The Vicar He was a shrewd and sound divine, And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or showed That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius; And sure a righteous zeal inspired 1717 The hand and head that penned and planned them, For all who understood, admired, And some who did not understand them. He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses, He did not think all mischief fair, He held, in spite of all his learning, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, The welcome which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar or of Venus; To steal the staff he put such trust in, When he began to quote Augustine. Alack, the change! In vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled. The church is larger than before, You reach it by a carriage entry: It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat; you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, "Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown, Vir nullâ non donandus lauru.” Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839] THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, The Belle of the Ball-Room 1719 Years, years ago, while all my joy I saw her at the County Ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced,-oh, heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talked of politics or prayers, Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a dean, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand,— She made the Catilina jealous; She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to biow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Lèboo, And recipes for elder-water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted. The Fine Old English Gentleman 1721 She laughed, and every heart was glad, She smiled on many just for fun,- Her heart had thought of for a minute. In phrase which was divinely moulded; How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves,— A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; The usual vows,-and then we parted. We parted: months and years rolled by; Our parting was all sob and sigh,— Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For, in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839] THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN I'LL sing you a good old song, Of a fine old English gentleman |