The Book of Ballads Part 20

I really wish he'd do like me, When I was young and strong; I formed a pa.s.sion every week, But never kept it long.

But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea.

For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.

Francesca Da Rimini.

TO BON GAULTIER.

[ARGUMENT.--An impa.s.sioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?

Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?

Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,-- A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis.

So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place amongst us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than three full quarters drunk; But, threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and s.n.a.t.c.hes down to earth, Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng!

How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!

So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) We pa.s.sed into the great refreshment-hall, Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.

A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

The Cadi's Daughter.

A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS.

[FROM ANY OF THE ANNUALS.]

How beauteous is the star of night Within the eastern skies, Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance, Or the antelope's azure eyes!

A lamp of love in the heaven above, That star is fondly streaming; And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque In the Golden Horn are gleaming.

Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, And she hears the bulbul sing, As it thrills its throat to the first full note, That anthems the flowery spring.

She gazes still, as a maiden will, On that beauteous eastern star: You might see the throb of her bosom's sob Beneath the white cymar!

She thinks of him who is far away,-- Her own brave Galiongee,-- Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, On the wild Carpathian sea.

She thinks of the oath that bound them both Beside the stormy water; And the words of love, that in Athens' grove He spake to the Cadi's daughter.

"My Selim!" thus the maiden said, "Though severed thus we be By the raging deep and the mountain steep, My soul still yearns to thee.

Thy form so dear is mirrored here In my heart's pellucid well, As the rose looks up to Phingari's...o...b.. Or the moth to the gay gazelle.

"I think of the time when the Kaftan's crime Our love's young joys o'ertook, And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes Of my silver-toned chibouque.

Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, Thy soul it is heavy laden; Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower; Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!"

A light step trod on the dewy sod, And a voice was in her ear, And an arm embraced young Leila's waist-- "Beloved! I am here!"

Like the phantom form that rules the storm, Appeared the pirate lover, And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, As he fondly bent above her.

"Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caique Rides proudly in yonder bay; I have come from my rest to her I love best, To carry thee, love, away.

The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover My own jemscheed from harm; Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier, Or the mufti's vengeful arm?

"Then droop not, love, nor turn away From this rude hand of mine!"

And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, And murmured--"I am thine!"

But a gloomy man with a yataghan.

Stole through the acacia-blossoms, And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade Hath pierced through both their bosoms.

"There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour!

There, there, thou false one, lie!"

Remorseless Ha.s.san stands above, And he smiles to see them die.

They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, The lover and the lady-- And the maidens wail to hear the tale Of the daughter of the Cadi!

The Dirge of the Drinker.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his renown!

Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.

Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!

Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!

Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.

Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; I have bathed in b.u.t.ts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Gla.s.s for gla.s.s, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum.

Drunk with Highland dhuine-wa.s.sails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!

Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us beware!

We shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.

Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air.

Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pa.s.s, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,-- Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

The Death of Duval.

BY W--- H--- A---TH, ESQ.

["Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"--BEGGARS OPERA.]

A living sea of eager human faces, A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure Be spent the evening of this festive day!

For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away!

A little while, and he, the brave Duval, Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.