WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 5)

GOLGOTHA: A Phantasm. While the embers flare and flicker, gathering shadows thick and thicker— While the slender shaded lamplight sheds a glimmer gray and dull— On my mantle, smoke encrusted, o’er two war-knives hacked and rusted, In my fascinated vision grins a dark and dented Skull! Through the midnight Forest leaping—Death’s red harvest fresh from reaping— Once this skull was steeped and drunken in a revelry of gore: In his crimson orgie shrieking, mad with lust, and murder reeking— Thus the Blood-Avenger found him—smote him!—and he raved no more! In that forest, leaf-enfolded, many a nameless year he mouldered, Withered, shrivelled, fell to utter dry and desolate decay; Till of all his savage glory naught there was to tell the story Save this dark uncouth and dented skull I found, and bore away! With the coward thought to mock it, in each eyeball’s blackened socket Once I set a globe of silver as a dread and dismal jest. Oh! full often has the glitter of those pale orbs caused a bitter Burst of sharp and sudden terror to a timid twilight guest! But to-night their flashes daunt me, and their changing glances haunt me, And their cold glare shivers through me like a scymitar of ice! Well I know their threat is seeming—that no life is in their gleaming, Yet my soul is strangely troubled by my own accurst device! Ay! my soul is strangely troubled! and my heart-throbs fiercely doubled! And I cannot wrench my gaze from off those silver demon balls! To my brain their blaze seems burning—Ah! by Heaven! I saw them turning! Yes! see—see them! there! they roll! O God! a red light from them falls! * * * * * How its white teeth glint and glisten! Listen! Am I mad! O, listen! No! It speaks! I hear a whisper rattle through its hollow jaws! “With this jest my front adorning, Pale-Face, you are blindly scorning— Sadly, sorrowfully scorning all your Being’s Primal Laws! “Count the dim descent of ages! Turn Life’s crisp and crumbling pages! Is a single leaf forgotten in this Golgotha of Doom? Fool! You bear a fragile carnal shroud around your ghastly charnel But to add another atom to the Inevitable Doom! “I have stripped my shroud before you: You, perchance, now wear it o’er you! Every shred of Life is worn from the Dead Past o’er and o’er! Through the years the Earth is heaving with this weird and wondrous weaving, And your slender thread but waiteth till the Loom hath need for more!” * * * * * It hath ceased! There is no glimmer on the hearth! The lamp grows dimmer, Dimmer, dimmer,—now it flickers, flashes, wildly flares— is fled! Through the Darkness round me heaving, now I hear a sound of weaving, As a mighty loom were working, viewless, with a viewless thread!

THE BELLS. I. Hear, the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the Heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II. Hear the mellow wedding-bells— Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats, To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! 76 Oh, from out the sounding cells What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells. III. Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour Now, now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the dangers ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamour and the clangour of the bells! IV. Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people—ah, the people— They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone, They are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor human— They are Ghouls; And their King it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells; And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells; And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells— Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells,— To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Edgar Allan Poe.

The Swells. By Edgardo Pooh. See the Gardens with the swells— Noble swells! What power of foolery their presence here foretels! How they chatter, chatter, chatter, To each other left and right, What to them is any matter? Since their tailor and their hatter, Are their sole delight. Running tick, tick, tick, And hastening to Old Nick, By expending time and money on dancing, dicing, belles, Are the swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells! Are the foolish and profligate young swells. See the dressy little swells— Snobby swells! What a world of happiness that Moses’ paletot tells! Through the murky air of night, How they shout out their delight, From their Cashmere-shawled throats, And out of tune, What a drunken ditty floats To the gas-lamps shining on policemen’s coats, On their shoon! Oh, from out the Bow-street cells, What a gush of harmony uproariously wells! How it smells! How it knells— For the morrow! how it tells Of the folly that impels To the laughing and the quaffing Of the swells, swells, swells, Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, Of the dining and the fine-ing of the swells! 77 See the literary swells— Writing swells! What a tale of envy now their turbulency tells, How they quarrel, snarl, and fight With each other as they write! Much too dignified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, With their pen, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the buyer, In a mad expostulation with the dazed and doubting buyer! And they leap high, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour Now—now to sit or never— On a throne above all other men. See the venerable swells! By-gone swells! What a world of solemn thoughts their gaiety compels! In their ancient fashioned coats, In their stiff cravatted throats, How we recognize the Regent and his corps! There remains now not e’en one, All, all the set are gone, Ils sont morts! Save the few men—ah! these few men! Who are left among the new men All alone! And who toiling, toiling, toiling, Through their days, mere skin and bone, Feel a pleasure now in spoiling Each hearty, healthy tone— Do these swells, swells, swells, These swells, swells, swells, swells, Swells, swells, swells, These worn-out used up, godless, ancient swells! Our Miscellany.—By E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough, 1857.

The Ball-Room Belles. See, the ball-room full of belles, Merry belles, What an evening of flirtation their merriment foretells. How they chatter, chatter, chatter, Through the mazy Mabel valse. Mothers glancing, but what matter! Pleasant partners how they flatter, Never dreaming girls are false When they sigh, sigh, sigh, And pretend that they would die— But they dream of expectations of the golden studded swells Hear the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, Hear the laughing and the chaffing of the belles. See the richly-dowered belles, Golden belles, How they cotton to the stupid-headed swells. With what grace and matchless art They can play their pretty part For the quartered coats of arms! Champerones How they advertise the charms Of their darlings,—with ever ready alarms Undertones! Oh! and then these high-born swells, What a want of education their conversation tells. How it sells, How it dwells Upon bathos! how it tells Of the lesson that impels All the sighing and the lying Of the belles, belles, belles, Of the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, All the glancing and the dancing of the belles. Hear the loudly-talking belles, Prancing belles, How we sorrowfully gaze upon their costume, since it tells Of the latest Paris fashion! And the dark eyes how they flash on Every simple-looking girl! They can only whirl, whirl To the tune, With a noisy explanation of their doings in the Row, With a careless declaration that the ball is very slow. Dancing round, round, round, To the merry music’s sound, Never pausing for a breath, Tho’ their partners pale as death, Look and gasp as if they’d fall into a swoon. Oh, you belles, belles, belles, What a tale your muslin tells; And your hair. How you sneer and pick to pieces Major Maberly’s six nieces, How you flirt upon the fifty-seventh stair; Yet the people guess at last, By your laughing, And your chaffing, Your vocabulary’s fast. And the ear distinctly tells You are slangy, And slap-bangy, From your joking with the swells, And their easy conversation with the loudly-talking belles, With the belles, With the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, From the grinning and the dinning of the bells! Fun, December 30, 1865.

Pills. An Edgar Poe(m). See the doctors with their pills— Silver-coated pills! What a world of misery their calomel instils! How they twingle, twingle in the icy-colden night. You have taken two that mingle, And you wish you’d had a single; While your cheeks are ashy white. And every time, time, time You groan in pantomime A tan-tan-tantalising yearn for rum your bosom fills To lull the paean of pills, pills, pills, The mountain An Edgar Poemisery of pills! 78 Take one of Morrison’s pills, Or Parr’s life pills— Warranted, or the money returned, to cure all ills; To bring repose at night, And occasion you delight, When they’re fairly down your throat, From noon to noon. And eloquence promote For your turtle dove who listens while you doat Neath the moon. Oh, read the flaming bills And the extract from a letter that voluminously fills The hand-bills, And the tills Of the vendor of the pills, Whose physic never kills, Money ringing, Money flinging In the tills, tills, tills, From the pills, pills, pills, pills, And what chiming, and what rhyming on the pills! Beware of strychnine pills— Brazen pills. What a work of horror their treachery fulfils! The false friend with a smile Stands beside you for a while; And you’re pleased to hear him speak While you shriek, shriek, And moan, moan. Your heart and brain consuming in the fire, fire; Your pulse and temples throbbing in the fire; Beating higher, higher, While you gaze and still admire The murd’rer beside you, Who knows what must betide you, As he watches for the swoon. Oh, the pills, pills, pills, What a pang of terror thrills, And despair, Every heart that beats with love; When the evidences prove That the murderer for days and nights was there; Tending gently as a nurse, Always whining, While designing How to make you worse and worse. See! The glass he quickly fills With some new fangle, Life to strangle, While your fine old port he slyly swills, And knows the hour is fast approaching by the number of the pills, Of the pills; By the number and the poison of the pills. And you roll, roll, roll, Roll— With the paean of the pills; And he a draught distils To qualify the pills, And he’s thinking of the wills That Doctor’s Commons fills (!) Keeping time, time, time, In the subtlety of crime, By the paean of the pills, Of the pills: Keeping time, time, time, In the hardihood of crime, By the throbbing from the pills, From the pills, pills, pills, By your sobbing from the pills, Keeping time, time, time, As he kneels, kneels, kneels. In the blasphemy of crime, By the pulse he feels, feels; While the pills, pills, pills Are perfecting all their ills. Oh, the pills, pills, pills— Pills, pills, pills! So ends my rhyming and my chiming on the pills. Damer Cape. Vagrant Leaves, No. 2., Nov. 1, 1866.

The Hells. Hear the echoes from the Hells— German Hells! What a tale of selfishness their recollection tells! How fickle fortune battles With the ball that rolls and rattles On its devilish career! While the coins that oversprinkle, All the numbers seem to twinkle, With a simper or a sneer. Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of ruined rhyme. To the hum of speculation that annually swells From the Hells, Hells, Hells— From the Hunters and the Punters of the Hells. Hear the merry laughing Hells, Baden Hells! Ringing out their call to happiness like wedding bells; Blinding eyes with lust of gain, Dead’ning hearts to others’ pain, With the molten gold and notes. Calling out, “We are misery’s antidotes!! Come and clutch us!” o’er their poison-beauty gloats Longing Doubt— How the air resounding fills With the cries from out that Hall of Cure for Ills! How the swells At the wells, Dream of health or of wealth, how each tells Of the craving that impels To the winning and the sinning Of the Hells, Hells, Hells, To the losing and abusing of the Hells. Hear the losers at the Hells— Homburg Hells! What an end of dread despondency their mien foretells! When fortune turns her back, And the promised Red looks Black, And the Black grows Red with shame, As it hears its worshipped name; All is lost In a timorous appealing to the mercy of Leblanc: In a sad expostulation with the croupiers of Leblanc: Playing higher, higher, higher, With a maddening desire And a desperate endeavour Now—now to win or never, 79 Though it love and honour cost. Oh the Hells, Hells, Hells! What tale their echo tells Of despair! How they cling to Black and Red! What a tremor they outspread On the loving hearts that wait in hope at home. Yet the year it fully knows By the curses Or the purses How the fortune ebbs and flows! How the scandal stinks and smells By the sinking or the swelling in the budget of the Hells! Hear the groaning in the Hells— German Hells! Ev’ry coin in hope thrown down, Be it florin, thaler, crown, Is a groan. And the croupiers dressed in sable, Sitting down before the table, And who dealing, dealing, dealing, In that well-known monotone Coldly glory in the feeling That their human heart is stone! Green cloth their only scenery, They go by some machinery Without souls; And their master takes the tolls, While the ball it rolls and rolls, Rolls And rattles in the Hells. But his heart no longer swells At the Pæan of the Hells; For he hears above the echo of the Hells The knells, knells, knells, Of the Hells. In the fast approaching time, When ruin, lust, and crime Will be driven from the wells, In the downfall of the Hells— Of the Hells, Hells, Hells, To the moaning and the groaning of the Hells! The Tomahawk, October 19, 1867.

Christmas Fancies. Here is Christmas with its bills—Little Bills! ’Mid a world of merriment intruding with their ills. What a tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, At the area bell all day, They’re enough the brow to wrinkle Of a placid periwinkle, With their constant “Please to pay.” Coming time after time, Without reason, without rhyme, Holding long confabulations on the lowness of their tills; With their bills, bills, bills, bills! Bills, bills, bills, Oh, the worry and the scurry of the bills! And the Host of other ills—Christmas ills! Eatables in baronies and drinkables in rills, All the day and all the night Spent in over-eating quite, And in pouring down your throat Inopportune— Floods of liquor that would float— If not a merchant vessel—a big boat, Pretty soon! Oh, the gorges and the swills, With no thought about the morrow, and the call for Dr. Squills, And your wills, Codocils, That you write with shaky quills, For ’tis indigestion kills! Oh, the languish and the anguish Of your ills, ills, ills, ills, Ills, ills, ills, Oh, the bother and the pother of your ills! Then to-morrow and its pills—bitter pills! Fever-heats succeeding on the heels of horrid chills, All the livelong restless night— What a cheerful Christmas plight! Too much agonized to speak, You can only squeak—squeak Like a coon, In a clamorous appealing from your indigestion’s pangs— In a mad expostulation with the gnawing of its fangs, And a sense of utter loathing for the pills, For the pills, pills, pills, pills, Pills, pills, pills— And the comrades of the pills, The pills, bills, ills! Oh, the very name of Christmas all my soul with terror fills. Fun, December 28, 1867.

The Bells. Oh, those bells—oh, those bells! Oh, those bells, bells, bells! Oh, the weary, weary, worry that their ringing always tells! How they jangle and they jangle Through the troubled day and night! How they clash, and clang, and mangle, As if calling out in spite— You must run, run, run! Your work’s never done, From the rising to the setting of the sun, sun, sun. Oh, those never-ceasing bells— Chamber-bells— What a climbing and a fetching their music ever tells! Now it’s number seven hundred— Now it’s number twenty-five— Now it’s forty more in chorus Calling—Waiter, look alive! Ting-a-ling, ling, ling, Don’t you hear me ring, ring? You, had better come a-running, or I’ll break a string, string! Oh, those silver-sounding bells— Parlour-bells— What a coming and a running their melody compels! How they jingle, jingle, jingle, Till the horrid jingling seems To multiply and mingle Into harsh and mocking screams, Crying—Fly, fly, fly! We are paying very high, We’ll get our money’s value, or we’ll know the reason why. 80 Oh, those cruel, clanging bells— Front-door bells— Oh, what cozy dreams of comfort their sounding forth dispels! How their clanging and their banging Keeps one trotting to and fro, Till you seem a sort of nightmare, Kept forever on the go By the clang, clang, clang, And the bang, bang, bang! Till the ringers of those door-bells you could hang, hang, hang! Oh, that best and blessed bell— Dinner bell— With what harmony and melody its brazen accents swell! How its full and unctuous greeting Seems to reach your inner man, And you answer as a waiter, And a hungry waiter, can To its ding, dong, dong! Come along, long, long! So the blessed bell for dinner ends my song, song, song! Anonymous.

The Bills. See the members with their bills. Private bills, What a world of promises their bringing-in fulfils; How they jostle one another, And compete for vacant nights, How they pant, and gasp, and smother, Pushed aside by party fights, While their movers, standing by, Emit a doleful cry, Apprehensive of the destiny that ultimately kills Their bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, The dismal fate in keeping for their bills. See the silly annual bills, Foolish bills, With what-deluded hopefulness their introduction fills All their friends throughout the land, Who can never understand, That the House will throw them out One by one; That though the movers shout At a speaker who is dozing while they spout, When they’ve done, With patience sorely tried, But with a gush of thankfulness the members will divide, And decide, To deride The foolish annual bills; And the lesson each instils Is, that clearly these are merely Futile bills, bills, bills. Bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, Never to be anything but bills. See the Ministerial bills, Burly bills, With what prolonged expectancy their introduction thrills! Through the country far and wide, Their friends exult with pride; Too much horrified to speak, Their opponents only shriek In affright, In a clamourous appealing to the wisdom of the House— In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic House. They declare the bills a chouse, And affirm they will, by nous, Rouse the country now or never, By a resolute endeavour, To resist the pale-faced premier, With his bills, bills, bills, While each party-leader drills For the fight His forces great or small To enfranchise or enthral The country on the great division night; And the public hardly knows, Mid the wrangling And the jangling, How the danger ebbs and flows, But each newspaper instils Into readers, By its leaders, All its own views of the bills,— Its own views of the pestilent or patriotic bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, The stupendous and tremendous public bills. See the sickly autumn bills, Dying bills, What a flood of penitence each moralist distils From their slow but sure decay, As the session wears away, From the melancholy lesson that they teach; For every dying scheme Is in its turn the theme Of a speech, And is tediously debated Until hopelessly belated, Overthrown, And its mover prosing, prosing, In a muffled monotone, Feels a glory in disclosing All its merits little known. In the spring he moves the bills, And clears his voice and swills From a tumbler set beside him, While his enemies deride him, And his friends cry out, “Hear, hear,” And he wins a feeble cheer, Now and then Only, when With brows knit in a frown, His arm sways up and down, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the moving of the bills: Of the bills, To the solemn exposition of the bills, Till at last the daylight lengthens, And the summer sunshine strengthens, And finally it grills The members in their places, So sadly, with long faces, They consent to slay their bills, 81 To abandon all their bills; All their bills, bills, bills, To massacre their bills, Though sorely ’gainst their wills. And each bereaved one fills The house with lamentations o’er his bills, With sorrow at the slaughter of his bills: Of his bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, With sorrow at the slaughter of his bills. Fun, August 13, 1870.

The Flute. Lo, the fluter, with his flute— Grecian flute! How long the world has waited For its tantalising toot! “Unheard melodies are sweetest, Said the charming poet Keats; But our pleasure is completest When we hear them on the streets; Or sounding loud and shrill Through the homes of Murray-Hill— On the heights of Murray-Hill Loud and shrill, Hear the flute, flute, flute, flute, Flute, flute, flute. That wicked Broadway Journal, Whose Editor infernal, Lets no trumpet but his own Through the market place be blown— Had the chief not been carousing, Had the “Raven” not been drowsing, The world had not been waiting, Been waiting, all in vain, For that melancholy strain Of the flute flute— In anxious expectation for the tintinnabulation Of the flute. American Paper.

The Chimes Done in Rhymes. AFTER POE AND NEWMAN Harken to the chimes That in these Sunday times, Ring out upon the air. From the lofty spire, Rising higher, higher, In great waves of sound Vibrating round and round, Calling out to prayer, And dropping iron blessings down, In sweetest music on this wicked town. We hear professor Pratt, Keen and clear G flat, And in each ring there seems to be, A “horse” cry of agony— The tortured tones Of groans and moans— A poor creature’s speechless agony, They rise and swell, Like cries from hell, Calling the faithful forth to solemn prayer Then came Schuyler— Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler, How it rings and sings and swings, Vibrating on the ear, As if the hollow smile were set to music here. “Come ye Christians,” cryeth Schuyler, The soft political beguiler, “Come ye Christians, join with me In praises of the powers that be, For have we not a neat majority?” Just such praise in troubled days Of Our Savior; he would have cried, “The law should take its course, let him be crucified.” Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler, From the spire, rising higher, Rings and swings and sings The bell, That of a politician’s heaven seems to tell. Of a deeper, coarser tone Chimes the bass a lengthened groan, For it tells alone, Alone, Of the punishment that’s sent In the person of our President. Dull and hollow, how it moans In its heavy undertones! As if it sought to tell— That bell— Of a burdened people doomed to toil That rogues may fatten off a wasted soil; Of want and degradation dire, War, pestilence and fire; Where rules no ballot but the bayonet, And Liberty that was and is not yet; Of Peace, sweet Peace and great content, Ere the coarse soldier came to be our President Of office sold for gifts; Of a low greed that lifts Mean men to power, When cowards rule while good men cower. How it rolls and roars, And on us pours Its flood of heavy sound The vibrating air around, As the iron tongue upon the iron rim Clangs out its cry of sin: Fasting and prayer for a people curs’d Of all ills the evil far the worst— A stupid tyranny that brings No compensation on its blackened wings. These are the Newman chimes, And these our modern times. Were Our Saviour, with weary feet, Again to walk the dusty street, And see that lofty steeple; Hear its clangor calling in the people See the saints with saintly faces; In diamonds, silks, and costly laces Thronging to their downy places— Hear his apostle state From marble stall to velvet-cushioned seats, Not the words of peace, but those of deadly hate While Mammon the scene completes— Much would He marvel, and we fear, Seizing the rod Would drive old Newman out, and clear Our goodly people from the house of God. 82 Ding, dong, bell, Hear them swell— Pratt, G flat, scat! Schuyler smiler, Schuyler smiler; While groans And moans In heavy undertones The Presidential bell. D. P. The Capital, (U.S.A.) November 26, 1871.

The Bills. By the late Edgar Allan Toe. I. Hear the duns with lots of bills— Unpaid bills! What a world of merriment their misery distils! How they rattle, rattle, rattle, On your sported outer door! While within you drink and prattle. For an oak is half the battle With a dun—unchristian bore, Keeping knock, knock, knock, Like a sort of ticking clock, To the bitter tribulation of your gyp whose hand he fills With his bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, With a lumping and a thumping lot of bills, II. Hear the loud alarm of bills— Tailors’ bills— What a tale of trousers and of coats whose volume fills Some dozen drawers. They might Make one scream out with affright— Too hard up to pay this week; You can only speak, speak Through the door, In a pitiful appealing to the mercy of the dun, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and dirty dun. Bills get higher, higher, higher, And the parent’s wrath is dire; His son’s resolute endeavour Not now to pay nor ever, Making him scold and swear and roar. Oh the bills, bills, bills, Hardest far of human ills To remove! How they cram and crowd each drawer, What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating gov! Yet the ear it fully knows When one’s thinking, Or a drinking, When a dun comes up or goes; Yet the hand it fully fills Up a beaker, Getting weaker, And the beggar drinks and swills. But that drinking and that swilling gets one off some of the bills; Of the bills— Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills— In the paying or delaying of the bills. The Light Green, Cambridge, 1872.

The Bells. By an Overworked Waiter Hear the strangers pull the bells— Tinkling bells! What voracious appetites their clattering foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, From morning until night, And the dishes seem to twinkle, As the gravies oversprinkle, With a crystalline delight; And they chime, chime, chime, As a shout from time to time, From “pottle-bodied” gourmands or animated swells, Is mingled with the ever-ringing bells— Bells, bells, bells— The tintinnabulation of the bells. Hear the early breakfast bells— Tiresome bells! Perhaps a Continental trip their harmony foretells, With a guest awake all night, And ringing, ere ’tis light, For change of gold or note, Hours too soon. While the ship he wants to sail by does not float Out of harbour until noon; And in accents most unmusical he yells For coffee to be taken, With toast and eggs and bacon, Up many flights of stairs, while he tells Of twenty other wishes Respecting drinks and dishes, Which I strive to hear in vain, For a train A thousand country visitors propels From Bath or Tunbridge Wells, Who come ringing, ringing, ringing at the bells— Bells, bells, bells— And I march away to answer fifty bells. Hear the hasty dinner-bells— Frantic bells! What a tale of hunger now their turbulency tells! The fires are blazing bright, The cooking is all right, But I scarce can breathe or speak, I’m so bothered all the week— Don’t have a bit of rest— Through the clamourous appealing of some gormandising guest, And in mild expostulation to his deaf and frantic ire, I say, “Yessir, yessir, yessir,” To my hard-hearted oppressor, ’Mid the clatter Of the platter, And of dish and glass and spoon, Or an organ, With the owner like a Gorgon, Grinding in the street some doleful tune; Yet the ear it fully knows By the twanging And the clanging, How the dining ebbs and flows, To the jangling of the bells— Bells, bells, bells— To the clamour and the clangour of the bells. 83 Later still the supper bells— Busy bells! What a world of cheerful thought their melody compels, Of pleasant airs that float From operatic throat, Of farce and pantomime; But the bells begin to chime, And, alas! unlucky wight, Not for me is such delight, The pleasure-seekers claim me as their own; Be it man or be it woman, They are all alike inhuman— They are ghouls Wanting soles, Sausages and rolls, Flowing bowls, Pie or tart, Souper a-la-carte, Lobster salad, oyster, Peppered grill, or something moister; And they chat and laugh and joke, Heedless of the yoke Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Which my presence through the weary night compels, Till morning comes again with the bells— The merciless and everlasting bells. Funny Folks, April 3, 1875.

The Girls. Hear the laughter of the girls— Pretty girls. What a fund of merriment each ruby lip unfurls! How they chatter, chatter, chatter, In the balmy air of night! While the stars that over-spatter All the heavens hear their clatter In a soft and wild delight; To the tintinnabulation that, increasing, ever purls From the girls, girls, girls, girls. Girls, girls, girls, From the wild, capricious, saucy, jaunty girls. See the flirting of the girls, Radiant girls! How the lover’s softened brain wildly whirls Through the mazes of the ball, Up and down the stately hall! How he skips to and fro And perspires! Would that we could tell the idiot all we know Of the fires Into which the false ones hurl. Each new whim—see the flame—how it swirls! How it curls! How it curls! Better far that they were churls, Than fall victims to the girls; To the prattle and the rattle Of the girls, girls, girls, Of the girls, girls, girls, girls, Girls, girls, girls— To the sacking and heart racking of the girls! Merry Folks.

The Bills. After Poe, by a Mercantile Poet. See the traders with their bills Showy bills; What a joyous feeling every speculator fills, As his bills go crinkle, crinkle, On the counters smooth and bright; And the eyes of bankers twinkle At their shareholders delight, Who are dreaming all the time, Of dividends sublime— Of a very high percentage made from cashing doubtful bills, Bills, bills, bills, bills, Of gratifying profits from accommodation bills. See the foreign merchants’ bills, Flimsy bills! For railways, ships and waterworks and tunnels through the hills, Oh, we take them with delight, And for “3 months, after sight” Give them sovereigns and notes; And very soon The merry gambler floats Far away from British shores, while he gloats On the boon; An operatic melody he trills, And his mellow meerschaum fills, And he swills A bumper as he chuckles at the state of bankers’ tills; When his bills Falling due, Not a Jew Will give twopence for the batch of foreign bills. Then the failure of the bills, Brazen bills! What a tale of terror now the crazy city fills! Managers, directors, how it thrills! When they see from morn till night, Houses crashing left and right, Fearing, ere a week, A crowd may shriek, shriek, With a clamorous appealing at the counters of the bank Saying, gentlemen, we’ll thank You very much without delay to empty all your tills; Things are looking very black, And we want our money back; And the banker fully knows By the banging And the clanging How the danger ebbs and flows. But we trust these passing ills Will clear the city air, By inducing greater care How good money is exchanged for worthless bills, Bills, bills, bills, bills, In discounting such accommodation bills. Funny Folks, 14 August, 1875.

The Belles. I. Oh, the dancing of the belles, Silver belles! What a world of merriment that glancing group foretells. How they dance, dance, dance, In the white and heated light, 84 Till the berries that o’ersprinkle Every picture seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight. Keeping time, time, time, To the valse-exciting rhyme Of Der Schönen Blauen Donau that so musically wells; Oh, the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, Oh, the dancing and the glancing of the belles. II. Oh, the court-invited belles, Golden belles! What a world of plush and paint their dazzling grandeur tells. Through the balmy air of night, Through a vision of delight, From the jarring city notes Out of tune, What a splendid vision floats To the eyes of Miss Fitz-Neotes Of Aroon! Oh the crushing and the rout, And the gathers that come out! How the agony voluminously wells, How it swells! How it dwells! On the temper how it tells! To what anger it impels. Oh, the rushing and the crushing of the belles! Of the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, Oh, the tearing and despairing of the belles! III. Oh, the belles of the Mabille, Brazen belles! What a world of lying love their honied accent tells. In the glare and in the light How they dance out their delight, Thinking of the future never, Dancing on and dancing ever, With a weary simulation of a love they cannot feel, In the glare and in the glitter and the hell of the Mabille. Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour Now—now to win or never, Golden youth! Oh, the belles, belles, belles, What a tale their laughing tells Of despair. How they dance, dance, dance, With a weary smile and glance, In the glare and in the glitter that are there! Yet the eye it fully knows By the sighing Lips and dying How the hoping ebbs and flows. Yet the eye distinctly tells How the hoping sinks and swells, By the dancing, and the glancing, and the prancing of the belles, Of the belles— Of the belles, belles, belles, belles, Belles, belles, belles, By the sighing lips and dying of the belles. Benjamin D——. His Little Dinner, 1876.

The Bills. Hear the doctor with his bills, Horrid bills! What a world of medicine, of powders and of pills, How you sicken, sicken, sicken, When they burst upon your sight, While your very pulse will quicken, And your blood will seem to thicken, And throb in fearful fright, Keeping time, time, time, In an allopathic rhyme, To the merry little “guinea” that so very neatly fills Up the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, That adds a portly total to the bills. Hear the tailor with his bills, Heavy bills! What a vast extravagance their money column fills, In the merry summer’s light, How they pall upon the sight, From the hard up debtors’ throats, In dismal tune, What a grumbling ditty floats, To the sanguine “Master Stitchem” as he gloats, Grasping loon. Oh, from out his sounding tills What a rush of chinking satirically trills, How it trills, How it spills. Hopes of Future! How it fills Up the cranium to “dils.” Oh, the adding and the padding, Of the bills, bills, bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, Till we’re bilious at the summary of bills. Hear the butcher with his bills, Meaty bills! What a hearty appetite their money column fills, On the thoughtful mind at night, How they grin with blue delight, We’re too much annoyed to speak, But we shriek a dismal shriek, And out of tune, In a senseless, vain appealing to the mercy of the man, In a vain expostulation with the deaf and grasping man. Screaming man, man, man, Make them smaller if you can, And our sensible endeavour Shall be never, never, never, To pay the greasy, red-faced loon. Oh, the bills, bills, bills, What a cup their total fills, Of despair! How they come in more and more, Till the eye is nearly sore As it contemplates the culminating store. Yet the mind it fully knows By the ringing, They are bringing, A further lot which we must add to those, Yet the bosom quickly fills, By the ringing, By the ringing, With a dark foreboding fills, For it knows of many long outstanding unreceipted bills, Heavy bills! Oh, the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, Oh, the torture we are put to by the bills! 85 Hear the matron with her bills! Many bills, What a pleasant breakfast time their large addition kills. From our happy dreams by night, How we start with ghastly fright, And quick relapse with melancholy groan, Again to hear their notes From their grim fantastic throats In threatening tone. And the devils! Ah! the devils, And minutely he that revels All alone In the padding, padding, padding, In that dismal monotone, Feels delight as thus he’s adding Round the debtor’s neck a stone. He is neither man nor woman, But a junior clerk inhuman, Worst of lads. And his chief it is who pads, And he adds, adds, adds, Adds More figures to the bills, And his demon mind it fills With delight to view the bills, And he capers and he trills, Keeping time, time, time, In a Basinghall street rhyme, To the rustle of the bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, To the total of the bills, Keeping time, time, time, As he trills, trills, trills, In a Basinghall street rhyme, To the padding of the bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, To the adding of the bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, Oh, the trying care, undying, of the bills! The Corkscrew Papers. London: W. H. Guest, 1876.

The Swells. Listen to the lisping of the swells— Awful swells Ennui in intensity each drawling accent tells, As they saunter in the “Row,” With entourage comme il faut, Far too blasé e’en to speak, Save in childish pipings weak, Out of tune,— In a mild expostulation at the want of something new, In a clamorous appealing at the dearth of aught to do,— Looking cool, cool, cool, At all “get-ups” not by Poole, As club scandal they retail Of the last connubial sale Of the day! How they leer, And peer, and sneer, At Saint John’s Wood broughams queer, In a charmingly debilitated way! Next, we have another kind of swells— Seedy swells! Impecuniosity within their aspect dwells, And their boots, and hats, and clothes, Sadly foreign are to those Which our former friends disclose Every day! And they dismally recur unto the days ere tick expired, When they dined and wined ad lib., and were both fêted and admired— Ere the Hebrew would refuse To transmute their I O U’s, And they only knew the blues As a bore; When the features of their creeds Were feeds, and weeds, And steeds, And the thought of being poor In the future they ne’er saw, But would greet it with a roar, To be sure! Last, we have the naughtiest of swells— Howling swells! Each, in larks nocturnal, both our other friends excels, Thinking nought of getting “tight,” Screeching out in wild delight In the “startled eve of night” Tavern melodies, despite The warning of the much-disgusted “p’lice,” Making rows, rows, rows, Imitating small bow-wows, While the cats on all the tiles, Whom this mad defiance riles, Add their quota to the torment of the Peace! Yes, these swells, swells, swells, Bibulation deep impels To wake the peaceful midnight with their yells, yells, yells, With their yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, yells, Their sleep-destroying, horrifying yells! Worthy a Crown?—1876.

The Bells. Hear the tramcars with their bells, Merry bells, What a good threepennyworth their melody foretels, As they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, Through the day and through the night, All the cars that oversprinkle The lines fly in a twinkle, From the red, or blue and white; And from eight p.m. they chime, Through the Corporation slime (The proper term is mud, but then you see it wouldn’t rhyme— It’s sometimes very difficult to hit upon a rhyme.) Until the licensed-victualler his customers expels, And their bacchanalian yells, Join in chorus with the bells; With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— The racing and the chasing of the bells. 86 Hear the yellow dinner bells, In hotels— How pleasant to the tympanum of all the hungry swells, How it conjures to the eye Happy dreams of pigeon pie, And gorgeous table d’hotes, Coming soon; And swimming butter boats, And turtle soup that glistens as it floats In the spoon: Now rising from the dish Comes the odour of the fish, How it smells, and it tells Why the eye so brightly glistens, and the ear so fondly listens For the bells, For the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, The rousing to carousing by the bells. Hear those clanging iron bells, Railway bells. What a page of accidents their dissonance foretels, As we thunder o’er the river How the nervous ladies shiver, How they groan. And the stoker, ah, the stoker, He who wields the mighty poker, All alone. And who, like a thing of evil, Sits undaunted on his throne, As if he knew the devil Would be careful of his own (It has often been remarked that he is careful of his own.) The engine is a pyre, The poker is his lyre, And he joins in ghastly cadence with the demons of the fire (Perhaps you’re not aware that there are demons in the fire) They rush across the fells Through the forests and the dells, And echo goblin choruses in answer to the bells, Ringing knells for the swells, With the bells, With the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, The rasping, and the grasping of the bells. Zoz, October 26, 1878.

Hear the postmen with the bills— Christmas bills! What a world of merriment their frequency instils! How they gather, gather, gather, On the file to such a height, That one wishes—don’t one, rather!— Them considerably farther— Altogether out of sight; With their “Time, time, time, With the proceeds of your rhyme— Time to meet the invitation which so chronically fills All the bills, bills, bills, bills,” Prompts our glaring and our swearing at the bills. Dash that fellow with the bills! Olden bills! What a world of happiness their cursed coming kills! And from morning until night How they check a man’s delight With demands for gold and notes: Payment for shoon, Meat and drink and coal and coats; While they nearly all desire their pounds and groats Very soon! Oh, the girls’ astounding frills! Oh, the rare old sherry which papa at moments swills! And the pills for the ills. Thence resulting! it all fills Up the avalanche which chills Us, the starters and the martyrs Of the bills, bills, bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills— Of the pining and the whining of the bills! Hear the checking of the bills, Bothering bills! What a lot of bitter spite their tedious tale distils! In the silence of the night How we plot to “fly a kite,” To avoid the moody menace of their tone! For their only antidote To the check in every note Is a loan. And the people—hang the people!— They would call from every steeple How your payments you postpone. And in calling, calling, calling Oft enough to make them blown, Proves they glory in appalling Men whose debts are all they own Be they man or be they woman, They are certainly less human Than like ghouls; And their king is he who rolls Most people into holes, Bowls Men over with his bills! And his merry bosom fills With delight at leaving bills; And he dances and he trills, Saying, “Time, time, time, To pay up your pound and dime— Pay the figure of the bills, Of the bills.” Saying, “Time, time, time! Owing money is a crime; It is robbing to have bills, To have bills, bills, bills; It is shocking to have bills!” Saying, “Time, time, time!” As he trills, trills, trills, To the growing of the bills— Of the bills, bills, bills, To the growing of the bills— Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills— To our groaning and our moaning o’er the bills. Funny Folks, January 25, 1879.

The Hose. Hear the ballad of the hose— Stripèd hose. What a blissful wealth of plumpness they tenderly enclose! Naught you’ll find in ancient story Like those shapely symmetries. Solomon, in all his glory, Was not arrayed in one of these Dainty hose, hose, hose. Nothing can compare with those Striped with the crimson color of the fragrant-scented rose. Oh! those hose, hose, hose, hose, Hose, hose, hose— Those softly rounded, garter-bounded hose. There’s a charm about those hose— Silken hose— Which, from an æsthetic standpoint, admiration will impose! And whene’er we chance to spy them, Then they seem our sole “Utopias,” And we feel we’d like to buy them— Buy them filled, like Cornucopias— Saucy hose, hose, hose. And the beauty they disclose— How the eye of the beholder in entranced rapture glows On those hose, hose, hose, hose, Hose, hose, hose— Those grace-enveloped, full-developed hose. You, by chance, may see those hose— Well-filled hose— Peeping from the mystic meshes of a labyrinth of clothes. Damsels dark and damsels fair, Each, mayhaps, displays a pair Of deftly-woven, parti-colored stockings, which more winsomely allure By the floral garniture Of their clockings. But the people-ah! the people— They that dwell up in the steeple, Far from those: ’Mid the clanging and the rumble Of the bells—they never “tumble” To the hose. At that lofty elevation, They maintain their equipose, Suffering not the excitation Consequent on seeing those Shapely hose, hose, hose— White as winter’s snows, Save the stripes, so richly tinted with the blushes of the rose, Are the hose, hose, hose, hose— Those hose, hose— Are the fascinating, aggravating hose. Lutin. Puck, (New York), May 21, 1879.

The Bills. (An apology for which Punch is proud to owe to Edgar Poe.) I. See the ever-swelling bills— Heavy bills! What a world of botherment Sir Stafford’s bosom fills! How they tumble, tumble, tumble In, to his extreme affright! While the nation ’gins to grumble At the wild financial jumble, To the Liberals’ delight. E’en the Times, Times, Times, Hints at economic crimes In the quick accumulation that the world with wonder fills, Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills,— The growing and o’erflowing of the bills. II. See the Military bills— Bouncing bills! How their growth the Chancellor’s optimism chills! For each little local fight, Afghan, Zulu, what a sight Of cash, in gold or notes, Must come soon! What triumphant mockery floats From the Radical, who capers while he gloats O’er the tune, The pretty tune to which The Nation, racked though rich, Will have to pay the piper from its coffers and its tills, For the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, The ne’er ceasing increasing of the bills! III. See the long Imperial bills— Bloated bills! How their swoln proportions hint of choking bolus pills For John Bull, who, at the sight, Stares and stammers with affright! Too much horrified to reckon All the burdens piled his neck on By the lune, The mad hallucination which his fancy did inspire, The wild and weak ambition, which his foolish brain did fire, To soar higher, higher, higher, With a lunatic desire, And an imbecile endeavour Now, now to swell, or never, To Imperial plenilune! Oh the bills, bills, bills! What a tale their tottle fills! Hard to bear! How they mount to more and more! What a cold, cold douche they pour On the folly of the frantic Jingo scare! Yet our pockets fully know, By the waxing Of the taxing, How they flow, and flow, and flow; Yet the ear that daily fills With the wrangling, And the jangling Of the rival Party quills, Knows how the Country chills, At the swelling beyond telling in the number of the bills— Of the bills— Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, bills, The mounting past all counting of the bills! Punch, Oct. 25, 1879.

I. Here’s the postman with his bills— Christmas bills! What a world of coming trouble their very sight instils! How they worry, worry, worry, In their envelopes of blue! Whilst though I conceal my flurry, I am really in a hurry, To break open and review The long lines, lines, lines, Of fours and noughts, and nines, And the terrifying total—which, as it is, my heart so thrills— Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills— Oh, the flurry and the worry of the bills! II. Here are two most lengthy bills— Bonnet bills! What a world of foolish details, to be sure, their columns fills! Here are bonnets for all weathers, Trimm’d with birds, and flowers, and feathers’ Tulle diaphanous that floats— Each new device! Gold-tipp’d grasses, silver oats, Birds have yielded up their plumage, beasts their coats,— At a price, Which is down in Madame’s bills. (Three guineas! only fancy for a wreath of daffodils!) Why it chills, And it thrills, And a lesson new instils, Does the wicked waste that fills, And makes bigger every figure Of those shameful bonnet bills! Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills— These increasing and ne’er ceasing Bonnet bills! III. Here are more alarming bills— Butcher’s bills! What a tale their total tells of the worst of household ills! How the figures seem to glare, And to tell one everywhere Of bones weighed out as meat, Of triumphant plans to cheat In their bills. In their bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills— Change the prices and devices of their bills. IV. Here are countless other bills— Sundry bills! Of which the reckoning up is like climbing up high hills! Now I tremble with affright On my lawyer’s to alight, With its endless six and eightpences All shown; And the doctors, though one line, To bad language doth incline, Or a groan; Whilst the tailor—oh, the tailor! Was he ever found to fail, or Ever known Not to pile up useless details In the manner to him prone; “Fancy twill’d,” and “double mill’d,” “Blue Elysian,” “braided,” “drill’d,” Till each garment that he retails Is described in terms high flown. Then there are bills, of course, Sent by tradesmen, who, perforce,— (Without doubt); Of American sirloins sold as Scotch beef superfine, Of suet charged but never sent, of fat skewer’d on the chine; Of rump steak at one-and-nine, And of “rounds” so steep’d in brine, That, spite resolute endeavour, One could eat it never, never! Nor anyhow the salt boil out. Oh these bills, bills, bills, Writ with skewers ’stead of quills— They recall Prices always going higher, Though at Newgate ’twould transpire Often meat had had a most decided fall. Yes, there’s scarce a line that shows Joints overweighted, Price o’erstated, As one by experience knows. Yet the whole with hope one fills, Co-operation Through the nation Soon will empty butchers’ tills; Or at least bring down the prices they are charging in their bills— With under-dash— Must make up by Tuesday week Such a sum; so from you seek Cash! To assist them with their bills, And here, too, like bitter pills, Come the long-forgotten bills— Accounts one fancied settled, Till by them, newly nettled, All the air with cries one fills, Making moan, moan, moan, In a muffled monotone, At the checking of the bills— Of the bills! Making moan, moan, moan, In the same old monotone, At the reckoning of the bills! Of the bills, bills, bills, At the checking, the reck’ning of the bills. With a deep and final groan, At the bother of the bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, At the pother of the bills, Of the bills, bills, bills, bills, Bills, bills, bills, At the bother, and the pother of the bills. Truth, January 8, 1880.

THE BELLS.[8] Hear a voice announcing Irving in The Bells—sledge’s bells! What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells! See the rush upon the pay-hole— People stand a night and day whole To secure a little corner for The Bells! To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and every “brudder” Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells! Too horrified to cheer, Folk will testify by fear How appalled they are by Irving in The Bells; While great beads of perspiration will appear, For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels! Gloomy Bells! Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story, Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells, For every Yankee “dude” Unquestionably should Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells! Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn as childish antic Irving’s dancing, and his gasping, and his yells! There’s a certain admiration which the strange impersonation Still compels, E’en from those who can’t see beauty in The Bells— In the play that Mr. Lewis calls The Bells! Wondrous Bells! You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells, Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted His performance of Mathias in The Bells? Or will every sneering Yankee, In his nasal tones, say “Thankee, I guess this is just another of your mighty British ‘sells?’” Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish Could fail to lick creation in The Bells! But if there are detractors Of this foremost of our actors, Of the gentlemanly Irving—friend of Toole’s— “They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,” They are fools! Judy, October 24, 1883.

The Voice of the Bells. I love the sound of bells At evening, when the sun To the tired labourer tells His hard day’s work is done. I love to hear, So soft and clear, Their notes go sailing o’er mount and mere. Bells, softly chime Your sweet, low rhyme, Ring on, still ring. While softly the shadows creep, Over the folded sheep. The day is done; Down goes the sun, And Silence opens the gates of Sleep. I love the sound of bells On a glorious summer morn, When ev’ry note that swells Tells of a joy new born. The wedding note Doth lightly float, Gaily o’er hill and dale, Merrily, cherrily, Madly, gladly, Telling of joys that will never fail. Bells, bells, bells! Hark how their music swells! How it floats along, Like a glorious song! Bells, bells, bells, bells! Oh, teach me the joy that your glad music tells. I love to hear the bell That is rung for a passing soul, As, solemnly over the dell, Its mournful boomings roll. Toll, toll, toll, For a passing soul; While the mourners tramp Through the graveyard damp. Toll, toll, toll! Boom, boom, boom! Over an open tomb. With a voice of terrible gloom, (Toll, toll, toll,) As long as the ages roll, Thou wilt tell men of their doom. But yet I love thee well, Thou mournful, chiming bell; For who shall say, While thou dost toll, What glorious chimes And echoing rhymes Will welcome to heaven the new born soul? * * * * *

The Bills. RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE GENTLE READER. Hark! the postman! he brings Bills! Christmas Bills!! What a world of torment now my bosom fills! How they trouble, trouble, trouble, All the merry Christmas time, While a woe unfathomable Seems to bubble, bubble, bubble In my mind and mars the merry Christmas chime. For they come, come, come, In a multiplying sum, Admitting no evasion of their ills; Oh the Bills! Bills!! Bills!!! Bills!!!! Bills!!!!! Bills!!!!!! Bills!!!!!!! Oh, the torment and the torture of the Bills! 90 Hang those Bills! Christmas Bills!! For their presence all our Christmas joy dispels; In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! And every note that floats From our dry and dusty throats Is a groan; And we wish we were the people Who dwell up in a steeple— Happy people! All alone! And who, toiling, toiling, toiling For their creditors’ despoiling, Find it easy all cash payments to postpone, And find pleasure in the spoiling, In the spoiling and the moiling, In the spoiling of a bailiff with a stone. They are scarcely man and woman, They are almost superhuman— They are kings, And like kings can sit and sing, While they fling, fling, fling, Fling rocks upon their duns; While each dun gets up and runs For his pistols and his guns, And he dances and he groans, Keeping time, time, time, In a strange spasmodic rhyme, To the volley of big stones, Of big stones; Keeping time, time, time, In a ghastly sort of rhyme, To the volleying of the stones, Of the stones, stones, stones, To the volley of the jolly big stones. Keeping time, time, time, While he yells, yells, yells, In a wild galvanic rhyme, For the payment of his bills, Of his Bills! Bills!! Bills!!! Bills!!!! Bills!!!!! Bills!!!!!! Bills!!!!!!! For the instant liquidation of his Bills! Free Press Flashes, 1883.

O! The Hammers. O! the hammers, hammers, hammers, Clanging hammers; How they beat, how they chime, With a joyous music time, Soul-inspiring, never tiring To the ear; O’er the waters of the Tyne Rolls the melody divine Loud and clear; And the toilers, strong and grim, Glory in the sounding hymn, For they know that each blow Keeps the homely hearth aglow; So they hammer, hammer, hammer, And the far-resounding clamour Gives them cheer. O! the hammers, hammers, hammers, Throbbing hammers, How they leap, how they skip, O’er the bosom of the ship, Ever beating and repeating Labour’s lay; Hark! they tell of human might, With an echoing delight, All the day; O! the battle must be won, And the toiling must be done, For the strife of each life Is for children and for wife; So they hammer, hammer, hammer, And the wild, sonorous clamour Is their stay.

Reminiscences of Summer. See the frog, the slimy, green frog, Dozing away on that old rotten log; Seriously wondering What caused the sundering Of the tail that he wore when a wee pollywog. See the boy, the freckled schoolboy, Famed for cussedness, free from alloy; Watching the frog Perched on the log, With feelings akin to tumultuous joy. See the rock, the hard, flinty rock, Which the freckled-faced boy at the frog doth sock; Conscious he’s sinning, Yet gleefully grinning At the likely result of its terrific shock. See the grass, the treacherous grass, Slip from beneath his feet! Alas, Into the mud With a dull thud He falls, and rises a slimy mass. Now, see the frog, the hilarious frog, Dancing a jig on his old rotten log; Applying his toes To his broad, blunt nose As he laughs at the boy stuck fast in the bog. * * * * * Look at the switch, the hickory switch, Waiting to make that schoolboy twitch; When his mother knows The state of his clothes Won’t he raise his voice to its highest pitch. Free Press Flashes, 1883.

That Amateur Flute. Hear the fluter with his flute— Silver flute! Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot! How it demi-semi quavers On the maddened air of night! And defieth all endeavours To escape the sound or sight Of the flute, flute, flute, With its tootle, tootle, toot— With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots, The long protracted tootelings of agonising toots, Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, Flute, flute, flute, And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots. 91 Should he get that other flute— Golden flute— Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot! How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise, As he plays, All the days! How he’ll stop us on our ways With its praise! And the people—oh, the people, That don’t live up in the steeple, But inhabit Christian parlours Where he visiteth and plays— Where he plays, plays, plays— In the cruellest of ways, And thinks we ought to listen, And expects us to be mute, Who would rather have the earache Than the music of his flute, Of his flute, flute, flute, And the tootings of his toot, Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonising toot, Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, Phlute, phlewt, phlewght, And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot. American Paper.

The Office Boy’s Mother in America. “Bells, bells, bells, bells, bells!” How their clashing, and their clanging, all thought of peace dispels! Oh, well might Edgar Allan Poe—or any other poet, born in American clime— Adopt the bells, the ceaseless bells, as subject for his rhyme. From early morn, till dewy eve, their clamour resounds loud and long, The railway train as it puffs and clatters through the streets, proclaims its passage with “ding, dong! ding, dong!” The matutinal milkman tinkle tinkles on his way, And the vegetable vendor tintinabulates “ting-a-ring! ting-a-ring!”—enough to drive one mad, as a body may say. The steamboat bell resounds, as if summoning the nation to its doom, And from chapel, church, and schoolhouse—at all hours—echoes forth the solemn “boom, boom, boom!” And at any time—day or night—just as it were—to fill up the blank, The fire-engine rushes through the streets, with its quick, sharp, metallic, warning voice, “Clank—clank—clank—clank!” It ain’t till you’ve lived in an American city that you learn how it was they came to dub The oh-no-we-never-mention-him with the name of Bells-ebub! * * * * * Judy, January 14, 1885.

In heaven a spirit doth dwell Whose great wing is a wheel. None fly so wildly well As the angel Bisakel, And the giddy stars, so legends say, Slowing their course, attend the play Of his wondrous heel. Maturing her age In her highest noon, The enamelled moon Reddens with rage, And to witness, with misgivin’, (With the nautic Pleiads even, More than seven.) Pauses in heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other gossiping things) That Bisakeli’s fire Is owing to that tire O’er which he sits and slings The trembling living wire Of those unusual wings. But surely that angel trod Treadles amazing flighty; And, for a grown-up god, Their bicycling Houris’ are His rivals—Aphrodite Transports faster than a star! The ecstasies he took With such company to deal— His leg and style, his pure caoutchouc, With the fervour of his wheel— Well may the stars go reel! We say thou art not wrong, Bisakeli, who despisest Feathers and psalming song; Bloom thou the laurels among, Best angel and the wisest,— Merrily live, and long! Ah, heaven is his’n, indeed— This world is sweets and sours; Our powers are puny powers, And the slowest of his perfect speed Is the swiftest of ours. If I could dwell Where Bisakel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not spin so wildly well Our mortal wheelery, While a better song than now might swell From my lyre within the sky— But—how is this “for high”? Lyra Bicyclica, By J. G. Dalton, Boston, 1880.

THE STEED OF FIRE. From Poe’s “Eldorado”—Fabled Golden made true steel. Soberly dight, A modern knight, Upon a hack of hire Had journeyed long Singing a song In search of a steed of fire. 92 But he grew old, This knight, tho’ bold, With o’er his heart a dire Dump as he found Nothing around That looked like a steed of fire And as his strength Waned, he at length Met a bicycling flyer: “Flyer,” said he, “What! can it be— Can this be the steed of fire?” “Upon this mount We surely count, ’Tis all you can desire; Ride, boldly ride,” Cycler replied, “If you seek for a steed of fire!” He dried his tears,— And shed his years, All on the windy wire, And sweeps along Singing much song In praise of the steed of fire. Lyra Bicyclica, By J. G. Dalton, Boston, Hodges & Co., 1880.

THE RAVEN. Scene—Study in Chief Secretary’s Lodge, Phœnix Park.[9]G.O.T. loquitor— Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary Over two delightful volumes rich in biographic lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis the footman with the tumblers, tapping at my chamber door— Only that and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November; Wrought each separate dying ember, Gladstone’s nose upon the floor, Terror-struck I feared the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow From those books surcease of sorrow; agony perhaps in store! If those students, sons of Gladstone, failed to top Sir Stafford’s score! Name it not for evermore. Open then I flung the portal, when, with impudence immortal, In there stepped a stately Raven of old Buckshot’s[10] days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he, But as cool as Joseph Brady, perched upon my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Bradlaugh just above my chamber door— Perched and spat, and nothing more. “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Parnell, or devil, Whether Gladstone or young Herbert sent or brought thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this island disenchanted, In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore, Shall I, shall I poll as many as did Roseberry before?” Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Churchhill or devil, By that bust that scowls beneath thee, by that God he don’t adore, Tell this soul with terror haunted, tell this Secretary daunted, Of the triumphs which we’ve vaunted, of the victory in store, Shall the newsboys shout to-morrow how I’ve topped Sir Stafford’s score?” Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” Anonymous. Received from Edinburgh, March 12, 1885.

Sequel to the Raven. Fires within my brain were burning, Scorning life, despairing, yearning, Hopeless, blinded in my anguish; Through my body’s open door Came a Raven, foul and sable, Like those evil birds of fable, Downward swooping where the drooping Spectres haunt the Stygian shore. Ghosts of agonies departed, Festering wounds that long had smarted, Broken vows, returnless mornings, Griefs and miseries of yore; By some art revived, undaunted, I gazed steadfast: the enchanted, Black, infernal Raven uttered A wild dirge—not evermore. Gazing steady, gazing madly On the bird, I spoke, and sadly Broke down, too deep for scorning, Sought for mercy to implore. Turning to the bird, I blessed it— In my bosom I caressed it; Still it pierced my heart, and revelled In the palpitating gore. I grew mad; the crowning fancies, Black weeds they—not blooming pansies— Made me think the bird a spirit. Bird, I cried, be bird no more; Take a shape—be man, be devil, Be a snake; rise in thy revel! From thy banquet rise—be human! I have seen thee oft before; Thou art a bird, but something more.” * * * * * Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven, Image that Hell’s King hath graven, Image growing more gigantic, Nursed beyond the Stygian shore, Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee, I would not of wrong impeach thee; I cried madly, then earth opened With a brazen earthquake roar. Downward, downward, circling, speeding, Cries of anguish still unheeding, Striking through me with his talons, Still the Raven shape he bore; Unto Erebus we drifted, His huge wings by thunder lifted, Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning, Sprinkled red with human gore— ’Twas a bird, but demon more. * * * * * Then I wakened, if to waken Be to dwell by grief forsaken With the God who dwelt with angels In the shining age of yore. And I stood sublime, victorious, While below lay earth with glorious Realms of angels shining, Crown-like on her temples evermore, Not an Earth, an Eden more. Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows From the Asphodelian meadows Of the sky-world floating downward, Early rains that from them pour; Love’s own heaven thy mother bore thee, And the Father God bends o’er thee, ’Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead; Thou shalt live forever more, Not on Earth, in Eden more. 94 As a gem hath many gleamings, And a day hath many beamings, And a garden many roses Thrilled with sweetness to the core; So the soul hath many ages, And the life’s book many pages, But the heart’s great gospel opens Where the Seraphims adore, Not on Earth, an Eden more.

A Grand Poem. From the throne of life eternal, From the home of love supernal, Where the angels make music o’er the starry floor, Mortals, I have come to meet you, And with words of peace to greet you, And to tell you of the glory that is mine forevermore. Once before, I found a mortal Waiting at the heavenly portal— Waiting out to catch some echo from that ever-opening door; Then I seized this quickened being, And through all his inward seeing, Caused my burning inspiration in a fiery flood to pour. Now I come more meekly human, And the weak lips of a woman, Touched with fire from off the altar, not with burning, as of yore, But in holy love descending, With her chastened being blending, I will fill your soul with music from the bright celestial shore. As one heart yearns for another, As a child turns to its mother, From the golden gates of glory, turn I to the earth once more; Where I drained the cup of sadness, Where my soul was stung to madness, And life’s bitter, burning billows swept my burdened being o’er. Here the harpies and the ravens, Human vampires, sordid cravens, Preyed upon my soul and substance, till I writhed in anger sore; Life and I then seemed mismated, For I felt accursed and fated, Like a restless, wrathful spirit, wandering the Stygian shore. Tortured by a nameless yearning, Like a fire-frost, freezing, burning, Did the purple, pulsing life-tide through its feeble channels pour; Till the golden bowl, life’s token, Into shining shards was broken, And my chained and chafing spirit let from out its prison door. But, whilst living, stirring, dying, Never did my spirit cease crying: “Ye who guide the fates and furies, give, oh! give me, I implore— From the myriad host of nations, From the countless constellations, One pure spirit that can love me—one that I, too, can adore.” Through this fervent aspiration Found my fainting soul salvation; Far from out its blackened fire quick did my spirit soar, And my beautiful ideal, Not too saintly to be real, Burst more brightly on my vision than the fancy formed Lenore. ’Mid the surging sea she found me, With the billows breaking round me, And my saddened, sinking spirit in her arms of love upbore; Like a lone one, weak and weary, Wandering in the mid-night dreary, On her sinless, saintly bosom, brought me to the heavenly shore. Like the breath of blossoms blending, Like the prayers of saints ascending, Like the rainbow’s seven-hued glory, blend on souls forevermore; Earthly lust and lore enslaved me, But divinest love hath saved me, And I know now, first and only, how to live and how to adore. O, my mortal friends and brothers! We are each and all another’s, And the soul which gives most freely from its treasures hath the more. Would you lose life, you must find it, And in giving love you bind it, Like an amulet of safety to your heart for evermore. Baltimore, August, 1872.

The Kingdom. ’Twas the ominous month of October— How the memories rise in my soul! How they swell like a sea in my soul!— When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober, Whose glance was a word of control, Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus, In the desolate Kingdom of Death— To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus, In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death. And there, as I shivered and waited, I talked with the souls of the dead— With those whom the living call dead; The lawless, the lone, and the hated, Who broke from their bondage and fled— From madness and misery fled. 95 Each word was a burning eruption That leapt from a crater of flame, A red, lava-tide of corruption, That out of life’s sediment came, From the scoriac natures God gave them, Compounded of glory and shame. “Aboard!” cries our pilot and leader; Then wildly we rush to embark, We recklessly rush to embark; And forth in our ghostly Ellida[11] We swept in the silence and dark— Oh God! on that black Lake Avernus, Where vampires drink even the breath On that terrible Lake of Avernus, Leading down to the whirlpool of Death! It was there the Eumenides[12] found us In sight of no shelter or shore— No beacon or light from the shore. They lashed up the white waves around us, We sank in the waters’ wild roar; But not to the regions infernal, Through billows of sulphurous flame, But unto the City Eternal, The Home of the Blessed, we came. To the gate of the Beautiful City, All fainting and weary we pressed, Impatient and hopeful we pressed. “O, Heart of the Holy, take pity, And welcome us home to our rest! Pursued by the Fates and the Furies, In darkness and danger we fled— From the pitiless Fates and Furies, Through the desolate realms of the Dead.” * * * * * Like the song of a bird that yet lingers. When the wide-wandering warbler has flown; Like the wind harp by Eolus blown, As if touched by the lightest of fingers, The portal wide open was thrown; And we saw not the holy Saint Peter, Not even an angel of light, But a vision far dearer and sweeter, Not as brilliant nor blindingly bright, But marvellous unto the sight! In the midst of the mystical splendour, Stood a beautiful, beautiful child— A golden-haired, azure-eyed child, With a look that was touching and tender, She stretched out her white hand and smiled: “Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals, O, why do ye linger and wait? Come fearlessly in at these portals— No warder keeps watch at the gate!” * * * * * Then out from the mystical splendour, The swift-changing, crystalline light, The rainbow-hued, scintillant light, Gleamed faces more touching and tender Than ever had greeted our sight— Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight; And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom, Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled; The Lord is the light of this Kingdom, And His temple the heart of a child— Of a trustful and teachable child. Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom— Receive, and believe, as a child.”

And that his feet were gaining Strange features from below; And that his toes were raining Toe-nails upon his brow: And that his heart and liver Were shuffling in their seats; And that he heard them quiver And saw their anxious heats.

* The Ruined Palace. In a green depth, like a chalice, By most sweet flowers tenanted, Stood a fair and stately palace. There a poet-soul—now dead— Lived in days in vain lamented,— Had lived to-day, But was wayward—or demented,— Weak, or worse,—who dares to say? For his thought was streak’d with fancies, To all simple truth untrue; Bizarre, as the hues of pansies,— The dark shades he knew; And he wander’d from this Aidenn: Wander’d, and was lost, alas! Though his own beloved maiden Track’d his footsteps through the grass. He return’d not. Devastation Housed in his disorder’d rooms; On his couch lay Desolation; Vampyres flitted through the glooms. By the pure white Parian fountains Lounged the ghouls, obscenely bare; Never wind came from the mountains To refresh the stagnant air. O’er the garden walks neglected Crawl’d the toad, the worm, the snail; Droop’d the young buds unrespected: Loving care could not avail. For the poet-soul, the master, Could alone that place Make beautiful, and from disaster Free—as Aidenn—by God’s grace. When he the palace left, and garden,— The moment that he would depart— * * * * * Speech is vain, and tears but harden On the world’s ice heart.

[*] The Haunted Palace. I. In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace, Radiant palace, reared its head. In the Monarch Thought’s dominion, It stood there; Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! II. Banners—yellow, glorious, golden— On its roof did float and flow (This, all this, was in the olden Time, long ago); And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A wingèd odour went away. * * * * * E. A. Poe.

Dream-Mere. On a root, knobbed, gnarl’d, and lonely. Overstruck with toadstools only, Sits an Eidolon named Night,— On a toadstool half upright. I have seen this sprite but newly, And I look’d at him quite throughly, In his ultimate dim Thulè As he sate there half upright. In a wild, weird clime, and singing sublime, Out of Tune—out of Time. 97 Bottomless hollows and roaring floods, And caves and chasms and haunted woods, Forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Shoreless seas that still aspire, Surging to hellish heavens of fire; Boundless lakes all lone and dead, Where sometimes Night lies outspread In the waters still and chilly, With his nose in a lolling lily. By these shoreless lakes outspread, These lone waters, lone and dead, These lone waters, still and chilly (Night’s nose in the lolling lily); By these toppling crags,—no river Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver— All so dark and dead and chilly; By these dank woods, by the swamp, Where the toad and bull-frog romp; By these dismal tarns, by the holes Where dwell the Ghouls— Poor damp souls! By each corner most unjolly, By each crevice melancholy, By my own poetic folly— Frenzy of poetic drift, In an unexpected rift, There, I swear, I met aghast In a sheet the unmemoried Past, In a shroud a Ghost, whose eye Looking into vacancy Made me shudder, start, and sigh,— One forgotten, from thought outdriven, I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region— This same desert drear of Night, Where the Eidolon sits upright On his toadstool, or outspread, Lies lolling on his lily-bed.— For the spirit that likes a shadow ’Tis, O, ’tis an Eldorado,— Though the traveller, travelling through it, Ever fails to interview it (No one ever openly knew it), For its mysteries all are closed By the darkness superposed Of the Eidolon, who, I ween, Wills not the formless should be seen: And thus the sad soul that here passes Is like a blind ass without glasses. On his root, knobb’d, gnarl’d, and lonely, Overstruck with toadstools only, Squats the Eidolon named Night, Squats in sad poetic plight. Is there more, and would you know it? Fix the headgear of the Poet, Wandering God knows where, but newly From this ultimate dim Thulè. *

* Dreamland. I. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, namèd Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth sublime Out of Space—out of Time. II. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms and caves and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging into skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,— Their still waters, still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. * * * * * E. A. Poe.

Israfiddlestrings. The Angel Israfel, whose heart strings are a fiddle. In heaven a Spirit doth dwell Whose heart strings are a fiddle, (The reason he sings so well— This fiddler Israfel), And the giddy stars (will anyone tell Why giddy?) to attend his spell Cease their hymns in the middle. On the height of her go Totters the Moon, and blushes As the song of that fiddle rushes Across her bow. The red Lightning stands to listen, And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten As each of the seven puts its fist in Its eyes, for the mist in. And they say—it’s a riddle— That all these listening things, That stop in the middle For the heart strung fiddle With which the Spirit sings, Are held as on a griddle By these unusual strings. 98 Wherefore thou art not wrong, Israfel! in that thou boastest Fiddlestrings uncommon strong; To thee the fiddle strings belong With which thou toastest Other hearts as on a prong. Yes! heaven is thine, but this Is a world of sours and sweets,— Where cold meats are cold meats, And the eater’s most perfect bliss Is the shadow of him who treats. If I could griddle As Israfiddle Has griddled—he fiddle as I,— He might not fiddle so wild a riddle As this mad melody, While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle Hearing my griddle-cry. *

I. In Heaven a spirit doth dwell, “Whose heart-strings are a lute;” None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel; And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. II. Tottering above In her highest noon The enamoured Moon Blushes with love; While to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiades even, Which were seven) Pauses in heaven. III. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli’s fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings,— The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. * * * * * VII. Yes, heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. VIII. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. E. A. Poe.