Verses and Translations Part 2

May my dreams be granted never?

Must I aye endure affliction Rarely realised, if ever, In our wildest works of fiction?

Madly Romeo loved his Juliet; Copperfield began to pine When he hadn't been to school yet - But their loves were cold to mine.

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest, Ere I drain the poisoned cup: Tell me I may tell the chymist Not to make that a.r.s.enic up!

Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbing; And when, musing o'er my bones, Travellers ask, "Who killed c.o.c.k Robin?"

They'll be told, "Miss Sarah J-s."

A, B, C.

A is an Angel of blus.h.i.+ng eighteen: B is the Ball where the Angel was seen: C is her Chaperone, who cheated at cards: D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards: E is the Eye which those dark lashes cover: F is the Fan it peeped wickedly over: G is the Glove of superlative kid: H is the Hand which it spitefully hid: I is the Ice which spent nature demanded: J is the Juvenile who hurried to hand it: K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art: L is the Lace which composed the chief part.

M is the old Maid who watch'd the girls dance: N is the Nose she turned up at each glance: O is the Olga (just then in its prime): P is the Partner who wouldn't keep time: Q 's a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers: R the Remonstrances made by the dancers: S is the Supper, where all went in pairs: T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs: U is the Uncle who 'thought we'd be going': V is the Voice which his niece replied 'No' in: W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight: X is his Exit, not rigidly straight: Y is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball: Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.

TO MRS. GOODCHILD.

The night-wind's shriek is pitiless and hollow, The boding bat flits by on sullen wing, And I sit desolate, like that "one swallow"

Who found (with horror) that he'd not brought spring: Lonely as he who erst with venturous thumb Drew from its pie-y lair the solitary plum.

And to my gaze the phantoms of the Past, The cherished fictions of my boyhood, rise: I see Red Ridinghood observe, aghast, The fixed expression of her grandam's eyes; I hear the fiendish chattering and chuckling Which those misguided fowls raised at the Ugly Duckling.

The House that Jack built--and the Malt that lay Within the House--the Rat that ate the Malt - The Cat, that in that sanguinary way Punished the poor thing for its venial fault - The Worrier-Dog--the Cow with Crumpled horn - And then--ah yes! and then--the Maiden all forlorn!

O Mrs. Gurton--(may I call thee Gammer?) Thou more than mother to my infant mind!

I loved thee better than I loved my grammar - I used to wonder why the Mice were blind, And who was gardener to Mistress Mary, And what--I don't know still--was meant by "quite contrary"?

"Tota contraria," an "Arundo Cami"

Has phrased it--which is possibly explicit, Ingenious certainly--but all the same I Still ask, when coming on the word, 'What is it?'

There were more things in Mrs. Gurton's eye, Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

No doubt the Editor of 'Notes and Queries'

Or 'Things not generally known' could tell That word's real force--my only lurking fear is That the great Gammer "didna ken hersel": (I've precedent, yet feel I owe apology For pa.s.sing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardon For making this unwarranted digression, Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary's garden:- And beg to send, with every expression Of personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes, For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

There is a youth, who keeps a 'crumpled Horn,'

(Living next me, upon the selfsame story,) And ever, 'twixt the midnight and the morn, He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie.

The tune is good; the habit p'raps romantic; But tending, if pursued, to drive one's neighbours frantic.

And now,--at this unprecedented hour, When the young Dawn is "trampling out the stars," - I hear that youth--with more than usual power And pathos--struggling with the first few bars.

And I do think the amateur cornopean Should be put down by law--but that's perhaps Utopian.

Who knows what "things unknown" I might have "bodied Forth," if not checked by that absurd Too-too?

But don't I know that when my friend has plodded Through the first verse, the second will ensue?

Considering which, dear Madam, I will merely Send the aforesaid book--and am yours most sincerely.

ODE--'ON A DISTANT PROSPECT' OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

Now the "rosy morn appearing"

Floods with light the dazzled heaven; And the schoolboy groans on hearing That eternal clock strike seven:- Now the waggoner is driving Towards the fields his clattering wain; Now the bluebottle, reviving, Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful: Wearily I stretch my legs, Dress, and settle to my plateful Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.

Yesterday Miss Crump, by message, Mentioned "rent," which "p'raps I'd pay;"

And I have a dismal presage That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood, Smoked through silver-mounted pipes - Then how my patrician nose would Turn up at the thought of "swipes!"

Ale,--occasionally claret, - Graced my luncheon then:- and now I drink porter in a garret, To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened, And I doff my hat and gloves, No sweet bird is there to "cheep and Twitter twenty million loves:"

No dark-ringleted canaries Sing to me of "hungry foam;"

No imaginary "Marys"

Call fict.i.tious "cattle home."

Araminta, sweetest, fairest!

Solace once of every ill!

How I wonder if thou bearest Mivins in remembrance still!

If that Friday night is banished Yet from that retentive mind, When the others somehow vanished, And we two were left behind:-

When in accents low, yet thrilling, I did all my love declare; Mentioned that I'd not a s.h.i.+lling - Hinted that we need not care: And complacently you listened To my somewhat long address - (Listening, at the same time, isn't Quite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolled O'er green lawns the whole day through, Not unpleasingly apparelled In a tightish suit of blue:- What a change has now pa.s.sed o'er me!

Now with what dismay I see Every rising morn before me!

Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara, Through the world, as prowls the bat, And habitually wear a Cypress wreath around my hat: And when Death snuffs out the taper Of my Life, (as soon he must), I'll send up to every paper, "Died, T. Mivins; of disgust."

ISABEL.

Now o'er the landscape crowd the deepening shades, And the shut lily cradles not the bee; The red deer couches in the forest glades, And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea: And ere I rest, one prayer I'll breathe for thee, The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams: Lady, forgive, that ever upon me Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams Linger on Merlin's rock, or dark Sabrina's streams.

On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray, And watch far off the glimmering roselight break O'er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.

Oh! who felt not new life within him wake, And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn - (Save one we wot of, whom the cold DID make Feel "shooting pains in every joint in turn,") When first he saw the sun gild thy green sh.o.r.es, Lucerne?

And years have past, and I have gazed once more On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue; And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before - For all awakened memories of you.