Selected Poems (108 page)

295

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses!

Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

XXXVIII

However, I still think, with all due deference

To the fair
single
part of the Creation,

That married ladies should preserve the preference

300

In
téte-á-téte
or general conversation –

And this I say without peculiar reference

To England, France, or any other nation –

Because they know the world, and are at ease,

And being natural, naturally please.

XXXIX

305

’Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming,

But shy and awkward at first coming out,

So much alarm’d, that she is quite alarming,

All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout

And glancing at
Mamma
, for fear there’s harm in

310

What you, she, it, or they, may be about,

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter –

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

XL

But ‘Cavalier Servente’ is the phrase

Used in politest circles to express

315

This supernumerary slave, who stays

Close to the lady as a part of dress,

Her word the only law which he obeys.

His is no sinecure, as you may guess;

Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,

320

And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XLI

With all its sinful doings, I must say,

That Italy’s a pleasant place to me,

Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

And vines (not nail’d to walls) from tree to tree

325

Festoon’d, much like the back scene of a play,

Or melodrame, which people flock to see,

When the first act is ended by a dance

In vineyards copied from the south of France.

XLII

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,

330

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure

My cloak is round his middle strapp’d about,

Because the skies are not the most secure;

I know too that, if stopp’d upon my route,

Where the green alleys windingly allure,

335

Reeling with
grapes
red waggons choke the way, –

In England ’twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

XLIII

I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the Sun set, sure he’ll rise to-morrow,

Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as

340

A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow,

But with all Heaven t’himself; that day will break as

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow

That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers

Where reeking London’s smoky caldron simmers.

XLIV

345

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

350

That not a single accent seems uncouth,

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,

Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

XLV

I like the women too (forgive my folly),

From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,

355

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley

Of rays that say a thousand things at once,

To the high dama’s brow, more melancholy,

But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,

360

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

XLVI

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!

Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire

Raphael,
¹
who died in thy embrace, and vies

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,

365

In what he hath bequeath’d us? – in what guise,

Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,

Would
words
describe thy past and present glow,

While yet Canova can create below?
²

XLVII

‘England! with all thy faults I love thee still, ‘

370

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it);

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we’ve got it);

375

I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when ’tis not too late;

XLVIII

I like the taxes, when they’re not too many;

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;

I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;

380

Have no objection to a pot of beer;

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year.

And so God save the Regent, Church, and King!

Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX

385

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,

Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt,

Our little riots just to show we are free men,

Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,

390

All these I can forgive, and those forget,

And greatly venerate our recent glories,

And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

L

But to my tale of Laura, – for I find

Digression is a sin, that by degrees

395

Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,

And, therefore, may the reader too displease –

The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,

And caring little for the author’s ease,

Insist on knowing what he means, a hard

400

And hapless situation for a bard.

LI

Oh that I had the art of easy writing

What should be easy reading! could I scale

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing

Those pretty poems never known to fail,

405

How quickly would I print (the world delighting)

A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;

And sell you, mix’d with western sentimentalism,

Some samples of the finest Orientalism.

LII

But I am but a nameless sort of person,

410

(A broken Dandy lately on my travels)

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,

The first that Walker’s Lexicon unravels,

And when I can’t find that, I put a worse on,

Not caring as I ought for critics’ cavils;

415

I’ve half a mind to tumble down to prose,

But verse is more in fashion – so here goes.

LIII

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,

Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,

For half a dozen years without estrangement;

420

They had their little differences, too;

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant:

In such affairs there probably are few

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble,

From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LIV

425

But, on the whole, they were a happy pair,

As happy as unlawful love could make them;

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,

Their chains so slight, ’twas not worth while to break them:

The world beheld them with indulgent air;

430

The pious only wish’d ‘the devil take them!’

He took them not; he very often waits,

And leaves old sinners to be young ones’ baits.

LV

But they were young: Oh! what without our youth

Would love be! What would youth be without love!

435

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth,

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above;

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth –

One of few things experience don’t improve,

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows

440

Are always so preposterously jealous.