XLVI. But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, XLVII. T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickey- 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 I've done with That is, with thirty servants for parade, LIII. And thus we see-who doubts the Morning Post? With those who, Pope says, «greatly daring dine. As thus: «< On Thursday there was a grand dinner; Column : « Date, Falmouth, There lias lately been here To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 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 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, 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. Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 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 At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. Steel barons, molten the next generation 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, Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's: 4 Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 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, 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, The mellow autumn came, and with it came The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats LXXVI. An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 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,- 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; LXXIX. The noble guests, assembled at the abbey, The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabbey; Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. LXXX. With other Countesses of Blank-but rank; 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 On which it hinges in a higher station; Thee, witch!» or each Medea has her Jason; I can't exactly trace their rule of right, Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 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, He shows more appetite for words than war. 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. 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; Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. I had forgotten-but must not forget- 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, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), 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; XCIV. If all these seem a heterogeneous mass, Is better than a humdrum tête-à-tête. 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, Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 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. Firstly, they must allure the conversation Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch'd on were the guests: That happiness for man-the hungry sinner!- 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. But oh, ambrosial cash! ah! who would lose 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. But none were « gêné:» the great hour of union The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. The ladies-some rouged, some a little pale- Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 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; 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, 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, 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 Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. III. For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, 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. |