MRS. ARCHER CLIVE. 1801-1873
FROM "THE QUEEN'S BALL"
One phantom was a girl, who here
Had glitter'd in her eighteenth year,
So heavenly fair in those bright hours,
With quaint device of dress and flowers,
That the eye dwelt on her surprised,
As on a fable realised;
One, spellbound, most of all, had burn'd
With love, which frankly she return'd:
But while their silken courtship sped,
Did sudden clouds a storm unroll ;
And 'twixt them left a gulf so dread
As frightened from its place her soul.
The world, whose fragile ornament
She for a time so brief had been,
Heard, faintly, of some dark event
That hid her from its festive scene;
Heard all that was, and what was not;
Inquired, conjectured and forgot.
Meantime the maiden's life took wing;
Beneath Existence's strife it died;
And, like a fountain of the Spring,
It met the Summer's sun and died;
Her lover watch'd with broken heart
(Or what to him and her seem'd broken),
And the last words that she heard spoken,
Were, "Not for long, my Life, we part."
She heard, and smiled, in death to be
Love's victim, and its victory.
She came this night and, unseen, moved
Where she had glitter'd, triumph'd, loved;
And 'mid new beauties, sought for one
Who should lament for her that's gone.
She found him straight; but, ah! no dream.
Of her, the dead, there seem'd for him;
He moved among the fair and gay,
His smile and ready word had they,
He touch'd soft hands, and breathed a sigh,
And sought and found an answering eye;
And in the dance he mix'd with many,
As happy and as light as any.
Then on his breast the phantom rush'd,
Her phantom hair his bosom brush'd,
Her fond fantastic arms she wound
Beseechingly his form around.
Her airy lips his visage kiss'd;
In vain, in vain, no thought he cast
Back on the memory of the past,
And she must let it go at last,
The cherish'd hope that she was miss'd.
A ghost went gliding round, who'd been
The guest of guests, in such a scene;
Without his wit, the feast was cross'd;
Without his pen, the scene was lost;
He came to earth, to weep their lot,
Who wanted him and found him not.
But where were they? Did none recall
His presence needful once to all.
New wits were risen-new words were said,
And his, like him, were of the dead.
Yet Genius is a deathless light,
That still burns on through thickest night;
It fires a steady lamp whose rays
Descend through time, like stars through space,
Though twice a thousand years be fled,
We still repeat what Æsop said.
Thus he, sad ghost! slow circling there,
By many an all-unconscious ear,
Caught at the last the dearest name,
His own, the hold he had on Fame.
"Poor," the speaker said, "his mot,
The witty soul! was-so and so."
He heard, he drank the praise they gave,
And went the easier to his grave.
A ghost was there, who died in age,
Not wearied yet with pilgrimage;
A soul so kindly and so slight,-
So guileless in the world's despite,
So void of thought, yet rightly feeling,
It could have no descending weight,-
"Twould flutter up to heaven's gate,
Like down, on rising breezes, stealing.
And yet she sighed to see the ray
Of gem and gold, her own of late, Which on a younger bosom lay,
The owner of her name and state. Not all forgotten, she; for one Whom the new lady smiled upon, Said, "Is it true, then, that at last The Ancient Dame away has pass'd?" She heard, and turned her to the tomb, And said "Alas! your turn will come."
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 1802-1839
(Verses on seeing the Speaker asleep in his chair.)
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair,
If you mayn't in your bed, that you should in your chair;
Louder and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night and talking by day:
Sleep, Mr. Speaker,-sleep while you may.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes.
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away—
Sleep, Mr. Speaker,-sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then,
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill.
You have more need of repose than they,-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker,-sleep while you may !
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteenpence.
Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray,—
Sleep, Mr. Speaker,-sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,
When loyalty was not quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school, And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.
Lord, how principles pass away,
Sleep, Mr. Speaker,-sleep while you may!
THE DYING GIRL TO HER LOVER
Fare thee well, love, fare thee well,
From the world I pass away,
Where the brightest things that dwell
All deceive and all decay;
Cheerfully I fall asleep
As by some mysterious spell,
Yet I weep to see thee weep
Fare thee well, love, fare thee well.
Tell of me, love, tell of me,
Not amid the heartless throng,
Not when passion bends the knee,
Not where pleasure trills the song.
But when some most cherish'd one
By your side at eve shall be,
Ere your twilight tales are done,
Tell of me, love, tell of me!
Leave me now, love, leave me now,
Not with sorrow, not with sighs,
Not with clouds, love, on thy brow,
Not with tears, love, in thine eyes.
We shall meet, we know not where,
And be blest, we dream not how,
With a kiss and with a prayer
Leave me now, love, leave me now!
|