A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker Part 3

The Squire affirms, with gravest look, His oak goes up to Domesday Book!-- And some say even higher!

We rode last week to see the ruin, We love the fair domain it grew in, And well we love the Squire.

A nature loyally controlled, And fashioned in that righteous mould Of English gentleman;-- My child may some day read these rhymes,-- She loved her "G.o.dpapa" betimes,-- The little Christian!

I love the Past, its ripe pleasance, Its l.u.s.ty thought, and dim romance, And heart-compelling ditties; But more, these ties, in mercy sent, With faith and true affection blent, And, wanting them, I were content To murmur, "_Nunc dimittis_."

HALLINGBURY, _April, 1859_.

AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY.

THE INVITATION.

O, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, Your London sun is here seen shining brightly: The Briton too puts on a cheery face, And Mrs. Bull is _suave_ and even sprightly.

The Romans are a kind and cordial race, The women charming, if one takes them rightly; I see them at their doors, as day is closing, More proud than d.u.c.h.esses--and more imposing.

A "_far niente_" life promotes the graces;-- They pa.s.s from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, And in their bearing, and their speech, one traces A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy That are not found in more inclement places; Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony; The c.o.c.kney met in Middles.e.x, or Surrey, Is often cold--and always in a hurry.

Though "_far niente_" is their pa.s.sion, they Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; No matter what it is they have to say, The manner always sets the matter right.

And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day They sweetly wish you "a most happy night."

Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you.

O, come to Rome, nor be content to read Alone of stately palaces and streets Whose fountains ever run with joyous speed, And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets Great Memnon's monoliths--or, gay with weed, Rich capitals, as corner stones, or seats-- The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder Old ruins, hiding ruin even older.

Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, Although the last are commonplace, or florid.

Some say 'tis here that superst.i.tion perches,-- Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.

The sombre streets are worthy your researches: The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, But pleasant sights, which squeamishness disparages, Are missed by all who roll about in carriages.

About one fane I deprecate all sneering, For during Christmas-time I went there daily, Amused, or edified--or both--by hearing The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_.

Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing Her small form on a rostrum, tricked out gaily, And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, With action quite dramatic and delightful.

O come! We'll charter such a pair of nags!

The country's better seen when one is riding: We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding With giant march (now whole, now broken crags With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar-- That melt in light beneath the evening star.

A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant-- The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sun-burnt peasant Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, And seems to wake the past time in the present.

Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow Can join with jollity your _Salterello_.

Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath Of life to unsophisticated man.

Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, "_Per dar' al mio bene_." When you can, Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death And Time are grudging of Life's little span: Wan Time speeds swiftly o'er the waving corn, Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- Such theme were all too splendid for my pen.

And if I breathe the name of Sanzio (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), It is that love casts out my fear--and so I claim with him a kindredship. Ah! when We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon!

Nor is the Colosseum theme of mine, 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; The world goes there with torches--I decline Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.

Some time in May our forces we'll combine (Just you and I) and try a midnight airing, And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then You'll muse upon the vanity of men.

O come--I send a leaf of tender fern, 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: The ashes buried in a sculptured urn Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day!

That better time, for which the patriots yearn, Enchants the gaze, again to fade away.

They wait and pine for what is long denied, And thus I wait till thou art by my side.

Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, I cannot yet thy little hand resign!

The plain is fading into darkness chill, The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee, O come to Rome--O come, O come to me!

THE REPLY.

Dear Exile, I was pleased to get Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton; You know that you are all to "Pet,"

I feared that I was quite forgotten: Mama, who scolds me when I mope, Insists--and she is wise as gentle-- That I am still in love--I hope That you are rather sentimental.

Perhaps you think a child should not Be gay unless her slave is with her; Of course you love old Rome, and, what Is more, would like to coax me thither: What! quit this dear delightful maze Of calls and b.a.l.l.s, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways-- I like your confidence immensely!

Some girls who love to ride and race, And live for dancing--like the Bruens, Confess that Rome's a charming place, In spite of all the stupid ruins: I think it might be sweet to pitch One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, And all that sort of thing--of which Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.

To see stone pines, and marble G.o.ds, In garden alleys--red with roses-- The Perch where Pio Nono nods; The Church where Raphael reposes.

Make pleasant _giros_--when we may; Jump _stagionate_--where they're easy; And play croquet--the Bruens say There's turf behind the _Ludovisi_.

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee Says packing books is such a worry; I'll bring my "Golden Treasury,"

Manzoni--and, of course, a "Murray;"

A TUPPER, whom you men despise; A Dante--Auntie owns a quarto-- I'll try and buy a smaller size, And read him on the _muro torto_.

But can I go? _La Madre_ thinks It would be such an undertaking:-- I wish we could consult a sphynx;-- The thought alone has set her quaking.

Papa--we do not mind Papa-- Has got some "notice" of some "motion,"

And could not stay; but, why not,--Ah, I've not the very slightest notion.

The Browns have come to stay a week, They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em, For Baby _Grand_, and Baby _Pic_, Are playing cricket in my sanctum: Your Rover too affects my den, And when I pat the dear old whelp, it ...

It makes me think of you, and then ...

And then I cry--I cannot help it.

Ah, yes--before you left me, ere Our separation was impending, These eyes had seldom shed a tear-- For mine was joy that knew no ending; Yes, soon there came a change, too soon: The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me Was knowledge I possessed the boon, And then a fear such bliss might leave me.

This strain is sad: yet, understand, Your words have made my spirit better: And when I first took pen in hand, I meant to write a cheery letter; But skies were dull,--Rome sounded hot, I fancied I could live without it: I thought I'd go--I thought I'd not, And then I thought I'd think about it.

The sun now glances o'er the Park, If tears are on my cheek, they glitter; I think I've kissed your rhymes, for--hark!

My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter.

Your blessed words extinguish doubt, A sudden breeze is gaily blowing, And, hark! The minster bells ring out-- "She ought to go! Of course she's going."

OLD LETTERS.