« ForrigeFortsæt »
Duke. Why, let the flood rage on! There is no tide in woman's wildest passion But hath an ebb.-I've broke the ice, however.Write to her father!-She may write a folioBut if she send it !_'Twill divert her spleen,The flow of ink may save her blood-letting, Perchance she may have fits !—They are seldom mortal, Save when the doctor's sent for.Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, A woman's honour is her safest guard, Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key.
[Goes off to lock door-returns. So thus begins our honeymoon.—'Tis well ! For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps, Like April, she may wear a changeful face Of storm and sunshine:--and, when that is past, She will break glorious as unclouded May; And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness.Whilst others,—for a month's delirious joy, Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, That after to the very lees shall relish; And to the close of this frail life prolong The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. [Exit, R.
THE MUSIC GRINDERS.
0. W. HOLMES.
There are three ways in which men take
from his purse,
Which of the three is worse;
To make a body curse.
You're riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains; A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse's reins, Another hints some words about A bullet in
It's hard to meet such pressing friends
In such a lonely spot;
hard to lose your cash,
And so you
Perhaps you're going out to dine
Some filthy creature begs, You'll hear about the cannon ball
That carried off his pegs, And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.
He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed, Poor little, lovely innocents,
All clamorous for breadAnd so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.
You're sitting on your window seat
Beneath a cloudless moon :
The semblance of a tune;
To drown a cracked bassoon.
And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come, There's something like a human voice
And something like a drum;
You sit in speechless agony,
Until your ear is numb.
A very dismal place:
Is altered in the face; Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.
From some infernal clime,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
And break the legs of Time.
The music all is ground,
To heal the blows of sound;
A hat is going round !
A fracture in your jaw;
pay the owner of the bear, That stunned you And buy the lobster, that has had
Your knuckles in his claw :
with his paw,
But if you are a portly man
Put on your fiercest frown,
To turn them out of town;
And shut the window down !
And if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or, if you cannot make a speech,
Because you are a flat,
A button in the hat.
A HUMAN SKULL.
[Messrs. Moxon and Co., the poet's publishers par excellence, are bringing out a series of selections from the modern poets, in a neat, cheap, and very attractive form. Of the three volumes already published the names of Alfred Tennyson and Robert Browning introduce themselves, while, for that of Frederick Locker, the good name of “Moxon and Co.' on the title-page at least ensures it respectful attention; nor will the reader be disposed to cavil with the publishers, when he has once opened the little tome and dipped into the contents. Messrs. Moxon, like other publishers, know that the public like variety and will have novelty ; they will find both in Mr. Locker's volume, and not the less so because, as a poet, he differs from Tennyson and Brown ing altogether, while, as his critic in “The Times” has a genuine poetic gift, but he belongs to a peculiar class.” Of the poets of the class to which he belongs, we may mention the Hon. W. Spencer, Bayly, and Praed. We think him superior to the two former, but not quite up to the latter. He has this merit also, that he is not slangy, as Thackeray is in his “Ballads of Policeman X,” Like the late Captain Charles Morris
, he loves " the sweet shady side of Pall Mall," and he only jokes with respectable people. Not that he is above “A Sketch from Seven Dials,” nor that he withholds a friendly word from “The Housemaid,” consoling her that it is “not her Sunday out”-two subjects that he has handled kindly, lovingly, as Thomas Hood would have done, and of whose genius both poems are worthy; thouglı in Locker's comic vein there is nothing akin to Hood. Hood's comic poems are, for the most part, fun per se; Frederick Locker blends pathos with his jests, making a sort of poetical punch, which is all the more palatable for the admixture of the sweet and sharp of which it is compounded.
Mr. Locker was born in 1821. He is of a Kentish family; his father, Edward Hawke Locker, was a Civil Comissioner of Greenwich Hospital, a warm patron of literature and art, and the founder of the naval gallery of Greenwich Hospital; he also published the lives of some of the most distinguished naval worthies, as well as a tour that he made in Spain with Earl Russell ; his own sketches illustrating the volume. The grandfather of the poet was Captain W. Locker, R.N., under whom both Lord Nelson and Lord Collingwood served. The former was especially his old and attached friend. In one of the numerous letters from Lord Nelson to his grandfather, in the possession of Mr. Locker, Lord Nelson says, “You were the first person to teach me how to board a Frenchman, by your conduct when in the 'Experiment' you said, "Lay a Frenchman close, and you will beat him.'"Captain Locker died as Lieutenant-Governor of Greenwich Hospital.
Mr. Frederick Locker married a sister of the late Earl of Elgin and Kincardine, by whom he has one daughter.
The volume of which the “ Selections" form a part is entitled “London Lyrics," and was published about eight years ago.]
A HUMAN skull! I bought it passing cheap
A slight reflection on its first employer; I thought mortality did well to keep
Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer.
have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin,
eyes when bright and waking ? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little head! that long has done with aching? It
may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry—or Baron Byron's,
Two quoted bards ! two philanthropic sirens
an—and if loved or hated, Whoever owned this skull was not so good
Nor quite so bad as many may have stated. Who love, can need no special type of Death;
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;