Ne'er by Christians be forgot-- Envied be--this Martyr's lot.

_Lawton_, who these _names_ combinest, Aim to emulate their praises; Women were they, yet divinest Truths they taught; and story raises O'er their mouldering bones a Tomb, Not to die till Day of Doom.

ACROSTIC,

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE HER EPITAPH

(1830)

Grace Joanna here doth lie: Reader, wonder not that I Ante-date her hour of rest.

Can I thwart her wish exprest, Ev'n unseemly though the laugh

Jesting with an Epitaph?

On her bones the turf lie lightly, And her rise again be brightly!

No dark stain be found upon her-- No, there will not, on mine honour-- Answer that at least I can.

Would that I, thrice happy man, In as spotless garb might rise, Light as she will climb the skies, Leaving the dull earth behind, In a car more swift than wind.

All her errors, all her failings, (Many they were not) and ailings, Sleep secure from Envy's railings.

ANOTHER,

TO HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER (1830)

Least Daughter, but not least beloved, of _Grace_!

O frown not on a stranger, who from place, Unknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd.

I but report what thy Instructress Friend So oft hath told us of thy gentle heart.

A pupil most affectionate thou art,

Careful to learn what elder years impart.

_Louisa--Clare_--by which name shall I call thee?

A prettier pair of names sure ne'er was found, Resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound.

Ever calm peace and innocence befal thee!

TRANSLATIONS

_From the Latin of Vincent Bourne_

I

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, May the repose unbroken be, Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, While thou enjoy'st along with it That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, Or counterfeit to mortal sense, The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!

II

THE RIVAL BELLS

A tuneful challenge rings from either side Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, Saint Bride Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.

Such harmony from the contention flows, That the divided ear no preference knows; Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

III

EPITAPH ON A DOG

(1820)

Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of pa.s.sers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and pa.s.sionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.

Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, The well disposed and good, their pennies gave.

I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear p.r.i.c.k'd up at his least motion, to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of sc.r.a.ps; Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day, and tedious beggary.

These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side.

But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

IV

THE BALLAD SINGERS

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[8] draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race: With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discoloured Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.

One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.

Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.

Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. _He_ stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees The a.s.sembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But p.r.i.c.ks his ears up with the hopes of song.

So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.

Hither and thither from the sevenfold road Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past, They re-unite, so these unite as fast.

The older Songstress. .h.i.therto hath spent Her elocution in the argument Of their great Song in _prose_; to wit, the woes Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes-- Ah! "_Wandering He_!"--which now in loftier _verse_ Pathetic they alternately rehea.r.s.e.

All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes His right ear to the strain. The other hopes To catch it better with his left. Long trade It were to tell, how the deluded Maid A victim fell. And now right greedily All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy, That are so tragical; which She, and She, Deals out, and _sings the while_; nor can there be A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back His contribution from the gentle rack Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self, The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest.

And boldly claims his ballad with the best.

An old Dame only lingers. To her purse The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse, "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befal Fond hearts seduced from Innocency's way; How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."

[Footnote 8: Seven Dials.]

V.

TO DAVID COOK,