1757

The Eight-Day Clock

We might have mingled with the crowd

Of courtiers in this hall,

The fans that swayed, the wigs that bowed,
But you have spoiled it all;

We might have lingered in the train

Of nymphs that Reynolds drew,

Or stared spell-bound in Drury Lane

At Garrick-but for you.

We might in Leicester Fields have swelled
The throng of beaux and cits,

Or listened to the concourse held

Among the Kitcat wits;

Have strolled with Selwyn in Pall Mall,

Arrayed in gorgeous silks,

Or in Great George Street raised a yell
For Liberty and Wilkes.

This is the life which you have known,
Which you have ticked away,
In one unmoved unfaltering tone
That ceased not day by day,
While ever round your dial moved

Your hands from span to span,

Through drowsy hours and hours that proved
Big with the fate of man.

A steady tick for fatal creeds,

For youth on folly bent,

A steady tick for worthy deeds,

And moments wisely spent;

No warning note of emphasis,

No whisper of advice,

To ruined rake or flippant miss,

For coquetry or dice.

You might, I think, have hammered out

With meaning doubly clear,

The midnight of a Vauxhall rout

In Evelina's ear;

Or when the night was almost gone,
You might, the deals between,
Have startled those who looked upon
The cloth when it was green.

But no, in all the vanished years
Down which your wheels have run,
Your message borne to heedless ears
Is one and only one-

No wit of men, no power of kings,

Can stem the overthrow

Wrought by this pendulum that swings
Sedately to and fro.

Alfred Cochrane [1865

A PORTRAIT

IN sunny girlhood's vernal life
She caused no small sensation,
But now the modest English wife
To others leaves flirtation.
She's young still, lovely, debonair,
Although sometimes her features
Are clouded by a thought of care
For those two tiny creatures.

Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite
Asserts with voice emphatic,
In lisping accents, "Mite is right,"

Their rule is autocratic:

The song becomes, that charmed mankind,

Their musical narcotic,

And baby lips than Love, she'll find,

Are even more despotic.

Soft lullaby when singing there,

And castles ever building, Their destiny she'll carve in air,

Bright with maternal gilding:

Impression

Young Guy, a clever advocate,
So eloquent and able!

A powdered wig upon his pate,

A coronet for Mabel!

1759

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838–1917])

"OLD BOOKS ARE BEST"

OLD Books are best! With what delight
Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight
On frontispiece or title-page

Of that old time, when on the stage

"Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!
And you, O Friend, to whom I write,
Must not deny, e'en though you might,

Through fear of modern pirates' rage,
Old Books are best.

What though the print be not so bright,
The paper dark, the binding slight?
Our author, be he dull or sage,

Returning from that distant age

So lives again, we say of right:

Old Books are best.

Beverly Chew [1850

IMPRESSION

IN these restrained and careful times
Our knowledge petrifies our rhymes;
Ah! for that reckless fire men had
When it was witty to be mad;

When wild conceits were piled in scores,
And lit by flaming metaphors,

When all was crazed and out of tune,-
Yet throbbed with music of the moon.

If we could dare to write as ill

As some whose voices haunt us still,
Even we, perchance, might call our own
Their deep enchanting undertone.

We are too diffident and nice,
Too learned and too over-wise,
Too much afraid of faults to be
The flutes of bold sincerity.

For, as this sweet life passes by,
We blink and nod with critic eye;
We've no words rude enough to give
Its charm so frank and fugitive.

The green and scarlet of the Park,
The undulating streets at dark,

The brown smoke blown across the blue,
This colored city we walk through;—

The pallid faces full of pain,

The field-smell of the passing wain,

The laughter, longing, perfume, strife,
The daily spectacle of life;—

Ah! how shall this be given to rhyme,
By rhymesters of a knowing time?
Ah! for the age when verse was clad,
Being godlike, to be bad and mad.

Edmund Gosse [1849

"WITH STRAWBERRIES"

WITH strawberries we filled a tray,
And then we drove away, away

Along the links beside the sea,

Where wave and wind were light and free,

And August felt as fresh as May.

And where the springy turf was gay
With thyme and balm and many a spray
Of wild roses, you tempted me
With strawberries!

A shadowy sail, silent and gray,
Stole like a ghost across the bay;

Ballade of Ladies' Names

But none could hear me ask my fee,
And none could know what came to be.
Can sweethearts all their thirst allay

With strawberries?

1761

William Ernest Henley (1849-1903]

BALLADE OF LADIES' NAMES

BROWN'S for Lalage, Jones for Lelia,
Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows,
Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia.

The glamor stays if the reason goes!
Every lover the years disclose

Is of a beautiful name made free.

One befriends, and all others are foes.
Anna's the name of names for me.

Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia;
Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose;

Courtly memories glitter in Celia;

Rosalind savors of quips and hose,
Araminta of wits and beaux,

Prue of puddings, and Coralie

All of sawdust and spangled shows; Anna's the name of names for me.

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia

These I reckon the essence of prose!Cavalier Katherine, cold Cornelia, Portia's masterful Roman nose,

Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes, Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! Anna's the name of names for me.

ENVOY

Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows,

Sylvia prattles of Arcadee,

Sybil mystifies, Connie crows,

Anna's the name of names for me!

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]