And young beginners may as well commence
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman;
While those who 're not beginners, should have sense
Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon
With his gray signal-flag; and the past tense,

The dreary "fuimus" of all things human,
Must be declined, whilst life's thin thread 's spun
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout.


But Heaven must be diverted: its diversion.
Is sometimes truculent-but never mind:
The world upon the whole is worth the assertion
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind:
And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,
Of the two principles, but leaves behind
As many doubts as any other doctrine
Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.


The English winter-ending in July,

To recommence in August-now was done.

'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly;


On roads east, south, north, west, there is a run. But for post-horses who finds sympathy?

Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son,

Always premising that said son at college

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.


The London winter 's ended in July—
Sometimes a little later. I don't err
In this whatever other blunders lie
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver
My Muse a glass of weatherology;
For Parliament is our barometer :
Let radicals its other acts attack,
Its sessions form our only almanack.


When its quicksilver 's down at zero,—lo!
Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage!
Wheels whirl from Carlton-palace to Soho,

And happiest they who horses can engage;
The turnpikes glow with dust, and Rotten-row
Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age;
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces,
Sigh, as the post-boys fasten on the traces.


They and their bills, "Arcadians both,'

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To the Greek kalends of another session. Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,

What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,

At a long date-till they can get a fresh one,~ Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ;Also the solace of an overcharge.


But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord,
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage.
Away! away! "Fresh horses!" are the word,
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage.
The obsequious landlord hath the change restored;
The post-boys have no reason to disparage
Their fee; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence,
The ostler pleads for a reminiscence.


'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickeyThat gentleman of lords and gentlemen;

Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky,

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen

Can paint, "Cosi viaggino i ricchi!”

(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,

If but to show I've travell'd; and what 's travel,
Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?)


The London winter and the country summer
Were well nigh over. "T is perhaps a pity,

When Nature wears the gown that doth become her,
To lose those best months in a sweaty city,
And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember ;-
But there's no shooting (save grouse) till September.


I've done with my tirade. The world was gone;
The twice two thousand for whom earth was made,

Were vanish'd to be what they call alone,—
That is, with thirty servants for parade,
As many guests or more; before whom groan
As many covers, duly, daily laid.
Let none accuse old England's hospitality-
Its quantity is but condensed to quality.


Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline

Departed, like the rest of their compeers, The peerage, to a mansion very fine;

The gothic Babel of a thousand years.

None than themselves could boast a longer line,

Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks, as olden as their pedigree,

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.


A paragraph in every paper told

Of their departure: such is modern fame : 'T is pity that it takes no further hold

Than an advertisement, or much the same; When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim Departure, for his country-seat, to-day,


Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.


"We understand the splendid host intends

To entertain, this autumn, a select

And numerous party of his noble friends;

'Midst whom we 've heard from sources quite correct,

The Duke of D. the shooting season spends,
With many more by rank and fashion deck'd;

Also a foreigner of high condition,

The envoy of the secret Russian mission."


And thus we see—who doubts the Morning Post?
(Whose articles are like the "thirty-nine,"
Which those most swear to who believe them most)—
Our gay Russ-Spaniard was ordain'd to shine,
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host,

With those who, Pope says, "greatly daring dine." 'T is odd, but true,-last war, the news abounded More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded.


As thus: "On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
Present, Lords A. B. C."-Earls, dukes, by name
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner :
Then underneath, and in the very same

Column: "Date, Falmouth, There has lately been here
The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ;
Whose loss in the late action we regret :

The vacancies are fill'd up-see Gazette."


To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,
An old, old monastery once, and now
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare

Mix'd gothic, such as artists all allow
Few specimens yet left us can compare
Withal it lies perhaps a little low,
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind,
To shelter their devotion from the wind.


It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke;
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally
The dappled foresters-as day awoke,

The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.


Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its soften'd way did take
In currents through the calmer water spread
Around the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.


Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,

Sparkling with foam until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes-like an infant made Quiet-sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and, thus allay'd,

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.


A glorious remnant of the gothic pile

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd—a loss to art:

The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,

Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.


Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,

But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice-as tell

The annals of full many a line undone,The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.


But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,
The Virgin Mother of the God-born child,
With her son in her bless'd arms, look'd around,
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
This may be superstition, weak or wild,

But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.


A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter,
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings
The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire
Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.


But in the noontide of the moon, and when
The wind is winged from one point of heaven,
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then
Is musical-a dying accent driven

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.

Some deem it but the distant echo given

Back to the night-wind by the waterfall,
And harmonized by the old choral wall:


Others, that some original shape or form,

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm.

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact I've heard it,-once perhaps too much.

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