darling, to you!
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art;-
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in some sacred deposit
For relics-we all have a few!
Love, some day they'll print it, because it
Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821-1895]
À cœur blessé l'ombre et le silence.--BALZAC
I DREW it from its china tomb;--
It came out feebly scented
With some thin ghost of past perfume
That dust and days had lent it.
An old, old letter,-folded still!
To read with due composure,
I sought the sun-lit window-sill,
Above the gray enclosure,
That, glimmering in the sultry haze,
Faint-flowered, dimly shaded,
Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize,
Bedizened and brocaded.
A queer old place! You'd surely say
Some tea-board garden-maker
Had planned it in Dutch William's day
To please some florist Quaker,
So trim it was. The yew-trees still,
With pious care perverted,
Grew in the same grim shapes; and still
The lipless dolphin spurted;
Still in his wonted state abode
The broken-nosed Apollo;
And still the cypress-arbor showed
The same umbrageous hollow.
Only, as fresh young Beauty gleams
From coffee-colored laces,
So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams
The fresher modern traces;
For idle mallet, hoop, and ball
Upon the lawn were lying;
A magazine, a tumbled shawl,
Round which the swifts were flying;
And, tossed beside the Guelder rose,
A heap of rainbow knitting,
Where, blinking in her pleased repose,
A Persian cat was sitting.
"A place to love in,-live,-for aye,
If we too, like Tithonus,
Could find some God to stretch the gray
Scant life the Fates have thrown us;
"But now by steam we run our race,
With buttoned heart and pocket;
Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace,-
Just like an empty locket!
"The time is out of joint.' Who will,
May strive to make it better;
For me, this warm old window-sill,
And this old dusty letter."
"Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be,
For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam,
And Mother's storing Apples,-Prue and Me
Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam:
But we shall meet before a Week is gone,-
"Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John !
"Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait
Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile-We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John!
"John, she's so smart,-with every Ribbon new, Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Padesoy: As proud as proud; and has the Vapors too,
Just like My Lady;-calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on Till he's past Thirty. . . I know better, John!
"My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much
Before we knew each other, I and you;
And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch,
Gives me enough to think a Summer through.
See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone!
Look in this corner,-mind you find it, John!"
This was the matter of the note,-
A long-forgot deposit,
Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat
Deep in a fragrant closet,
Piled with a dapper Dresden world,—
Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,-
Bonzes with squat legs undercurled,
And great jars filled with roses.
Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed!
You had no thought or presage
Into what keeping you dismissed
Your simple old-world message!
A reverent one. Though we to-day
Distrust beliefs and powers,
The artless, ageless things you say
Are fresh as May's own flowers,
Starring some pure primeval spring,
Ere Gold had grown despotic,-
Ere Life was yet a selfish thing,
Or Love a mere exotic!
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