A new pantomime

Front matter

Be eet ae Sateen ie Tae

Sr ead 75 3 Sa

Lobet hae em

Dedication

As I. cast my eyes on Gainsborough’s superb portrait of Pitt,* which now hangs before me, I retrace in mind the wonderful similarity in your mental elements ; but Pitt, though superlatively great, could never have written Vivian Grey, or Sibyl.

That you are now misunderstood by many is but the fate which unites you with all who achieve; but history will do justice to one of the truest, brightest, and most disinterested public characters that ever illuminated our country’s annals. 17.

Goldsmith Building, Temple.

Preface

himself, according to the true and natural dictates of an illuminated reason, on the most sublime of all subjects—Gop and the Future.

And so I send it forth into the world from this place, while the sacred music of the Temple Church peals beautifully from the very spot where the Priests and Knights listened to it a thousand years ago, and a stray sunbeam, wandering and chequered as his own life, plays over the grave where all that now remains of Goldsmith rests in peace beside my window.

THE PROSCENIUM.

Clown,

Lapirs and Gentlemen, and you,

If any here there be,

Belonging to the intermediate crew,

(Your pardon, since you know I cannot see),

We do present you here to-day,

A certain thing—it can’t be called a Play,

A tragedy, a comedy, or farce,

A melodrama, interlude, or masque.

Our Author would as soon teach boys to parse,

Or bishops piety, or statesmen virtue,

Or bind himself to any other plan,

Impossible to man ;

As set himself to work at such a task.

He hates the humbug of the scenic stage ;

Its daggers, poisons, ghosts, and bearded braves,

Intriguing wives, pert chambermaids, old knaves,

Footmen all flippancy, and priests all cant,

And well-dressed puppies mingling slang with rant,

And horrid visions seen in dreamy sleep ;

Of things like these you’ve had so rank a heap,

The recollection fills my soul with rage.

We've something better, Critics, to divert you :

A Pantomime !—what say you !—ah, you stare, B

Wise children of large growth ;

Than your forefathers fifty times more clever ; The ladies flirt their fans—the he-things swear— Don’t-be alarmed—T'll not repeat each oath. This is a Pantomime, and rightly named, Because it is an Image of the All

In Earth, in Heaven, in Hell, and in the Air; Wherever Life, or Soul, or Spirit dwell,

Or the enchantress Nature weaves her spell, Or Thought or Being be,

In Space or Star, or God’s immensity ;

Our Author, dipping his gold pen in gall,

And milk of paradise, conceived the work ; And here it is, brought forth for you, and you, Masculine, feminine, and neuter too.

Our Dramatis Persone are most numerous ; ’Twould take me twenty days to count, And yet not name their full amount— Shapes, Spirits, Shadows, Angels, Fates, Nymphs, Naiads, Imps from Satan’s gates, Satan himself, Abaddon, Man, Ghosts, Goblins, Ghouls, and sovran Pan ; Sphinxes, Chimeras, Minotaurs, A pretty Woman, and Dame Mors; Fays, Destinies, Sprites, Wisps, and Frogs, And the snake-headed King of Dogs ; Smart Hermes, Mephistopheles, and Charon, A very celebrated German Baron. Fierce Fiends,—but all our people, grave and humorous, Will strut before you when the time arrives ; Till when—look after other people’s wives.

We've got besides unparalleled machinery— The air-born Rainbow, the dark heaving Ocear. Laughterless Hades, Styx, the Sun and Moon, The Star that every morning takes a lotion Of the still deep—so sings that coarse buffoon, Who never washed his face, or changed his shirt, Or shaved his chin, but loved perpetual dirt ; My master Virgil, in the maudlin tale Of him who shewed his wife leg bai’,

And left her in the Trojan embers,

As every well-whipped brat remembers ; We've Clouds and Comets, Planets, Vapours, That cut the most amazing capers :

Rivers and Skies, and mighty Lakes,

That teem with Hydras, Serpents, Snakes ; Aye, and with Hippopotami,

Big as the London Monument no lie. Since The Beginning, never artist had

A better stock of grand old scenery,

Than here to-day is shewn unto the Mad, By their most venerable Dad.

What Dad, you ask? ’pon honour, Ma’am, I know not— For who the secret dark can tell ?

Who in Heaven ?—who in Hell ?

Many there be who reap, yet sow not. Tippitywitchet is a strange abstraction— And so is Truth—they differ not a fraction ; For what is Truth !—and what is Fact?

See you the soul of what I say ?

The spirit that gives life unto this clay ?

Of course you do—’tis clear as day— Ladies and Gentlemen, you are all—crackt.

The moral of this Epic Pantomime, (For that ’tis Epic you shall see in time; As truly as the Tales of Troy, Jr Odysseus, his father’s hopeful Boy, Or Dux Trojanus, Dante, Hudibras, Milton, and Lucan are)—is, Man’s an Ass ; A very pretty Pantomimic moral, About whose truth the world and I won’t quarrel. I do not value three skips of a mouse, Whether in this the Author shews his Vous Or nonsense ; judging of the mighty mass

By his own noble self; who, if his rule Be once admitted, it requires no fool To tell you how he must henceforward class, In fact, J rather think he is a noodle, With no more sense than old lord Doodle, And so I told him when he wrote this fudge ; But he, who looked as wise as any judge, Assured me I was but a wretched poodle. Perhaps I am—and looking at you here, And pondering on the millions far and near, I think it very strange indeed, Why the Almighty Seer

Produced the donkey breed : - Fate sometimes works results extremely queer, And this is one—or I am much mistaken, To puzzle the bronze head of Friar Bacon.— Go home, you stupid animals, to grass!

Yet—if Man be an Ass, I see no reason, Why he should therefore fret himself to death ; Accusing Fate, as some do, of high treason,

THE PROSCENIUM.

For granting them, their spark of vital breath. Asses are honest animals enough ;

And, pon my conscience, if I were a donkey,

I would not change my state with one of you, Illustrious nobles, ladies, lords, and dandies.

For Men impose sad evils on their backs,

By their own waywardness and headstrong vices ; But Asses suffer only those which Nature

Lays on their shoulders. Some of us grow sad, If a brat sneezes Inauspiciously ;

And some grow sorrowful if men reproach them ; And some are frightened by unlucky dreams ; And some by a hooting owl 1’ the ivy bush ;

And some because they’re wived, and some because They are noé wived, and some—because they’re both. Contention, Care, Rage, Avarice, Lust, Law, Lying, Deceit, Ambition, with their poisons, Wait upon noble sky-aspiring Man :

Who would not be an Ass, rather than have Soul-racking playfellows like these I’ve named ? And faith I'd rather be long-ears himself,

Than such a slippered Pantaloon as this.

auntaloow.

Good people all, of every rank and age, Assemble round and lend attentive ears, Until you hear the Wisdom of the Sage, Hight Pantaloon, whose fame fills heaven’s spheres ; There be, who bravely vaunt the ancient page Of Solomon, and meet with angry fleers, All other wisdom, underneath the moon— I wish they’d prize more highly—Pantaloon.

Who well begins, his work is half complete ; The Pyramids of single bricks are made ;

An idle butcher must not hope for meat ; Poverty teaches every kind of trade:

As stolen waters there are none so sweet ; The brightest gem will lie unprized in shade ;

A fool will burn his house to roast an egg ;

Who sleeps in summer must in winter beg.

One who hath seen is worth a score who've heard ; Taste governs all ; some women kiss, some cows ;

Pause long, ere you let loose the wingéd word ; Provoke not a wild beast, nor yet your spouse ;

To preach to one who sleeps is most absurd ; Luckless is he whose wife usurps his trowse ;

A scalded infant wisely shuns the fire ;

He, who in kennels sleeps, will rise with mire.

Clow.

O wonderful discoveries by an Ass,

Pantaloon.

Safe is the ship that with two anchors rides ; Gold has a tongue more eloquent than Christ ; The grasping miser, God and Good derides : One sage should more than million fools be priced : Who keeps back Truth a beauteous diamond hides ; Old birds by chaff will never be enticed : Misfortune bravely borne is scarce an ill ; Men must live as they can, not as they will.

Experience is a teacher in whose school Even fools may learn—

THE PROSCENIUM.

“wy

Clot.

Then seek her school at once : Kicks him off.

I never heard such trash in all my life :-— You fellows in the orchestra play up. Sings.

Keep in mind, keep in mind,

What you shall hear, nor let it pass like wind, From your grave recollection ; sense and fun Go always better blended into one.

For Wisdom does not teach or charm the less, Because arrayed in Mirth’s attractive dress.

Keep in mind, keep in mind ;

Lightest words have often souls within ; Pearls which, if you dive for, you shall find. Smallest hairs throw shadows ; spiders spin Threads that link the stars with earth. Gravity is shrined in mirth.

When you look upon The Snake, Mark him well ;

Once in God’s bright bowers he spake Things that none may tell ;

Only those who dwell

In the Shadow of the Light

Which illumes the Universe.

The Great Beast you then shall see, Whom the wily Snake hath fettered Tn his shining coil.

Who is he? who is he?

Shouts each fool unlettered, lettered. ;

Read and think, and think and read ;

When the time ordained you toil,

Haply you shall know ;

When you find it, let the seed

In your spirit grow,

Till from pole to pole it spread,

Like the Eternal Tablet of white pearl, Whereon God writes those wonderful decrees, Which speak of all, past, present, and to come, As sung of old in Islam’s heavenly hymns.

Darlequin, Spring up, bright flowers of harmony, spring up, The nectar food of gods bestowed on man, And wake the lyre of many tones ; And from the golden-hearted lute, And the lily-breathing flute, Sprinkle round their silvery treasure, Moving all to love and pleasure ; Spreading liquid sweetness, Through the sapphire air, Picturing to the fancy, Visions strange and fair. | Lo! Sir Harlequin is near, With his mighty magic wand.

Cloton, What can bring this fellow here ? He were better in a pond.

Darlequiw, Now that music floats around me, I can featlier speak my speech.

THE PROSCENIUM.

Clotow. |

If I had a lance, confound me, But I'd bleed him like a leech.

Harlequin, Ladies and Gentlemen, I merely come To tell you, and all classical communities, That in this Pantomime of ours, we scorn All critics, past and future, and the Unities. We waft you as we please from Earth to Heaven, Thence down to Hell, and upward to the Moon, Ten million, billion, trillion miles or so, Through space unbounded in our Bard’s balloon, Which travels lightning-like through the Abyss Of Aither, taking several years to do it ; We do not care a farthing if you hiss ;— Whate’er our doom, we'll willingly go through it. Convinced in spite of fate that yow are wrong,

And that we knowing ones alone are right ;

Don’t wonder therefore when I wave my wand,

Nor let the changes move grim Aristarchian spite.

Columbine.

I bring a garland of new flowers, To wreathe me in the winding dance ; I twine a chaplet of white roses, _ As maidens do in old romance. Ladies and Youths, by these bright presents, Which I give here to each and all, Look kindly on the earth-born daughters, Our Poet summons at his call ;

B 2

And if his heroine win your favour,

Believe her drawn from lights like you.

Glotow.

Such compliments as these must gull them :

I only wish the lies were true.

And now, my beauteous little birdies,

I hope we’ve given you lime enough,

To catch within our wily net-work,

Rook, magpie, wagtail, wren, and chough. You've heard from me the choicest wisdom ; From Pantaloon, the oldest fudge ;

From Harlequin, some namby-pamby ;

From Columbine—what all can judge.

Our anxious Manager is sweating,

With terror for his bantling’s fate ;

Our high-flown Bard is sipping claret ;

And I’m detaining you with prate. EKnough,—'tis time the Prologue cease,

I see you're anxious for the piece.

Ho !—prompters, callboys, fiddlers, and scene-shifters, Prepare within there! Ring the bell. Behold! now, by Mother Bunch !

Scenes of such splendour saw I ne’er before.

The curtain rises

Aot I. Scene IL.

THE TWO SPIRITS.

Moonlight and Siarshine. The Earth whirling in the distance. Time Dec. 31, 1831.

A Throne of Stars, on which the Sprrntr OF THE YEAR is sitting. The SPIRIT rises, as the SPIRIT OF THE NEW YEAR enters on a Rainbow.

The Spirit of the Reto Perr.

Harz to thee, bright and beautiful Harth !—

I have come from my home where the Lightnings dwell, Where the Thunders laugh in their giant mirth,

To watch thee, and tend thee, and guard thee well. From my Cloud-Pavilion in space afar, I have seen thee—a bright and a golden Star, Glittering still in the clear soft sky :

And, oh! with what joy to thy blissful bowers,

Where sunshine blends with fruits and flowers, On the wings of the morning light I fly ; O sister Spirit! thy throne resign, For this beautiful earth is mine—all mine.

Che Spirit of the OLY Per.

Spirit of Beauty! and art thou come To this world of sin from thine angel home, To see the sights that must strike thee dumb ? For know it is ruled by a ghastly Gnome.

A monster of monstrous crime, Conceived from the earliest time ; From the horrible womb of Hell, This loathsome infant fell !

A despot without control, His food is the human soul ; And, though millions the Fiend destroys, Yet his hunger never cloys : The accurséd God of Gold— He hath ruled from the days of old. Spirit of Beauty and Truth !—I weep For the vigil of grief that thou must keep.

Che Goce of the Sacred Past.

Oh weep ! oh weep!

For the vigil that thou must keep.

first Spirit.

Ah, me! I dreamed that this beautiful sphere, Was the home of all that was pure and good ;

And though Evil widely reigns, yet here I fondly fancied he never could.

The creatures of earth are passing fair,

They shine like the lovely spirits of air ;

And through their eyes a heavenly soul Beams as soft as the moon’s soft gleam,— Alas ! why are they not what they seem ?

And why do they bear the Fiénd’s control ?

O sister Spirit ! for love’s sweet sake,

Tell me all ere thy Throne I take.

THE TWO SPIRITS. Le

Second Spirit, A tedious tale, and a tale of woe, Of Vice victorious, and Virtue slain ; Of Demons laughing at Truth laid low, And Justice weeping in gyve and chain. Shall I tell thee a tale like this ? Shall I cloud thy dreams of bliss ? Shall I shew thee the murderer’s aia Whetted for human life ?

Shall I shew thee the modest maid, By her trusting love betrayed ? Or religion brought to shame, By wretches in God’s high name ? Or the vile and worthless prized ? Or the noble and true despised ? Spirit of Beauty and Truth ! ah, me! Lonely and sad must thy vigil be.

Ghe Goice of the Sacred Bast.

Ah, me! ah, me!

Sad is the vigil reserved for thee.

first Spirit.

O rare, O beautiful Earth! O sky!

Zoned with ten thousand worlds of light ; O myriad Spirits, who dwell on high !

O Thou, who wieldest the thunder’s might ! Can creatures of clay like these be found, To work such deeds on God’s holy ground # Did he build this exquisite Paradise

Of garden and glen, and vale and mount,

And sunny scene and crystal fount,

For a huge bazaar, where the monster Vice Traffics in human souls for gold, And the angel Virtue is bought and sold ?

Second Spirit.

I cannot tell why the Earth was made, I know not why Man was formed from clay ; But the Fiend of Gold too long hath played Such tricks as darken the light of day. And the star of the holy Truth Hath sunk in a cloud uncouth ; And the Virtue that should have shone Upon earth is dead and gone ; And the Science that once was prized, Is laughed at and all despised ; And Faith hath departed long— And Justice is killed by wrong— And Modesty’s blush hath ceast Since the reign of the baleful Beast, Who laughs and quaffs in his palace hall, And holds his slaves like swine in thrall.

first Spirit.

But are there not souls filled with light and love, The shrine of the One, the Serene and Wise, Who, like heavenly planets that smile from above, Can still the storms in the soul that rise ? Have The Powers that throne them on thunder sent No spirits to earth on such mission bent ? Have the Gods divine forgotten the race Of mortal man, and left him lone, In the night of the mind to pine and moan,

THE TWO SPIRITS. 15

Thus in his desolate dwelling-place ? Or is this world of beauty a hell, Where the Satans only rule and dwell?

Second Spirit, This beautiful world is a hell indeed, Where the Satans hold their terrible sway, And The Powers have left in their hour of need, The race of men in their wilful way. For the Spirits of Love and Light, Whom they sent to preach truth and right, And whose hearts they filled with a fire Divine, to make men aspire ; And whose minds were by wisdom taught, And whose souls were with beauty fraught, Fallen from their high estate, At the board of the Demon wait, And pervert the immortal flame, To deeds of disgrace and shame. A sight that hath made me mourn and weep, In the watching that I was wont to keep.

first Spirit,

Alas! I weep at the tale I hear— -

The sorrowful tale from thy lips divine’; And my heart is filled with a terrible fear :

Oh, would that some other sphere were mine ! But, tell me—oh tell, ere thy flight begins, What Spirits of God have changed to Sin’s? Are any on earth, or have any been

In the dreary year of thy vigil sad ? Ah, me! thy tidings have made me mad ;

They cling in my brain like arrows keen ; And I long for the hour that shall set me free From my watch of sorrow and misery.

Second Spirit.

There zs a Spirit on earth whose course Is nearly run—thou shalt see him die ! Whose soul was lit from the purest source Of immortal Light that glows on high. But the glorious gifts of God, In the mire of passion he trod : He lived but to serve himself ; He became the slave of the Elf; He fed and grew fat on pride ; He hated, he fawned, he lied.

His heart was as dead and cold As Judas’s heart of old ; He never did one good deed, To a soul who stood in need : And the lessons he taught mankind were few, And none that could make them good or true.

The Woire of the Sueved Past.

Eighty years and two have rolled, Since this Soul found human mould, Highty years and two have passed, Since with mortal clay ’twas massed ; ~ But in all that stirring time,

What engaged that soul sublime ? Flirtings false as serpent’s tears, Worthless friendships, useless sneers,

THE TWO SPIRITS. 17

Hours of selfish sloth and thought ; Virtue spurned and good unsought ; Childish love of baubles called

Titles, for the which he crawled

On his belly all his days,

Fixing ne’er on heav’n his gaze ; Freedom, which is man’s birthright, Found no favour in his sight ;

To the starry march of Mind, Through his land his eyes were blind ; Liberty’s immortal aim,

Formed his jeer, his mock, his game ; Serfs content, and souls debased, Suited best this statesman’s taste : What he wrote, and what he stole, From the past and present tomes

Of the Muses’ singing Gnomes, Served perhaps no human soul ;

The great work, that spread his name, O’er the earth and gave it fame,

Is no blessing, but a curse ;

All who read it must be worse :

And the lessons that he gave,

Might make an infidel or knave, But ne’er a freeman, of the slave.

first Spit.

But will not this Spirit of light repent, And atone ere death for the mind misused ? The priceless gem which the Godhead lent, Should have been through earth like a lamp diffused,

That all who in valleys of darkness sit, Might illumine their sorrowing souls from it.

Second Spirit, That time is past, and the hour is nigh, Thou shalt see this erring Mortal die. He dies-—his mission is unfulfilled, As his ever must be whose sole design, Is a gorgeous temple to Self to build, And The Human prefers to The Great Divine. But, rejoice ; for a brighter era of days, Shines like a sun through the living haze : A new and celestial Race shall grow, And their spirits yclothed in fire from Heaven, Shall come, and proclaim in the thunder’s steven, Truth to the hearts that are steeped in woe ;— And the mind of Man shall burst In the end the bonds accurst ; And his soul shall walk in pride, With Truth for its godlike guide ; And Knowledge shall rule the world, And Falsehood to hell be hurled ; And Genius and Worth shall shine, Like the stars in the Milky Sign ; And Liberty sit enthroned, And Slavery die disowned ;— Spirit of Beauty ! these things shall be: They are writ in the Book of Destiny.

Ghe Goice of the Geiled Future.

I am what is, and hath been, and shall be, And those great days Mankind on earth shall see.

THE TWO SPIRITS. 19

Hirst Spirit.

O blest Prediction! O Eternal Voices Sent from the Palaces of Heaven! my soul Pants with celestial rapture—leaps—rejoices, To hear the words of Truth in thunder roll In glorious prophecy from pole to pole. O man of woman born! awake, arise ! Gird up thy soul with Wisdom, Knowledge, Truth ! Let her, like eagles, straight renew her youth, And soar aloft to heaven—the good man’s prize ; O ye pure spirits ! sent from God to teach— Eloquence, Knowledge, Poesy divine, Come forth in majesty and beauty !—each Bent to fulfil the Maker’s great design. Thousands of years have sunk into the vast And mystic grave of Death to wake no more ; Oh! be it yours from many a hallowed store, To cull the sacred wisdom of the Past, And pour it forth upon the world like light, Till Ignorance and Vice, the fiends, take flight, At the fair dawning of those golden beams Of Truth, and Virtue, Charity and Love, Foreseen in many a godlike Poet’s dreams ; Pictures of things that are in heaven above.

The SPIRIT OF THE OLD YEAR departs, as the SPIRIT OF THE New YAR ascends the throne.

Scene II. EARLY MORNING

The open country near WEIMAR. Time March 22, 1832.

Gckermuawn.

How beautiful is morn! the virgin light

Breaks from behind yon dewy hills that veil

The palace of the dawn, from whose vast gates

The white-winged steeds that bear Aurora forth, Leap, proudly pawing the pellucid skies.

The rose-cheeked Hours flash sunshine o’er the world, And from their floating tresses wreathed with light, And waving like a comet’s flowery rays,

Sprinkle rich perfume o’er the winds that wake The delicate hyacinths from their silver sleep; Sunbeams, soft airs, the song of birds, blue skies, With orange light and purple interfused, ,

And musical waters sparkling, as their waves Dance in delight over the pebbly beds

That glitter down below, like jewelled walks

Paven by Naiads for their favourite rills.

The hum of pastoral labour, the green fields

Fresh with the dews, the gently-tapering smoke From cottage roofs, the cock’s delighted crow ;

The glistening sheen of white and fairy feet

Across the living emerald of the meads ;

Young girls and laughing boys and gambolling youth,

EARLY MORNING.

And the cow lowing, and the brisk young horse, With ears attent and limbs refreshed for toil : And the grave honest watch-dog up and out Beside his master, whose clear joyous whistle Tells of content—a heart at peace with all.

From. such a scene of beauty and repose, Sadly I turn to yonder town, where ebbs The mighty life away that charmed the world With its rare harmony; broken are the strings Of that celestial lyre, and sad and faint

The last soft murmurs through its exquisite breast.

The wondrous Master sinks in final sleep, Gloriously fading, like the sun that set

Last night behind the azure mountain-peaks. The undetermined hour at length has come— He who strove ever after Possible Good,

And shunned the Unattainable with a wisdom Deep as the patriarch’s, dies; and, dying, leaves No soul on earth of equal might with his— Greatest of all the race of modern men

Since Byron went. In him was shadowed forth The true Poetic—action made sublime

By heroic purpose—whose whole aim was bent To shew in all their nothingness and guilt,

The False, Distorted, Vulgar, to men’s gaze, That they might hate and shun them.

How my soul Recalls the words he spake a few days since, While o’er his medals we conversed : 4s long As man creates there is no room for dying ;

ue A NEW PANTOMIME.

But yet the night, the great night, will come on When none shall work. Alas! I little thought The night of that great soul so near as now Rumour reports. Now does he pass away,.

On whom the Gods smiled sweetly at his birth ; Whom Venus loved and cradled in her breast ; Whose eyes Apollo kissed, whose lips were touched By graceful Mercury—on whose brow Jove set The seal of might—away, away for ever ; Leaving on earth only his pure renown,

To comfort those who live but see him not.

Why are we here? I asked. He paused, and looked, And, smiling like a god, said, That we may Immortalise ourselves, and no true man

Suffers this creed to be torn from his breast.

Nobly and truly has he won the crown

Undying for whose light he struggled long ;

While we, alas !—but why indulge the thought ?

Yet if there be a few to whom his life

Seemed an enigma, and the good he did

In his broad sphere unworthy the professions

Which he might make, or did make, let them pause Ere they pronounce harsh judgment. Men nor angels Read not the wonderful mysteries of the soul,

Which is a trinity as the Platonists hold,

Divine, angelical, and animal,

A rare and heavenly compound of whose essence

We nothing know. The part that man sustains Upon this mystic theatre, the earth,

Strange in its mixture of the True and False,

Is even to loftiest Seraphim a thing

EARLY MORNING. 25

Unveiled ; and only can the highest Gods Pronounce upon it, whether good or bad.

That which to eyes of spirits, or of flesh,

Seems outwardly a vice, may be to God

The pure sublime of virtue ; that which wears The dazzling snowy semblance of the True,

Which the wise Cherubim behold with joy,

May to The Powers appear the thing it is— Black vice enmasqued. Thus Angels, Spirits, and Men Err ever in their judgment of man’s ways ;.

And this should bid them pause ere they condemn.

[Song of a MILKMAID, heard outside. |

There is a beauteous little dame,

Take care, take care ; Mary is this beauty’s name ;

Ah! Sir, beware!

She has eyes like some young fawn’s Tripping wild on Eastern lawns, And her white and gentle feet, Lightly dance to music sweet.

Ah! take care.

She has little snowy hands, Take care, take care ; Like white lilies twined in bands ; Ah! Sir, beware!

When she strikes her light kitar, See them glitter like a star ; Feel them, too, like roses, soft, Kiss them—if she’ll let you—oft. Ah! take care.

She has ringlets richly brown, Take care, take care;

Lovelier than a jewelled crown ; Ah! Sir, beware !

You are lost if once you press

To your lips one silken tress ;

They are nets of love that hold,

By some magic, young and old.

Ah! take care.

She has temples fair and white, Take care, take care ;

Like the crescent moon at night ; Ah! Sir, beware !

And a beauteous heaving breast,

With two rosy buds imprest ;

They are there, I know, but she

Veils them up most cunningly.

Ah! take care.

She has roses in her mouth, Take care, take care ;