A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker Part 1

A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker.

by Frederick Locker.

The 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 a.s.sured That all are p.r.o.ne 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 s.h.i.+re.

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 "s.h.i.+rked 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 friends.h.i.+ps of our summer?

Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track-- Cold looks attend the meeting-- We only greet them, glancing back, Or pa.s.s 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 Gra.s.sot 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 s.h.i.+re?

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, p.u.s.s.y, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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.