And have you not lingered, lingered still,
All unfettered in thought and will,
A fair and cherished boy;
Until you felt it pain to part
From the wild creations of your art,
Until your young and innocent heart
Seemed bursting with its joy?
And then, oh then, hath your waking eye
Opened in all its ecstacy,
And seen your mother leaning o'er you.
The loved and loving one that bore you,
Giving her own, her fond caress,
And looking her eloquent tenderness?
Was it not heaven to fly from the scene
Where the heart in the vision of night had been,
And drink, in one o'erflowing kiss,
Your deep reality of bliss?
Such was LILLIAN's passionate madness,
Such the calm of her waking gladness.
Enough! my tale is all too long:
Fair children, if the trifling song,
That flows for you to-night,
Hath stolen from you one gay laugh,
Or given your quiet hearts to quaff
One cup of young delight,
Pay ye the rhymer for his toils
In the coinage of your golden smiles,
And treasure up his idle verse,
With the stories ye loved from the lips of your nurse.
"A most delicate monster!"-Shakspeare.
King Arthur, as the Legends sing,
Was a right brave and merry King,
And had a wondrous reputation
Through this right brave and merry nation.
His ancient face, and ancient clothes,
His Tables Round, and rounder Oaths,
His crown and cup, his feasts and fights,
His pretty Queen, and valiant Knights,
Would make me up the raciest scene
That is, or will be, or has been.
These points, and others not a few,
Of great importance to the view,-
As, how King Arthur valued Woman,
And, how King Arthur threshed the Roman,
And, how King Arthur built a Hall,
And, how King Arthur play'd at ball
I'll have the prudence to omit,
Since Brevity's the soul of Wit.
Oh! Arthur's days were blessed days,
When all was wit, and worth, and praise;
And planting thrusts, and planting oaks,
And cracking nuts, and cracking jokes,
And turning out the toes, and tiltings,
And jousts, and journeyings, and jiltings;
Lord! what a stern and stunning rout,
As tall Adventure strode about,
Rang through the land! for there were duels
For love of Dames, and love of Jewels;
And steeds, that carried Knight and Prince
As never steeds have carried since,
And heavy Lords and heavy lances;
And strange, unfashionable dances;
And endless bustle and turmoil,
In vain disputes for fame or spoil.
Manners, and roads, were very rough,
Armour, and beeves, were very tough;
And then, the brightest figures far
In din or dinner, peace or war,—
Dwarfs sang to Ladies in their teens,
And Giants grew as thick as beans!
One of these worthies, in my verse,
I mean, Oh! Clio, to rehearse:
He was much talk'd of in his time,
And sung of, too, in monkish rhyme;
So, lest my pen should chance to err,
I'll quote his ancient chronicler.
Thus Friar Joseph paints my hero:
Addictus cædibus et mero,
Impabidus, luxuriosus.
Preces, jejuniaque perosus,
Metum ubique bultu jactans,
Bobes ubique manu mactans,
Tauros pro cœna borans, post hos
Libenter edens pueros tostos,
Anglorum, et (ni fallit error)
Ipsins Regis sæpe terror,
Equorum equitumque captor,
Incola rupis, ingens raptor,
Episcopalium honorum,-
Damnatus hostis monachorum!
Such was his eulogy! The fact is,
He had a most outrageous practice
Of running riot, bullying, beating,
Behaving rudely, killing, eating;
He wore a black beard, like a Jew's,
And stood twelve feet without his shoes
He used to sleep through half the day,
And then went out to kill and slay;
At night he drank a deal of grog,
And slept again ;—his name was GOG.
He was the son of Gorboduc, And was a boy of monstrous pluck;
For once, when, in a morning early,
He happened to be bruising barley,
A Knight came by with sword and spear
And halted in his mid career:
The youngster look'd so short and pliant,
He never dreamed he was a giant,
And so he pulled up with a jerk,
And called young bruiser from his work:-
"Friend, can you lead me by the rein
To Master Gordobuc's domain?
I mean to stop the country's fears,
And knock his house about his ears!"
The urchin chuckled at the joke,
And grinned acutely as he spoke :
"Sir Knight, I'll do it if I can,
Just get behind me in my pan,
I'm off,-I stop but once to bait,
I'll set you down before the gate."
Sir Lolly swallowed all the twang,
He leaped into the mortar-bang!
And when he saw him in the vessel,-
Gog beat his brains out with the pestle.
This was esteemed a clever hit,
And showed the stripling had a wit;
Therefore his father spared no arts
To cultivate such brilliant parts.
No giant ever went before
Beyond his "two and two made four,"
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