Verses and Translations | Page 5

may be that in age one seeks
Peace only: that the blood is brisker?In boy's veins, than in theirs whose cheeks
Are partially obscured by whisker;
Or that the growing ages steal
The memories of past wrongs from us.?But this is certain--that I feel
Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!
And wheresoe'er we meet again,
On this or that side the equator,?If I've not turned teetotaller then,
And have wherewith to pay the waiter,
To thee I'll drain the modest cup,
Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;?And we will waft, while liquoring up,
Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA.
"THERE STANDS A CITY."?INGOLDSBY.
Year by year do Beauty's daughters,
In the sweetest gloves and shawls,?Troop to taste the Chattenham waters,
And adorn the Chattenham balls.
'Nulla non donanda lauru'
Is that city: you could not,?Placing England's map before you,
Light on a more favoured spot.
If no clear translucent river
Winds 'neath willow-shaded paths,?"Children and adults" may shiver
All day in "Chalybeate baths:"
If "the inimitable Fechter"
Never brings the gallery down,?Constantly "the Great Protector"
There "rejects the British crown:"
And on every side the painter
Looks on wooded vale and plain?And on fair hills, faint and fainter
Outlined as they near the main.
There I met with him, my chosen
Friend--the 'long' but not 'stern swell,' {15a}?Faultless in his hats and hosen,
Whom the Johnian lawns know well:-
Oh my comrade, ever valued!
Still I see your festive face;?Hear you humming of "the gal you'd
Left behind" in massive bass:
See you sit with that composure
On the eeliest of hacks,?That the novice would suppose your
Manly limbs encased in wax:
Or anon,--when evening lent her
Tranquil light to hill and vale, -?Urge, towards the table's centre,
With unerring hand, the squail.
Ah delectablest of summers!
How my heart--that "muffled drum"?Which ignores the aid of drummers -
Beats, as back thy memories come!
Oh, among the dancers peerless,
Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!?Need I say to you that cheerless
Must my days be till I die?
At my side she mashed the fragrant
Strawberry; lashes soft as silk?Drooped o'er saddened eyes, when vagrant
Gnats sought watery graves in milk:
Then we danced, we walked together;
Talked--no doubt on trivial topics;?Such as Blondin, or the weather,
Which "recalled us to the tropics."
But--oh! in the deuxtemps peerless,
Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! -?Once more I repeat, that cheerless
Shall my days be till I die.
And the lean and hungry raven,
As he picks my bones, will start?To observe 'M. N.' engraven
Neatly on my blighted heart.
STRIKING.
It was a railway passenger,
And he lept out jauntilie.?"Now up and bear, thou stout porter,
My two chattels to me.
"Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,
And portmanteau so brown:?(They lie in the van, for a trusty man
He labelled them London town:)
"And fetch me eke a cabman bold,
That I may be his fare, his fare;?And he shall have a good shilling,?If by two of the clock he do me bring
To the Terminus, Euston Square."
"Now,--so to thee the saints alway,
Good gentleman, give luck, -?As never a cab may I find this day,
For the cabman wights have struck:?And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,
Or else at the Dog and Duck,?Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,?The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin
Right pleasantly they do suck."
"Now rede me aright, thou stout porter,
What were it best that I should do:?For woe is me, an I reach not there
Or ever the clock strike two."
"I have a son, a lytel son;
Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck's:?Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,?And he shall carry thy chattels down,?To Euston, or half over London town,
On one of the station trucks."
Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,?The gent, and the son of the stout porter,?Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,
Through all the mire and muck:?"A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:?For by two of the clock must I needs away."?"That may hardly be," the clerk did say,
"For indeed--the clocks have struck."
VOICES OF THE NIGHT.
"The tender Grace of a day that is past."
The dew is on the roses,
The owl hath spread her wing;?And vocal are the noses
Of peasant and of king:?"Nature" (in short) "reposes;"
But I do no such thing.
Pent in my lonesome study
Here I must sit and muse;?Sit till the morn grows ruddy,
Till, rising with the dews,?"Jeameses" remove the muddy
Spots from their masters' shoes.
Yet are sweet faces flinging
Their witchery o'er me here:?I hear sweet voices singing
A song as soft, as clear,?As (previously to stinging)
A gnat sings round one's ear.
Does Grace draw young Apollos
In blue mustachios still??Does Emma tell the swallows
How she will pipe and trill,?When, some fine day, she follows
Those birds to the window-sill?
And oh! has Albert faded
From Grace's memory yet??Albert, whose "brow was shaded
By locks of glossiest jet,"?Whom almost any lady'd
Have given her eyes to get?
Does not her conscience smite her
For one who hourly pines,?Thinking her bright eyes brighter
Than any star that shines -?I mean of course the writer
Of these pathetic lines?
Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter,
"Time rolls his ceaseless course:?"The Grace of yore" may alter -
And then, I've one resource:?I'll invest in