The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith ... Revised by the Author: Coll. ed. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
55
BOOK THIRD
EDITORIAL
Lady Anne Dewhurst on a crimson couch
Lay, with a rug of sable o'er her knees,
In a bright boudoir in Belgravia;
Most perfectly arrayed in shapely robe
Of sumptuous satin, lit up here and there
With scarlet touches, and with costly lace
Nice-fingered maidens knotted in Brabant:
And all around her spread magnificence
Of bronzes, Sevres vases, marquetrie,
Rare buhl, and bric-à-brac of every kind,
From Rome and Paris and the centuries
Of far-off beauty. All of goodly colour,
Or graceful form that could delight the eye,
In orderly disorder lay around,
And flowers with perfume scented the warm air.
Lay, with a rug of sable o'er her knees,
In a bright boudoir in Belgravia;
Most perfectly arrayed in shapely robe
Of sumptuous satin, lit up here and there
With scarlet touches, and with costly lace
Nice-fingered maidens knotted in Brabant:
And all around her spread magnificence
Of bronzes, Sevres vases, marquetrie,
Rare buhl, and bric-à-brac of every kind,
From Rome and Paris and the centuries
Of far-off beauty. All of goodly colour,
Or graceful form that could delight the eye,
In orderly disorder lay around,
And flowers with perfume scented the warm air.
Stately and large and beautiful she was
Spite of her sixty summers, with an eye
Trained to soft languors, that could also flash,
Keen as a sword and sharp—a black bright eye,
Deep sunk beneath an arch of jet. She had
A weary look, and yet the weariness
Seemed not so native as the worldliness
Which blended with it. Weary and worldly, she
Had quite resigned herself to misery
In this sad vale of tears, but fully meant
To nurse her sorrow in a sumptuous fashion,
And make it an expensive luxury;
For nothing she esteemed that nothing cost.
Spite of her sixty summers, with an eye
Trained to soft languors, that could also flash,
Keen as a sword and sharp—a black bright eye,
Deep sunk beneath an arch of jet. She had
A weary look, and yet the weariness
Seemed not so native as the worldliness
Which blended with it. Weary and worldly, she
Had quite resigned herself to misery
In this sad vale of tears, but fully meant
To nurse her sorrow in a sumptuous fashion,
And make it an expensive luxury;
For nothing she esteemed that nothing cost.
Beside her, on a table round, inlaid
With precious stones by Roman art designed,
Lay phials, scents, a novel and a Bible,
A pill box, and a wine glass, and a book
On the Apocalypse; for she was much
Addicted unto physic and religion,
And her physician had prescribed for her
Jellies and wines and cheerful Literature.
The book on the Apocalypse was writ
By her chosen pastor, and she took the novel
With the dry sherry, and the pills prescribed.
A gorgeous, pious, comfortable life
Of misery she lived; and all the sins
Of all her house, and all the nation's sins,
And all shortcomings of the Church and State,
And all the sins of all the world beside,
Bore as her special cross, confessing them
Vicariously day by day, and then
She comforted her heart, which needed it,
With bric-à-brac and jelly and old wine.
With precious stones by Roman art designed,
Lay phials, scents, a novel and a Bible,
A pill box, and a wine glass, and a book
On the Apocalypse; for she was much
Addicted unto physic and religion,
And her physician had prescribed for her
Jellies and wines and cheerful Literature.
The book on the Apocalypse was writ
By her chosen pastor, and she took the novel
With the dry sherry, and the pills prescribed.
A gorgeous, pious, comfortable life
Of misery she lived; and all the sins
Of all her house, and all the nation's sins,
And all shortcomings of the Church and State,
And all the sins of all the world beside,
Bore as her special cross, confessing them
Vicariously day by day, and then
She comforted her heart, which needed it,
With bric-à-brac and jelly and old wine.
Beside the fire, her elbow on the mantel,
And forehead resting on her finger-tips,
Shading a face where sometimes loomed a frown,
And sometimes flashed a gleam of bitter scorn,
Her daughter stood; no more a graceful girl,
But in the glory of her womanhood,
Stately and haughty. One who might have been
A noble woman in a nobler world,
But now was only woman of her world,
With just enough of better thought to know
It was not noble, and despise it all,
And most herself for making it her all.
Awoman, complex, intricate, involved;
Wrestling with self, yet still by self subdued;
Scorning herself for being what she was,
And yet unable to be that she would;
Uneasy with the sense of possible good
Never attained, nor sought, except in fits
Ending in failures; conscious, too, of power
Which found no purpose to direct its force,
And so came back upon herself, and grew
An inward fret. The caged bird sometimes dashed
Against the wires, and sometimes sat and pined,
But mainly pecked her sugar, and eyed her glass,
And trilled her graver thoughts away in song.
And forehead resting on her finger-tips,
Shading a face where sometimes loomed a frown,
And sometimes flashed a gleam of bitter scorn,
Her daughter stood; no more a graceful girl,
56
Stately and haughty. One who might have been
A noble woman in a nobler world,
But now was only woman of her world,
With just enough of better thought to know
It was not noble, and despise it all,
And most herself for making it her all.
Awoman, complex, intricate, involved;
Wrestling with self, yet still by self subdued;
Scorning herself for being what she was,
And yet unable to be that she would;
Uneasy with the sense of possible good
Never attained, nor sought, except in fits
Ending in failures; conscious, too, of power
Which found no purpose to direct its force,
And so came back upon herself, and grew
An inward fret. The caged bird sometimes dashed
Against the wires, and sometimes sat and pined,
But mainly pecked her sugar, and eyed her glass,
And trilled her graver thoughts away in song.
Mother and daughter—yet a childless mother,
And motherless her daughter; for the world
Had gashed a chasm between, impassable,
And they had nought in common, neither love,
Nor hate, nor anything except a name.
Yet both were of the world; and she not least
Whose world was the religious one, and stretched
A kind of isthmus 'tween the Devil and God,
A slimy, oozy mud, where mandrakes grew,
Ghastly, with intertwisted roots, and things
Amphibious haunted, and the leathern bat
Flickered about its twilight evermore.
And motherless her daughter; for the world
Had gashed a chasm between, impassable,
And they had nought in common, neither love,
Nor hate, nor anything except a name.
Yet both were of the world; and she not least
Whose world was the religious one, and stretched
A kind of isthmus 'tween the Devil and God,
A slimy, oozy mud, where mandrakes grew,
Ghastly, with intertwisted roots, and things
Amphibious haunted, and the leathern bat
Flickered about its twilight evermore.
LOQUITUR MATER DOMINA
So, there you are at last. Please draw
That odious curtain, will you? Do.
A hideous thing as e'er I saw!
It gives one such a corpse-like hue.
But I might be a corpse for you:
It's little any of you cares
How your heart-broken mother fares,
Burdened with sorrows old and new,
As the world entangles you all in its snares.
That odious curtain, will you? Do.
A hideous thing as e'er I saw!
It gives one such a corpse-like hue.
But I might be a corpse for you:
It's little any of you cares
How your heart-broken mother fares,
Burdened with sorrows old and new,
As the world entangles you all in its snares.
Please, no excuse: it does no good.
Of course, you have your morning calls,
Your shopping, and your listless mood
After late dinners, drums, and balls;
My world is these four dreary walls,
My body, but an aching back,
My life, a torture on the rack,
My thoughts, like dizzying water-falls
That never will silence, or change, or slack.
Of course, you have your morning calls,
Your shopping, and your listless mood
After late dinners, drums, and balls;
My world is these four dreary walls,
My body, but an aching back,
My life, a torture on the rack,
My thoughts, like dizzying water-falls
That never will silence, or change, or slack.
I get my jellies, soups, and stews,
My little wine—what need I more?
My morning paper with the news
That everybody knew before.
I hear the street calls, and the roar
Of the town traffic, and the clash
Of milk-bells, and the angry crash
Of brass bands, and the drowsy snore
Of an organ as dull as the flat seawash.
My little wine—what need I more?
My morning paper with the news
That everybody knew before.
I hear the street calls, and the roar
Of the town traffic, and the clash
Of milk-bells, and the angry crash
Of brass bands, and the drowsy snore
Of an organ as dull as the flat seawash.
57
And then the night falls, and the clock
Ticks on the mantel, and the wheels
Crunch the hard gravel, as the flock
Of weary revellers homeward reels,
Until the opal morning steals
Up in the sky. So, day by day,
My life crawls on its weary way;
No hope it stirs, no joy it feels;
But it's all like a foggy November day:
Ticks on the mantel, and the wheels
Crunch the hard gravel, as the flock
Of weary revellers homeward reels,
Until the opal morning steals
Up in the sky. So, day by day,
My life crawls on its weary way;
No hope it stirs, no joy it feels;
But it's all like a foggy November day:
A grey fog in the early prime,
A blue fog by the breakfast hour,
A saffron fog at luncheon time,
At dinner a persistent shower
Of smut, and then a dismal power
Of choking darkness and despair
Thickening and soddening all the air:—
But we are all a fading flower,
And life is a burden of sorrow and care.
A blue fog by the breakfast hour,
A saffron fog at luncheon time,
At dinner a persistent shower
Of smut, and then a dismal power
Of choking darkness and despair
Thickening and soddening all the air:—
But we are all a fading flower,
And life is a burden of sorrow and care.
I don't complain; it is the lot
Appointed me by wisdom best:
'Tis meet that I should be forgot
By all of you, and learn to rest
Content, while ye have mirth and jest,
And I religion. Still I feel;
I hide the wounds I cannot heal,
I keep my sorrow unexpressed—
But I'm not quite so hard as a lump of steel.
Appointed me by wisdom best:
'Tis meet that I should be forgot
By all of you, and learn to rest
Content, while ye have mirth and jest,
And I religion. Still I feel;
I hide the wounds I cannot heal,
I keep my sorrow unexpressed—
But I'm not quite so hard as a lump of steel.
My nerves are not just wires and cords,
I'm not a mere rhinoceros
Where arrows stick as in deal boards,
And bullets fall as soft as moss.
My patient heart can bear its cross,
And bleed unseen—but yet it bleeds,
And all the more that no one heeds,
And all the more to see your loss
Of sound evangelical views and creeds.
I'm not a mere rhinoceros
Where arrows stick as in deal boards,
And bullets fall as soft as moss.
My patient heart can bear its cross,
And bleed unseen—but yet it bleeds,
And all the more that no one heeds,
And all the more to see your loss
Of sound evangelical views and creeds.
Oh, were I only dead and gone!
It's hard to live, and see the way
That all of you are hurrying on
Blindly unto the dreadful day.
You prate of fossils, while I pray,
And beetles occupy your heart
More than your own Immortal part:
Your father's hairs are turning grey,
In this impious babble of science and art.
It's hard to live, and see the way
That all of you are hurrying on
Blindly unto the dreadful day.
You prate of fossils, while I pray,
And beetles occupy your heart
More than your own Immortal part:
Your father's hairs are turning grey,
In this impious babble of science and art.
Poor fools! that fain would break a spear
With Moses and the Pentateuch,
And only blinded reason hear,
And will no revelation brook,
Nor miracle nor inspired Book!
But for some sweet refreshing showers
Of doctrine, during Sabbath hours,
'Twould break my heart on you to look;
But the Book and Day are still happily ours.
With Moses and the Pentateuch,
And only blinded reason hear,
And will no revelation brook,
Nor miracle nor inspired Book!
But for some sweet refreshing showers
Of doctrine, during Sabbath hours,
'Twould break my heart on you to look;
But the Book and Day are still happily ours.
Ah! what were life without the Book?
And what this world without its story?
And what were man if he forsook
The Sabbath, foretaste of Heaven's glory!
A den of wild beasts, dark and gory!
A being quite devoid of grace,
A heathen with a tattooed face,
That burns his widows! I implore you,
Set your heart, Rose, in the proper place.
And what this world without its story?
And what were man if he forsook
The Sabbath, foretaste of Heaven's glory!
A den of wild beasts, dark and gory!
A being quite devoid of grace,
A heathen with a tattooed face,
That burns his widows! I implore you,
Set your heart, Rose, in the proper place.
But you have no religion—none.
It is the heart that's wrong, my dear:
If you had not a heart of stone,
You could not leave me lonely here.—
And men may do, who have not clear
Decided views; they go about
The clubs, and hear who's in and out,
And which is “Favourite” this year,
And bet, and are dreadfully wicked, no doubt.
It is the heart that's wrong, my dear:
If you had not a heart of stone,
You could not leave me lonely here.—
And men may do, who have not clear
Decided views; they go about
The clubs, and hear who's in and out,
And which is “Favourite” this year,
And bet, and are dreadfully wicked, no doubt.
But women who have lost their Faith
Are angels who have lost their wings,
And always have a nasty breath
Of chemistry, and horrid things
That go off when a lecturer rings
His bell.—But they will not go off;
They take a mission or a cough;
For men will marry a fool that sings
Sooner than one that has learnt to scoff.
Are angels who have lost their wings,
And always have a nasty breath
Of chemistry, and horrid things
That go off when a lecturer rings
58
They take a mission or a cough;
For men will marry a fool that sings
Sooner than one that has learnt to scoff.
You don't believe me: you go in
For science, culture, common-sense,
And think a woman sure to win
Because she knows the why and whence,
And looks at vermin through a lens:
And yet you've seen a score of girls
With empty heads and silly curls,
And laughter light, and judgment dense,
Wedded to Marquises, Dukes, and Earls.
For science, culture, common-sense,
And think a woman sure to win
Because she knows the why and whence,
And looks at vermin through a lens:
And yet you've seen a score of girls
With empty heads and silly curls,
And laughter light, and judgment dense,
Wedded to Marquises, Dukes, and Earls.
And why? They started fair with you:
You dressed as well—for that was mine;
You were as handsome and well-born, too,
And you had wit like sparkling wine:
But they all took to things divine
Like sober, pious girls. I know
That some were High Church, and would go,
Like nuns, with beads and crosses fine—
But they all were wives in a season or so.
You dressed as well—for that was mine;
You were as handsome and well-born, too,
And you had wit like sparkling wine:
But they all took to things divine
Like sober, pious girls. I know
That some were High Church, and would go,
Like nuns, with beads and crosses fine—
But they all were wives in a season or so.
Men may be bad, but still they like
A pious wife that lives for heaven;
Your wit may shine, your beauty strike,
But not to these their love is given.
Ah! had you with your prayer-book driven
To church, and kept a Sunday-school,
And visited, and lived by rule—
But that is past and all forgiven,
Though you played your cards like a perfect fool.
A pious wife that lives for heaven;
Your wit may shine, your beauty strike,
But not to these their love is given.
Ah! had you with your prayer-book driven
To church, and kept a Sunday-school,
And visited, and lived by rule—
But that is past and all forgiven,
Though you played your cards like a perfect fool.
You cannot be a hypocrite,
To mumble out a false remorse,
And wear a look of prim conceit
Only to be the winning horse?—
Of course, you cannot, and of course
I never meant you should. But yet,
You might feel true grief and regret
For sin; and could be none the worse
For the strawberry leaves in a coronet.
To mumble out a false remorse,
And wear a look of prim conceit
Only to be the winning horse?—
Of course, you cannot, and of course
I never meant you should. But yet,
You might feel true grief and regret
For sin; and could be none the worse
For the strawberry leaves in a coronet.
You wonder at me, with my views
Of doctrine sound, and worship pure,
That I should plead the least excuse
For girls whom Romish arts allure,
Through Ritualism to Babylon sure.
But did I say their views were right?
Or did I call their darkness light?
Or did I only try to cure
Your heart, which is turned from the Gospel quite?
Of doctrine sound, and worship pure,
That I should plead the least excuse
For girls whom Romish arts allure,
Through Ritualism to Babylon sure.
But did I say their views were right?
Or did I call their darkness light?
Or did I only try to cure
Your heart, which is turned from the Gospel quite?
It's grace you need, Rose, to illume
Your darken'd nature. What an age
Since I have seen you in my room!
Though I have nothing to engage
My thoughts, except the sacred page,
And that sweet book which is so clear
Upon the Beast and his numbered year:—
Yet all the while there's quite a rage
For some wonderful May-fair novel, I hear.
Your darken'd nature. What an age
Since I have seen you in my room!
Though I have nothing to engage
My thoughts, except the sacred page,
And that sweet book which is so clear
Upon the Beast and his numbered year:—
Yet all the while there's quite a rage
For some wonderful May-fair novel, I hear.
And after all I have done for you!—
But daughters are not what they were,
And you are only proving true
What all the Prophets do aver.
Oh had you heard our minister
Upon The Signs of the End, and how
The children of the saints shall grow
Still wickeder and wickeder!—
Till all to the Beast and the Woman shall bow.
But daughters are not what they were,
And you are only proving true
What all the Prophets do aver.
Oh had you heard our minister
Upon The Signs of the End, and how
The children of the saints shall grow
Still wickeder and wickeder!—
Till all to the Beast and the Woman shall bow.
59
That is the worst part of my trial:
But prophecy must be fulfilled,
And we are in the Seventh Vial,
The Witnesses will soon be killed,
And all the land with blood be filled
And Papists; and a cruel fate
Shall separate the Church and State,
And then more blood is to be spilled
By the Frogs,—that's your Radical friends of late.
But prophecy must be fulfilled,
And we are in the Seventh Vial,
The Witnesses will soon be killed,
And all the land with blood be filled
And Papists; and a cruel fate
Shall separate the Church and State,
And then more blood is to be spilled
By the Frogs,—that's your Radical friends of late.
It's clear the Woman and the Beast
Are Buonaparté and the Pope;
The Prophets won't explain the least
Without them; they're the merest rope
Of sand in that case: and I hope
I know my Bible. Still the Book
Is sealed, and you shall vainly look
To find its meaning and its scope,
If the Jews don't return, and the Pentateuch.
Are Buonaparté and the Pope;
The Prophets won't explain the least
Without them; they're the merest rope
Of sand in that case: and I hope
I know my Bible. Still the Book
Is sealed, and you shall vainly look
To find its meaning and its scope,
If the Jews don't return, and the Pentateuch.
Ah, we had such a sermon on it!—
The Vicar's wife she was not there;
She had not got her new spring bonnet—
But all the world was. Do you care
For the new mode? You blondes must wear
Pink, shaped like tiny little shells;
So natural! with silver bells.—
But that great sermon! I declare,
I can't for the world think of anything else.
The Vicar's wife she was not there;
She had not got her new spring bonnet—
But all the world was. Do you care
For the new mode? You blondes must wear
Pink, shaped like tiny little shells;
So natural! with silver bells.—
But that great sermon! I declare,
I can't for the world think of anything else.
So searching and pathetic! He
Soaked two clean handker chiefs in tears,
While clearing up the prophecy,
The mystic number, and the years,
And Daniel: and it still appears
That this Napoleon is the Beast
That was and wasn't, you know; at least
The Armageddon swords and spears
Were long ago shipped from Marseilles to the East.
Soaked two clean handker chiefs in tears,
While clearing up the prophecy,
The mystic number, and the years,
And Daniel: and it still appears
That this Napoleon is the Beast
That was and wasn't, you know; at least
The Armageddon swords and spears
Were long ago shipped from Marseilles to the East.
Nay, tell me not you do not care
Although the end of the world were come.
It's very wicked to despair;
You should be gentle, patient, dumb,
Thinking that any day the hum
Of myriad angels, leading saintly crowds,
With rainbow trimmings round their shrouds,
May greet you at a kettle-drum,
Coming in glory among the clouds.
Although the end of the world were come.
It's very wicked to despair;
You should be gentle, patient, dumb,
Thinking that any day the hum
Of myriad angels, leading saintly crowds,
With rainbow trimmings round their shrouds,
May greet you at a kettle-drum,
Coming in glory among the clouds.
We live in wondrous times; such times
The world has never seen before;
With earthquakes in the tropic climes,
And kingdoms shaken to the core,
And revolutions at our door;
And Kings and Queens discrowned appear
In London every other year,
While Barons clothed in rags implore
You to buy pens and sealing-wax, dreadful dear.
The world has never seen before;
With earthquakes in the tropic climes,
And kingdoms shaken to the core,
And revolutions at our door;
And Kings and Queens discrowned appear
In London every other year,
While Barons clothed in rags implore
You to buy pens and sealing-wax, dreadful dear.
And Ritualists our Church defile,
And Rationalists our faith deny,
And Papist nuns and chaplains wile
Our very thieves in gaol. And I
Went to a chapel once hard by,
And heard a Nonconformist say
The Sabbath was a mere Jewish day!
I left, of course, and had to fly
In the rain, but I hailed a cab by the way.
And Rationalists our faith deny,
And Papist nuns and chaplains wile
Our very thieves in gaol. And I
Went to a chapel once hard by,
And heard a Nonconformist say
The Sabbath was a mere Jewish day!
I left, of course, and had to fly
In the rain, but I hailed a cab by the way.
And there's your “Robertson of Brighton,”
He's lying now on every table,
With Ecce Homo to enlighten
Our carnal hearts, and minds unstable.
We have no anchor now or cable;
Our admirable Liturgy,
Our very Bible is not free
From criticism lamentable;
And everybody is all at sea.
He's lying now on every table,
With Ecce Homo to enlighten
Our carnal hearts, and minds unstable.
We have no anchor now or cable;
Our admirable Liturgy,
Our very Bible is not free
From criticism lamentable;
And everybody is all at sea.
60
What next? The land is rotten quite,
And infidel and Papist too:
There's Gladstone ruled by Mr. Bright,
The very Bishops hardly true,
And the Queen knows not what to do.
But prophecy is coming clear,
The awful end is drawing near,
And bitterly this land will rue
The way it has treated the Jews, I fear.
And infidel and Papist too:
There's Gladstone ruled by Mr. Bright,
The very Bishops hardly true,
And the Queen knows not what to do.
But prophecy is coming clear,
The awful end is drawing near,
And bitterly this land will rue
The way it has treated the Jews, I fear.
Last week our Vicar plainly told—
He's a converted Jew, I know—
How seven fine ladies should lay hold
Even on the man that cries “Old Clo',”
To save them in the day of woe;
And proved it from the Prophets clear.
So then I thought I'd ask you, dear,—
The poor man looked so shabby and low—
If you knew any Jew of the better class here.
He's a converted Jew, I know—
How seven fine ladies should lay hold
Even on the man that cries “Old Clo',”
To save them in the day of woe;
And proved it from the Prophets clear.
So then I thought I'd ask you, dear,—
The poor man looked so shabby and low—
If you knew any Jew of the better class here.
For though all Israel shall be saved,
And all the lost tribes found again,
And all be proper and well-behaved,
And all be free from sorrow and pain;
Yet even in heaven it is quite plain,
As stars with different glory shine,
There shall be people poor and fine,
For perfect order there shall reign:
And one would not like to go over the line.
And all the lost tribes found again,
And all be proper and well-behaved,
And all be free from sorrow and pain;
Yet even in heaven it is quite plain,
As stars with different glory shine,
There shall be people poor and fine,
For perfect order there shall reign:
And one would not like to go over the line.
You did not come to speak of Jews—
They're Charlie's friends, and he can tell;
Nor yet about the Vicar's views
Of millenarian heaven or hell:—
My dear, that's hardly spoken well.
But what, then, did you come about?
A call, a lecture, or a rout?
A flower, a beetle, or a shell?
Or a prodigy found in some country lout?
They're Charlie's friends, and he can tell;
Nor yet about the Vicar's views
Of millenarian heaven or hell:—
My dear, that's hardly spoken well.
But what, then, did you come about?
A call, a lecture, or a rout?
A flower, a beetle, or a shell?
Or a prodigy found in some country lout?
Eh! What say you? That puling boy
With the Scotch brogue and hungry look?
Your genius whom you made a toy
Last winter at your drums, and took
About with you by hook or crook!
Tush, tush! I do not like your set;
But what's come of the baronet?
As for the writer of a book,
You're not come quite to the curates yet.
With the Scotch brogue and hungry look?
Your genius whom you made a toy
Last winter at your drums, and took
About with you by hook or crook!
Tush, tush! I do not like your set;
But what's come of the baronet?
As for the writer of a book,
You're not come quite to the curates yet.
Oh yes, you love him; that's of course:—
It's your fifth season, isn't it, dear?
But really you are little worse:—
And I am sure you loved last year,
Sir Wilfred with his rent-roll clear.—
A person at St. John's Wood? Shame!
No proper girl should ever name
A person there or person here;
And, no doubt, she is the one to blame.
It's your fifth season, isn't it, dear?
But really you are little worse:—
And I am sure you loved last year,
Sir Wilfred with his rent-roll clear.—
A person at St. John's Wood? Shame!
No proper girl should ever name
A person there or person here;
And, no doubt, she is the one to blame.
They always are, these creatures. Ah!
This wicked world we're living in!
There should be some severer law
For low-born creatures who would win
Youth over to the ways of sin.
But there's that shameful act which frees
Their vice from want and from disease,
Although they neither toil nor spin,—
Right in the face of all heaven's decrees.
This wicked world we're living in!
There should be some severer law
For low-born creatures who would win
Youth over to the ways of sin.
But there's that shameful act which frees
Their vice from want and from disease,
Although they neither toil nor spin,—
Right in the face of all heaven's decrees.
It's shameful, shocking; quite enough
To bring down on us wrath divine;
I don't care for their facts and stuff,
I won't believe a single line.
I know it's sin. And I opine
Gladstone our morals means to sap
And then, his wickedness to cap,
The House of Lords he'll undermine
And bring in the Pope like a thunderclap.
To bring down on us wrath divine;
I don't care for their facts and stuff,
I won't believe a single line.
I know it's sin. And I opine
Gladstone our morals means to sap
And then, his wickedness to cap,
The House of Lords he'll undermine
And bring in the Pope like a thunderclap.
61
All men are dreadful wicked. Sad
It is to say it; but it's true;
You hardly would believe how bad;
So bad that it would never do
If girls before their marriage knew.
And if you will be prude and nice,
And yet go poking into vice,
And shying when it comes in view,
You will never be married at any price.
It is to say it; but it's true;
You hardly would believe how bad;
So bad that it would never do
If girls before their marriage knew.
And if you will be prude and nice,
And yet go poking into vice,
And shying when it comes in view,
You will never be married at any price.
Now, hear me, Rose: give up at once
Your silly fancy for this boy
Whom you have led an idle dance,
I daresay, only to annoy
Sir Wilfred; and for once employ
The arts that others use for sin
His erring heart again to win
Back to a purer life and joy,
Which you're certain to do if you'll just begin.
Your silly fancy for this boy
Whom you have led an idle dance,
I daresay, only to annoy
Sir Wilfred; and for once employ
The arts that others use for sin
His erring heart again to win
Back to a purer life and joy,
Which you're certain to do if you'll just begin.
Be patient now; leave all to me;
Don't fly off in a girlish huff.
You'll need a new dress—let me see—
Of some soft, lustrous, dainty stuff;
Made Christian-like and low enough—
You did not get a bust like this
To hide like some raw country miss—
Say poplin of a delicate buff;
With Honiton lace, for a taste like his;
Don't fly off in a girlish huff.
You'll need a new dress—let me see—
Of some soft, lustrous, dainty stuff;
Made Christian-like and low enough—
You did not get a bust like this
To hide like some raw country miss—
Say poplin of a delicate buff;
With Honiton lace, for a taste like his;
You never yet knew how to dress,
You never have a gown to fit,
Your things are always in a mess
That's shocking, even to look at it;
Your colours somehow never hit,
They never match themselves nor you;
They're always out of fashion too;
And as for gloves, you must admit
They're just the one thing that you cannot do.
You never have a gown to fit,
Your things are always in a mess
That's shocking, even to look at it;
Your colours somehow never hit,
They never match themselves nor you;
They're always out of fashion too;
And as for gloves, you must admit
They're just the one thing that you cannot do.
Anyhow, leave all that to me.
Could I but see you settled well,
As, sure, my daughter ought to be,
I'd die in peace unspeakable.
Why am I here? why do I dwell
In this unhappy world? unless,
To help my children, and express
Undying faith in principle—
Though I don't like your baronet's quite, I confess.
Could I but see you settled well,
As, sure, my daughter ought to be,
I'd die in peace unspeakable.
Why am I here? why do I dwell
In this unhappy world? unless,
To help my children, and express
Undying faith in principle—
Though I don't like your baronet's quite, I confess.
He wants to open the Museum
Upon the blessed Sabbath-day;
He wants the bands to play “Te Deum”
When we should go to church and pray;
It will be masses next, I say;—
His views of sin are far from sound,
Eternal punishment, I found,
He will not hear of; and his way
Is altogether on dangerous ground.
Upon the blessed Sabbath-day;
He wants the bands to play “Te Deum”
When we should go to church and pray;
It will be masses next, I say;—
His views of sin are far from sound,
Eternal punishment, I found,
He will not hear of; and his way
Is altogether on dangerous ground.
But then, woe's me! you're all the same;
All turned from Bible-teaching quite,
All snared in folly, sin, and shame,
And blinded to the only light.
And he at least is of the right
Old blood, and has an income nice,
And never touches cards or dice
Or horses. It's a happy sight,
A man of his rank with a single vice.
All turned from Bible-teaching quite,
All snared in folly, sin, and shame,
And blinded to the only light.
And he at least is of the right
Old blood, and has an income nice,
And never touches cards or dice
Or horses. It's a happy sight,
A man of his rank with a single vice.
It's wonderful, most wonderful,
The times we're living in! And yet
We're born, and christened, and go to school,
And marry Lord or Baronet,
And dress and dine, and vex and fret,
And strive the tide of Fate to stem
Which Prophets had revealed to them,
And never think the times are set
For the Jews going back to Jerusalem.
The times we're living in! And yet
We're born, and christened, and go to school,
And marry Lord or Baronet,
And dress and dine, and vex and fret,
And strive the tide of Fate to stem
Which Prophets had revealed to them,
And never think the times are set
For the Jews going back to Jerusalem.
The Prophets say that there shall be
A Highway and a Way: we read
Also of ships upon the sea,
Made of bulrushes; and we need,
Unless you think I'm blind indeed,
Unless I'm blinder than a bat,
No prophet to interpret that,
With a steam-boat running at full speed
On the Suez Canal, like a water-rat.
A Highway and a Way: we read
Also of ships upon the sea,
Made of bulrushes; and we need,
Unless you think I'm blind indeed,
62
No prophet to interpret that,
With a steam-boat running at full speed
On the Suez Canal, like a water-rat.
There could not be a clearer sign
That now the end draws near in view,
And that it's Providence' design
To bring deliverance to the Jew,
And break their bonds.—Now, shame on you!
To scoff with your unhallowed wit;
There's almost blasphemy in it:—
I don't mean bonds of I.O.U.,
Such as Charlie gives when he's badly hit.
That now the end draws near in view,
And that it's Providence' design
To bring deliverance to the Jew,
And break their bonds.—Now, shame on you!
To scoff with your unhallowed wit;
There's almost blasphemy in it:—
I don't mean bonds of I.O.U.,
Such as Charlie gives when he's badly hit.
But wherefore speak of things like these
To things like you, who heed no more
The murmur of prophetic breeze
Than creaking of a rusty door?
You walk along the solemn shore
Washed by the tide of awful doom,
While lights and shadows flash and gloom
And neither wonder nor adore,
But stamp and “pshaw” through the drawing-room.
To things like you, who heed no more
The murmur of prophetic breeze
Than creaking of a rusty door?
You walk along the solemn shore
Washed by the tide of awful doom,
While lights and shadows flash and gloom
And neither wonder nor adore,
But stamp and “pshaw” through the drawing-room.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |