Originally published in Tinsley's Magazine (Tinsley Bros.) vol.2 #12 (Jul 1868).
Ere the fair dream has grown fainter of the magic of each painter,
When the July sun on London streets is tropically strong;
Let us see whereon our glances lighted longest, tell our fancies,—
While the tripping of the trochees aids the swinging of the song.
There are girls in silk and satin, shining locks—for rhyme, here's Latin:
'Quæ nunc humeris involitant,' as Horace blithely sang;
There are fair and dark-hair'd darlings, and they chatter on like starlings,
Sweet self-constituted critics as to how the pictures hang.
At the mighty engine straining, see the Roman soldiers gaining
Point of vantage for the arrow on the catapult laid there;
With the mighty dart dim burning, while the strong rope springs are turning,
And the great bolt lieth silent ere it hurtles through the air.
Ariadne lieth yonder—'tis a face whereon to ponder
In the coming summer gloamings, when the eventides are still;
With one perfect arm extended on the white rock, death has ended
All her sorrow for false Theseus on the lonely Naxian hill.
There's a sweet and pensive Stella in a garden; we can tell a
Dream of love has ris'n and vanish'd, as a letter from the Dean
In her hands she holds enfolden, while the memory of days olden
Must come back again to pain her with the joys that might have been.
Face more handsome, redder lips, I never saw than owns the gipsy,
In the glen there at Rathfarnam, while the thin blue smoke is curl'd;
One would leave all cities gaily, in that wood to wander daily,
For the love of such a woman were a prize worth all the world.
News from home in far-off places comes with visions of home faces,
And a thought of English woodlands, beneath sultry eastern skies;
Mr. Leslie's dainty lady sits beneath verandas shady,
And anon, unto my fancy, will the tear-drops dim her eyes.
Her rich attire is creeping to her knees (see Keats) ere sleeping,
And fair Madeline looks fairer in her pensive waking dream;
Her orisons are over; what a vision for a lover,
Could he climb up to the casement, where the painted figures gleam!
There was never fairer lassie ever filled a 'silver tassie'
For a gallant Scottish lover than that Jessie o' Dunblane;
And anear her hangs a beauty, who for man's false want of duty
In her violet raiment sigheth with a weary heart of pain.
Perugini's goldfish-bearer is a handsome face, but fairer
Is his red-hair'd girl, the winner of a thousand hearts I wis;
With her fan that's held so lightly, and her sleepy eyes that brightly
Could flash out upon a lover, did he dare to ask a kiss.
And right well old Chaucer's story's told by Poole; we see the glories
Of the moonlight's magic radiance on the waters shining bright;
And poor Custaunce, with babe weeping, that she strives to lull to sleeping,
Is turn'd out adrift and looketh for her hope to Heaven's blue height.
With the knights devoutly singing, and the fragrant censers swinging,
Lovely Guinevere's borne onward to her Glastonbury tomb;
Does Sir Launcelot in sadness think of olden days of gladness
Ere he quits the world of revelry for pray'rful hours of gloom?
* * * * *
But at length the vision's ended; by a rapid cab befriended,
We have gone to try a process that is known as 'liquoring up;'
And we watch the claret creaming and the tiny icebergs gleaming,
And we bless the name of Badminton, and ice another 'Cup.'