William Makepeace Thackeray

“ I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain than those of men; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive, Not less nor more as men, than boys; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. ”

“ Oh, gentle breast to pity me! Oh, lovely Ladye Emily! Till death—till death I'll think of thee— Of thee and Nora!
TO MARY. I seem, in the midst of the crowd, The lightest of all; My laughter rings cheery and loud, In banquet and ball. My lip hath its smiles and its sneers, For all men to see; But my soul, and my truth, and my tears, Are for thee, are for thee! Around me they flatter and fawn— The young and the old. The fairest are ready to pawn Their hearts for my gold. They sue me—I laugh as I spurn The slaves at my knee ”

“ As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er. "The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning This ever was the case. "Ned's genius, blithe and singing, Steps gayly o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it He clears it with a bound; But dulness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound. "O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other But onwards go your beat, While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet ”

“ I waken from my dreams—but there's ne'er a knight for me; I waken from my dreams—and wish that I could be A child by the old hall-fire—upon my nurse's knee!
POCAHONTAS. Wearied arm and broken sword Wage in vain the desperate fight: Round him press a countless horde, He is but a single knight. Hark! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As, with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still. Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light: Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire! Who will shield the captive knight? ”

“ You're not the poorest man in Lille. My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er any woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille. IV. Say, shall I to you Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel? Oh, do not leave me in the lurch,— I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille! Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille. And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real) , It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!— It did! and I had hope in Lille! ”

“ And, as you signed and wrote it, I prithee read the will." The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt. "My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from. "Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." "You see, good Ned," says Thomas, "What he thought about us twain." ”

“ Ah! what a thrill felt Hyacinth, When he heard that villanous shout Calmuc! Now, thought he, my trial beginneth; Saints, O give me courage and pluck! "Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk!" Thus unto the friars he began: "Never let it be said that a monk Is not likewise a gentleman. Though the patron saint of the church, Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd, Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch, Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid!" ”

“ And thou wert once a maiden fair, A blushing virgin warm and young: With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, And glossy brow that knew no care— Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung. The golden locks are silvered now, The blushing cheek is pale and wan; The spring may bloom, the autumn glow, All's one—in chimney corner thou Sitt'st shivering on.— A moment—and thou sink'st to rest! To wake perhaps an angel blest, In the bright presence of thy Lord. Oh, weary is life's path to all! Hard is the strife, and light the fall, But wondrous the reward! ”

“ One has brought a jewel—and one a crown of gold, And one has brought a curse—but she is wrinkled and old. The gentle queen turns pale—to hear those words of sin, But the king he only laughs—and bids the dance begin. The babe has grown to be—the fairest of the land, And rides the forest green—a hawk upon her hand, An ambling palfrey white—a golden robe and crown: I've seen her in my dreams—riding up and down: And heard the ogre laugh—as she fell into his snare, At the little tender creature—who wept and tore her hair! ”

“ WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL AND GLOW? THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG. Winter and summer, night and morn, I languish at this table dark; My office window has a corn- er looks into St. James's Park. I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn, Their tramp upon parade I mark; I am a gentleman forlorn, I am a Foreign-Office Clerk. My toils, my pleasures, every one, I find are stale, and dull, and slow; And yesterday, when work was done, I felt myself so sad and low, I could have seized a sentry's gun My wearied brains out out to blow. What is it makes my blood to run? What makes my heart to beat and glow? ”

“ Lettest the heathen enter in our city, And, without pity, Murder out burghers, seize upon their spouses, Burn down their houses! Is such a breach of faith to be endured? See what a lurid Light from the insolent invader's torches Shines on your porches! E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and hammer And hideous clamor; With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, bowmen, The conquering foemen, O Sophy! beat your gate about your ears, Alas! and here's A humble company of pious men, Like muttons in a pen, Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be thrusted, Because in you they trusted. ”

“ We rise,—we join in the triumphant strain,— Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won— Tyrants shall never tread us down again, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. Let us begone—the place is sad and strange— How far, far off, these happy times appear; All that I have to live I'd gladly change For one such month as I have wasted here— To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will outrun, And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, Give me the days when I was twenty-one! ”

“ Cheer up! 'tis no use to be glum, boys,— 'Tis written, since fighting begun, That sometimes we fight and we conquer, And sometimes we fight and we run. "To fight and to run was our fate: Our fortune and fame had departed. And so perish'd Louis the Great,— Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. His coffin they pelted with mud, His body they tried to lay hands on; And so having buried King Louis They loyally served his great-grandson. "God save the beloved King Louis! (For so he was nicknamed by some,) And now came my father to do his King's orders and beat on the drum. ”

“ Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door? 'Tis a national disgrace: Let me go and veil me face;" And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore. "Cut down the bloody horde!" Says Meagher of the sword, "This conduct would disgrace any blackamore;" But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore. Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line; 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar; In his glory he arose, And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. ”

“ If the ditty sound but oddly, 'Twas a father, wise and godly, Sang it so long ago— Then sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: "Who loves not wine, woman and song, He is a fool his whole life long!" II. He, by custom patriarchal, Loved to see the beaker sparkle; And he thought the wine improved, Tasted by the lips he loved— By the kindly lips he loved. Friends, I wish this custom pious Duly were observed by us, To combine love, song, wine, And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: "Who loves not wine, woman and song, He is a fool his whole life long!" ”

“ The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing TOM is laughing yet; There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage; There's poor old FRED in the Gazette; On JAMES'S head the grass is growing; Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! ”

“ And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
THE MAHOGANY TREE. Christmas is here: Winds whistle shrill, Icy and chill, Little care we: Little we fear Weather without, Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom; Night-birds are we: Here we carouse, Singing like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short— When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree. ”

“ O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row, Forgetful what state is among the pataties And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico. There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus, Of "God save the Queen" as they hop to and fro; And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico. ”

“ Of battles fierce and warriors big, He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig, And shouts "Saint George for Marlborow!" Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, An LL. D.—a peaceful man; Good Lord, how doth he plume himself Because we beat the Corsican! From first to last his page is filled With stirring tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, And praises God for our good luck. Some hints, 'tis true, of politics The doctors give and statesman's art: Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, And understands the bloody part. ”

“ Ye sons of General Jackson, Who thrample on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore, When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug, With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valiance Insthructed his battalions To respict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. Since that capitulation, No city in this nation So grand a reputation could boast before, As Limerick prodigious, That stands with quays and bridges, And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. ”

“ O nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin, With thy rat-tattooing— Confess, ye volunteers, Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line, As bold as Roman— Confess, ye grenadiers, However strong and tall, The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman! No corselet is so proof But through it from her bow The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle. No champion e'er so tough, But's in the struggle thrown, And tripp'd and trodden down By her slim ankle. Thus always it was ruled: And when a woman smiled, The strong man was a child, The sage a noodle. ”

“ A palace as for fairy Prince, A rare pavilion, such as man Saw never since mankind began, And built and glazed! A peaceful place it was but now, And lo! within its shining streets A multitude of nations meets; A countless throng I see beneath the crystal bow, And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk, Each with his native handiwork And busy tongue. I felt a thrill of love and awe To mark the different garb of each, The changing tongue, the various speech Together blent: A thrill, methinks, like His who saw "All people dwelling upon earth Praising our God with solemn mirth And one consent." ”

“ On such a web of Persian thread The desert Arab bows his head And cries his prayer. Look yonder where the engines toil: These England's arms of conquest are, The trophies of her bloodless war: Brave weapons these. Victorians over wave and soil, With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, Pierces the everlasting hills And spans the seas. The engine roars upon its race, The shuttle whirs the woof, The people hum from floor to roof, With Babel tongue. The fountain in the basin plays, The chanting organ echoes clear, An awful chorus 'tis to hear, A wondrous song! ”

“ Though you promised to protect her, though you promised to defend her, You are welcome to neglect her: to the devil you may send her: You may strike her, curse, abuse her; so declares our law renowned; And if after this you lose her,—why, you're paid two hundred pound.
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. There's in the Vest a city pleasant To vich King Bladud gev his name, And in that city there's a Crescent Vere dwelt a noble knight of fame. Although that galliant knight is oldish, Although Sir John as gray, gray air, Hage has not made his busum coldish, His Art still beats tewodds the Fair! ”

“ This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at TERRÉ'S tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. ”