I long to lounge in Poet's Walk, To shiver in the Lobby;
I wish that I could run away
From House, and Court, and Levee, Where bearded men appear to-day
Just Eton boys grown heavy,
That I could bask in childhood's sun, And dance o'er childhood's roses, And find huge wealth in one pound one, Vast wit in broken noses, And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milkmaids Houris,- That I could be a boy again,— A happy boy,-at Drury's.
SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR
'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;
They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies 20 of the Rhine:
Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,
And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,
'The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.'
The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;
But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout
'For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!'
And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,
And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he 30 fells a knave.
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas ! but fearful odds are here.
The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,
'Down, down,' they cry, 'with Belial, down with him to the dust!'
'I would,' quoth grim old Oliver, 'that Belial's trusty sword
This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!'
The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower.
'What news, what news, old Anthony?'-'The field is lost and won,
The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun:
And a wounded man speeds hither, -I am old and cannot see,
Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be.'—
'I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray
As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay,
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff :—
STANZAS TO THE SPEAKER ASLEEP (1833)
SLEEP, Mr Speaker; it's surely fair
If you don't in your bed, that you should in your chair,
Longer and longer still they grow, Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night, and talking by day;
Sleep, Mr Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr Speaker: slumber lies Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes; Fielden or Finn, in a minute or two, Some disorderly thing will do; Riot will chase repose away;-
Sleep, Mr Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may !
Sleep, Mr Speaker; Cobbett will soon Move to abolish the sun and moon; Hume, no doubt, will be taking the sense Of the House on a saving of thirteen pence;
Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray;
Sleep, Mr Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr Speaker; dream of the time When loyalty was not quite a crime; When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school; When Palmerston fancied Wood a fool; Lord, how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then; Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill, Sweet to the children that work in a mill; You have more need of sleep than they;— Sleep, Mr Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
For in our calendar of bliss We have no hour so gay as this, When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes Of those we know, and love, and prize, Are come to cheer the captive's thrall, And smile upon his festival. Stay, Pegasus!--and let me ask Ere I go onward in my task,- Pray, reader, were you ever here, Just at this season of the year? No!-then the end of next July Should bring you, with admiring To hear us row, and see us row, And cry, 'How fast them boys does go!' For Father Thames beholds to-night A thousand visions of delight; Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering, Lame steeds to right and left careering, Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses, Ruffling of temper and of dresses; Wounds on the heart-and on the knuckles; Losing of patience-and of buckles. An interdict is laid on Latin, And scholars smirk in silk and satin, And dandies start their thinnest pumps, And Michael Oakley's in the dumps; And there is nought beneath the sun But dash, and splash, and falls, and fun. Lord! what would be the Cynic's mirth, If fate would lift him to the earth, And set his tub, with magic jump, Squat down beside the Brocas Clump! What scoffs the sage would utter there From his unpolished elbow-chair, To see the sempstress' handiwork, The Greek confounded with the Turk, Parisian mixed with Piedmontese, And Persian joined to Portuguese; And mantles short, and mantles long, And mantles right, and mantles wrong, Mis-shaped, mis-coloured, and mis-placed With what the tailor calls a taste! And then the badges and the boats, The flags, the drums, the paint, the coats; But more than these, and more than all, The puller's intermitted call-
'Easy!''Hard all!'-'Now pick her up!'Upon my life, how I shall sup!'
Would be a fine and merry matter To wake the sage's love of satire. Kind readers, at my laughing age I thank my stars I'm not a sage; I, an unthinking, scribbling elf, Love to please others--and myself; Therefore I fly a malo joco, But like desipere in loco. Excuse me, that I wander so; All modern pens digress, you know. Now to my theme! Thou Being gay, Houri or goddess, nymph or fay, Whoe'er-whate'er-where'er thou art Who, with thy warm and kindly heart,
Hast made these blest abodes thy care, Being of water, earth, or air,— Beneath the moonbeam hasten hither, Enjoy thy blessings ere they wither, And witness with thy gladdest face The glories of thy dwelling-place!
The boats put off; throughout the crowd The tumult thickens: wide and loud The din re-echoes; man and horse Plunge onward in their mingled course. Look at the troop! I love to see Our real Etonian cavalry;
They start in such a pretty trim, And such sweet scorn of life and limb.
Hark! hark! a mellowed note Over the water seemed to float! Hark! the note repeated! A sweet, and soft, and soothing strain Echoed, and died, and rose again, As if the Nymphs of Fairy reign Were holding to-night their revel rout, And pouring their fragrant voices out, On the blue water seated. Hark to the tremulous tones that flow, And the voice of the boatmen as they row, Cheerfully to the heart they go,
And touch a thousand pleasant strings Of triumph and pride, and hope and joy, And thoughts that are only known to boy, And young imaginings!
The note is near, the voice comes clear, And we catch its echo on the ear
With a feeling of delight; And, as the gladdening sounds we hear, There's many an eager listener here,
And many a straining sight.
One moment, and ye see
Where, fluttering quick, as the breezes blow, Backwards and forwards, to and fro, Bright with the beam of retiring day, Old Eton's flag, on its watery way,
Moves on triumphantly!
But what that ancient poets have told Of Amphitrite's car of gold,
With the Nymphs behind, and the Nymphs
And the Nereid's songs, and the Triton's roar, Could equal half the pride
That heralds the Monarch's plashing oar
Over the swelling tide?
Yet e'en on this triumphant day One thought of grief will rise;
And though I bid my fancy play, And jest and laugh through all the lay, Yet sadness still will have its way,
And burst the vain disguise!
Yes! when the pageant shall have passed, I shall have looked upon my last;
I shall not e'er behold again Our pullers' unremitted strain; Nor listen to the charming cry Of contest or of victory,
That speaks what those young bosoms feel, As keel is pressing fast on keel;
Oh! bright these glories still shall be, But they shall never dawn for me!
E'en when a realm's congratulation Sang Pæans for the Coronation,
Amidst the pleasure that was round me, A melancholy spirit found me; And while all else were singing 'Io!' I couldn't speak a word but Heigh-ho!' And so, instead of laughing gaily,
I dropped a tear,-and wrote my 'Vale.'
[I took the harp, I smote the string, I strove to soar on Fancy's wing, And murmur in my Sovereign's praise The latest of my boyhood's lays. Alas! the theme was too divine To suit so weak a Muse as mine: I saw, I felt it could not be;
No song of triumph flows from me;
The harp from which those sounds ye ask Is all unfit for such a task; And the last echo of its tone, Dear Eton, must be thine alone!
A few short hours, and I am borne Far from the fetters I have worn; A few short hours, and I am free!- And yet I shrink from liberty, And look, and long to give my soul Back to thy cherishing control. Control?-Ah no! thy chain was meant Far less for bond than ornament; And though its links are firmly set, I never found them gall me yet.
O still, through many chequered years, 'Mid anxious toils, and hopes, and fears, Still I have doted on thy fame, And only gloried in thy name.
How I have loved thee! Thou hast been My Hope, my Mistress, and my Queen;
I always found thee kind, and thou Hast never seen me weep-till now.
I knew that time was fleeting fast, I knew thy pleasures could not last; I knew too well that riper age Must step upon a busier stage; Yet when around thine ancient towers I passed secure my tranquil hours, Or heard beneath thine aged trees The drowsy humming of the bees, Or wandered by thy winding stream, I would not check my fancy's dream; Glad in my transitory bliss,
I recked not of an hour like this; And now the truth comes swiftly on, The truth I would not think upon, The last sad thought, so oft delayed,- 'These joys are only born to fade.'
Ye Guardians of my earliest days, Ye Patrons of my earliest lays, Custom reminds me, that to you Thanks and farewell to-day are due. Thanks and farewell I give you,-not (As some that leave this holy spot) In laboured phrase and polished lie Wrought by the forge of flattery, But with a heart that cannot tell The half of what it feels so well. If I am backward to express, Believe, my love is not the less; Be kind as you are wont, and view A thousand thanks in one Adieu. My future life shall strive to show I wish to pay the debt I owe; The labours that ye give to May September's fruits shall best repay. And you, my friends, who loved to share Whate'er was mine of sport or care, Antagonists at fives or chess, Friends in the play-ground or the press, I leave ye now; and all that rests Of mutual tastes, and loving breasts, In the lone vision that shall come, Where'er my studies and my home, To cheer my labour and my pain And make me feel a boy again.]
The 'Vale' may be taken as a separate speech.
There's NOTHING NEW BENEATH THE SUN
THE world pursues the very track Which it pursued at its creation; And mortals shrink in horror back From any hint of innovation; From year to year the children do
Exactly what their sires have done; Time is! time was!-there's nothing new,There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still lovers hope to be believed,
Still clients hope to win their causes; Still plays and farces are received With most encouraging applauses; Still dancers have fantastic toes,
Still dandies shudder at a dun: Still diners have their fricandeaus,- There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still cooks torment the hapless eels,
Still boys torment the dumb cockchafers; Lord Eldon still adores the seals,
Lord Clifford still adores the wafers; Still asses have enormous ears;
Still gambling bets are lost and won; Still opera dancers marry peers,-There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still women are absurdly weak, Still infants dote upon a rattle; Still Mr Martin cannot speak
Of anything but beaten cattle; Still brokers swear the shares will rise, Still Cockneys boast of Manton's gun; Still listeners swallow monstrous lies,- There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still genius is a jest to earls,
Still honesty is down to zero; Still heroines have spontaneous curls, Still novels have a handsome hero; Still Madame Vestris plays a man, Still fools adore her, I for one; Still youths write sonnets to a fan,- There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still people make a plaguy fuss,
About all things that don't concern them, As if it matters aught to us,
What happens to our grandsons, burn them! Still life is nothing to the dead,
Still Folly's toil is Wisdom's fun; And still, except the Brazen Head,There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say'Our master knows you-you're expected.']
Up rose the Reverend Dr Brown,
Up rose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow.
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in Court or College, He had not gained an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.
His talk was like a stream, which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses: It slipped from politics to puns,
It passed from Mahomet to Moses; Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
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