London Lyrics Part 3

Then shrinkingly she stepped aside One moment, and her garter tied The truant to a tree.

Perhaps the world may wish to know The hue of this delightful bow, And how it might be placed: No, not from him, he only knows- It might be purple, blue, or rose,- 'Twas tied-with maiden taste.

Suffice it that the nymph was fair, With dove-like eyes, and golden hair, And feet of lily dye: And, though these feet were pure from stain, She turned her to the brook again, And laved them dreamingly.

Awhile she sat in maiden mood, And watch'd the shadows in the flood, Which varied with the stream: And as each pretty foot she dips, The ripples ope their crystal lips In welcome, as 'twould seem.

But reveries are fleeting things, Which come and go on Fancy's wings, Now longer, and now shorter: The Fair One well her day-dream nurst, But, when the light-blown bubble burst, She wearied of the water;

Betook her to the spot where yet Safe tether'd lay her snowy pet, To roving tastes a martyr: But something met the damsel's gaze, Which made her cry in sheer amaze, "Good gracious! where's my garter?"

Yes! where indeed? the echoes there, Inquisitive, responded "where?"

And mourn'd the missing fetter: A something else a little s.p.a.ce Must render duty in its place, Till banish'd for a better.

The blus.h.i.+ng Fair her lamb led home, Perhaps resolved no more to roam At peep of day together; If chance so takes them, it is plain She will not venture forth again Without an extra tether.

A fair white stone will mark this morn- He wears a prize, one lightly worn, Love's gage (though not intended); Of course he'll guard it near his heart, Till suns and even stars depart, And chivalry has ended.

And knighthood he'll not envy you, The crosses, stars, and cordons bleus, Which pride for folly barters; He'll bear _his_ cross 'mid mundane jars, His ribbon prize, and thank his stars He does not crave your garters!

THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL

My little Friend, so small and neat, Whom years ago I used to meet In Pall Mall daily; How cheerily you tripp'd away To work, it might have been to play, You tripp'd so gaily.

And Time trips too.-This moral means, You then were midway in the teens That I was crowning: We never spoke, but when I smil'd At morn or eve, I know, dear child, You were not frowning.

Each morning when we met, I think, Some sentiment did us two link- Nor joy, nor sorrow: And then at eve, experience-taught, Our hearts fell back upon the thought,- _We meet to-morrow_!

And you were poor; and how? and why?

How kind to come! it was for my Especial grace meant!

Had you a parlour next the stars, A bird, some treasur'd plants in jars, About your cas.e.m.e.nt?

You must have dwelt _au cinquieme_, Like little darling What's-her-name,- Eugene Sue's glory: Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard Your thrilling-toned Canary-bird From that fifth storey.

I've seen some changes since we met; A patient little seamstress yet, With small means striving, Have you a Lilliputian spouse?

And do you dwell in some doll's house?

-Is baby thriving?

Can bloom like thine-my heart grows chill- Have sought that bourne unwelcome still To bosom smarting?

The most forlorn-what worms we are!- Would wish to finish this cigar Before departing.

I sometimes to Pall Mall repair, And see the damsels pa.s.sing there; But though I try to Obtain one glance, they look discreet, As though they'd someone else to meet,- As have not _I_ too?

Yet still I often muse upon Our many meetings-come and gone!

July-December!

Now let us make a tryste, and when, Dear little soul, we meet again, In some serener sphere, why then- Thy Friend remember!

THE RUSSET PITCHER

"The Pitcher may go often to the Well, but it gets broken at last."

Away, ye simple ones, away!

Bring no vain fancies. .h.i.ther; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither.

Aye, since this fountain first was plann'd, And Dryad learnt to drink, Have lovers held, knit hand in hand, Sweet parley at its brink.

From youth to age this waterfall Most tunefully flows on, But where, aye! tell me where, are all Those constant lovers gone?

The falcon on the turtle preys, And fondest vows are lither, The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither.

"Thy Russet Pitcher set adown, Fair maid, and list to one Who much this sorry world hath known,- A muser thereupon.

Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, Youth flatters and beguiles, Though Giles is young,-and I am old,- Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.

Thy Pitcher may some luckless day Be broken coming hither, Thy doting slave may prove a knave,- The fairest roses wither."

She laugh'd outright, she scorn'd him quite, She fill'd her Russet Pitcher;- For that dear sight an anchorite Might deem himself the richer.

Ill-fated maiden! go thy ways, Thy lover's vows are lither, The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither.

These days are soon the days of yore; Six summers pa.s.s, and then That musing man would see once more The fountain in the glen.

Again to stray where once he stray'd, Those woods with verdure richer; Half hoping to espy the maid Come tripping with her pitcher.

No light step comes, but, evil-starr'd, He finds a mournful token,- There lies a Russet Pitcher marr'd, The damsel's pitcher broken!

Profoundly moved, that muser cried: The spoiler hath been hither; O! would the maiden first had died,- The fairest rose must wither!

The tender flow'ret blooms apace, But chilling winds blow o'er; It fades unheeded, and its place Shall never know it more.

He turn'd from that accursed ground, His world-worn bosom throbbing; A bow-shot thence a child he found,- The little man was sobbing.

He gently stroked that curly head,- "My child, what brings thee hither?

Weep not, my simple child," he said, "Or let us weep together.

Thy world, I ween, my child, is green, As garden undefil'd, Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,- Where dost thou dwell, my child?"

'Twas then the tiny urchin spoke,- "My daddy's Giles the ditcher; I water fetch, and, oh! I've broke My mammy's Russet Pitcher!"