Horace Smith

(WITH MANY APOLOGIES TO THE LAUREATE.)

And Willie, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Anne,
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man;
He was only fourscore years, quite young, when he died;
I ought to have gone before, but must wait for time and tide.

So Harry's wife has written; she was always an awful fool,
And Charlie was always drunk, which made our families cool;
For Willie was walking with Jenny when the moon came up the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.

Jenny I know had tripped, and she knew that I knew of it well.
She began to slander me.    I knew, but I wouldn't tell!
And she to be slandering me, the impertinent, base little liar;
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the ton...

I.

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,
    My own true love so sweete?
For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye
    The prynte of her faery feete.
Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye?
    Is she darke or fayre to see?
Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?
    Is't braided her haire or free?

II.

Oh, never by outward looke or signe,
    My true love shall ye knowe;
There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,
    And many as brighte to showe.
But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes,
    Which into the soule can see,
She then would be seene as the matchless Queene
    Of Love and of Puritie.

Champagne doth not a luncheon make,
    Nor caviare a meal;
Men gluttonous and rich may take
    These till they make them ill.
If I've potatoes to my chop,
    And after that have cheese,
Angels in Pond & Spiers's shop
    Serve no such luxuries.

Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea.

The moon in the valley of Ajalon
    Stood still at the word of the prophet;
But since certain "Essays" were written
    We don't think so very much of it.
Now, a prophet is raised up among us,
    Whose miracles none can gainsay;
For he spoke, and the great river Witham
    Flowed three days, uphill, the wrong way.

On seeing BRET HARTE come upon the Bench.

Thanks for an hour of laughing
    In a world that is growing old;
Thanks for an hour of weeping
    In a world that is growing cold;
For we who have wept with Dickens,
    And we who have laughed with Boz,
Have renewed the days of our childhood
    With his American Coz.

I know not what the cause may be,
    Or whether there be one or many;
But this year's Spring has seemed to me
    More exquisite than any.

What happy days we spent together
    In that fair Isle of primrose flowers!
How brilliant was the April weather!
    What glorious sunshine and what showers!

I think the leaves peeped out and in
    At every change from cold to heat;
The grass threw off a livelier sheen
    From dewdrops sparkling at our feet.

What wealth of early bloom was there--
    The wind flow'r and the primrose pale,
On bank or copse, and orchis rare,
    And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale.

And, oh, the splendour of the sea,--
    The blue belt glimmering soft and far,
Through many a tumbled rock and tree
    ...

I.

Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!
    I ask no more
    Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four,
Contentment sweet to yield.
For I am not fastidious,
    And, with a proud demeanour, I
Will not affect invidious
    Distinctions about scenery.
I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise
Against Italian skies,
    Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather,
    Set off with glorious weather;
            Such sights as these
            The most exacting please;
But I, lone wanderer in London streets,
Where every face one meets
            Is full of care,
            And seems to wear
            A troubled air,
            Of being late for some affair
    Of life or death:--thus I, ev'n I,
Long for a field of gras...

The linnet had flown from its cage away,
And flitted and sang in the light of day--
Had flown from the lady who loved it well,
In Liberty's freer air to dwell.
Alas! poor bird, it was soon to prove,
Sweeter than Liberty is Love.

When night came on it had ceased to sing,
And had hidden its head beneath its wing.
It thought of the warm room left behind,
The shelter from cold and rain and wind;
It could not sleep, when to sleep it strove--
Liberty needeth the help of Love.

The night owls shrieked as they wheeled along,
Bent upon slaughter, and rapine, and wrong:
There was devilish mirth in their wild halloo,
And the linnet trembled when near they drew;
'Twas fearful to watch them madly rove,
Drunken with Liberty, left of Love.

When mor...

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be sleeping by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Darkness is creeping along the sky;
Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,
    Slowly the moon comes sailing by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be waking by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

I.

Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure,
    A goblet, that's full to the brim,
And each man may take for his pleasure
    The thing that's most pleasant to him;
Then let all, who are birds of my feather,
    Throw heart and soul into my song;
Mark the time, pick it up all together,
    And merrily row it along.

    Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning,
            Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend;
    Hard on to it, catch the beginning,
            And pull it clean through to the end.

II.

I'll admit 'tis delicious to plunge in
    Clear pools, with their shadows at rest;
'Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in
    Your foil at the enemy's chest;
'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket,
    Or lash round to leg for a ...

Two neighbours, fighting for a yard of land;
Two witnesses, who lie on either hand;
Two lawyers, issuing many writs and pleas;
Two clerks, in a dark passage counting fees;
Two counsel, calling one another names;
Two courts, where lawyers play their little games;
Two weeks at Leeds, which wear the soul away;
Two judges getting limper every day;
Two bailiffs of the court with aspect sour--
So runs the round of life from hour to hour.

In olden time--in great Eliza's age,
When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage,
No play without its Prologue might appear
To earn applause or ward the critic's sneer;
And surely now old customs should not sleep
When merry Christmas revelries we keep.
He loves old ways, old faces, and old friends,
Nor to new-fangled fancies condescends;
Besides, we need your kindly hearts to move
Our faults to pardon and our freaks approve,
For this our sport has been in haste begun,
Unpractised actors and impromptu fun;
So on our own deserts we dare not stand,
But beg the favour that we can't command.
Most flat would fall our "cranks and wanton wiles,"
Reft of your favouring "nods and wreathed smiles,"
As some tame landscape desolately bare
Is charmed by sunshine into...

The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham.It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches. Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves.

Nothing so true as what you once let fall,--
"To growl at something is the lot of all;
Contentment is a gem on earth unknown,
And Perfect Happiness the wizard's stone.
Give me," you cried, "to see my duty clear,
And room to work, unhindered in my sphere;
To live my life, and work my work alone,
Unloved while living, and unwept when gone.
Let none my triumphs or my failures share,
Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir."

Go, like St. Simon, on your lone...

Take, oh take those boots away,
    That so nearly are outworn;
And those shoes remove, I pray--
    Pumps that but induce the corn!
But my slippers bring again,
            Bring again;
Works of love, but worked in vain,
            Worked in vain!

You say 'tis plain that poets feign,
    And from the truth depart;
They write with ease what fibs they please,
    With artifice, not art;
Dearer to you the simply true--
    The fact without the fancy--
Than this false play of colours gay,
    So very vague and chancy.
No doubt 'tis well the truth to tell
    In scientific coteries;
But I'll be bold to say she's cold,
    Excepting to her votaries.
The false disguise of tawdry lies
    May hide sweet Nature's face;
But in her form the blood runs warm,
    As in the human race;
And in the rose the dew-drop glows,
    And, o'er the seas serene,
The sunshine white still breaks in light
    Of yellow, blue, and green.
In thousand rays the fancy plays;
    The feelings rise and bubble;

(AFTER HEINE.)

Thou little village curate,
    Come quick, and do not wait;
We'll sit and talk together,
    So sweetly tete-a-tete.

Oh do not fear the railway
    Because it seems so big--
Dost thou not daily trust thee
    Unto thy little gig.

This house is full of painters,
    And half shut up and black;
But rooms the very snuggest
    Lie hidden at the back.
            Come! come! come!

The times still "grow to something strange";
    We rap and turn the tables;
We fire our guns at awful range;
    We lay Atlantic cables;
We bore the hills, we bridge the seas--
    To me 'tis better far
To sit before my fire at ease,
    And smoke a mild cigar.

We start gigantic bubble schemes,--
    Whoever can invent 'em!--
How splendid the prospectus seems,
    With int'rest cent. per centum
His shares the holder, startled, sees
    At eighty below par:
I dawdle to my club at ease,
    And light a mild cigar.

We pickle peas, we lock up sound,
    We bottle electricity;
We run our railways underground,
    Our trams above in this city
We fly balloons in calm or breeze,
    And tumble from the car;
I wander do...