He was a great proficient in Astrology;
The best Accomptant in his sire's dominions; Had dipp'd in Mathematics; in Theology
"Twas thought he held heretical opinions; But this was doubtful:-in all sorts of knowledge he Was an adept, but on the Muse's pinions
'Twas his delight to soar, when mounted on 'em, he Cared little for political economy.
An earnest lover of the Muse was he,
And did her bidding for her own sweet sake;
No Fame he sigh'd for, nor aspir'd to be
A star among the great; but in the lake
Which flows around the dome of Poesy
He long'd the fever of his thirst to slake;
And drink the Music in his soul, which springs
From her deep, holy, lone imaginings.
No proud intents, no purposes sublime,
Had he, nor care for glory not to die;
No aspirations over Fate and Time,
Nor longings after Immortality.
He was no builder of the lofty rhyme,
His own glad thoughts were all his Poesy; He call'd his Album, in quaint terms of praise, His "register of comfortable days."
And thus from all his bosom's best affections,
And sweet emotions, not unmix'd with pain,
From Childhood's hopes, and Boyhood's recollections,
And many a roving thought that cross'd his brain,
Season'd with here and there some grave reflections,
He fram'd a sort of desultory strain.
Of course at Court his rhyming gain'd much credit
From all who had, and some who hadn't read it.
And thus his boyhood slid in smiles away,
And he was nigh upon his sixteenth year,
When, as it fell upon a certain day,
He had a summons straightway to appear
Before his Father; as he went, they say,
His young limbs shook with an unusual fear;
He had a strange presentiment, no doubt,
That some infernal mischief was about.
His gracious Father had it seems discern'd (He was a Prince of infinite sagacity ;) Or it may be, by long experience learn'd,
(Which much confirm'd him in his pertinacity,) That youthful blood with headstrong passion burn'd, And play'd the deuce with Princes; so, to dash it, he Forgot his own antipathies, and swore
His son should marry, and run wild no more..
He had moreover, as his subjects thought,
Some more conclusive reasons of his own;
The King of China would have dearly bought
Just then a close alliance with his Throne;
And had a most enchanting daughter, sought
By the East's proudest, yet the Maiden shone
Unmated still, and fancy-free, enshrin'd
In the pure brightness of her vestal mind.
She had seen fifteen summers, Youth had wrapt her
In its most radiant loveliness; no glance
Of her wild eyes ere shone without a capture
E'en through her veil; and oh! to see her dance! Why 'twould have kill'd our British Beaux with rapture, And caus'd 66 a great sensation" e'en in France. Her voice of Music wander'd through men's ears, And, when most mirthful, fill'd their eyes with tears.
Badoura! fair Badoura! would thy charms
Might float before my bliss-bewilder'd vision!
Would I might once enfold thee in my arms,
And fancy thou wert mine in dreams Elysian!
I think I then could laugh at Care's alarms,
And hold the bluest devils in derision;
For ever could we live (my Muse and I)
On the remembrance of that ecstasy.
I own it has not been my boyhood's lot
To fall in love so often as is common;
My early flames were speedily forgot,
Replac'd but slowly; though the name of woman
Has always occupied a decent spot
In my affections, and I'm sure that no man
Can write more highly than I wrote of late
Of the enjoyments of the married state.*
* Godiva, stanza XLIII, &c.
But though I grieve extremely to declare it, I
Feel bound to tell what I esteem the truth;
That female beauty is, in fact, a rarity
E'en in the gay, unwrinkled cheeks of youth.
In number, as in charms, there's a disparity
Between the plain and pretty, and in sooth
I meet, at present, but few female eyes
Whose smiles remind me much of Paradise.
Yet have I dwelt, for many a pleasant week, in A land whose women are the boast of fame ; Hail to the peerless belles around the Wrekin! Hail to each wedded and unwedded Dame! Though really (unpoetically speaking)
With three exceptions, whom I dare not name, I wouldn't give the value of a gooseberry For all the beauty that I've found in S
Oh! gentle Lady, with the dark-brown hair
Braided above thy melancholy eyes,
And pale thin cheek so delicately fair,
And voice so full of woman's sympathies;
Woe for thy Beauty! the fell demon, Care,
Too soon hath made thy tender heart his prize;
Too soon those smiles, which ever and anon
Threw sunshine o'er thy loveliness, are gone.
Lonely art thou amid the fluttering crowd
That throngs the gay and gilded drawing-room;
For aye enwrapt and darken'd in a cloud
Of cheerless and impenetrable gloom.
The heartless glances of the gay and proud,
Which dwelt so rudely on thy beauty's bloom,
Pass thy pale cheek unheeding, and despise
The dimness of thy sorrow-speaking eyes.
Yet when perchance a happier maid hath woken
The sweetness of some old remember'd air,
Whose touching music to thy heart hath spoken.
Of the old days that were so passing fair:
I've seen the spell that hangs around thee broken
By rising visions of the things that were;
And thy faint blush and gushing tears have told
That crush'd affections have not yet grown cold.
But oh! to me most lovely and most lov'd,
In thy calm hour of dreaming solitude;
When I have track'd thy footsteps as they rov'd
Through the thick mazes of the tangled wood;
Or to sweet sadness by thy story mov'd,
By thy fair side, in mute attention, stood,
Still in thine eyes my lovesick bosom sunning-
But where, the devil, is my fancy running?
The fair Badoura had conceiv'd a whim in
Her lovely head, of wisdom most profound;
Her brain in wild, fantastic dreams was swimming,
Such as with maidens now and then abound,
But rarely vex the pates of married women—
She fancied she might search the world around,
And find no husband in its dreary waste,
To suit her most unconscionable taste.
And she had sworn by every good Divinity
That ever on Olympus had a throne;
That, should her days be lengthened to infinity,
No mortal should unloose her virgin zone,
Nor steal the jewel of her bright virginity;
That treasure should, at least, remain her own. 'Twas a strange whim, but what the stranger fact is, She seem'd resolv'd to put the whim in practice.
She knelt before her sire, that gentle Maid,
Like young Diana at the feet of Jove,
(As mention'd by Callimachus) and pray'd
By all her peace on earth and hopes above,
That if she ever had his will obey'd,
If he did ever his dear daughter love,
He would permit her still to live and die
In calm, unsullied, sinless chastity.
And much she argued on the wiles of men,
Their base deceit, their gross dissimulation,
Their falsehood and their cruelty; and then
She prais'd the virtues of a single station:
And if she should be married, when, oh! when
Could she enjoy such mirth and recreation,
Such joyous freedom, such unbounded sport
As she was used to at her Father's Court?
Ah! poor Badoura ! in a luckless hour
Thou com'st to urge thine innocent entreaty;
No, though thy bright and eloquent eyes should shower
A sea of tears upon thy Father's feet, he
Will never yield to their persuasive pow'r!—
He had, in fact, just ratified a treaty
By which his daughter was declar'd the Queen
Of the young hopeful heir of Fadladeen.
For six whole months the mischief had been brewing
With such sagacious secrecy, that few
Suspected half the plans that were pursuing,
And not a soul in all the kingdom knew
That his respected Monarch had been doing
What none but Monarchs have the face to do;
And sign'd the contract which he felt would sever
His child from hope and happiness for ever.
Alas! poor Royalty! how far remov'd
Art thou from all the blessedness of earth!
Is't not enough that thou hast never prov'd
The bliss of Friendship, nor enjoy'd the mirth
Of happy spirits, loving and belov'd?
Is't not enough that thou must feel the dearth
Of cheering looks, and languidly repress
The hollow smiles of palace heartlessness?
XXXII.
Is't not enough that tranquil sleep is driven
From thy uneasy pillow?-that thy brain
Must throb for ever, and thy heart be riven
With weariness and care, and scarce retain
A dream obscure, a wandering ray of Heav'n,
So closely fetter'd by the earth's dull chain?
Is't not enough that Fancy's self hath left
Thy broken slumber of her joys bereft ?
Oh! is not this enough? but must thou link
Thy care-worn heart to an unloving mate;
And for the bliss of chaste affection, drink
The bitter cup of carelessness or hate,
Unsolaced, and unpitied ?-Canst thou think
There is on Earth a thing so desolate
As thou, who yieldest for thy tinsel prize
Love's self, our last faint ray from Paradise?
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