Verses and Translations Part 3

Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry, (Flies in those parts unfortunately do,) Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry, And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!

O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme That ere drew dreamer on to poesy, Since "Peggy's locks" made Burns neglect his team, And Stella's smile lured Johnson from his tea - I may not tell thee what thou art to me!

But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear, Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be, Would he but "do the duty that lies near,"

And cut clubs, cards, champagne, b.a.l.l.s, billiard-rooms, and beer.

DIRGE.

"Dr. Birch's young friends will rea.s.semble to-day, Feb. 1st."

White is the wold, and ghostly The dank and leafless trees; And 'M's and 'N's are mostly p.r.o.nounced like 'B's and 'D's: 'Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted, The sheep stands, mute and stolid: And ducks find out, disgusted, That all the ponds are solid.

Many a stout steer's work is (At least in this world) finished; The gross amount of turkies Is sensibly diminished: The holly-boughs are faded, The painted crackers gone; Would I could write, as Gray did, An Elegy thereon!

For Christmas-time is ended: Now is "our youth" regaining Those sweet spots where are "blended Home-comforts and school-training."

Now they're, I dare say, venting Their grief in transient sobs, And I am "left lamenting"

At home, with Mrs. Dobbs.

O Posthumus! "Fugaces Labuntur anni" still; Time robs us of our graces, Evade him as we will.

We were the twins of Siam: Now SHE thinks ME a bore, And I admit that _I_ am Inclined at times to snore.

I was her own Nathaniel; With her I took sweet counsel, Brought seed-cake for her spaniel, And kept her bird in groundsel: We've murmured, "How delightful A landscape, seen by night, is," - And woke next day in frightful Pain from acute bronchitis.

But ah! for them, whose laughter We heard last New Year's Day, - (They reeked not of Hereafter, Or what the Doctor'd say,) - For those small forms that fluttered Moth-like around the plate, When Sally brought the b.u.t.tered Buns in at half-past eight!

Ah for the altered visage Of her, our tiny Belle, Whom my boy Gus (at his age!) Said was a "deuced swell!"

P'raps now Miss Tickler's tocsin Has caged that pert young linnet; Old Birch perhaps is boxing My Gus's ears this minute.

Yet, though your young ears be as Red as mamma's geraniums, Yet grieve not! Thus ideas Pa.s.s into infant craniums.

Use not complaints unseemly; Tho' you must work like bricks; And it IS cold, extremely, Rising at half-past six.

Soon sunnier will the day grow, And the east wind not blow so; Soon, as of yore, L'Allegro Succeed Il Penseroso: Stick to your Magnall's Questions And Long Division sums; And come--with good digestions - Home when next Christmas comes.

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

Darkness succeeds to twilight: Through lattice and through skylight The stars no doubt, if one looked out, Might be observed to s.h.i.+ne: And sitting by the embers I elevate my members On a stray chair, and then and there Commence a Valentine.

Yea! by St. Valentinus, Emma shall not be minus What all young ladies, whate'er their grade is, Expect to-day no doubt: Emma the fair, the stately - Whom I beheld so lately, Smiling beneath the snow-white wreath Which told that she was "out."

Wherefore fly to her, swallow, And mention that I'd "follow,"

And "pipe and trill," et cetera, till I died, had I but wings: Say the North's "true and tender,"

The South an old offender; And hint in fact, with your well-known tact, All kinds of pretty things.

Say I grow hourly thinner, Simply abhor my dinner - Tho' I do try and absorb some viand Each day, for form's sake merely: And ask her, when all's ended, And I am found extended, With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid, To think on Her's sincerely.

"HIC VIR, HIC EST."

Often, when o'er tree and turret, Eve a dying radiance flings, By that ancient pile I linger Known familiarly as "King's."

And the ghosts of days departed Rise, and in my burning breast All the undergraduate wakens, And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction, Seems the actual result Of the Census's enquiries Made upon the 15th ult.?

Still my soul is in its boyhood; Nor of year or changes recks.

Though my scalp is almost hairless, And my figure grows convex.

Backward moves the kindly dial; And I'm numbered once again With those n.o.blest of their species Called emphatically 'Men': Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime, Through the streets, with tranquil mind, And a long-backed fancy-mongrel Trailing casually behind:

Past the Senate-house I saunter, Whistling with an easy grace; Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet Still the beefy market-place; Poising evermore the eye-gla.s.s In the light sarcastic eye, Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid Pa.s.s, without a tribute, by.

Once, an una.s.suming Freshman, Through these wilds I wandered on, Seeing in each house a College, Under every cap a Don: Each perambulating infant Had a magic in its squall, For my eager eye detected Senior Wranglers in them all.

By degrees my education Grew, and I became as others; Learned to court delirium tremens By the aid of Bacon Brothers; Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock, And colossal prints of Roe; And ignored the proposition That both time and money go.

Learned to work the wary dogcart Artfully through King's Parade; Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with Amaryllis in the shade: Struck, at Brown's, the das.h.i.+ng hazard; Or (more curious sport than that) Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier Down upon the prisoned rat.

I have stood serene on Fenner's Ground, indifferent to blisters, While the b.u.t.tress of the period Bowled me his peculiar twisters: Sung 'We won't go home till morning'; Striven to part my backhair straight; Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's Old dry wines at 78:-

When within my veins the blood ran, And the curls were on my brow, I did, oh ye undergraduates, Much as ye are doing now.

Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:- Now unto mine inn must I, Your 'poor moralist,' {51a} betake me, In my 'solitary fly.'

BEER.

In those old days which poets say were golden - (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves: And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves, Who talk to me "in language quaint and olden"

Of G.o.ds and demiG.o.ds and fauns and elves, Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards, And staid young G.o.ddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette (Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.

They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet, No fas.h.i.+ons varying as the hues of morn.

Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate, Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn) And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked, And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant: And oft, I own, my 'wayward fancy roams'

Back to those times, so different from the present; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor 'did' their hair by means of long-tailed combs, Nor migrated to Brighton once a-year, Nor--most astonis.h.i.+ng of all--drank Beer.

No, they did not drink Beer, "which brings me to"