ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON,1

• It was Maria!—

ON HER RETURN TO THE STAGE

And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid

She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked round St. Peter's onceand return'd back.'-See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers.

I

THOU art come back again to the stage,

Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it ;

And 'tis well for this fortunate age

That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it!

It is pleasant to see thee again

Right pleasant to see thee, by Herclé,
Unmolested by pea-colour'd Hayne!

And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley !

2

Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light

(Not my Foote-I speak by correction)

As the snow on some mountain at night,

Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone.
The Pit is in raptures to free thee,

The Boxes impatient to greet thee,

The Galleries quite clam'rous to see thee,
And thy scenic relations to meet thee!

3

Ah, where was thy sacred retreat?
Maria! ah, where hast thou been,
With thy two little wandering Feet,

Far away from all peace and pea-green!
Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold,
Far away from himself and his lot!

I envy the place thou hast stroll'd,

If a stroller thou art-which thou'rt not!

4

Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing,
Methinks, at the close of the day—
When thy Billy had just slipp'd his string,
And thy little dog quite gone astray-

He bade thee to sorrow no more

He wish'd thee to lull thy distress

ΤΟ

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In his bosom-he couldn't do more,

And a Christian could hardly do less!

[This was written jointly by Hood and Reynolds. For those pieces by Reynolds alone, see the appendix ]

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WHIMS AND ODDITIES. FIRST SERIES

(1826. Fourth edition 1829)

'O Cicero! Cicero! if to pun be a crime, 'tis a crime I have learned of thee: O Bias! Bias! if to pun be a crime, by thy example I was biassed.'-Scriblerus.

A VALENTINE

I

OH! cruel heart! ere these posthumous papers
Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath;
Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers,

Have only lighted me the way to death.
Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapours,
When I am gone, and green grass covereth
Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vain—
It will not bring the vital spark again.

2

Ah! when those eyes, like tapers, burned so blue,
It seemed an omen that we must expect
The sprites of lovers; and it boded true,
For I am half a sprite-a ghost elect;
Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu,

With my last pen-before that I effect
My exit from the stage; just stopp'd before
The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door.

3

Full soon these living eyes, now liquid bright,

Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save They shed a dreary and inhuman light,

Illumed within by glow-worms of the grave; These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight,

These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have, Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh, Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh !

4

Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee,
As broken victuals to the worms will go;
And all the world will dine again but me-
For I shall have no stomach;-and I know,
When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be

As now thou art but will not tears of woe
Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct,
When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct?

5

And when thy soul is buried in a sleep,
In midnight solitude, and little dreaming

Of such a spectre-what, if I should creep

Within thy presence in such dismal seeming ?
Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep,
And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming,
And pray with mingled penitence and dread
That I were less alive-or not so dead.

6

Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove
This wilful homicide which thou hast done:
And the sad epitaph of so much love

Will eat into thy heart, as if in stone: And all the lovers that around thee move,

Will read my fate, and tremble for their own; And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh,

'Man, born of woman, must of woman die!'

7

Mine eyes grow dropsical-I can no more

And what is written thou may'st scorn to read,
Shutting thy tearless eyes.-'Tis done-'tis o'er-
My hand is destin'd for another deed.

But one last word wrung from its aching core,
And my lone heart in silentness will bleed;
Alas! it ought to take a life to tell

That one last word-that fare-fare-fare thee well!

LOVE

O LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,
Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits;
A player, masquerading many parts

In life's odd carnival ;

—a boy that shoots, From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion-partly false-part real-
A marriageable maiden's 'beau-ideal.'

O Love, what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;

A melancholy man, cross-gartering ?

Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool? A youngster, tilting at a wedding-ring ?

A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?

A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad
With palpitations of the heart-like mine-

A poor bewildered maid, making so sad
A necklace of her garters-fell design!

A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?

O Love!-but whither now? forgive me, pray;
I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.

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