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XLVI.

But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord,
Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage.
Away! away! « Fresh horses !» are the word,
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage.
The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
The post-boys have no reason to disparage
Their fee; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence,
The ostler pleads for a reminiscence.

XLVII.

T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey-
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen;
Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky,

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen Can paint, «Cosi viagino i ricchi!»

(Excuse a foreigu slipslop now and then,

If but to show I've travell'd; and what 's travel, Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)

XLVIII.

The London winter and the country summer
Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity,
When Nature wears the gown that doth become her,
To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember;-
But there's no shooting (save grouse) till September.
XLIX.

I've done with
The world was gone;
my tirade.
The twice two thousand for whom earth was made,
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone,-

That is, with thirty servants for parade,
As many guests or more; before whom groan
As many covers, duly, daily, laid,
Let none accuse old England's hospitality--
Its quantity is but condensed to quality.

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LIII.

And thus we see-who doubts the Morning Post?
(Whose articles are like the « thirty-nine,»
Which those most swear to who believe them most)-
Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine,
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host,

With those who, Pope says, «greatly daring dine.
'Tis odd, but true,-last war, the news abounded
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded.-
LIV.

As thus: «< On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
Present, lords A. B. C.»-Earls, dukes, by name
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner :
Then underneath, and in the very same

Column : « Date, Falmouth, There lias lately been here
The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame;
Whose loss in the late action we regret:
The vacancies are filld up-see Gazette.n
LV.

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,
An old, old mouastery once, and now
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare

Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow
Few specimens yet left us can compare
Withal : it lies perhaps a little low,
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind,
To shelter their devotion from the wind.
LVI.

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke; And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The dappled foresters-as day awoke The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. LVII.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften'd way did take

In currents through the calmer water spread Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.

LVIII.

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding
Its shriller echoes-like an infant made
Quiet-sank into softer ripples, gliding
Into a rivulet; and, thus allay'd,

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.

LIX.

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd-a loss to art:

The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.

LX.

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone: But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice-as tell

The annals of full many a line undone,The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.

LXI.

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,

The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, With her son in her bless'd arms, look'd around,

Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd; She made the earth below seem holy ground.

This may be superstition, weak or wild,
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.
LXII.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre,

Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraphs' wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,

The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.

LXIII.

But in the noontide of the moon, and when

The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical-a dying accent driven

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given

Back to the night-wind by the waterfall,
And harmonized by the old choral wall:

LXIV.

Others, that some original shape or form,

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm,

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:-I've heard it,- -once perhaps too much. LXV.

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaintStrange faces, like to men in masquerade,

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:

LXVII.

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
Might shock a connoisseur: but, when combined,
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts,
Yet left a grand impression on the mind,

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts.
We gaze upon a giant for his stature,
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.
LXVIII.

Steel barons, molten the next generation
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls,
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls,
With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
And countesses mature in robes and pearls:
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely,

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely:

LXIX.

Judges, in very formidable ermine,

Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops who had not left a single sermon; Attorneys-general, awful to the sight,

As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) Of the « Star Chamber» than of « Habeas Corpus.»> LXX.

Generals, some all in armour, of the old

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:

Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'd the steed; And here and there some stern high patriot stood, Who could not get the place for which he sued.

LXXI.

But, ever and anon, to soothe your vision,
Fatigued with these hereditary glories,
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,

Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's: 4
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone
In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.
LXXI.

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ;
There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light,
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite:

The spring gush'd through grim mouths, of granite made, But lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,

spent

And sparkled into basins, where it Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

LXVI.

The mansion's self was vast and venerable,
With more of the monastic than has been
Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,
The cells too and refectory, I ween:
An exquisite small chapel had been able,
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk,
And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight:

His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish3 Or Dutch with thirst-What ho! a flask of Rhenish.

LXXIII.

Oh, reader! if that thou canst read,-and know 'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, To constitute a reader; there must go

Virtues of which both you and I have need. Firstly, begin with the beginning (though

That clause is hard), and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end-or, sianing In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

LXXIV.

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late,
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear,
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.
That poets were so from their earliest date,
By Homer's « Catalogue of Ships>> is clear;
But a mere modern must be moderate-
1 spare you, then, the furniture and plate.
LXXV.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of game;

The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
In russet jacket:-lynx-like is his aim,
Full
grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.
Ah, nutbrown partridges! ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!-'T is no sport for peasants.

LXXVI.

An English autumn, though it hath no vines,
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along
The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines
The red grape in the sunny lands of song,
Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines;
The claret light, and the madeira strong.
If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her,
The very best of vineyards is the cellar.
LXXVII.

Then, if she hath not that serene decline

Which makes the southern autumu's day appear As if it would to a second spring resign

The season, rather than to winter drear,-
Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,-
The sea-coal fires, the earliest of the year;
Without doors too she may compete in mellow,
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.

LXXVIII

And for the effeminate villeggiatura

Kife with more horns than hounds-she hath the chase, So animated that it might allure a

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race;
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,6
And wear the Melton jacket for a space :-
If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.

LXXIX.

The noble guests, assembled at the abbey,
Consisted of-we give the sex the
pas-

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabbey;
The Ladies, Scilly, Busey; Miss Eclat,
Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss OTabby,
And Mrs Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw:
Also the Honourable Mrs Sleep,

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep.

LXXX.

With other Countesses of Blank-but rank;
At once the « he» and the elite» of crowds;

Who pass like water filter'd in a tank,

All purged and pious from their native clouds; O paper turn'd to money by the Bank.

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds The « passee» and the past; for good society Is no less famed for tolerance than piety:

LXXXI.

That is, up to a certain point; which point
Forms the most difficult in punctuation.
Appearances appear to form the joint

On which it hinges in a higher station;
And so that no explosion cry « aroint

Thee, witch!» or each Medea has her Jason;
Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci),
«Omne tulit punctum, quæ miscuit utile dulci.»
LXXXII.

I can't exactly trace their rule of right,
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery;
I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite
By the mere combination of a coterie:
Also a so-so matron boldly fight

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,
And shine the very Siria of the spheres,
Escaping with a few slight scarless sneers.

LXXXIII.

I've seen more than I'll say :-but we will see How our villeggiatura will get on.

The party might consist of thirty-three

Of highest caste-the Bramins of the ton. I've named a few, not foremost in degree,

But ta en at hazard as the rhyme may run. By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, There also were some Irish absentees.

LXXXIV.

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
Who limits all his battles to the bar
And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly,

He shows more appetite for words than war.
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star.
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free-thinker;
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty driuker.

LXXXV.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a-duke,

Ay, every inch a» duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagne's-and all such peers in look And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears

For commoners had ever them mistook.

There were the six Miss Rawbolds-pretty dears All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a couvent than a coronet.

LXXXVI.

There were four honourable Misters, whose

Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here. Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;

But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because such was his magic power to please,— The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees.

LXXXVIL

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;

Sir Henry Silver-cup the great race-winner. There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, Who did not hate so much the sin as singer; And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, Good at all things, but better at a bet.

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Good company 's a chess-board-there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world s a game;

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings;
Methinks
gay Punch hath something of the same.
My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings,

Not stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely were she but a hornet,

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.
XC.

I had forgotten-but must not forget-
An orator, the latest of the session,
Who had deliver'd well a very set

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate the papers echoed yet

With this debut, which made a strong impression, And rank'd with what is every day display'd<< The best first speech that ever yet was made.>>

XCI.

Proud of his « Hear hims!» proud too of his vote,
And lost virginity of oratory,

Proud of his learning (just enough to quote),
He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory:

With memory excellent to get by rote,

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story; Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, << His country's pride,» he came down to the country. XCII.

There also were two wits by acclamation,

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, Both lawyers, and both men of education;

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination

As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potatoe,

While Strongbow's best things might have come from Cato.

XCII.

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;
But Longbow wild as an Eolian harp,
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord,
And make a music, whether flat or sharp.
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word;
At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp:
Both wits-one born so, and the other bred,
This by his heart-his rival by his head.

XCIV.

If all these seem a heterogeneous mass,
To be assembled at a country-seat,
Yet think a specimen of every class

Is better than a humdrum tête-à-tête.
The days of comedy are gone,
alas!

When Congreve's fool could vie with Molière's bête: Society is smoothed to that excess,

That manners hardly differ more than dress.

XCV.

Our ridicules are kept in the back ground,
Ridiculous enough, but also dull;
Professions too are no more to be found
Professional; and there is nought to cull
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound,
They're barren and not worth the pains to pull.
Society is now one polish'd horde,

Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
XCVI.

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning
The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth;
And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,
You be Boaz, and I-modest Ruth.
may
Further I'd quote, but Scripture, intervening,
Forbids. A great impression in my youth
Was made by Mrs Adams, where she cries
That scriptures out of church are blasphemies.»>7
XCVII.

But when we can, we glean in this vile age

Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. List, oh list!»— Alas, poor ghost!-What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bons-mots! XCVIII.

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Firstly, they must allure the conversation
By many windings to their clever clinch;
And secondly, must let slip no occasion,

Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,
But take an ell-and make a great sensation,
If possible; and thirdly, never flinch
When some smart talker puts them to the test,
But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best.
XCIX.

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts;

The party we have touch'd on were the guests:
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
I will not dwell upon ragoûts or roasts,
Albeit all human history attests

That happiness for man-the hungry sinner!-
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

C.

Witness the lands which « flow'd with milk and honey,>> Held out unto the hungry Israelites :

To this we 've added since the love of money,

The only sort of pleasure which requites.
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
We tire of mistresses and parasites:

But oh, ambrosial cash! ah! who would lose thee?
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

CI.

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,

Or hunt; the young because they liked the sport— The first thing boys like after play and fruit:

The middle-aged, to make the day more short;

For ennui is a growth of English root,

Though nameless in our language; we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.

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But none were « gêné:» the great hour of union
Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time-or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
Where, when, and how he chose for that repast.
CIV.

The ladies-some rouged, some a little pale-
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk'd; if foul, they read, or told a tale;

Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail;
And settled bonnets by the newest code;
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.
CV.

For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
The earth has nothing like a she-epistle,
And hardly heaven-because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon -you had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.

CVI.

Then there were billiards; cards too, but no dice; Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays;Boats when 't was water, skaiting when it was ice, And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days: And augling too, that solitary vice,

Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.S

CVII.

With evening came the banquet and the wine;
The conversazione; the duet,

Attuned by voices more or less divine

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet). The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp-because to music's charms They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

CVIII.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze:

Then there was small-talk ready when required; Flirtation-but decorous; the mere praise

Of charms that should or should not be admired; The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, And then retreated soberly--at ten.

CIX.

The politicians, in a nook apart,

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; Small is the rest of those who would be smart, A moment's good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it,

And then, even then some bore may make them lose it. CX.

But all was gentle and aristocratic

In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold,
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic,
There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,

But fair as then, or fairer to behold.

We 've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen iu stays, as stiff as stones.

CXI.

They separated at an early hour;

That is, ere midnight-which is London's noon. But in the country ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower

May the rose call back its true colours soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge-at least some winters.

CANTO XIV.

I.

IF from great Nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this

Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
11.

But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?

III.

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.

An age may come, font of eternity.

When nothing shall be either old or new. Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

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