A private life was all his joy,

Till in a court he saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy
That knuckled at the taw:

He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good,

Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire

Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go? How out of place she makes

The violet of a legend blow

Among the chops and steaks! 'Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common;

As just and mere a serving-man

As any born of woman.

And others' follies teach us not,

Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone!

We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone; 'Tis gone, and let it go. 'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt

Of darken'd forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went
Long since, and came no more;
With peals of genial clamour sent
From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;

The tavern-hours of mighty wits-
Thine elders and thy betters.

113

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had yet their native glow :

Nor yet the fear of little books

Had made him talk for show;
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd,
He flash'd his random speeches,

Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,
Which I shall have to pay?
For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
I sit, my empty glass reversed,
And thrumming on the table:

Half fearful that, with self at strife, take myself to task;

Lest of the fulness of my life

I leave an empty flask :
For I had hope, by something rare
To prove myself a poet :
But, while I plan and plan, my hair
Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began,
Till they be gather'd up;

The truth, that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup:

His literary leeches.

So mix for ever with the past,

Like all good things on earth! For should I prize thee, couldst thou last,

At half thy real worth?

I hold it good, good things should pass : With time I will not quarrel :

It is but yonder empty glass

That makes me maudlin-moral.

Head-waiter of the chop-house here,
To which I most resort,

I too must part: I hold thee dear

For this good pint of port.

For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter ;

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence,
The sphere thy fate allots :
Thy latter days increased with pence
Go down among the pots:
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam
In haunts of hungry sinners,
Old boxes, larded with the steam
Of thirty thousand dinners.

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
Would quarrel with our lot;
Thy care is, under polish'd tins,

To serve the hot-and-hot;
To come and go, and come again,
Returning like the pewit,
And watch'd by silent gentlemen,
That trifle with the cruet.

Live long, ere from thy topmost head

The thick-set hazel dies;

Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread
The corners of thine eyes :

Live long, nor feel in head or chest
Our changeful equinoxes,

Till mellow Death, like some late guest,
Shall call thee from the boxes.

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
To pace the gritted floor,
And, laying down an unctuous lease

Of life, shalt earn no more;
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death,
Shall show thee past to Heaven :
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath,
A pint-pot neatly graven.

LADY CLARE.

IT was the time when lilies blow,

And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They too will wed the morrow morn :

God's blessing on the day!

'He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth,

And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?'

'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, 'To-morrow he weds with me.'

'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse,

'That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.'

Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?'

Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?'

'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse,

'I speak the truth: you are my child. 'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.'

'Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O mother,' she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the

nurse,

'But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.'

'If I'm a beggar born,' she said,

'I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.' 'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the

nurse,

'But keep the secret all ye can.' She said, 'Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.'

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the

nurse,

'The man will cleave unto his right.' 'And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'Tho' I should die to-night.'

THE CAPTAIN.

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY.

HE that only rules by terror

Doeth grievous wrong.
Deep as Hell I count his error.
Let him hear my song.

Brave the Captain was: the seamen
Made a gallant crew,

Gallant sons of English freemen,

Sailors bold and true.

But they hated his oppression,
Stern he was and rash;
So for every light transgression
Doom'd them to the lash.
Day by day more harsh and cruel
Seem'd the Captain's mood.
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel
Burnt in each man's blood.
Yet he hoped to purchase glory,
Hoped to make the name
Of his vessel great in story,

Wheresoe'er he came.

So they past by capes and islands,
Many a harbour-mouth,
Sailing under palmy highlands

Far within the South.

On a day when they were going
O'er the lone expanse,

In the north, her canvas flowing,

Rose a ship of France.

Then the Captain's colour heighten'd, Joyful came his speech:

But a cloudy gladness lighten'd

In the eyes of each.

'Chase,' he said: the ship flew forward,

And the wind did blow;

Stately, lightly, went she Norward,
Till she near'd the foe.

Then they look'd at him they hated,

Had what they desired:

Mute with folded arms they waited-
Not a gun was fired.

But they heard the foeman's thunder
Roaring out their doom;
All the air was torn in sunder,
Crashing went the boom,

Bullets fell like rain;

Over mast and deck were scatter'd

Blood and brains of men.

Spars were splinter'd; decks were broken: Every mother's son

Down they dropt-no word was spoken-
Each beside his gun.

On the decks as they were lying,
Were their faces grim.

In their blood, as they lay dying,

Did they smile on him.

Those, in whom he had reliance

For his noble name,

With one smile of still defiance

Sold him unto shame.

Shame and wrath his heart confounded,
Pale he turn'd and red,
Till himself was deadly wounded
Falling on the dead.
Dismal error! fearful slaughter!
Years have wander'd by,
Side by side beneath the water

Crew and Captain lie;
There the sunlit ocean tosses

O'er them mouldering,
And the lonely seabird crosses
With one waft of the wing.

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

IN her ear he whispers gaily,

'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,

And I think thou lov'st me well.' She replies, in accents fainter,

'There is none I love like thee.' He is but a landscape-painter,

And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,

Presses his without reproof:
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father's roof.
'I can make no marriage present:

Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,

And I love thee more than life.' They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand:

Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,

Says to her that loves him well,
'Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.'
So she goes by him attended,

Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid

Lay betwixt his home and hers;
Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
Parks and order'd gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer :
Evermore she seems to gaze

On that cottage growing nearer,

Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,

'All of this is mine and thine.'
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the colour flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes,

And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover,

And he cheer'd her soul with love.