II.

FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease:
She is a Gipsy, will not speak to those

Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her. A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born,

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;

Ye love-sick Bards, repay her scorn for scorn,

Ye Artists lovelorn, madmen that ye are ! Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, Then, if she likes it, she will follow

you.

SONNET.

TO SLEEP.

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine :

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;

Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

SONNET.

IF by dull rhymes our English must be chained,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of Poesy;

Let us inspect the Lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be

Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown,
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.

A PARTY OF LOVERS.

PENSIVE they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
Or else forget the purpose of the night,

Forget their tea-forget their appetite.

See with cross'd arms they sit-ah! hapless crew 5

The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot-must he die
Circled by a humane society?

No, no; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Romeo! arise! take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
'Alas, my friend! your coat sits
Where may your tailor live?" I
O pardon me-
-I'm absent now and then.

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very

well;

may not tell.

Where might my tailor live? I say again

I cannot tell, let me no more be teased

He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd."

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15

20

SONNET.

THE day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,

Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous

waist!

Faded the flower and all its budded charms,

Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,

Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—

Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday-or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave

The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through to-day,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

LINES TO FANNY

WHAT can I do to drive away

Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?

When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there :

When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,

And ever ready was to take her course

Whither I bent her force,

Unintellectual, yet divine to me ;

Divine, I say!-What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes

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Winging along where the great water throes?

How shall I do

To get anew

Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more

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Above, above

The reach of fluttering Love,

And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,

Foisted into the canon law of love ;

No,-wine is only sweet to happy men ;
More dismal cares

Seize on me unawares,

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30

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Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged meads 40
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet
song,

And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.

O, for some sunny spell

To dissipate the shadows of this hell!

Say they are gone, -with the new dawning light
Steps forth my lady bright!

O, let me once more rest

My soul upon that dazzling breast!

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