And when the god to whom we pay
In jest our homages to-day
Shall come to claim, no more in jest,
His rightful empire o'er thy breast,
Benignant may his aspect be,
His yoke the truest liberty:
And if a tear his power confess,
Be it a tear of happiness.
It shall be so. The Muse displays
The future to her votary's gaze;
Prophetic rage my bosom swells-
I taste the cake-I hear the bells!
From Conduit Street the close array
Of chariots barricades the way
To where I see, with outstretch'd hand,
Majestic, thy great kinsman stand,
And half unbend his brow of pride,
As welcoming so fair a bride.
Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow,
Brighten St. George's portico :
Within I see the chancel's pale,
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil,
The page on which those fingers white,
Still trembling from the awful rite,
For the last time shall faintly trace
The name of Stanhope's noble race.
I see kind faces round thee pressing,
I hear kind voices whisper blessing;
And with those voices mingles mine-
All good attend my Valentine!
Thomas, Lord Macaulay.
The scene is a pic-nic, and Mr. Joseph de Clapham ventures to think that his fiancée, the lovely Belgravinia, is a little too fast.
Now, don't look so glum and so sanctified, please,
For folks comme il faut, Sir, are always at ease;
How dare you suggest that my talk is too free?
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
Must I shut up my eyes when I ride in the Park?
Or, pray, would you like me to ride after dark?
If not, Mr. Prim, I shall say what I see,
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
What harm am I speaking, you stupid Old Nurse?
I'm sure papa's newspaper tells us much worse,
He's a clergyman, too, are you stricter than he?
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
I knew who it was, and I said so, that's all;
I said who went round to her box from his stall;
Pray, what is your next prohibition to be?
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
My grandmother would not "--O, would not, indeed? Just read Horace Walpole-Yes, Sir, I do read.
Besides, what's my grandmother's buckram to me?
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
"I said it before that old roué, Lord Gadde;
That's a story, he'd gone: and what harm if I had?
He has known me for years-from a baby of three.
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
You go to your Club (and this makes me so wild),
There you smoke, and you slander man, woman, and child;
But I'm not to know there's such people as she-
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
It's all my own fault; the Academy, Sir,
You whispered to Philip, "No, no, it's not her,
Sir Edwin would hardly-" I heard, mon ami;
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
Well, there, I'm quite sorry; now, stop looking haughty, Or must I kneel down on my knees, and say, "Naughty"? There! get me a peach, and I wish you'd agree
Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.
WHEN youthful faith hath fled,
Of loving take thy leave;
Be constant to the dead-
The dead cannot deceive.
Sweet modest flowers of spring,
How fleet your balmy day!
And man's brief year can bring
No secondary May.
No earthly burst again
Of gladness not of gloom
Fond hope and vision vain,
Ungrateful to the tomb.
But 'tis an old belief
That on some solemn shore,
Beyond the sphere of grief,
Dear friends shall meet once more.
Beyond the sphere of time,
And Sin and Fate's control,
Serene in endless prime
Of body and of soul.
That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forego,
Eternal be the sleep,
Unless to waken so.
BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more, that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn:
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds or violet beds.
Still, to reveal her artful wiles,
She stole the Graces' silken smiles:
She stole Aurora's balmy breath,
And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth:
The cherry, dipt in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.
These were her infant spoils, a store
To which, in time, she added more;
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity, and stole
From Pallas sense to charm the soul.
Apollo's wit was next her prey,
Her next the beam that lights the day;
She sung; amazed the Syrens heard;
And to assert their voice appear'd:
She play'd; the Muses from the hill
Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill.
Great Jove approved her crimes and art;
And t'other day she stole my heart.
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy vengeance on this fair;
To trial bring her stolen charms,
And let her prison be my arms.
Charles Wyndham, Earl of Egremont.
A Husband to a Wife.
THOU Wert too good to live on earth with me,
And I not good enough to die with thee.
No truer friend than woman man discovers,
So that they have not been, nor can be lovers.
TILL death I Sylvia must adore;
No time my freedom can restore;
Her cruel rigour makes me smart,
Yet when I try to free my heart,
Straight all my senses take her part.
And when against the cruel maid
I call my reason to my aid;
By that, alas! I plainly see
That nothing lovely is but she;
And reason captivates me more
Than all my senses did before.
TREASON doth never prosper-What's the reason?
If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason.
NONE, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair,
But love can hope when reason would despair.
To MADAME DE DAMAS LEARNING ENGLISH
THOUGH British accents your attention fire,
You cannot learn so fast as we admire.
Scholars like you but slowly can improve,
For who would teach you but the verb "I love."
Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford.
As lamps burn silent with unconscious light,
So modest ease in beauty shines most bright,
Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall,
And she who means no mischief does it all.
Aaron Hill.
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