A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker Part 11

Says I, "A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin, For he can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in; Stick _yours_ on the point of mama's parasol, And then he will climb to the top of the pole.

"Some bears have got two legs, some bears have got more,-- Be good to old bears if they've no legs or four: Of duty to age you should never be careless, My dear, I am bald--and I soon shall be hairless!

"The gravest aversion exists amongst bears For rude forward persons who give themselves airs, We know how some graceless young people were mauled For plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald.

"Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended, Bears die to 'remove' what, in life, they defended: They succoured the Prophet, and since that affair The bald have a painful regard for the bear."

My Moral--Small People may read it, and run, (The child has my moral, the bear has my bun),-- Forbear to give pain, if it's only in jest, And care to think pleasure a phantom at best.

A paradox too--none can hope to attach it, Yet if you pursue it you'll certainly catch it.

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.

You shake your curls, and wonder why I build no Castle in the Sky; You smile, and you are thinking too, He's nothing else on earth to do.

It needs Romance, my Lady Fair, To raise such fabrics in the air-- Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam, The gossamer of Fancy's dream, And much the architect may lack Who labours in the Zodiac To rear what I, from chime to chime, Attempted once upon a time.

My Castle was a gay retreat In Air, that somewhat gusty s.h.i.+re, A cherub's model country seat,-- Could model cherub such require.

Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured, The cherubs even spared my orchard!

No worm destroyed the gourd I planted, And showers arrived when rain was wanted.

I owned a range of purple mountain-- A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain-- A terraced lawn--a summer lake, By sun- or moon-beam always burnished; And then my cot, by some mistake, Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.

A trellised porch--a pictured hall-- A Hebe laughing from the wall.

Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.

While under arms and armour wreathed In trophied guise, the marble breathed, A peering faun--a startled fay.

And flowers that Love's own language spoke,

Than these less eloquent of smoke, And not so dear. The price in town Is half a rose-bud--half-a-crown!

And cabinets and chandeliers, The legacy of courtly years; And missals wrought by hooded monks, Who snored in cells the size of trunks, And tolled a bell, and told a bead, (Indebted to the hood indeed!) Stained windows dark, and pillowed light, Soft sofas, where the Sybarite In bliss reclining, might devour The best last novel of the hour.

On silken cus.h.i.+on, happy starred, A s.h.a.ggy Skye kept wistful guard: While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing A parrot in his golden ring.

All these I saw one blissful day, And more than now I care to name; Here, lately shut, that work-box lay, There, stood your own embroidery frame.

And over this piano bent A Form from some pure region sent.

Despair, some lively trope devise To prove the splendour of her eyes!

Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue-- A most delicious rose-bud too.

Her auburn tresses l.u.s.trous shone, In ma.s.sy cl.u.s.ters, like your own; And as her fingers pressed the keys, How strangely they resembled these!

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorned a Castle in the Air, Where life, without the least foundation, Became a charming occupation.

We heard, with much sublime disdain, The far-off thunder of c.o.c.kaigne; And saw, through rifts of silver cloud, The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.

With souls released from earthly tether, We hymned the tender moon together.

Our sympathy from night to noon Rose crescent with that crescent moon; The night was shorter than the song, And happy as the day was long.

We lived and loved in cloudless climes, And even died (in verse) sometimes.

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorned my Castle in the Air.

Now, tell me, could you dwell content In such a baseless tenement?

Or could so delicate a flower Exist in such a breezy bower?

Because, if you would settle in it, 'Twere built for love, in half a minute.

What's love? Why love (for two) at best, Is only a delightful jest; But sad indeed for one or three, --I wish you'd come and jest with me.

You shake your head and wonder why The cynosure of dear Mayfair Should lend me even half a sigh Towards building Castles in the Air.

"I've music, books, and all you say, To make the gravest lady gay.

I'm told my essays show research, My sketches have endowed a church; I've partners who have brilliant parts, I've lovers who have broken hearts.

Poor Polly has not nerves to fly, And why should Mop return to Skye?

To realize your _tete-a-tete_ Might jeopardize a giddy pate; As grief is not akin to guilt, I'm sorry if your Castle's built."

Ah me--alas for Fancy's flights In noonday dreams and waking nights!

The pranks that brought poor souls mishap When baby Time was fond of pap; And still will cheat with feigning joys, While ladies smile, and men are boys.

The blooming rose conceals an asp, And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.

How vain the prize that pleased at first!

But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.

The cord has snapt that held my kite;-- My friends neglect the books I write, And wonder why the author's spleeny!

I dance, but dancing's not the thing; They will not listen though I sing "Fra poco," almost like Rubini!

The poet's harp beyond my reach is, The Senate will not stand my speeches, I risk a jest,--its point of course Is marred by some disturbing force; I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me; But have I friends from whom to save me?

Farewell,--can aught for her be willed Whose every wish is all fulfilled?

Farewell,--could wis.h.i.+ng weave a spell, There's promise in the word "farewell."

The lady's smile showed no remorse,-- "My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,"

I murmured with pathetic force, "And here's an end of castle building;"

Then strode away in mood morose, To blame the Sage of Careless Close, He trifled with my tale of sorrow,-- "What's marred to-day is made to-morrow; Romance can roam not far from home, Knock gently, she must answer soon; I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive To hang my garland on the moon."

GLYCERE.

OLD MAN.

In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet, What seek you in my green retreat?

YOUNG GIRL.

I gather flowers to deck my hair,-- The village yonder claims the best, For lad and la.s.s are thronging there To dance the sober sun to rest.

Hark! hark! the rebec calls,--Glycere Again may foot it on the green; Her rivalry I need not fear, These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.

OLD MAN.

You long have known this tranquil ground?

YOUNG GIRL.

It all seems strangely marred to me.