But with all Heaven t'himself; the 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.

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,

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.

I like the women too, (forgive my folly),

From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
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,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still," 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); I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 'tis not too late;

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear;

I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;

FEMALE ENVY AT BALLS.

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.

ВЕРРО.

FEMALE ENVY AT BALLS.

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips;
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips;
Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd,
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips;
She then surveys, condemns, but pities still
Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill.

One has false curls, another too much paint,

A third-where did she buy that frightful turban? A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, A fifth looks vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint,

A seventh's thin muslin sure will be her bane,
And lo! an eighth appears,-"I'll see no more!"
For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score.

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing,
Others were levelling their looks at her;
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising,
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir;
The women only thought it quite amazing
That, at her time of life, so many were
Admirers still,-but men are so debased,
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste.

VOL. II.

BEPPO.

I

113

SOUTHEY AND WORDSWORTH.

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,

And be the only Blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,

And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob !

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion" (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), Has given a sample from the vasty version

Of his new system to perplex the sages; 'Tis poetry-at least by his assertion,

And may appear so when the dog-star rages-
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

You-Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds, at last have grown
To deem as a most logical conclusion,

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:

There is a narrowness in such a notion,

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,

Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time,

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,

And makes the word "Miltonic " mean "sublime,"

MAN AND WOMAN'S LOVE.

115

He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

DEDICATION TO DON JUAN.

A CLUSTER OF SWEETS.

"TIS sweet to hear

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

The

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

"Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come ;

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

DON JUAN.

MAN AND WOMAN'S LOVE.

MAN's love is of man's life a thing apart,

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange

2

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,—

And few there are whom these can not estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one,

To mourn alone the love which has undone.

VANITY OF FAME.

DON JUAN.

WHAT is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper."

To have, when the original is dust,

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King
Cheops erected the first pyramid

And largest, thinking it was just the thing

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid : But somebody or other rummaging,

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:

Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

DON JUAN.

THE SINKING OF THE SHIP.

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.