The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 59

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!

Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine.

When at the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near, Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein; And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be designed-- THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here, when she took the maccaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet!

Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee!

Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw, That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane For thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

II.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE.

The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds, BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove!

And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR, Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed; Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate, My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain, Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, In FLOWING l.u.s.tER bathe their bright'ning wings; And ELFIN MINSTRELS with a.s.siduous care, The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.

III.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA S HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!

Ye Seas! to swallow me, in kindness rise!

Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth, Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes.

Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, And EARTH, and HEAVEN, and AIR, and OCEAN burn, For Delia FROWNS. She FROWNS, and I am curst.

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight, Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life; Would storm VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight, And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; What is HIS WRATH to that of HER I love?

What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind; Ye SERPENT CURLS, ye POISON TENDRILS, go!

Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly!

Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die, May KNIT THE KNOTS OF TORTURE FOR MY SOUL.

Last night--Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer!

The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay, And let me from its ample records tear ONLY THE SINGLE PAGE OF YESTERDAY!

Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight, And I will STOP HIM on his restless way; Omnipotent in love's resistless might, I'LL FORCE HIM BACK THE ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair, My Delia bent DELICIOUSLY to grieve, I stood a TREACHEROUS LOITERER by her chair, And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, And while my heart with transport parted big, She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried, "You stupid puppy--you have spoiled my wig!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: WILLIS]

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

[Footnote: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his ALICE FELL, and the greater part of his last volumes--of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."--Edinburg Review.]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.--REJECTED ADDRESSES JAMES SMITH.

Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.

My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-year's-day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is-- He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day!"

And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"