English

The bubbled baby gave an abrupt burp,
Her tiny face contorted in an irpe
(The i pronounced, perhaps, like beard not bird).
Ben Jonson only used this pleasant little word.

C HRISTLIKE is my behaviour,
Like every good believer,
I imitate the Saviour,
And cultivate a beaver.

We received thee warmly — kindly — though we knew thou wert a quiz,
Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!
Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells
Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting Nells.
When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing,
Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling;
And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.
...

1

" I've a proposal here from Mr Murray —
He offers handsomely, the money down —
My dear, you might recover from your flurry
In a nice airy lodging out of town,
At Croyden, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey —
If every stanza brings us in a crown,
I think that I might venture to bespeak
A bedroom and front parlour for next week.

2

Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think —
Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock,

. . . In years of old
There lived the boy whom this tale is told,
Fair-haired Eudiades, upon the hill
Which bears the sacred name of Athens still.
Nurtured he was in all the ancient ways
Of nobleness which brought his fathers praise,
What time at Marathon they stained the sea
And broad corn-land with Persian butchery.
He from his couch at earliest break of day
Arising, prayer and orison would pay
To Phoebus and to Hermes, and with pure
Cold baths would brace his beauty to endure

THE ENGLISH KNIGHT'S BALLAD .

" O SHOW me the grave where my father is laid,
Show his lowly grave to me;
A hundred pieces of broad red gold,
Old man, shall thy guerdon be! "

With torch in hand, and bared head,
The old man led the way;
And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind
Through his hair of silvery grey.

A stately knight follow'd his steps,

TALE OF THE MOORISH BARD .

The earliest beauty of the rose,
Waking from moonlight repose,
In morning air and dew to steep
The blush of her voluptuous sleep;
This was her cheek: and for her eye,
Gaze thou upon the midnight sky,
And choose its fairest star, the one
Thou deem'st most lovely and most lone:
Her lip, oh! never flower of spring
Had smile of such sweet blandishing.

Ay, beautiful she was as light
Descending on the darken'd sight;

THE IRISH MINSTREL'S LEGEND .

Rose up the young moon; back she flung
The veil of clouds that o'er her hung;
Thus would fair maiden fling aside
Her bright curls in their golden pride;
On pass'd she through the sky of blue,
Lovelier as she pass'd it grew;
At last her gentle smiles awake
The silence of the azure lake.
Lighted to silver, waves arise,
As conscious of her radiant eyes.
Hark! floats around its music's tone,
Sweeter than mortal ear hath known:

THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE .

The Count G ONFALI held a feast that night
And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light
Over gold carvings and the purple fall
Of tapestry; and around each stately hall
Were statues, pale and finely shaped and fair,
As if all beauty save her life were there;
And, like light clouds floating around each room,
The censers roll'd their volumes of perfume;
And scented waters mingled with the breath
Of flowers, which died as if they joy'd in death;

THE SPANISH MINSTREL'S TALE .

The warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the warrior's step is slow,
And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter's snow;
Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its last of fame were won;
Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as he has done.

" Now take your way, ye L ARAS bold, and to the battle ride;
For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts of Moorish pride:
Your six white steeds stand at the gate; go forth, and let me see