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    London. Edward Moxon & Co. Dover Street.

    _MOXON'S MINIATURE POETS._




    A SELECTION FROM THE WORKS OF FREDERICK LOCKER.


    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY RICHARD DOYLE.


    LONDON:
    EDWARD MOXON & CO., DOVER STREET.

    1865.

    PRINTED BY BRADBURY AND EVANS, WHITEFRIARS.

    THE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. MILLAIS, R.A., AND RICHARD DOYLE

    THE COVER FROM A DESIGN BY JOHN LEIGHTON, F.S.A.

    THE SERIES PROJECTED AND SUPERINTENDED BY


Some of these pieces appeared in a volume called "London Lyrics," of
which there have been two editions, the first in 1857, and the second
in 1862; a few of the pieces have been restored to the reading of the
First Edition.




TO C. C. L.


    I pause upon the threshold, Charlotte dear,
      To write thy name; so may my book acquire
    One golden leaf. For Some yet sojourn here
      Who come and go in homeliest attire,
    Unknown, or only by the few who see
      The cross they bear, the good that they have wrought:
    Of such art thou, and I have found in thee
      The love and truth that HE, the MASTER, taught;
    Thou likest thy humble poet, canst thou say
    With truth, dear Charlotte?--"And I like his lay."

     ROME, _May_, 1862.




    CONTENTS.


    THE JESTER'S MORAL
    BRAMBLE-RISE
    THE WIDOW'S MITE
    ON AN OLD MUFF
    A HUMAN SKULL
    TO MY GRANDMOTHER
    O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!
    REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR
    THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK
    AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY:--
        THE INVITATION
        THE REPLY
    OLD LETTERS
    MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE
    PICCADILLY
    THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL
    GERALDINE
    "O DOMINE DEUS"
    THE HOUSEMAID
    THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK
    A WISH
    THE JESTER'S PLEA
    THE OLD CRADLE
    TO MY MISTRESS
    TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS
    THE ROSE AND THE RING
    TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS
    THE RUSSET PITCHER
    THE FAIRY ROSE
    1863
    GERALDINE GREEN:--
        I. THE SERENADE
        II. MY LIFE IS A----
    MRS. SMITH
    THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD
    THE VICTORIA CROSS
    ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE
    SORRENTO
    JANET
    BERANGER
    THE BEAR PIT
    THE CASTLE IN THE AIR
    GLYCERE
    VAE VICTIS
    IMPLORA PACE
    VANITY FAIR
    THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES
    MY FIRST-BORN
    SUSANNAH:--
        I. THE ELDER TREES
        II. A KIND PROVIDENCE
    CIRCUMSTANCE
    ARCADIA
    THE CROSSING-SWEEPER
    A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG
    MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION
    TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS
    BEGGARS
    THE ANGORA CAT
    ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE
    A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS
    LITTLE PITCHER
    UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY
    ADVICE TO A POET
    NOTES




The Jesters Moral

    I wish that I could run away
      From House, and Court, and Levee:
    Where bearded men appear to-day,
      Just Eton boys grown heavy.--W. M. PRAED.


    Is human life a pleasant game
      That gives a palm to all?
    A fight for fortune, or for fame?
      A struggle, and a fall?
    Who views the Past, and all he prized,
      With tranquil exultation?
    And who can say, I've realised
      My fondest aspiration?

    Alas, not one! for rest assured
      That all are prone to quarrel
    With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
      Or mildew spoils their laurel:
    The prize may come to cheer our lot,
      But all too late--and granted
    'Tis even better--still 'tis not
      Exactly what we wanted.

    My school-boy time! I wish to praise
      That bud of brief existence,
    The vision of my youthful days
      Now trembles in the distance.
    An envious vapour lingers here,
      And there I find a chasm;
    But much remains, distinct and clear,
      To sink enthusiasm.

    Such thoughts just now disturb my soul
      With reason good--for lately
    I took the train to Marley-knoll,
      And crossed the fields to Mately.
    I found old Wheeler at his gate,
      Who used rare sport to show me:
    My Mentor once on snares and bait--
      But Wheeler did not know me.

    "Goodlord!" at last exclaimed the churl,
      "Are you the little chap, sir,
    What used to train his hair in curl,
      And wore a scarlet cap, sir?"
    And then he fell to fill in blanks,
      And conjure up old faces;
    And talk of well-remembered pranks,
      In half forgotten places.

    It pleased the man to tell his brief
      And somewhat mournful story,
    Old Bliss's school had come to grief--
      And Bliss had "gone to glory."
    His trees were felled, his house was razed--
      And what less keenly pained me,
    A venerable donkey grazed
      Exactly where he caned me.

    And where have all my playmates sped,
      Whose ranks were once so serried?
    Why some are wed, and some are dead,
      And some are only buried;
    Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
      Is now St. Blaise's prior--
    And Travers, the attorney's son,
      Is member for the shire.

    Dame Fortune, that inconstant jade,
      Can smile when least expected,
    And those who languish in the shade,
      Need never be dejected.
    Poor Pat, who once did nothing right,
      Has proved a famous writer;
    While Mat "shirked prayers" (with all his might!)
      And wears, withal, his mitre.

    Dull maskers we! Life's festival
      Enchants the blithe new-comer;
    But seasons change, and where are all
      These friendships of our summer?
    Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track--
      Cold looks attend the meeting--
    We only greet them, glancing back,
      Or pass without a greeting!

    I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride
      Constrains me to postpone 'em,
    He taught me something, 'ere he died,
      About _nil nisi bonum_.
    I've met with wiser, better men,
      But I forgive him wholly;
    Perhaps his jokes were sad--but then
      He used to storm so drolly.

    I still can laugh, is still my boast,
     But mirth has sounded gayer;
    And which provokes my laughter most--
     The preacher, or the player?
    Alack, I cannot laugh at what
     Once made us laugh so freely,
    For Nestroy and Grassot are not--
     And where is Mr. Keeley?

    O, shall I run away from hence,
     And dress and shave like Crusoe?
    Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense,
     Forbid that I should do so.
    I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
     As Paulet shaves his poodles!
    As soon propose for Betsy Bliss--
     Or get proposed for Boodle's.

    We prate of Life's illusive dyes,
     Yet still fond Hope enchants us;
    We all believe we near the prize,
     Till some fresh dupe supplants us!
    A bright reward, forsooth! And though
     No mortal has attained it,
    I still can hope, for well I know
     That Love has so ordained it.

     PARIS, _November, 1864_.



BRAMBLE-RISE.


    What changes greet my wistful eyes
    In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
        Once smallest of its shire?
    How altered is each pleasant nook!
    The dumpy church used not to look
        So dumpy in the spire.

    This village is no longer mine;
    And though the Inn has changed its sign,
        The beer may not be stronger:
    The river, dwindled by degrees,
    Is now a brook,--the cottages
        Are cottages no longer.

    The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,
    The trees have cut their ancient sticks,
        Or else the sticks are stunted:
    I'm sure these thistles once grew figs,
    These geese were swans, and once these pigs
        More musically grunted.

    Where early reapers whistled, shrill
    A whistle may be noted still,--
        The locomotive's ravings.
    New custom newer want begets,--
    My bank of early violets
        Is now a bank for savings!

    That voice I have not heard for long!
    So Patty still can sing the song
        A merry playmate taught her;
    I know the strain, but much suspect
    'Tis not the child I recollect,
        But Patty,--Patty's daughter;

    And has she too outlived the spells
    Of breezy hills and silent dells
        Where childhood loved to ramble?
    Then Life was thornless to our ken,
    And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
        A rise without a bramble.

    Whence comes the change? 'Twere easy told
    That some grow wise, and some grow cold,
        And all feel time and trouble:
    If Life an empty bubble be,
    How sad are those who will not see
        A rainbow in the bubble!

    And senseless too, for mistress Fate
    Is not the gloomy reprobate
        That mouldy sages thought her;
    My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
    As falls upon my ear thy voice,
        My frisky little daughter.

    Come hither, Pussy, perch on these
    Thy most unworthy father's knees,
        And tell him all about it:
    Are dolls but bran? Can men be base?
    When gazing on thy blessed face
        I'm quite prepared to doubt it.

    O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf,
    Some day a pet just like thyself,
        Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
    Content to use her brighter eyes,--
    Accept her childish ecstacies,--
        If need be, share her sorrow!

    The wisdom of thy prattle cheers
    This heart; and when outworn in years
        And homeward I am starting,
    My Darling, lead me gently down
    To Life's dim strand: the dark waves frown,
        But weep not for our parting.

    Though Life is called a doleful jaunt,
    In sorrow rife, in sunshine scant,
    Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
        Have no enduring basis;
    'Tis something in a desert sere,
    For her so fresh--for me so drear,
    To find in Puss, my daughter dear,
        A little cool oasis!

     APRIL, 1857.




THE WIDOW'S MITE.


    The Widow had but only one,
    A puny and decrepit son;
          Yet, day and night,
    Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,
    A loving child, he was her all--
          The Widow's Mite.

    The Widow's might,--yes! so sustained,
    She battled onward, nor complained
          When friends were fewer:
    And, cheerful at her daily care,
    A little crutch upon the stair
          Was music to her.

    I saw her then,--and now I see,
    Though cheerful and resigned, still she
          Has sorrowed much:
    She has--HE gave it tenderly--
    Much faith--and, carefully laid by,
          A little crutch.




ON AN OLD MUFF


    Time has a magic wand!
    What is this meets my hand,
    Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
        Covered with fluff?
    Faded, and stiff, and scant;
    Can it be? no, it can't--
    Yes,--I declare 'tis Aunt
        Prudence's Muff!

    Years ago--twenty-three!
    Old Uncle Barnaby
    Gave it to Aunty P.--
        Laughing and teasing--
    "Pru., of the breezy curls,
    Whisper these solemn churls,
    _What holds a pretty girl's
        Hand without squeezing?_"

    Uncle was then a lad
    Gay, but, I grieve to add,
    Sinful: if smoking bad
        _Baccy's_ a vice:
    Glossy was then this mink
    Muff, lined with pretty pink
    Satin, which maidens think
        "Awfully nice!"

    I see, in retrospect,
    Aunt, in her best bedecked,
    Gliding, with mien erect,
        Gravely to Meeting:
    Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
    Peeped from the muff of Pru.--
    Young men--and pious too--
        Giving her greeting.

    Pure was the life she led
    Then--from this Muff, 'tis said,
    Tracts she distributed:--
        Scapegraces many,
    Seeing the grace they lacked,
    Followed her--one, in fact,
    Asked for--and got his tract
        Oftener than any.

    Love has a potent spell!
    Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well,
    Aunt's sweet susceptible
        Heart undermining,
    Slipped, so the scandal runs,
    Notes in the pretty nun's
    Muff--triple-cornered ones--
        Pink as its lining!

    Worse even, soon the jade
    Fled (to oblige her blade!)
    Whilst her friends thought that they'd
        Locked her up tightly:
    After such shocking games
    Aunt is of wedded dames
    Gayest--and now her name's
        Mrs. Golightly.

    In female conduct flaw
    Sadder I never saw,
    Still I've faith in the law
        Of compensation.
    Once Uncle went astray--
    Smoked, joked, and swore away--
    Sworn by, he's now, by a
        Large congregation!

    Changed is the Child of Sin,
    Now he's (he once was thin)
    Grave, with a double chin,--
        Blest be his fat form!
    Changed is the garb he wore,--
    Preacher was never more
    Prized than is Uncle for
        Pulpit or platform.

    If all's as best befits
    Mortals of slender wits,
    Then beg this Muff, and its
        Fair Owner pardon:
    _All's for the best_,--indeed
    Such is _my_ simple creed--
    Still I must go and weed
        Hard in my garden.




A HUMAN SKULL.


    A human skull! I bought it passing cheap,--
      It might be dearer to its first employer;
    I thought mortality did well to keep
      Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer.

    Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin,
      Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender;--
    Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chin,
      And never had my doubt about its gender!

    Did she live yesterday or ages back?
      What colour were the 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,
    The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts,--
      Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens!

    But this I surely knew before I closed
      The bargain on the morning that I bought it;
    It was not half so bad as some supposed,
      Nor quite as good as many may have thought it.

    Who love, can need no special type of death;
      He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
    "Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
      And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?

    O, _cara_ mine, what lines of care are these?
      The heart still lingers with the golden hours,
    An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees,
      And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers?

    If life no more can yield us what it gave,
      It still is linked with much that calls for praises;
    A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
      But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.




TO MY GRANDMOTHER.

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)


    This relative of mine
    Was she seventy and nine
        When she died?
    By the canvas may be seen
    How she looked at seventeen,--
        As a bride.

    Beneath a summer tree
    As she sits, her reverie
        Has a charm;
    Her ringlets are in taste,--
    What an arm! and what a waist
        For an arm!

    In bridal coronet,
    Lace, ribbons, and _coquette
        Falbala_;
    Were Romney's limning true,
    What a lucky dog were you,
        Grandpapa!

    Her lips are sweet as love,--
    They are parting! Do they move?
        Are they dumb?--
    Her eyes are blue, and beam
    Beseechingly, and seem
        To say, "Come."

    What funny fancy slips
    From atween these cherry lips?
        Whisper me,
    Sweet deity, in paint,
    What canon says I mayn't
        Marry thee?

    That good-for-nothing Time
    Has a confidence sublime!
        When I first
    Saw this lady, in my youth,
    Her winters had, forsooth,
        Done their worst.

    Her locks (as white as snow)
    Once shamed the swarthy crow.
        By-and-by,
    That fowl's avenging sprite,
    Set his cloven foot for spite
        In her eye.

    Her rounded form was lean,
    And her silk was bombazine:--
        Well I wot,
    With her needles would she sit,
    And for hours would she knit,--
        Would she not?

    Ah, perishable clay!
    Her charms had dropt away
        One by one.
    But if she heaved a sigh