BLESSINGS, TEARS and a CHUCKLE or TWO: (BALLADS of a WAND’RING MINSTREL)

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That this dreary period had not passed without paroxysms of remorse may be inferred from a fact of affecting interest. The late Admiral Burney was a scholar at the school at Lynn in Norfolk when Aram was an usher, subsequent to his crime. The Admiral stated that Aram was beloved by the boys, and that he used to discourse to them of murder, not occasionally, as I have written elsewhere, but constantly, and in somewhat of the spirit ascribed to him in the poem.

A lifeless body, in love and relationship the nearest and dearest, was imposed upon my back, with an overwhelming sense of obligation — not of filial piety merely, but some awful responsibility, equally vague and intense, and involving, as it seemed, inexpiable sin, horrors unutterable, torments intolerable — to bury my dead, like Abraham, out of my sight. In vain I attempted, again and again, to obey the mysterious mandate — by some dreadful process the burthen was replaced with a more stupendous weight of injunction, and an apalling conviction of the impossibility of its fulfilment.

My mental anguish was indescribable; — the mighty agonies of souls tortured on the supernatural racks of sleep are not to be penned — and if in sketching those that belong to blood-guiltiness I have been at all successful, I owe it mainly to the uninvoked inspiration of that terrible dream. The circumstance that the book over which the gentle boy was poring when questioned by the usher was called the Death of Abel , is by no means forced or unnatural.

This magazine was a venture of Edward Moxon, the publisher, but had a career of only seven months. The date of their composition remains unfixed. If the printed works of my Censor had not prepared me for any misapplication of types , I should have been surprised by this misapprehension of one of the commonest emblems. In some cases the dove unquestionably stands for the Divine Spirit; but the same bird is also a lay representative of the peace of this world, and, as such, has figured time out of mind in allegorical pictures. The sense in which it was used by me is plain from the context; at least, it would be plain to any one but a fisher for faults, predisposed to carp at some things, to dab at others, and to flounder in all.

But I am possibly in error. It is the female swine, perhaps, that is profaned in the eyes of the Oriental tourist. Men find strange ways of marking their intolerance; and the spirit is certainly strong enough, in Mr. It would only be going the whole sow. Written to accompany an engraving from a painting by Thomas Creswick, bearing the same title. They appeared in his Magazine in February , and were thus probably composed during the previous month. Hood died on the third of May. Graham was one of a group of distinguished aeronauts which included Monck Mason, Hollond, Green, and others.

Graham had made a memorable ascent in his Balloon in He died in But we must all go and be Bankers — like Mr. He was an M. When Hood reprinted them, under his own name, in the first series of Whims and Oddities , he prefaced them with the following words: The lamented Emery, dressed as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal benefit at Covent Garden; and ever since it has been a great favorite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as the wherrymen of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. The Guards — not the mail coach, but the Lifeguards — picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others, all going to one air, against the dead wall at Knightsbridge.

Cheap printers of Shoe Lane and Cow Cross all pirates! Such is the lot of Literature! It is ablaze with wit and real imagination. Striding in the Steps of Strutt — The historian of the old English ports — the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay.

The Easter phase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon. In proof of this melancholy decadance, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Kells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing: In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so muches this year that there was nobody allmost.

We did smear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline. It was while Hood was living at Winchmore Hill that he had the opportunity of noting the chief features of this once famous Civic Revel — the Easter Monday Hunt — even then in its decadence. Horace Smith, of the Rejected Addresses. Scott died in September, , in the interval between the writing and the publishing of the verses, for which Hood makes regretful apology in the Preface to the Comic Annual for , in which they appeared.

And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. After three defeats, the Bill was actually carried in , but was afterwards allowed to drop.

The judge indicated was Mr. Cotton was Chaplain of Newgate. They might well be printed and circulated still in the service of the great cause of Early Closing. This web edition published by eBooks Adelaide. Last updated Wednesday, December 17, at Had he a sister, Had he a brother? Are there not some, though weak and low, To play a lullaby to woe? How pleasures pass, And leave thee now no subject, save The peace and bliss beyond the grave!

Then be thy flight among the skies: The Departure of Summer. No more the lark — the linnet — sings, But Silence sits in faded bowers. Shuddering Autumn stops to list, And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, With clouded face, and hazel eyes That quench themselves, and hide in mist. Old Time hath laid them in the mould; Sure he is blind as well as old, Whose hand relentless never spares Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs!

All the light of love is fled: But who without regretful sigh Can say, adieu, and see thee fly? Spring at thy approach will sprout Her new Corinthian beauties out, Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds; Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, And April smiles to sunny hours, Bright days shall be, and gentle nights Full of soft breath and echo-lights, As if the god of sun-time kept His eyes half-open while he slept.

Roses shall be where roses were, Not shadows, but reality; As if they never perished there, But slept in immortality: But say, hath Winter then no charms? Is there no joy, no gladness warms His aged heart? What heeds he then the boisterous shout Of angry winds that scowl without, Like shrewish wives at tavern door? What heeds he then the wild uproar Of billows bursting on the shore? In dashing waves, in howling breeze, There is a music that can charm him; When safe, and sheltered, and at ease, He hears the storm that cannot harm him.

And Love, young Love, among the rest, A welcome — nor unbidden guest. But still for Summer dost thou grieve? Then read our Poets — they shall weave A garden of green fancies still, Where thy wish may rove at will. They have kept for after-treats The essences of summer sweets, And echoes of its songs that wind In endless music through the mind: Then waken to the sun again, And find thy Summer Vision true! The Sea of Death. Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death, Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings On crowded carcases — sad passive things That wore the thin gray surface, like a veil Over the calmness of their features pale.

And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep Like water-lilies on that motionless deep, How beautiful! And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, Meekly apart, as if the soul intense Spake out in dreams of its own innocence: For now we sever each from each, I learned what I have lost in thee; Alas, that nothing else could teach How great indeed my love should be! From an Unrolled Manuscript of Apollonius Curius. For I loved them in terror, and constantly dreaded That the earth where I trod, and the cave where I bedded, The face I might dote on, should live out the lease Of the charm that created, and suddenly cease: Then rose a wild sound of the human voice choking Through vile brutal organs — low tremulous croaking: And when in my musings I gazed on the stream, In motionless trances of thought, there would seem A face like that face, looking upward through mine: With his eyes full of love, and the dim-drownd shine Of limbs and fair garments, like clouds in that blue Serene: Then they ceased — I had heard as the voice of my star That told me the truth of my fortunes — thus far I had read of my sorrow, and lay in the hush Of deep meditation — when lo!

In what stream do her eyes Shed invisible tears? Who listens her grief Like a far fall of waters, or hears where her feet Grow emphatic among the loose pebbles, and beat Them together? So she fled with her voice, and I patiently nested My limbs in the reeds, in still quiet, and rested Till my thoughts grew extinct, and I sank in a sleep Of dreams — but their meaning was hidden too deep To be read what their woe was; — but still it was woe That was writ on all faces that swam to and fro In that river of night; — and the gaze of their eyes Was sad — and the bend of their brows — and their cries Were seen, but I heard not.

Then I said, in the fear of my dream, I will fly From this magic, but could not, because that my eye Grew love-idle among the rich blooms; and the earth Held me down with its coolness of touch, and the mirth Of some bird was above me — who, even in fear, Would startle the thrush? O mother of spite! Speak the last of that curse! And oft to assuage a sad yearning of eyes I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten!

Oh, how Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now Like Gods to my humbled estate? The Two Peacocks of Bedfont. That breathing Vanity should go Where Pride is buried — like its very ghost, Uprisen from the naked bones below, In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro, Shedding its chilling superstition most On young and ignorant natures — as it wont To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont! Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame Of this ungodly shine of human pride, And sadly blends his reverence and blame In one grave bow, and passes with a stride Impatient: She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade, While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass, Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress Her boy — so rosy!

And she, the lonely widow,. And she, the lonely widow, Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near The fair white temple, to the timely call Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear. And she, the lonely widow, Ah me! And she, the lonely widow, But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, Shocking the awful presence of the dead; Where gracious natures would their eyes benight, Nor wear their being with a lip too red, Nor move too rudely in the summer bright Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, Meting it into steps, with inward breath, In very pity to bereaved death.

Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun, The visible ruler of the starry quire, Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run, Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire; And the faint soul down-darkens into night, And dies a burning martyrdom to light. And she, the lonely widow, The lowly grass!

And she, the lonely widow, And lo! To feast on feathers, and on vain array. Age, with sapient nod Marking the spot, still tarries to declare How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. Hymn to the Sun. Giver of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays! God of the Delphic fame, No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; But they will leave On winds at eve, A solemn echo to the end of time. His dusky wings, whence the cold waters sweep!

How peacefully the living millions lie! To a Sleeping Child. As if its silent dream, serene and deep, Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie With no more life than roses — just to keep The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove, If not more lovely thou art more like Love! O Saw ye not fair Ines? She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast. Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, — If it had been no more! To a False Friend. Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain: I only know I loved you once, I only know I loved in vain; Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again!

Then farewell to heart and hand! I would our hands had never met: I would our hands had never met! I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer? Where are the merry birds? Where are the blooms of Summer? That never spoke, over the idle ground: To a Cold Beauty. Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winters cold and cruel part? When the little buds unclose. Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how I wake and passionate watches keep; And yet while I address thee now, Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! Verses in an Album. So when I behold me In an orb as bright, How thy soul doth fold me In its throne of light!

Sorrow never paineth, Nor a care attaineth To that blessed height. The dead are in their silent graves, And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead, But now the living cause my pain: How couldst thou steal me from my tears, To leave me to my tears again? Last night unbound my raven locks, The morning saw them turned to gray, Once they were black and well beloved, But thou art changed — and so are they!

Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light; The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night. O Lady, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestrie: While Morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers; Then, lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers!

I love thee — I love thee! Is all that I can say. Is ever on my tongue; In all my proudest poesy That chorus still is sung; It is the verdict of my eyes, Amidst the gay and young: A thousand maids among. Thy bright hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips, Whose tender tones entrance; But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs That still these words enhance, I love thee — I love thee! Whatever be thy chance. Dearest, let us reckon so, And love for all that long ago; Each absence count a year complete, And keep a birthday when we meet.

False Poets and True. Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! His voice is heard, but body there is none To fix the vague excursions of the eye. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, Will seek the fruitful perils of the place, To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark That bear that serpent image on their face.

And Love, brave Love! No little speck — no sail — no helper nigh, No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat: And bright and silvery the willows sleep Over the shady verge — no mad winds tease Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep Their sprinkling leaves — half fountains and half trees: Their lilies be — and fairer than all these, A solitary Swan her breast of snow Launches against the wave that seems to freeze Into a chaste reflection, still below Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go.

And now she clasps her wings around her heart, And near that lonely isle begins to glide, Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start Turns her impatient head from side to side In universal terrors — all too wide To watch; and often to that marble keep Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.

And well she may, to spy that fearful thing All down the dusky walls in circlets wound; Alas! And while he listens, the mysterious song, Woven with timid particles of speech. Twines into passionate words that grieve along The melancholy notes, and softly teach The secrets of true love — that trembling reach His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun He missions like replies, and each to each Their silver voices mingle into one, Like blended streams that make one music as they run. But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace The marble walls about — which he must tread Before his anxious foot may touch the base: Long in the dreary path, and must be sped!

But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, Braces his spirit, and with constant toil He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread, Impatient plunges from the last long coil; So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil! His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, Hiss horrible pursuit — his red eyes glare The waters into blood — his eager breath Grows hot upon their plumes: She drops her ring into the waves, and there It widens all around, a fairy ring Wrought of the silver light — the fearful pair Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.

Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers The Oriental sun began to rise, Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies; Wherewith that sable Serpent far away Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs From waking blossoms purified the day, And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy. That classic house, those classic grounds My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine, Within yon irksome walls?

I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row! Its chimneys in the rear! The weary tasks I used to con! How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads! Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who models tiny heads in chalk? Who scoops the light canoe? What early genius buds apace? While thou canst be a horse at school, To wish to be a man! And sleep on regal down!

And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son? Thy taws are brave! Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground! Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see! I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses black, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread. I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring. And still I staid a little more, Alas! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain. I Remember, I Remember.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn Linger for harvesting?

Before the leaf Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, But he will sip it first — before the lees. Ode to the Moon. How many antique fancies have I read Of that mild presence! Wondrous and bright, Upon the silver light, Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought! What art thou like? That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? Why should I grieve for this? So let it be: Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond, And blend their plighted shadows into one: Written in a Volume of Shakspeare.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! Oh, when I was a tiny boy, My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. My kite — how fast and far it flew! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky! The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake, It makes me shrink and sigh: No skies so blue or so serene As then; — no leaves look half so green As clothed the playground tree!

All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me! Oh for the riband round the neck! The careless dogs-ears apt to deck My book and collar both! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child, A boy of larger growth? Oh for that small, small beer anew! Oh for the lessons learned by heart! The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The omne bene — Christmas come! But now I write for days and days, For fame — a deal of empty praise, Without the silver pen!

When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind! What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last.

Time, Hope, and Memory. I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: Aye, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill: The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies. And for my sylvan company, in lieu Of Pampinea with her lively peers, Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew, All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears, For she was gracious to my childish years, And made me free of her enchanted round; Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, And plants her court upon a verdant mound, Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound.

Go some one forth, and with a trump convene My lieges all! Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, Who bears all fairy embassies afar. I trow his look was dreadful, for it made The trembling birds betake them to the sky, For every leaf was lifted by his sigh. Thence knew I this was either dreary Death Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke. Then what a fear seized all the little rout!

Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat, Bidding him spare, for love, her lieges dear: Think but what vaunting monuments there be Builded in spite and mockery of thee. Make tombs inscriptionless — raze each high name, And waste old armors of renown with rust: Do all of this, and thy revenge is just: We rouse at morn The shrill sweet lark; and when the day is done, Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn, That singeth with her breast against a thorn. Then Saturn fiercely thus: Then Saturn, with a frown: Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks Moved not the spiteful Shade: No wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell, Nor pearly Naiads.

All their days are done That strove with Time, untimely, to excel; Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none But my great shadow intercepts the sun!

The Home Book of Verse — Volume 3 by Burton Egbert Stevenson

Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit, All hopeless maids and lovers — nor omit Magical succors unto hearts forlorn: Herewith the Fairy ceased. But I had clothed My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued, Where only foxes and wild cats intrude, Till we were come beside an ancient tree Late blasted by a storm. Partakers of the green and pleasant earth: But any graver purpose to fulfil, We have not wit enough, and scarce the will.

But dost thou relish it? Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape, And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape. Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch. He drops his fatal scythe without a blow! His be perpetual glory, for the shame Of hoary Saturn in that grand defeat! I pray thee blind him with his own vile sand, Which only times all ruins by its drift, Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. I am, my dear friend, yours most truly, T. For that some precious favor thou hast shown To my endeavor in a bygone time, And by this token I would have it known Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme!

It is my dear ambition now to climb Still higher in thy thought — if my bold pen May thrust on contemplations more sublime. Oh Bards of old! Was it that spectacles of sadder plights Should make our blisses relish the more high? But parting renders time both sad and brief. For what rich merchant but will pause in fear, To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss?

So Hero dotes upon her treasure here, And sums the loss with many an anxious kiss, Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head, Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread. O for a type of parting! Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound? And for the agony and bosom-throe, Let it be measured by the wide vast air, For that is infinite, and so is woe, Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere. Then sadly he confronts his twofold toil Against rude waves and an unwilling mind, Wishing, alas!

Love prays devoutly when it prays for love! And soon is gone — or nothing but a faint And failing image in the eye of thought, That mocks his model with an after-paint, And stains an atom like the shape she sought; Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee The old and hoary majesty of sea. O rather smooth thy deeps, that he may fly Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky! The very rumor strikes his seeing dead: Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense: He knows not if her lips be blue or red, Nor of her eyes can give true evidence: Anon resuming, it declares her eyes Are tint with azure, like two crystal wells That drink the blue complexion of the skies, Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells: And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping, Over the verdant plain that makes his bed; And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping.

Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead; The light in vain keeps looking for his face: Yet weep and watch for him, though all in vain! Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander! Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again! Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander! Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape, Sea-storm and ruin in a female shape! She read his mortal stillness for content, Feeling no fear where only love was meant. But O sad marvel!

O most bitter strange! What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale? Too stern inscription for a page so young, The dark translation of his look was death! But death was written in an alien tongue, And learning was not by to give it breath; So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal, Which Time, untimely, hasteth to reveal. I had such treasures once — now they are thine. I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone I heard the languages of ages gone! Surely he sleeps — so her false wits infer! With that she stoops above his brow, and bids Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair, And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids, That she may gaze upon the jewels there, Like babes that pluck an early bud apart, To know the dainty color of its heart.

Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess, Under the swoon of holy divination: And now she knows how that old Murther preys, Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain: O too dear knowledge! Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete, Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet? Would I had lent my doting sense to thee! But now I turn to thee, a willing mark, Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark! Now love is death — death will be love to me! Or else, thou maid!

There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach Of foamy billows he lies cast. Just then, Some listless fishers, straying down the beach, Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men, Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake, And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache. And here a head, and there a brow half seen, Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands A mariner his crumpled cheeks doth lean Over a rugged crest. Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge, Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam; Some point to white eruptions of the surge: The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, And labors shoreward with a bending wing, Rowing against the wind her toilsome way; Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling Their dewy frost still further on the stones, That answer to the wind with hollow groans.

For that the horrid deep has no sure path To guide Love safe into his homely haven. And so day ended. Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly kept Panting abroad, like unavailing wings, To save her from her death. June it was jolly, Oh for its folly! What can an old man do but die? In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

A king might lay his sceptre down, But I am poor and nought, The brow should wear a golden crown That wears her in its thought. My speech is rude — but speech is weak Such love as mine to tell, Yet had I words, I dare not speak, So, Lady, fare thee well; I will not wish thy better state Was one of low degree, But I must weep that partial fate Made such a churl of me. The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me! We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies! Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow; The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine: Dost love sweet Hyacinth?

And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light! These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee! Come let us sit and watch the sky, And fancy clouds, where no clouds be; Grief is enough to blot the eye, And make heaven black with misery. Why should birds sing such merry notes, Unless they were more blest than we? No sorrow ever chokes their throats, Except sweet nightingale; for she Was born to pain our hearts the more With her sad melody. Why shines the Sun, except that he Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, And pensive shades for Melancholy, When all the earth is bright beside?

Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave, Mirth shall not win us back again, Whilst man is made of his own grave, And fairest clouds but gilded rain! Why do buds ope except to die? Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought; An age past is but a thought! How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet! Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; And sometimes at their swift decay Beforehand we must fret.

The roses bud and bloom, again; But Love may haunt the grave of Love, And watch the mould in vain. O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, And do not take my tears amiss; For tears must flow to wash away A thought that shows so stern as this: On Receiving a Gift. Look how the golden ocean shines above Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth; So does the bright and blessed light of Love Its own things glorify, and raise their worth.

Thus, sweet, thy gracious gifts are gifts of price, And more than gold to doting Avarice. The Dream of Eugene Aram. There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. Of is it some historic page, Or kings and crowns unstable? And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;. For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain!

Methought, last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream! Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold! There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone! There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill! I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in Evening Hymn: But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed; And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red!

For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare! Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. With gyves upon his wrist. For the 14TH Of February. No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day, When every loyal lover tasks his wit His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay, And to his mistress dear his hopes convey.

Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours. The touch of tears Gushed down my cheeks: All these were dear To heart and eye — but an invisible fear Shook in the trees and chilled upon the air, And if one spot was laughing brightest — there My soul most sank and darkened in despair! To a Child Embracing His Mother. Love thy mother, little one! Gaze upon her living eyes! Press her lips the while they glow!

Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-gray; Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Pray for her at eve and morn! Still glides the gentle streamlet on, With shifting current new and strange; The water that was here is gone, But those green shadows do not change. Serene, or ruffled by the storm, On present waves as on the past, The mirrored grave retains its form, The self-same trees their semblance cast.

The hue each fleeting globule wears, That drop bequeaths it to the next, One picture still the surface bears, To illustrate the murmured text. So, love, however time may flow, Fresh hours pursuing those that flee One constant image still shall show My tide of life is true to thee! Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore Full break, last link between my land and me?

To —— Composed at Rotterdam. Those sailors, how outlandish The face and form of each! And has the earth lost its so spacious round, The sky its blue circumference above, That in this little chamber there is found Both earth and heaven — my universe of love! All that my God can give me, or remove, Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death.

Sweet that in this small compass I behove To live their living and to breathe their breath! Almost I wish that, with one common sigh, We might resign all mundane care and strife, And seek together that transcendent sky, Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife, Together pant in everlasting life! Is there a bitter pang for love removed, O God! That love might die with sorrow: In being wrung from a great happiness.

Would I had never filled thine eyes with love, For love is only tears: Would I were laid Under the shade Of the cold tomb, and the long grass forever! Ode to Rae Wilson, Esq. I guess the features: I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it. Mere verbiage — it is not worth a carrot!

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. I do confess that I abhor and shrink From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Now loud as welcomes! In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts.

But being so particular religious, Why, that , you see, put master on his guard! Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my works! Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, Resemble copper wire, or brass, Which gets the narrower by going farther!

Worthless are all such Pilgrimages — very! A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak! With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo.

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind? Shun pride, O Rae! To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill! That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints.

How strange it is while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The Saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor! But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus: So mayst thou live, dear!

When first thy infant littleness I folded in my fond caress, The greatest proof of happiness Was this — I wept. Miss Kilmansegg and Her Precious Leg. To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous: He gave, without any extra thrift, A flock of sheep for a birthday gift To each son of his loins, or daughter: And his debts — if debts he had — at will He liquidated by giving each bill A dip in Pactolian water. The high-bred horses within his stud, Like human creatures of birth and blood, Had their Golden Cups and flagons: He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend, Gold to give, and gold to lend, And reversions of gold in futuro.

While beef, and mutton, and other meat, Were almost as dear as money to eat, And farmers reaped Golden Harvests of wheat At the Lord knows what per quarter! What different dooms our birthdays bring! For instance, one little manikin thing Survives to wear many a wrinkle; While Death forbids another to wake, And a son that it took nine moons to make Expires without even a twinkle! What different lots our stars accord! Not so with the infant Kilmansegg! Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs! Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs, That her parents had such full pockets!

And how was the precious baby drest? As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice? Or any such nauseous blazon? Not to mention many a vulgar name, That would make a door-plate blush for shame, If door-plates were not so brazen! Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg, For days and days it was quite a plague, To hunt the list in the Lexicon: And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring, Ere names were found just the proper thing For a minor rich as a Mexican.

Then cards were sent, the presence to beg Of all the kin of Kilmansegg, White, yellow, and brown relations: And his cheeks instead of a healthy hue, As yellow as any guinea grew, Making the common phrase seem true, About a rich complexion. The same auriferous shine behold Wherever the eye could settle! Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form, And gave her another, not overwarm, That made her little eyes twinkle.

Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs! The golden mugs and the golden jugs That lent fresh rays to the midges! There was nothing but guineas glistening! The Clerk had ten, And that was the end of the Christening. When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth, And the poor are rich in spirits and health, And all with their lots contented! Bon-bons she ate from the gilt cornet ; And gilded queens on St.

Dame Education begins the pile, Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style, But alas for the elevation! They praised — poor children with nothing at all! What sad little bad little figures you make To the rich Miss K. They praised her falls, as well as her walk, Flatterers make cream cheese of chalk, They praised — how they praised — her very small talk, As if it fell from the Solon; Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop, Or an emerald semi-colon.

Novels she read to amuse her mind, But always the affluent match-making kind That ends with Promessi Sposi, And a father-in-law so wealthy and grand, He could give cheque-mate to Coutts in the Strand; So, along with a ring and posy, He endows the Bride with Golconda off hand, And gives the Groom Potosi. He snorted with pride and pleasure! A load of treasure?

But the Groom has lost his glittering hat! But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust, Oh, for a fall, if she must, On the gentle lap of Flora! But still, thank Heaven! She has circled the Ring! The fields seem running away with the folks! The Elms are having a race for the Oaks At a pace that all Jockeys disparages! All, all is racing! A cruel chase, she is chasing Death, As female shriekings forewarn her: The iron rails seem all mingling in one, To shut out the Green Park scenery!

Throw and scatter her! Roll on her over and over! Dover Street, Bond Street, all are past! But — yes — no — yes! The Furies and Fates have found them! But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg, When the femoral bone of her dexter log Has met with a compound fracture? Even thus with Miss K. While the buds of character came into blow With a certain tinge that served to show The nursery culture long ago, As the graft is known by fruition!

Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood, And she swore an oath, or something as good, The proxy limb should be golden! She could — she would have a Golden Leg, If it cost ten thousand guineas! Wood indeed, in Forest or Park, With its sylvan honors and feudal bark, Is an aristocratic article: Wood cut down Is vulgar — fibre and particle! A Leg of Gold — solid gold throughout, Nothing else, whether slim or stout, Should ever support her, God willing!

All other promised gifts were in vain. Oh, let it be gold! Till her parents resolved to grant her wish, If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish, The case was getting so serious. And to make it more costly, just over the knee, Where another ligature used to be, Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see, A new-fangled Badge of the Garter! Had it been a Pillar of Church and State, Or a prop to support the whole Dead Weight, It could not have furnished more debate To the heads and tails of the nation!

It Burked the very essays of Burke, And, alas! Never had Leg so great a run! The mode — the new thing under the sun, The rage — the fancy — the passion! Bonnets were named, and hats were worn, A la Golden Leg instead of Leghorn, And stockings and shoes, Of golden hues, Took the lead in the walks of fashion! Talk of Art, of Science, or Books, And down go the everlasting looks, To his rural beauties so wedded!

Try him, wherever you will, you find His mind in his legs, and his legs in his mind, All prongs and folly — in short a kind Of fork — that is Fiddle-headed. On with the cap and out with the light, Weariness bids the world good night, At least for the usual season; But hark! Up jumps Fear in a terrible fright! In they go — in jackets and cloaks, Plumes and bonnets, turbans and toques, As if to a Congress of Nations: Her golden stomacher — how she would melt!

Her golden quiver, and golden belt, Where a golden bugle dangles! Oh Sin, oh Shame! Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame, That bring such blots on female fame! But what have sin or shame to do With a Golden Leg — and a stout one too? That the precious metal, by thick and thin, Will cover square acres of land or sin, Is a fact made plain Again and again, In Morals as well as Mechanics. What golden wishes and hopes inspired!

What a leg for a Leg to take on the turf! What a leg for a marching regiment! She told how the filial leg was lost; And then how much the gold one cost; With its weight to a Trojan fraction: Nor yet did the Heiress herself omit The arts that help to make a hit, And preserve a prominent station. She even stood up with a Count of France To dance — alas! But hark; — as slow as the strokes of a pump, Lump, thump! The Lord Chancellor has no power over you. Remember you are half a fairy. You can defy him--down to the waist. Yes, but from the waist downwards he can commit me to prison for years!

Of what avail is it that my body is free, if my legs are working out seven years' penal servitude?

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But take heart--our Queen has promised you her special protection. I'll go to her and lay your peculiar case before her. As it commences, the Peers appear at the back, advancing unseen and on tiptoe. Lord Mountararat and Lord Tolloller lead Phyllis between them, who listens in horror to what she hears. We think we heard him say, etc. We heard the minx remark, etc. The prospect's very bad. Iolanthe and Strephon much confused.

Oh, shameless one, tremble! This lady's his what? This lady's my mother! He says she's his mother! They point derisively to Iolanthe, laughing heartily at her. She goes for protection to Strephon. Iolanthe, who has succeeded in hiding her face from Lord Chancellor, escapes unnoticed. Go, traitorous one--for ever we must part: To one of you, my Lords, I give my heart! Hear me, Phyllis, ere you leave me. Not a word--you did deceive me. Not a word--you did deceive her.

To you I give my heart so rich! I do not care! To you I yield--it is my doom!

I'm yours for life if you but choose. I'll be a countess, shall I not? Can I inactive see my fortune fade? Taradiddle, taradiddle, tol lol lay! Ah, cruel ones, to separate two lovers from each other! You've done him an injustice, for the lady is his mother! That fable perhaps may serve his turn as well as any other. Though she is seventeen, and he is four or five-and-twenty!

To say she is his mother is an utter bit of folly! Perhaps his brain is addled, and it's very melancholy! Bearded by these puny mortals! Surely these must be immortals. Into Parliament he shall go! QUEEN speaking through music. Young Strephon is the kind of lout With Strephon for your foe, no doubt , We do not care a fig about! To offer him offence. A very painful wrench. Your powers we dauntlessly pooh-pooh: Although our threats you now pooh-pooh, A dire revenge will fall on you. The word "prestige" is French. That word is French. We will not wait: Fairies threaten Peers with their wands.

Peers kneel as begging for merry. Phyllis implores Strephon to relent. He casts her from him, and she falls fainting into the arms of Lord Mountararat and Lord Tolloller. Clock tower up, R. Private Willis discovered on sentry, R. I often think it's comical--Fal, lal, la! How Nature always does contrive--Fal, lal, la! When in that House M. Then let's rejoice with loud Fal la--Fal la la! That Nature always does contrive--Fal lal la! Strephon's a Member of Parliament!

Carries every Bill he chooses. Strephon makes them shake in their shoes! Shake in their shoes! Running a-muck of all abuses. Here's a pretty kettle of fish! I should think so! Why, this ridiculous protege of yours is playing the deuce with everything! To-night is the second reading of his Bill to throw the Peerage open to Competitive Examination!

And he'll carry it, too! Of course he will! He's a Parliamentary Pickford--he carries everything! If you please, that's our fault! The deuce it is! Yes; we influence the members, and compel them to vote just as he wishes them to. It shortens the debates. Well, but think what it all means.

I don't so much mind for myself , but with a House of Peers with no grandfathers worth mentioning, the country must go to the dogs! I suppose it must! I don't want to say a word against brains--I've a great respect for brains--I often wish I had some myself--but with a House of Peers composed exclusively of people of intellect, what's to become of the House of Commons? I never thought of that! This comes of women interfering in politics.

It so happens that if there is an institution in Great Britain which is not susceptible of any improvement at all, it is the House of Peers! Charming persons, are they not? For self-contained dignity, combined with airy condescension, give me a British Representative Peer! Then pray stop this protege of yours before it's too late.

Think of the mischief you're doing! But we can't stop him now. Oh, why did you go and defy us, you great geese! It's true we sigh, etc. You very wicked Peers! If that's the case, my dears-- You very wicked Peers! Oh, shame--shame upon you! Is this your fidelity to the laws you are bound to obey?

Know ye not that it is death to marry a mortal? Yes, but it's not death to wish to marry a mortal! If it were, you'd have to execute us all! Oh, this is weakness! We know it's weakness, but the weakness is so strong! We are not all as tough as you are! Do you suppose that I am insensible to the effect of manly beauty? Look at that man! Who are you, sir? You're a very fine fellow, sir. I am generally admired.

I can quite understand it. Now here is a man whose physical attributes are simply godlike. That man has a most extraordinary effect upon me. If I yielded to a natural impulse, I should fall down and worship that man. But I mortify this inclination; I wrestle with it, and it lies beneath my feet! That is how I treat my regard for that man! Type of Ovidius Naso! Type of true love kept under! Exeunt Fairies and Fairy Queen, sorrowfully. I can't think why I'm not in better spirits. I'm engaged to two noblemen at once.

That ought to be enough to make any girl happy. Don't suppose it's because I care for Strephon, for I hate him! No girl could care for a man who goes about with a mother considerably younger than himself! Enter Lord Mountararat and Lord Tolloller. Oh, but perhaps you're the two noblemen I'm engaged to? I am one of them. I am the other. Oh, then, my darling! Well, have you settled which it's to be? It's a difficult position. It would be hardly delicate to toss up.

On the whole we would rather leave it to you. How can it possibly concern me? You are both EarIs, and you are both rich, and you are both plain.

At least I am. Well, well--perhaps you are. There's really nothing to choose between you. If one of you would forgo his title, and distribute his estates among his Irish tenantry, why, then, I should then see a reason for accepting the other. Tolloller, are you prepared to make this sacrifice? Not even to oblige a lady? Then, the only question is, which of us shall give way to the other? Perhaps, on the whole, she would be happier with me.

I may be wrong. I don't know that you are. I really believe she would. But the awkward part of the thing is that if you rob me of the girl of my heart, we must fight, and one of us must die. It's a family tradition that I have sworn to respect. It's a painful position, for I have a very strong regard for you, George. You are very dear to me, George.

We were boys together--at least I was. If I were to survive you, my existence would be hopelessly embittered. Then, my dear Thomas, you must not do it. I say it again and again--if it will have this effect upon you, you must not do it. If one of us is to destroy the other, let it be me! Well, well, be it so.

But it would not do so. I should be very sad at first--oh, who would not be? I like you very much--but not, perhaps, as much as you like me. George, you're a noble fellow, but that tell-tale tear betrays you. No, George; you are very fond of me, and I cannot consent to give you a week's uneasiness on my account. But, dear Thomas, it would not last a week! Remember , you lead the House of Lords! On your demise I shall take your place! Oh, Thomas, it would not last a day! Now, I do hope you're not going to fight about me, because it's really not worth while.

Well, I don't believe it is! The sacred ties of Friendship are paramount. Accept , O Friendship, all the same,. Enter Lord Chancellor, very miserable. Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest: Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers: Lord Chancellor falls exhausted on a seat. Enter Lords Mountararat and Tolloller. I am much distressed to see your Lordship in this condition. Ah, my Lords, it is seldom that a Lord Chancellor has reason to envy the position of another, but I am free to confess that I would rather be two Earls engaged to Phyllis than any other half-dozen noblemen upon the face of the globe.

It's an enviable position when you're the only one. Oh yes, no doubt--most enviable. At the same time, seeing you thus, we naturally say to ourselves , "This is very sad. His Lordship is constitutionally as blithe as a bird--he trills upon the bench like a thing of song and gladness. His series of judgements in F sharp minor, given andante in six-eight time, are among the most remarkable effects ever produced in a Court of Chancery.

He is, perhaps, the only living instance of a judge whose decrees have received the honour of a double encore. How can we bring ourselves to do that which will deprive the Court of Chancery of one of its most attractive features? I feel the force of your remarks, but I am here in two capacities, and they clash, my Lords, they clash! I deeply grieve to say that in declining to entertain my last application to myself , I presumed to address myself in terms which render it impossible for me ever to apply to myself again.

It was a most painful scene, my Lords--most painful! This is what it is to have two capacities! Let us be thankful that we are persons of no capacity whatever. Remember you are a very just and kindly old gentleman, and you need have no hesitation in approaching yourself , so that you do so respectfully and with a proper show of deference.

Do you really think so? Well, I will nerve myself to another effort, and, if that fails, I resign myself to my fate! Dance, and exeunt arm-in-arm together. Enter Strephon, in very low spirits. I suppose one ought to enjoy oneself in Parliament, when one leads both Parties, as I do! But I'm miserable, poor, broken-hearted fool that I am!

But I suppose I should say "My Lady. I--I haven't quite decided. You see , I have no mother to advise me! Yes; a young mother. Not very--a couple of centuries or so. I beg your pardon--a what? Oh, I've no longer any reason to conceal the fact--she's a fairy. Well, but--that would account for a good many things! Then--I suppose you're a fairy? I'm half a fairy. The upper half--down to the waistcoat. Prodding him with her fingers. There is nothing to show it! But why didn't you tell me this before?

I thought you would take a dislike to me. But as it's all off, you may as well know the truth--I'm only half a mortal! But I'd rather have half a mortal I do love, than half a dozen I don't! Oh, I think not--go to your half-dozen. I don't think I ought to. Besides, all sorts of difficulties will arise.

You know , my grandmother looks quite as young as my mother. So do all my aunts. Whenever I see you kissing a very young lady, I shall know it's an elderly relative. Then, Phyllis, I think we shall be very happy! We won't wait long. We might change our minds. We'll get married first. And change our minds afterwards? That's the usual course. But does your mother know you're--I mean, is she aware of our engagement? She is; and thus she welcomes her daughter-in-law! She kisses just like other people! But the Lord Chancellor? Mother, none can resist your fairy eloquence; you will go to him and plead for us?

But our happiness--our very lives--depend upon our obtaining his consent! Oh, madam, you cannot refuse to do this! You know not what you ask! The Lord Chancellor is--my husband! My husband and your father!

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Addressing Strephon, who is much moved. Then our course is plain; on his learning that Strephon is his son, all objection to our marriage will be at once removed! No; he must never know! He believes me to have died childless, and, dearly as I love him, I am bound, under penalty of death, not to undeceive him. Strephon and Phyllis go off on tiptoe. Success has crowned my efforts, and I may consider myself engaged to Phyllis! At first I wouldn't hear of it--it was out of the question. But I took heart. I pointed out to myself that I was no stranger to myself ; that, in point of fact, I had been personally acquainted with myself for some years.

This had its effect. I admitted that I had watched my professional advancement with considerable interest, and I handsomely added that I yielded to no one in admiration for my private and professional virtues. This was a great point gained. I then endeavoured to work upon my feelings.

Conceive my joy when I distinctly perceived a tear glistening in my own eye! Eventually, after a severe struggle with myself , I reluctantly--most reluctantly--consented. Iolanthe comes down veiled. It may not be--for so the fates decide! Learn thou that Phyllis is my promised bride. It shall be so! Those who would separate us woe betide! Behold--it may not be! I am thy wife. Now let me die! Once again thy vows are broken: Thou thyself thy doom hast spoken! Bow thy head to Destiny: Death thy doom, and thou shalt die!

If Iolanthe must die, so must we all; for, as she has sinned, so have we! We are all fairy duchesses, marchionesses, countesses, viscountesses, and baronesses. They couldn't help themselves. It seems they have helped themselves , and pretty freely, too! You have all incurred death; but I can't slaughter the whole company! And yet unfolding a scroll the law is clear--every fairy must die who marries a mortal! Allow me, as an old Equity draftsman, to make a suggestion. The subtleties of the legal mind are equal to the emergency. The thing is really quite simple--the insertion of a single word will do it.

Let it stand that every fairy shall die who doesn't marry a mortal, and there you are, out of your difficulty at once! We like your humour. To save my life, it is necessary that I marry at once. How should you like to be a fairy guardsman? Well, ma'am, I don't think much of the British soldier who wouldn't ill-convenience himself to save a female in distress. You are a brave fellow. You're a fairy from this moment. Wings spring from Sentry's shoulders.

And you, my Lords, how say you, will you join our ranks? Fairies kneel to Peers and implore them to do so.

Phyllis and Strephon enter. Well, now that the Peers are to be recruited entirely from persons of intelligence, I really don't see what use we are, down here, do you, Tolloller? Wings spring from shoulders of Peers. Then away we go to Fairyland. Up in the air, etc. Three Sisters--Wards of Ko-Ko: Chorus of School-girls, Nobles , Guards, and Coolies. First produced at the Savoy Theatre on March 14, It is simply Court etiquette. If that's your idea, you're wrong, oh! Enter Nanki-Poo in great excitement.

In pity speak, oh speak I pray you! Why, who are you who ask this question? Come gather round me, and I'll tell you. Are you in sentimental mood? On maiden's coldness do you brood? And his arm around her waist! And what may be your business with Yum-Yum? A year ago I was a member of the Titipu town band. It was my duty to take the cap round for contributions. While discharging this delicate office, I saw Yum-Yum. We loved each other at once, but she was betrothed to her guardian Ko-Ko, a cheap tailor, and I saw that my suit was hopeless.

Overwhelmed with despair , I quitted the town. Judge of my delight when I heard , a month ago, that Ko-Ko had been con- demned to death for flirting! I hurried back at once, in the hope of finding Yum-Yum at liberty to listen to my protestations. It is true that Ko-Ko was condemned to death for flirting, but he was reprieved at the last moment, and raised to the exalted rank of Lord High Executioner under the following remarkable circumstances:. And you are right. And we are right, etc. Why, that's the highest rank a citizen can attain!

Our logical Mikado, seeing no moral difference between the dignified judge who condemns a criminal to die, and the industrious mechanic who carries out the sentence, has rolled the two offices into one, and every judge is now his own executioner. But how good of you for I see that you are a nobleman of the highest rank to condescend to tell all this to me, a mere strolling minstrel!

I am , in point of fact, a particularly haughty and exclusive person, of pre-Adamite ancestral descent. You will understand this when I tell you that I can trace my ancestry back to a protoplasmal primordial atomic globule. Consequently, my family pride is something inconceivable. I can't help it. I was born sneering. But I struggle hard to overcome this defect. I mortify my pride continually. When all the great officers of State resigned in a body because they were too proud to serve under an ex-tailor, did I not unhesitatingly accept all their posts at once?

And the salaries attached to them? And at a salary! A Pooh-Bah paid for his services! I a salaried minion! But I do it! It revolts me, but I do it! And it does you credit. But I don't stop at that. I go and dine with middle-class people on reasonable terms. I dance at cheap suburban parties for a moderate fee.

I accept refreshment at any hands, however lowly. I also retail State secrets at a very low figure. For instance, any further information about Yum-Yum would come under the head of a State secret. Nanki-Poo takes his hint, and gives him money. Another insult and, I think , a light one! It will not do: And the brass will crash, etc. The fact appears to be as you've recited: Enter Chorus of Nobles. Gentlemen, I'm much touched by this reception.

I can only trust that by strict attention to duty I shall ensure a continuance of those favours which it will ever be my study to deserve. If I should ever be called upon to act professionally, I am happy to think that there will be no difficulty in finding plenty of people whose loss will be a distinct gain to society at large. Pooh-Bah, it seems that the festivities in connection with my approaching marriage must last a week.

I should like to do it handsomely, and I want to consult you as to the amount I ought to spend upon them. In which of my capacities? Suppose we say as Private Secretary. Speaking as your Private Secretary, I should say that, as the city will have to pay for it, don't stint yourself , do it well. Exactly--as the city will have to pay for it. That is your advice. Of course you will understand that, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, I am bound to see that due economy is observed. But you said just now "Don't stint yourself , do it well".

And now you say that due economy must be observed. As Chancellor of the Exchequer. Come over here, where the Chancellor can't hear us. They cross the stage. Now, as my Solicitor, how do you advise me to deal with this difficulty? If it were not that, as Lord Chief Justice, I am bound to see that the law isn't violated.

Come over here where the Chief Justice can't hear us. Now, then, as First Lord of the Treasury?

Of course, as First Lord of the Treasury, I could propose a special vote that would cover all expenses, if it were not that, as Leader of the Opposition, it would be my duty to resist it, tooth and nail. But then, as Archbishop of Titipu, it would be my duty to denounce my dishonesty and give myself into my own custody as first Commissioner of Police. I don't say that all these distinguished people couldn't be squared; but it is right to tell you that they wouldn't be sufficiently degraded in their own estimation unless they were insulted with a very considerable bribe.

The matter shall have my careful consideration. But my bride and her sisters approach, and any little compliment on your part, such as an abject grovel in a characteristic Japanese attitude , would be esteemed a favour. No money, no grovel! Everything is a source of fun. Nobody's safe, for we care for none! Life is a joke that's just begun! Three little maids from school! Three little maids is the total sum. From three little maids take one away. Enter Ko-Ko and Pooh-Bah. At last, my bride that is to be! About to embrace her.

You're not going to kiss me before all these people? Well, that was the idea. YUM aside to Peep-Bo. It seems odd, doesn't it? Oh, I expect it's all right. Must have a beginning, you know. Well, of course I know nothing about these things; but I've no objection if it's usual. Oh, it's quite usual, I think. I have known it done. Thank goodness that's over! Sees Nanki-Poo, and rushes to him. Why, that's never you? The three Girls rush to him and shake his hands, all speaking at once. Oh, I'm so glad! I haven't seen you for ever so long, and I'm right at the top of the school, and I've got three prizes, and I've come home for good , and I'm not going back any more!

And have you got an engagement? I've come home for good , and I'm not going back any more! Now tell us all the news, because you go about everywhere, and we've been at school, but, thank goodness , that's all over now, and we've come home for good , and we're not going back any more! I beg your pardon. Will you present me? One at a time, if you please.

On the Marine Parade. Yes, I think that was the name of the instrument. Why, I love her myself. Charming little girl, isn't she? Pretty eyes, nice hair. Taking little thing, altogether. Very glad to hear my opinion backed by a competent authority. Thank you very much.

I beg your pardon, but what is this? Customer come to try on? That is a Tremendous Swell. She starts back in alarm. Go away, little girls. Can't talk to little girls like you. Go away, there's dears. Allow me to present you, Pooh-Bah. These are my three wards. The one in the middle is my bride elect. What do you want me to do to them? Mind , I will not kiss them. No, no, you shan't kiss them; a little bow--a mere nothing--you needn't mean it, you know. It goes against the grain. They are not young ladies, they are young persons. Come, come, make an effort, there's a good nobleman.

Well, I shan't mean it. How de do, little girls, how de do? Oh, my protoplasmal ancestor! Girls indulge in suppressed laughter. I see nothing to laugh at. It is very painful to me to have to say "How de do, little girls, how de do?

National Epics by Kate Milner Rabb

I'm not in the habit of saying "How de do, little girls, how de do? Don't laugh at him, he can't help it--he's under treatment for it. Never mind them, they don't understand the delicacy of your position. We know how delicate it is, don't we? I should think we did! How a nobleman of your importance can do it at all is a thing I never can, never shall understand. Tra la la, etc. But youth, of course, etc. But youth, of course, must have its fling, etc. Yum-Yum, at last we are alone!

I have sought you night and day for three weeks, in the belief that your guardian was beheaded, and I find that you are about to be married to him this afternoon! But you do not love him? But why do you not refuse him?

What good would that do? He's my guardian, and he wouldn't let me marry you! But I would wait until you were of age! You forget that in Japan girls do not arrive at years of discretion until they are fifty. True ; from seventeen to forty-nine are considered years of indiscretion. Besides--a wandering minstrel, who plays a wind instrument outside tea-houses, is hardly a fitting husband for the ward of a Lord High Executioner.

Shall I tell her? She will not betray me! What if it should prove that, after all, I am no musician? I was certain of it, directly I heard you play! What if it should prove that I am no other than the son of his Majesty the Mikado? The son of the Mikado! But why is your Highness disguised? And what has your Highness done? And will your Highness promise never to do it again? Some years ago I had the misfortune to captivate Katisha, an elderly lady of my father's Court. She misconstrued my customary affability into expressions of affection, and claimed me in marriage, under my father's law.

My father, the Lucius Junius Brutus of his race, ordered me to marry her within a week, or perish ignominiously on the scaffold. That night I fled his Court, and, assuming the disguise of a Second Trombone, I joined the band in which you found me when I had the happiness of seeing you! If you please, I think your Highness had better not come too near. The laws against flirting are excessively severe. But we are quite alone , and nobody can see us.

Still, that don't make it right. To flirt is capital. And we must obey the law. Deuce take the law! I wish it would, but it won't! If it were not for that, how happy we might be! If it were not for the law, we should now be sitting side by side, like that. Instead of being obliged to sit half a mile off, like that.

Crosses and sits at other side of stage. We should be gazing into each other's eyes, like that. Gazing at her sentimentally. Breathing sighs of unutterable love--like that. Sighing and gazing lovingly at him. With our arms round each other's waists, like that. Yes, if it wasn't for the law. If it wasn't for the law. As it is, of course we couldn't do anything of the kind. Being engaged to Ko-Ko, you know! Being engaged to Ko-Ko!

To think how entirely my future happiness is wrapped up in that little parcel! Really , it hardly seems worth while! Now then, what is it? Can't you see I'm soliloquizing? You have interrupted an apostrophe, sir! I am the bearer of a letter from his Majesty the Mikado. A letter from the Mikado! What in the world can he have to say to me? Ah, here it is at last! I thought it would come sooner or later! The Mikado is struck by the fact that no executions have taken place in Titipu for a year, and decrees that unless somebody is beheaded within one month the post of Lord High Executioner shall be abolished, and the city reduced to the rank of a village!

But that will involve us all in irretrievable ruin! There is no help for it, I shall have to execute somebody at once. The only question is, who shall it be? Well, it seems unkind to say so, but as you're already under sentence of death for flirting, everything seems to point to you. What are you talking about? I can't execute myself. Because, in the first place, self decapitation is an extremely difficult, not to say dangerous, thing to attempt; and, in the second, it's suicide, and suicide is a capital offence.

That is so, no doubt. We might reserve that point. True , it could be argued six months hence, before the full Court. Besides, I don't see how a man can cut off his own head. A man might try. Even if you only succeeded in cutting it half off, that would be something. It would be taken as an earnest of your desire to comply with the Imperial will. Pardon me, but there I am adamant.

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