THE GIPSY'S MALISON

(1829)

"Suck, baby, suck, mothers love grows by giving, Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting; Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

"Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses, Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.

"Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces, Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging; Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical, And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.

COMMENDATORY VERSES

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

_Published under the name of Barry Cornwall_

(1820)

Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask Under the vizor of a borrowed name; Let things eschew the light deserving blame: No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task.

"Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book; And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pa.s.s; Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a gla.s.s, On the great world's antique glories we may look.

No longer then, as "lowly subst.i.tute, Factor, or PROCTOR, for another's gains,"

Suffer the admiring world to be deceived; Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved, Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains, And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.

TO R.[J.]S. KNOWLES, ESQ.

_On his Tragedy of Virginius_

(1820)

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then Esteemed you a perfect specimen Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends, To teach us colder English how a friend's Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain, Strong-sensed, rough-witted above fear or gain; But nothing further had the gift to espy.

Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene Only to _his_ inferior in the clean Pa.s.ses of pathos: with such fence-like art-- Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.

Almost without the aid language affords, Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, _words_, (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play We scarce attend to. Hastier pa.s.sion draws Our tears on credit: and we find the cause Some two hours after, spelling o'er again Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.

Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns, Still s.n.a.t.c.h some new old story from the urns Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"

(1825)

I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone!

In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown; And all that history--much that fiction--weaves.

By every sort of taste your work is graced.

Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, With good old story quaintly interlaced-- The theme as various as the reader's mind.

Rome's life-fraught legends you so truly paint-- Yet kindly,--that the half-turn'd Catholic Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, And cannot curse the candid heretic.

Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page; Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, And, proudly conscious of a purer age, Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.

Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright _Days_, Must needs bestow on you both good and many, Who, building trophies of his Children's praise, Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.

Dan Phoebus loves your book--trust me, friend Hone-- The t.i.tle only errs, he bids me say: For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, He swears,'tis not a work of _every day_.

ACROSTICS

TO CAROLINE MARIA APPLEBEE

_An Acrostic_

Caroline glides smooth in verse, And is easy to rehea.r.s.e; Runs just like some crystal river O'er its pebbly bed for ever.

Lines as harsh and quaint as mine In their close at least will shine, Nor from sweetness can decline, Ending but with _Caroline_.

_Maria_ asks a statelier pace-- "_Ave Maria_, full of grace!"

Romish rites before me rise, Image-worship, sacrifice, And well-meant but mistaken pieties.

_Apple_ with _Bee_ doth rougher run.

Paradise was lost by one; Peace of mind would we regain, Let us, like the other, strain Every harmless faculty, Bee-like at work in our degree, Ever some sweet task designing, Extracting still, and still refining.

TO CECILIA CATHERINE LAWTON

_An Acrostic_

Choral service, solemn chanting, Echoing round cathedrals holy-- Can aught else on earth be wanting In heav'n's bliss to plunge us wholly?

Let us great _Cecilia_ honour In the praise we give unto them, And the merit be upon her.

Cold the heart that would undo them, And the solemn organ banish That this sainted Maid invented.

Holy thoughts too quickly vanish, Ere the expression can be vented.

Raise the song to _Catherine_, In her torments most divine!