Selected Poems (34 page)

And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;

155

Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,

And turns – if nothing else – at least our
heads
;

With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,

And cockneys practise what they can’t pronounce.

Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,

160

And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of ‘Waltz!’

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her
début;

The court, the Regent, like herself were new;
¹

New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;

New ornaments for black and royal guards;

165

New laws to hang the rogues that roar’d for bread:

New coins (most new)
²
to follow those that fled;

New victories – nor can we prize them less,

Though Jenky wonders at his own success;

New wars, because the old succeed so well,

170

That most survivors envy those who fell;

New mistresses – no, old – and yet ’tis true,

Though they be
old
, the
thing
is something new;

Each new, quite new – (except some ancient tricks),
³

New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new sticks!

175

With vests or ribands – deck’d alike in hue,

New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue:

So saith the muse: my –,
¹
what say you?

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain

Her new preferments in this novel reign;

180

Such was the time, nor ever yet was such;

Hoops are
no more
, and petticoats
not much
;

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays,

And tell-tale powder – all have had their days.

The ball beins – the honours of the house

185

First duly done by daughter or by spouse,

Some potentate – or royal or serene –

With Kent’s gay grace, or sapient Gloster’s mien,

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush

Might once have been mistaken for a blush.

190

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free,

That spot where hearts
²
were once supposed to be;

Round all the confines of the yielded waist,

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced;

The lady’s in return may grasp as much

195

As princely paunches offer to her touch.

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip,

One hand reposing on the royal hip;

The other to the shoulder no less royal

Ascending with affection truly loyal!

200

Thus front to front the partners move or stand,

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;

And all in turn may follow in their rank,

The Earl of – Asterisk – and Lady – Blank;

Sir – Such-a-one – with those of fashion’s host,

205

For whose blest surnames – vide ‘Morning Post’

(Or if for that impartial print too late,

Search Doctors’ Commons six months from my date) –

Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,

The genial contact gently undergo;

210

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,

If ‘nothing follows all this palming work?’
¹

True, honest Mirza! – you may trust my rhyme –

Something does follow at a fitter time;

The breast thus publicly resign’d to man,

215

In private may resist him—if it can.

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore,

Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more!

And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will

It is to love the lovely beldames still!

220

Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite

Satan may spare to peep a single night,

Pronounce – if ever in your days of bliss

Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;

To teach the young ideas how to rise,

225

Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;

Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,

With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame

For prurient nature still will storm the breast –

Who
, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?

230

But ye – who never felt a single thought

For what our morals are to be, or ought;

Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,

Say – would you make those beauties quite so cheap?

Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,

235

Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,

Where were the rapture then to clasp the form

From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?

At once love’s most endearing thought resign,

To press the hand so press’d by none but thine;

240

To gaze upon that eye which never met

Another’s ardent look without regret;

Approach the lip which all, without restraint,

Come near enough – if not to touch – to taint;

If such thou lovest – love her then no more,

245

Or give – like her – caresses to a score;

Her mind with these is gone, and with it go

The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?

Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.

250

Terpsichore, forgive! – at every ball

My wife
now
waltzes – and my daughters
shall
;

My
son – (or stop – ’tis needless to enquire –

These little accidents should ne’er transpire;

Some ages hence our genealogic tree

255

Will wear as green a bough for him as me) –

Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends,

Grandsons for me – in heirs to all his friends.

Remember Thee! Remember Thee!

Remember thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream,

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

5

Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not;

Thy husband too shall think of thee!

By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou
false
to him, thou
fiend
to me!

No breath of air to break the wave

That rolls below the Athenian’s grave,

That tomb
¹
which, gleaming o’er the cliff,

First greets the homeward-veering skiff,

5

High o’er the land he saved in vain:

When shall such hero live again?

* * * * *

Fair clime! where every season smiles

Benignant o’er those blessed isles,

Which, seen from far Colonna’s height,

10

Make glad the heart that hails the sight,

And lend to loneliness delight.

There mildly dimpling, Ocean’s cheek

Reflects the tints of many a peak

Caught by the laughing tides that lave

15

These Edens of the eastern wave:

And if at times a transient breeze

Break the blue crystal of the seas,

Or sweep one blossom from the trees,

How welcome is each gentle air

20

That wakes and wafts the odours there!

For there – the Rose o’er crag or vale,

Sultana of the Nightingale,
²

The maid for whom his melody,

His thousand songs are heard on high,

25

Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale:

His queen, the garden queen, his Rose,

Unbent by winds, unchill’d by snows,

Far from the winters of the west,

By every breeze and season blest,

30

Returns the sweets by nature given

In softest incense back to heaven;

And grateful yields that smiling sky

Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh.

And many a summer flower is there,

35

And many a shade that love might share,

And many a grotto, meant for rest,

That holds the pirate for a guest;

Whose bark in sheltering cove below

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow,

40

Till the gay mariner’s guitar
¹

Is heard, and seen the evening star;

Then stealing with the muffled oar

Far shaded by the rocky shore,

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,

45

And turn to groans his roundelay.

Strange – that where Nature loved to trace,

As if for Gods, a dwelling place,

And every charm and grace hath mix’d

Within the paradise she fix’d,

50

There man, enamour’d of distress,

Should mar it into wilderness,

And trample, brute-like, o’er each flower

That tasks not one laborious hour;

Nor claims the culture of his hand

55

To bloom along the fairy land,

But springs as to preclude his care,

And sweetly woos him – but to spare!

Strange – that where all is peace beside,

There passion riots in her pride,

60

And lust and rapine wildly reign

To darken o’er the fair domain.

It is as though the fiends prevail’d

Against the seraphs they assail’d,

And, fix’d on heavenly thrones, should dwell

65

The freed inheritors of hell;

So soft the scene, so form’d for joy,

So curst the tyrants that destroy!

He who hath bent him o’er the dead

Ere the first day of death is fled,

70

The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress,

(Before Decay’s effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)

And mark’d the mild angelic air,

75

The rapture of repose that’s there,

The fix’d vet tender traits that streak

The languor of the placid cheek,

And – but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,

80

And but for that chill, changeless brow,

Where cold Obstruction’s apathy
¹

Appals the gazing mourner’s heart,

As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

85

Yes, but for these and these alone,

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,

He still might doubt the tyrant’s power;

So fair, so calm, so softly seal’d,

The first, last look by death reveal’d!
²

90

Such is the aspect of this shore;

‘Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death,

95

That parts not quite with parting breath;

But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression’s last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

100

The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish’d earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave

105

Was Freedom’s home or Glory’s grave!

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

That this is all remains of thee?

Approach, thou craven crouching slave:

Say, is not this Thermopylæ?

110

These waters blue that round you lave,

Oh servile offspring of the free –

Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?

The gulf, the rock of Salamis!

These scenes, their story not unknown,

115

Arise, and make again your own;

Snatch from the ashes of your sires

The embers of their former fires;

And he who in the strife expires

Will add to theirs a name of fear

120

That Tyranny shall quake to hear,

And leave his sons a hope, a fame,

They too will rather die than shame:

For Freedom’s battle once begun,

Bequeath’d by bleeding Sire to Son,

125

Though baffled oft is ever won.

Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,

Attest it many a deathless age!

While kings, in dusty darkness hid,

Have left a nameless pyramid,

130

Thy heroes, though the general doom

Hath swept the column from their tomb,

A mightier monument command,

The mountains of their native land!

There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye

135

The graves of those that cannot die!

‘Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,

Each step from splendour to disgrace;

Enough – no foreign foe could quell

Thy soul, till from itself it fell;

140

Yes! Self-abasement paved the way

To villain-bonds and despot sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore?

No legend of thine olden time,

No theme on which the muse might soar

145

High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.

The hearts within thy valleys bred,

The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime,

150

Now crawl from cradle to the grave,

Slaves – nay, the bondsmen of a slave,
¹

And callous, save to crime;

Stain’d with each evil that pollutes

Mankind, where least above the brutes;

155

Without even savage virtue blest,

Without one free or valiant breast,

Still to the neighbouring ports they waft

Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;

In this the subtle Greek is found,

160

For this, and this alone, renown’d.

In vain might Liberty invoke

The spirit to its bondage broke,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke:

No more her sorrows I bewail,

165

Yet this will be a mournful tale,

And they who listen may believe,

Who heard it first had cause to grieve.

* * * * *