The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, He changed from red to pale:
"Oh, hapless elf! 'tis the fiend himself, To whom thou hast made thy sale."
(The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught;
He crossed himself amain;
"Oh, slave of pelf, 'tis the devil himself, To whom thou hast sold thy grain !
And, sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away,
With the corn which thou hast sold,
If thou let him pay o'er one tester more
Than thy settled price in gold."
The farmer gave vent to a loud lament,
The wife to a long outcry;
Their relish for pig and ale was flown;
The friar alone picked every bone,
And drained the flagon dry.
The friar was gone: the morning dawn
Appeared, and the stranger's wain
Came to the hour, with six-horse power,
To fetch the purchased grain.
The horses were black: on their dewy track,
Light steam from the ground up-curled;
Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke,
And their tails like torches whirled !
More dark and grim, in face and limb,
Seemed the stranger than before,
As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain,
Drew up to the farmer's door.
On the stranger's face was a sly grimace,
As he seized the sacks of grain,
And, one by one, till left were none,
He tossed them on the wain.
And slyly he leered, as his hand upreared
A purse of costly mould,
Where bright and fresh, through a silver mesh, Shone forth the glistering gold.
The farmer held out his right hand stout,
And drew it back with dread;
For in fancy he heard each warning word
The supping friar had said.
His eye was set on the silver net;
His thoughts were in fearful strife;
(When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait
Was snatched by his loving wife.
And, swift as thought, the stranger caught
The farmer his waist around,
And at once the twain, and the loaded wain,
Sank through the rifted ground.
The gable-end wall of Manor Hall
Fell in ruins on the place;
That stone-heap old the tale has told
To each succeeding race.
The wife gave a cry that rent the sky,
At her goodman's downward flight;
But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast
To see that all was right.
'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman gray,
And the gold was good and true;
Which made her declare that "his dealings were fair,
To give the devil his due."
She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall,
From her fond embraces riven:
But she won the vows of a younger spouse,
With the gold which the fiend had given.
Now, farmers beware, what oaths you swear,
When you cannot sell your corn;
Lest to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh,
With hidden tail and horn.
And with good heed, the moral a-read,
Which is of this tale the pith,
If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell,
You may sell yourself therewith.
And if by mishap, you fall in the trap,-
Would you bring the fiend to shame,
Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes,
Lock up your frugal dame.
On the Wey, near Chertsey, Surrey.
[Written in 1842 with a reminiscence of August, 1807
Published in Fraser in 1860.]→→→
GAZE where August's sunbeam falls
pay and lonely walls,
Till in its light absorbed appears
The lapse of five-and-thirty years.
If change there be, I trace it not
In all this consecrated spot:
No new imprint of Ruin's march
On roofless wall and frameless arch:
The woods, the hill, the fields, the stream,
Are basking in the selfsame beam :
The fall, that turns the unseen mill,
As then it murmured, murmurs still.
It seems as if in one were cast
The present and the imaged past;
Spanning, as with a bridge sublime,
That fearful-lapse of human time;
That gul unfathomably spread
Between the living and the dead.
For all too well my spirit feels
The only change this scene reveals.
The sunbeams play, the breezes stir,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard by her,
Who, on that long-past August day,
Bahal with me these ruins gray.d
Whatever span the fates allow,
Ere I shall be as she is now,
Still, in my bosom's inmost cell,
Shall that deep-treasured memory dwell;
That, more than language can express,
Pure miracle of loveliness,
Whose voice so sweet, whose eyes so bright,
Were my soul's music, and its light,
In those blest days when life was new,
And hope was false, but love was true.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF JULIA,
LORD BROUGHTON'S ELDEST DAUGHTER, 1849.
CCEPT, bright Spirit, reft in life's best bloom, This votive wreath to thy untimely tomb, Formed to adorn all scenes, and charm in all, The fire-side circle and the courtly hall;
Thy friends to gladden, and thy home to bless;
Fair form thou hadst, and grace, and graciousness;
A mind that sought, a tongue that spoke, the truth,
And thought matured beneath the smile of youth.
Dear, dear young friend, ingenuous, cordial heart!
And can it be that thou shouldst first depart?
That age should sorrow o'er thy youthful shrine?
It owns more near, more sacred griefs, than mine,
Yet, 'midst the many who thy loss deplore,
Few loved thee better, and few mourn thee more.
A WHITEBAIT DINNER AT LOVEGROVE'S, AT BLACKWALL, JULY, 1851.
ΚΩΜΟΣ ΙΧΘΥΟΦΑΓΟΣ.
Ἥμεθα μὲν πρόπαν ἦμαρ, ἐς ἠέλιον καταδύντα,
Ωρῃ περ θερίνῃ, ὅτε μαίνετο Σείριος ἀστης,
ΙΙρὸς Μέλανος Τείχους, Ταμέσας αὐταῖσι παρ' ὄχθαις,
Δώμασιν ̓Αλσοφίλοιο, τραπέζας εὖ στορέσαντος,
Δαινύμενοι λώστους ἁλὺς ἰχθὺς καὶ ποταμοίο,
Πέρκας τε, τρίγλας τε, καὶ ἐγχέλυας σάλαράς τε,
Καὶ λευκὸν δέλεαρ, ἐρατεινῆς δαιτὸς ἄγαλμα
Τοῖς τ' ἐπὶ, ἔιδατα πολλὰ κρέων, πιάς τ' ἐλάφοιο,
Ορτυγας είς τε τέλος, κρυστάλλους τ' ἀγλαοκάρπους
*Ιίνοντές τ ̓ οἶνον, Χαμπαίγνιοι ὁν φέρον ἀγροὶ,
Η 'Ρήνου σκόπελοι, ἢ νήσων δια Μάδειρα.
Ημος δ' ήέλιος κατέδυ, καὶ ἐπὶ κνέφας ἦλθε,
Δὴ τόπε γ ̓ ἀνστάντες, ὅσοι ἀνστάμεναι δυνάμεσθα,
Σπείσαντές τε Μαράσχοινον Βρομίῳ τε καὶ Ἑρμῇ,
Οἴκαδε ἱέμενοι, μέγα ειςανεβήσαμεν ἄστυ,
Δίφροις ἀτμοφόροισι, σιδηρείη τε κελεύθῳ.
SEDEBAMUS quidem per totum diem, usque ad solem occidentem,
Tempestate utique æstiva, quum furebat Canicula stella,
Apud Nigrum Murum, Thamesæ ad ipsas ripas,
Edibus Nemoramantis, mensas qui bene instraverat,
Epulantes optimos maris pisces et flumenis,
Percusque, mullosque, atque anguillas, salarasque,
Et albam escam, jucundæ dapis summum decus:
His et insuper, fercula multa carnium et pinguedinem cervi,
Coturnices et in fine, glaciesque eximiis-frugibus-inclytas:
Bibentesque vinum, Champægnii quod tulerunt agri,
Vel Rheni scopuli, vel insularum divina, Madeira.
Quando autem sol occidit, et crepusculum advenit,
Tum denique pedibus-insistentes, quicumque pedibus-insistere
poteramus,
Libantesque Maraschoenum Baccho-Frementi et Mercurio,
Domum festinantes, magnam rediimus in urbem,
Curribus vaporiferis, ferreaque via.
ALL day we sat, until the sun went down
'Twas summer, and the Dog-star scorched the town----
At fam'd Blackwall, O Thames! upon thy shore,
Where Lovegrove's tables groan beneath their store;
We feasted full on every famous dish,
Dress'd many ways, of sea and river fish—
Perch, mullet, eels, and salmon, all were there,
And whitebait, daintiest of our fishy fare;
Then meat of many kinds, and venison last,
Quails, fruits, and ices, crowned the rich repast.
Thy fields, Champagne, supplied us with our wine,.
Madeira's Island, and the rocks of Rhine.
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