A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker Part 12

OLD MAN.

Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound The brightest of yon company.

The flowers that should eclipse Glycere Are hers, poor child,--her grave is here!

Vae VICTIS.

"My Kate, at the Waterloo Column, To-morrow, precisely at eight; Remember, thy promise was solemn, And--thine till to-morrow, my Kate!"

That evening seemed strangely to linger,-- The licence and luggage were packed; And Time, with a long and short finger, Approvingly marked me exact.

Arrived, woman's constancy blessing, No end of nice people I see; Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,-- But none of them waiting for me.

Time pa.s.ses, my watch how I con it!

I see her--she's coming--no, stuff!

Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet, It is aunt, and her wonderful m.u.f.f!

(Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden, It is a coincidence queer, Whenever one wants to be hidden, One's relatives always appear.)

Near nine! how the pa.s.sers despise me, They smile at my anguish, I think; And even the sentinel eyes me, And tips that policeman the wink.

Ah! Kate made me promises solemn, At eight she had vowed to be mine;-- While waiting for one at this column, I find I've been waiting for nine.

O Fame! on thy pillar so steady, Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:-- How many have done it already!

How many will do it again!

IMPLORA PACE.

(ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.)

One hundred years! a long, long scroll Of dust to dust, and woe, How soon my pa.s.sing knell will toll!

Is Death a friend or foe?

My days are often sad--and vain Is much that tempts me to remain --And yet I'm loth to go.

Oh, must I tread yon sunless sh.o.r.e-- Go hence, and then be seen no more?

I love to think that those I loved May gather round the bier Of him, who, whilst he erring proved, Still held them more than dear.

My friends wax fewer day by day, Yes, one by one, they drop away, And if I shed no tear, Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures, This poor heart yearns for love--and yours!

Will some who knew me, when I die, Shed tears behind the hea.r.s.e?

Will any one survivor cry, "I could have spared a worse-- We never spoke: we never met: I never heard his voice--and yet _I loved him for his verse_?"

Such love would make the flowers wave In rapture on their poet's grave.

One hundred years! They soon will leak Away--and leave behind A stone mossgrown, that none will seek, And none would care to find.

Then I shall sleep, and find release In perfect rest--the perfect peace For which my soul has pined; Although the grave is dark and deep I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.

VANITY FAIR.

"_Vanitas vanitatum_" has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare Or simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.

I hear people busy abusing it--yet There the young go to learn and the old to forget; The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare, But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind _Atra Cura_ is up with the lacqueys behind; Joan trudges with Jack,--is his sweetheart aware What troubles await them in Vanity Fair?

We saw them all go, and we something may learn Of the harvest they reap when we see them return; The tree was enticing,--its branches are bare,-- Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair!

That stupid old Dives! forsooth, he must barter His time-honoured name for a wonderful garter; And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care Since Jack bought _her_ ribbons at Vanity Fair.

Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan!

Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;-- My son, you have yours, but you need not despair, Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.

Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,-- We go--we repent--we return there again; To-night you will certainly meet with us there-- Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair.

THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES.

Notissimum illud Phaedri, _Gallus quum tauro_.

Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime, The c.o.c.kke of redde redde combe This thrice hath crowed--'tis past the time To drive the olde bulle home.

Goe fling a rope about his hornnes, And lead him safelie here: Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes, Doth angle in the weir.

And, knaves and wenches, stay your din, Our Ladye is astir: For hark and hear her mandolin Behynde the silver fir.

His Spanish hat he bravelie weares, With feathere droopynge wide, In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne Is seated by her side.

Small care they share, that blissfulle pair; She dons her kindest smyles; His songes invite and quite delighte The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.

But pert young pages point their thumbes, Her maids look glumme, in shorte All wondere how the good Knyghte comes To tarrie at his sporte.

There is a sudden stir at last; Men run--and then, with dread, They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!

And then--Sir Gyles is dead!

The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes They call the _Parsonne's Plotte_; The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes, Before the brute is shotte.