Thomas Love Peacock

The mountain sheep are sweeter, But the valley sheep are fatter; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We made an expedition; We met a host, and quelled it; We forced a strong position, And killed the men who held it. On Dyfed's richest valley, Where herds of kine were browsing, We made a mighty sally, To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; We met them, and o'erthrew them: They struggled hard to beat us; But we conquered them, and slew them. As we drove our prize at leisure, The king marched forth to catch us: His rage surpassed all measure, But his people could not match us. He fled to his hall-pillars; And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, While others cut his head off. We there, in strife bewild'ring, Spilt blood enough to swim in: We orphaned many children, And widowed many women. The eagles and the ravens We glutted with our foemen; The heroes and the cravens, The spearmen and the bowmen. We brought away from battle, And much their land bemoaned them, Two thousand head of cattle, And the head of him who owned them: Ednyfed, king of Dyfed, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus.

While those bewitching hands combine, With matchless grace, the silken line, They also weave, with gentle art, Those stronger nets that bind the heart. But soon all earthly things decay: That net in time must wear away: E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay No lasting hold can take: But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d, (And all these charms in thee are join’d) Can throw that net upon the mind, No human art can e’er unbind, No human pow’r can break.

Seamen three! What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be; In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll? No: in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine.

The day has pass’d in storms, though not unmix’d With transitory calm.   The western clouds, Dissolving slow, unveil the glorious sun, Majestic in decline.   The wat’ry east Glows with the many-tinted arch of Heav’n. We hail it as a pledge that brighter skies Shall bless the coming morn.   Thus rolls the day, The short dark day of life;   with tempests thus, And fleeting sun-shine chequer’d.   At its close, When the dread hour draws near, that bursts all ties, All commerce with the world, Religion pours Hope’s fairy-colors on the virtuous mind, And, like the rain-bow on the ev’ning clouds, Gives the bright promise that a happier dawn Shall chase the night and silence of the grave.

The whit’ning ground In frost is bound; The snow is swiftly falling; While coldly blows the northern breeze, And whistles through the leafless trees, In hollow sounds appalling. On this cold plain, Now reach’d with pain, Once stood my father’s dwelling: Where smiling pleasure once was found, Now desolation frowns around, And wintry blasts are yelling. Hope’s visions wild My thoughts beguil’d, My earliest days delighting, Till unsuspected treach’ry came, Beneath affection’s specious name, The lovely prospect blighting. With many a wile Of blackest guile Did Henry first deceive me: What winning words to him were giv’n! He swore, by all the pow’rs of Heav’n, That he would never leave me. With fondest truth I lov’d the youth: My soul, to guilt a stranger, Knew not, in those too simple hours, That oft beneath the sweetest flow’rs Is couch’d the deadliest danger. With him to roam I fled my home; I burst the bonds of duty; I thought my days in joy would roll; But Henry hid a demon’s soul Beneath an angel’s beauty! Shall this poor heart E’er cease to smart? Oh never! never! never! Did av’rice whisper thee, or pride, False Henry! for a wealthier bride To cast me off for ever? My sire was poor: No golden store Had he, no earthly treasure: I only could his griefs assuage, The only pillar of his age, His only source of pleasure. With anguish wild, He miss’d his child, And long in vain he sought her: The fiercest thunder-bolts of heav’n Shall on thy guilty head be driv’n, Thou Disobedient Daughter! I feel his fears, I see his tears, I hear his groans of sadness: My cruel falsehood seal’d his doom: He seems to curse me from the tomb, And fire my brain to madness! Oh! keenly blow, While drifts the snow, The cold nocturnal breezes; On me the gath’ring snow-flakes rest, And colder grows my friendless breast; My very heart-blood freezes! ‘Tis midnight deep, And thousands sleep, Unknown to guilt and sorrow; They think not of a wretch like me, Who cannot, dare not, hope to see The rising light to-morrow! An outcast hurl’d From all the world, Whom none would love or cherish, What now remains to end my woes, But here, amid the deep’ning snows, To lay me down and perish? Death’s icy dart Invades my heart: Just Heav’n! all-good! all-seeing! Thy matchless mercy I implore, When I must wake, to sleep no more, In realms of endless being!

I dug, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave. I pressed them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love. Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead, Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.

I. Ille Ego Oh! list to me: for I’m about To catch the fire of Chaucer, And spin in doleful measure out The tale of Johnny Raw, sir; Who, bent upon a desperate plan To make the people stare, Set off full speed for Hindoostan Upon Old Poulter’s mare. Tramp! tramp! across the land he went; Splash! splash! across the sea; And then he gave his bragging vent— “Pray who can ride like me? “For I’m the man, who sallied forth To rout the classic forces, And swore this mare was far more worth Than both fierce Hector’s horses. “Old Homer from his throne I struck, To Virgil gave a punch, And in the place of both I stuck The doughty Mother Bunch, “To France I galloped on my roan, Whose mettle nought can quail; There squatted on the tomb of Joan, And piped a dismal tale. “A wild and wondrous stave I sung, To make my hearers weep: But when I looked, and held my tongue, I found them fast asleep! “Oh! then, a furious oath I swore, Some dire revenge to seek; And conjured up, to make them roar, Stout Taffy and his leek. “To Heaven and Hell I rode away, In spite of wind and weather: Trumped up a diabolic lay; And cursed them all together. “Now, Proteus! rise, thou changeful seer! To spirit up my mare: In every shape but those appear, Which Taste and Nature wear.”

Oui, pour jamais Chassons l’image De la volage Que j’adorais.              PARNY. Matilda, farewell! Fate has doom’d us to part, But the prospect occasions no pang to my heart; No longer is love with my reason at strife, Though once thou wert dearer, far dearer than life. As together we roam’d, I the passion confess’d, Which thy beauty and virtue had rais’d in my breast; That the passion was mutual thou mad’st me believe, And I thought my Matilda could never deceive. My Matilda! no, false one! my claims I resign: Thou canst not, thou must not, thou shalt not be mine: I now scorn thee as much as I lov’d thee before, Nor sigh when I think I shall meet thee no more. Though fair be thy form, thou no lovers wilt find, While folly and falsehood inhabit thy mind, Though coxcombs may flatter, though ideots may prize, Thou art shunn’d by the good, and contemn’d by the wise. Than mine what affection more fervent could be, When I thought ev’ry virtue was center’d in thee? Of the vows thou hast broken I will not complain, For I mourn not the loss of a heart I disdain. Oh! hadst thou but constant and amiable prov’d As that fancied perfection I formerly lov’d, Nor absence, nor time, though supreme their controul, Could have dimm’d the dear image then stamp’d on my soul. How bright were the pictures, untinted with shade, By Hope’s glowing pencil on Fancy pourtray’d! Sweet visions of bliss! which I could not retain; For they, like thyself, were deceitful and vain. Some other, perhaps, to Matilda is dear, Some other, more pleasing, though not more sincere; May he fix thy light passions, now wav’ring as air, Then leave thee, inconstant, to shame and despair! Repent not, Matilda, return not to me: Unavailing thy grief, thy repentance will be: In vain will thy vows or thy smiles be resum’d, For love, once extinguish’d, is never relum’d.