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543
LUDIBRIA VENTIS
“Enough of these Toyes.”
—Bacon.
545
R. L. S.
IN MEMORIAM
These to his Memory. May the Age arriving
As ours recall
That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving,
That laurelled pall!
As ours recall
That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving,
That laurelled pall!
Blithe and rare spirit! We who later linger
By bleaker seas,
Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger,—
His golden keys!
By bleaker seas,
Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger,—
His golden keys!
1901.
546
A BALLAD OF INCAPACITY
“My Lord, I cannot speak.”
—Maclean the Highwayman (on his trial).
“Silence is golden,” saith the saw,
And rightly is extolled;
For Speech, too oft, outrides the law
By waxing overbold:
Yet he, I think (of mortal mould!)
Most needs the aid of “cheek,”—
The man who can no tale unfold,—
The man who cannot speak!
And rightly is extolled;
For Speech, too oft, outrides the law
By waxing overbold:
Yet he, I think (of mortal mould!)
Most needs the aid of “cheek,”—
The man who can no tale unfold,—
The man who cannot speak!
He listens with a kind of awe,
And hears around him rolled
The long, reverberate guffaw
That greets the quicker-souled;
He hears the jest, or new or old,
And mutely eats his “leek,”—
Is classed as either dull or cold,—
The man who cannot speak!
And hears around him rolled
The long, reverberate guffaw
That greets the quicker-souled;
He hears the jest, or new or old,
And mutely eats his “leek,”—
Is classed as either dull or cold,—
The man who cannot speak!
He may have “Latin in his mawe,”
He may keep down controlled
Potentialities of “jaw”
Unmatched by any scold;
He may have thoughts of sterling gold
For each day in the week;
But he must all these things withhold,—
The man who cannot speak.
He may keep down controlled
Potentialities of “jaw”
Unmatched by any scold;
He may have thoughts of sterling gold
547
But he must all these things withhold,—
The man who cannot speak.
ENVOY.
Friends, 'tis of me the fable's told;Your sufferance I seek;
In me that shameless sight behold,—
The man who cannot speak!
1901.
548
“A VOICE IN THE SCENTED NIGHT”
A voice in the scented night,—
A step where the rose-trees blow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
A step where the rose-trees blow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
Cold star at the blue vault's height,
What is it that shakes you so?
A voice in the scented night!
What is it that shakes you so?
A voice in the scented night!
She comes in her beauty bright,—
She comes in her young love's glow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
She comes in her young love's glow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
She bends from her casement white,
And she hears it, hushed and low,
A voice in the scented night.
And she hears it, hushed and low,
A voice in the scented night.
And he climbs by that stairway slight,—
Her passionate Romeo:—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
Her passionate Romeo:—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
For it stirs us still in spite
Of its “ever so long ago,”
That voice in the scented night,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
Of its “ever so long ago,”
That voice in the scented night,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
1902.
549
A WELCOME FROM THE JOHNSON CLUB
To William John Courthope, March 12, 1903
When Pope came back from Trojan wars once more,
He found a Bard, to meet him on the shore,
And hail his advent with a strain as clear
As e'er was sung by Byron or by Frere.
He found a Bard, to meet him on the shore,
And hail his advent with a strain as clear
As e'er was sung by Byron or by Frere.
You, Sir, have travelled from no distant clime,
Yet would John Gay might welcome you in rhyme;
And by some Fable, not too coldly penned,
Teach how with judgment one may praise a Friend.
Yet would John Gay might welcome you in rhyme;
And by some Fable, not too coldly penned,
Teach how with judgment one may praise a Friend.
There is no need that I should tell in words
Your prowess from The Paradise of Birds;
No need to show how surely you have traced
The Life in Poetry, the Law in Taste;
Or mark with what unwearied strength you wear
The weight that Warton found too great to bear.
There is no need for this or that. My plan
Is less to laud the Matter than the Man.
Your prowess from The Paradise of Birds;
No need to show how surely you have traced
The Life in Poetry, the Law in Taste;
Or mark with what unwearied strength you wear
The weight that Warton found too great to bear.
There is no need for this or that. My plan
Is less to laud the Matter than the Man.
This is my brief. We recognise in you
The mind judicial, the untroubled view;
The Critic who, without pedantic pose,
Takes his firm foothold on the thing he knows;
Who, free alike from passion and pretence,
Holds the good rule of calm and common sense;
And be the subject or perplexed or plain,
Clear or confusing, is throughout urbane,
Patient, persuasive, logical, precise,
And only hard to vanity and vice.
The mind judicial, the untroubled view;
550
Takes his firm foothold on the thing he knows;
Who, free alike from passion and pretence,
Holds the good rule of calm and common sense;
And be the subject or perplexed or plain,
Clear or confusing, is throughout urbane,
Patient, persuasive, logical, precise,
And only hard to vanity and vice.
More I could add, but brevity is best;—
These are our claims to honour you as Guest.
These are our claims to honour you as Guest.
1903.
551
SURGE ET AMBULA
“Arise, and walk”—the One Voice said;
And lo! the sinews shrunk and dry
Loosed, and the cripple leaped on high,
Wondering, and bare aloft his bed.
And lo! the sinews shrunk and dry
Loosed, and the cripple leaped on high,
Wondering, and bare aloft his bed.
The Age of Miracle is fled.
Who to the halt to-day shall cry—
“Arise, and walk!”
Who to the halt to-day shall cry—
“Arise, and walk!”
Yet though the Power to raise the dead
Treads earth no more, we still may try
To smooth the couch where sick men lie,
Whispering—to hopeless heart and head—
“Arise, and walk!”
Treads earth no more, we still may try
To smooth the couch where sick men lie,
Whispering—to hopeless heart and head—
“Arise, and walk!”
1904.
552
SNAP-SHOT
A swan and cygnets, nothing more.
Background of silver, reedy shore,
Dim shapes of rounded trees, the high
Effulgence of a summer sky.
Background of silver, reedy shore,
Dim shapes of rounded trees, the high
Effulgence of a summer sky.
Only a snap-shot. Just a flash,
And it was fixed,—the mimic wash,
The parent bird on-oaring slow,
Her fussy little fleet in tow,
The all-pervading sultry haze,
The white lights on the waterways,—
A scene that never was before,
A scene that will be—Nevermore!
And it was fixed,—the mimic wash,
The parent bird on-oaring slow,
Her fussy little fleet in tow,
The all-pervading sultry haze,
The white lights on the waterways,—
A scene that never was before,
A scene that will be—Nevermore!
Alas! for us. We look and wait,
And labour but to imitate;
Vainly for new effects we seek . . .
Earth's shortest second is unique!
And labour but to imitate;
Vainly for new effects we seek . . .
Earth's shortest second is unique!
1904.
553
HORATIAN ODE ON THE TERCENTENARY OF “DON QUIXOTE”
“Para mí sola nació don Quixote, y yo para él.”
—Cervantes.
Advents we greet of great and small;
Much we extol that may not live;
Yet to the new-born Type we give
No care at all!
Much we extol that may not live;
Yet to the new-born Type we give
No care at all!
This year,
—three centuries past,—by age
More maimed than by Lepanto's fight,—
This year Cervantes gave to light
His matchless page,
More maimed than by Lepanto's fight,—
This year Cervantes gave to light
His matchless page,
Whence first outrode th' immortal Pair,—
The half-crazed Hero and his hind,—
To make sad laughter for mankind;
And whence they fare
The half-crazed Hero and his hind,—
To make sad laughter for mankind;
And whence they fare
Throughout all Fiction still, where chance
Allies Life's dulness with its dreams,—
Allies what is, with what but seems,—
Fact and Romance:—
Allies Life's dulness with its dreams,—
Allies what is, with what but seems,—
Fact and Romance:—
554
O Knight of fire and Squire of earth!—
O changing give-and-take between
The aim too high, the aim too mean,
I hail your birth—
O changing give-and-take between
The aim too high, the aim too mean,
I hail your birth—
Three centuries past—in sunburned Spain,
And hang, on Time's Pantheon wall,
My votive tablet to recall
That lasting gain!
And hang, on Time's Pantheon wall,
My votive tablet to recall
That lasting gain!
1905.
555
PEPYS' DIARY
(TO ONE WHO ASKED WHY HE WROTE IT)
You ask me what was his intent?
In truth I'm not a German;—
'Tis plain though that he neither meant
A Lecture nor a Sermon.
In truth I'm not a German;—
'Tis plain though that he neither meant
A Lecture nor a Sermon.
But there it is, the thing's a Fact.
I find no other reason
But that some scribbling itch attacked
Him in and out of season,
I find no other reason
But that some scribbling itch attacked
Him in and out of season,
To write what no one else should read,—
With this for second meaning,
To “cleanse his bosom” (and indeed
It sometimes wanted cleaning);
With this for second meaning,
To “cleanse his bosom” (and indeed
It sometimes wanted cleaning);
To speak, as 'twere, his private mind
Unhindered by repression,
To make his motley life a kind
Of Midas' ears confession;
Unhindered by repression,
To make his motley life a kind
Of Midas' ears confession;
556
And thus outgrew this work per se,—
This queer, kaleidoscopic,
Delightful, blabbing, vivid, free
Hotch-pot of daily topic,
This queer, kaleidoscopic,
Delightful, blabbing, vivid, free
Hotch-pot of daily topic,
So artless in its vanity,
So fleeting, so eternal,
So packed with “poor Humanity”—
We know as Pepys his Journal.
So fleeting, so eternal,
So packed with “poor Humanity”—
We know as Pepys his Journal.
1905.
557
THE SIMPLE LIFE
“And 'a babbled of green fields.”
—Shakespeare-cum-Theobald.
When the starlings dot the lawn,
Cheerily we rise at dawn;
Cheerily, with blameless cup,
Greet the wise world waking up;—
Ah, they little know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!
Cheerily we rise at dawn;
Cheerily, with blameless cup,
Greet the wise world waking up;—
Ah, they little know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!
Comes the long, still morning when
Work we ply with book and pen;
Then,—the pure air in our lungs,—
Then “persuasion tips our tongues”;
Then we write as would, I wis,
Men in Megalopolis!
Work we ply with book and pen;
Then,—the pure air in our lungs,—
Then “persuasion tips our tongues”;
Then we write as would, I wis,
Men in Megalopolis!
Next (and not a stroke too soon!)
Phyllis spreads the meal of noon,
Simple, frugal, choicely clean,
Gastronomically mean;—
Appetite our entrée is,
Far from Megalopolis!
Phyllis spreads the meal of noon,
Simple, frugal, choicely clean,
Gastronomically mean;—
Appetite our entrée is,
Far from Megalopolis!
Salad in our garden grown,
Endive, beetroot,—all our own;
Bread,—we saw it made and how;
Milk and cream,—we know the cow;
Nothing here of “Force” or “Vis”
As at Megalopolis!
Endive, beetroot,—all our own;
558
Milk and cream,—we know the cow;
Nothing here of “Force” or “Vis”
As at Megalopolis!
After, surely, there should be,
Somewhere, seats beneath a tree,
Where we—'twixt the curling rings—
Dream of transitory things;
Chiefly of what people miss
Drowsed in Megalopolis!
Somewhere, seats beneath a tree,
Where we—'twixt the curling rings—
Dream of transitory things;
Chiefly of what people miss
Drowsed in Megalopolis!
Then, before the sunlight wanes,
Comes the lounge along the lanes;
Comes the rocking shallop tied
By the reedy river-side;—
Clearer waves the light keel kiss
Than by Megalopolis!
Comes the lounge along the lanes;
Comes the rocking shallop tied
By the reedy river-side;—
Clearer waves the light keel kiss
Than by Megalopolis!
So we speed the golden hours
In this Hermitage of ours
(Hermits we are not, believe!
Every Adam has his Eve,
Loved with a serener bliss
Than in Megalopolis):—
In this Hermitage of ours
(Hermits we are not, believe!
Every Adam has his Eve,
Loved with a serener bliss
Than in Megalopolis):—
So—until the shadows fall:
Then Good Night say each and all;
Sleep secure from smoke and din,
Quiet Conscience tucks us in;
Ah, they nothing know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!
Then Good Night say each and all;
Sleep secure from smoke and din,
Quiet Conscience tucks us in;
Ah, they nothing know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!
559
(Thus Urbanus to his Wife
Babbled of The Simple Life.
Then—his glances unawares
Lighting on a List of Shares—
Gulping all his breakfast down,
Bustled, by the Train, to Town.)
Babbled of The Simple Life.
Then—his glances unawares
Lighting on a List of Shares—
Gulping all his breakfast down,
Bustled, by the Train, to Town.)
1905.
560
A NEW YEAR'S THOUGHT
Yet once again in wintry ways
The grey world rolls its tale of days;
And though its breast be chill and frore,
Still holds the songs of Spring in store,
The Autumn rains, the Summer blaze.
The grey world rolls its tale of days;
And though its breast be chill and frore,
Still holds the songs of Spring in store,
The Autumn rains, the Summer blaze.
Season to season, phase to phase
Succeed, and pass: what seems a maze
Is but Life's ordered course gone o'er
Yet once again.
Succeed, and pass: what seems a maze
Is but Life's ordered course gone o'er
Yet once again.
So, through this drear December haze,
We, fearless, turn our forward gaze,
As those who know, from days before,
What has been once will be once more,—
Good Hap or ill, and Blame, and Praise,
Yet once again!
We, fearless, turn our forward gaze,
As those who know, from days before,
What has been once will be once more,—
Good Hap or ill, and Blame, and Praise,
Yet once again!
1906.
561
RICHARD GARNETT
“Sit tibi terra levis!”
Of him, we may say justly—Here was one
Who knew of most things more than any other;
Who loved all learning underneath the sun,
And looked on every learner as a brother.
Who knew of most things more than any other;
Who loved all learning underneath the sun,
And looked on every learner as a brother.
Nor was this all. For those who knew him knew
Though far and wide his lore's domain extended
It held its quiet Poet's Corner too,
Where Mirth and Song and Irony were blended.
Though far and wide his lore's domain extended
It held its quiet Poet's Corner too,
Where Mirth and Song and Irony were blended.
1906.
562
THE PASSIONATE PRINTER TO HIS LOVE
(Whose name is Amanda.)
With Apologies to the Shade of Christopher Marlowe.
Come live with me and be my Dear;
And till that happy bond shall lapse,
I'll set your Poutings in Brevier,
Your Praises in the largest CAPS.
And till that happy bond shall lapse,
I'll set your Poutings in Brevier,
Your Praises in the largest CAPS.
There's Diamond—'tis for your Eyes;
There's Ruby—that will match your Lips;
Pearl, for your Teeth; and Minion-size
To suit your dainty Finger-tips.
There's Ruby—that will match your Lips;
Pearl, for your Teeth; and Minion-size
To suit your dainty Finger-tips.
In Nonpareil I'll put your Face;
In Rubric shall your Blushes rise;
There is no Bourgeois in your Case;
Your Form can never need “Revise.”
In Rubric shall your Blushes rise;
There is no Bourgeois in your Case;
Your Form can never need “Revise.”
Your Cheek seems “Ready for the Press”;
Your Laugh as Clarendon is clear;
There's more distinction in your Dress
Than in the oldest Elzevir.
Your Laugh as Clarendon is clear;
There's more distinction in your Dress
Than in the oldest Elzevir.
563
So with me live, and with me die;
And may no “Finis” e'er intrude
To break into mere “Printers' Pie”
The Type of our Beatitude!
And may no “Finis” e'er intrude
To break into mere “Printers' Pie”
The Type of our Beatitude!
(Erratum.—If my suit you flout,
And choose some happier Youth to wed,
'Tis but to cross Amanda out,
And read another name instead.)
And choose some happier Youth to wed,
'Tis but to cross Amanda out,
And read another name instead.)
Amandus Typographicus.
1906.
564
AN EPISTLE TO AN EDITOR
“Jamais les arbres verts n'ont essayé d'être bleus.”
—Théophile Gautier.
“A new Review!” You make me tremble
(Though as to that, I can dissemble
Till I hear more). But is it “new”?
And will it be a real Review?—
I mean, a Court in which the scales
Weigh equally both him that fails,
And him that hits the mark?—a place
Where the accus'd can plead his case,
If wrong'd? All this I need to know
Before I (arrogant!) say “Go.”
(Though as to that, I can dissemble
Till I hear more). But is it “new”?
And will it be a real Review?—
I mean, a Court in which the scales
Weigh equally both him that fails,
And him that hits the mark?—a place
Where the accus'd can plead his case,
If wrong'd? All this I need to know
Before I (arrogant!) say “Go.”
“We, that are very old” (the phrase
Is Steele's, not mine!), in former days,
Have seen so many “new Reviews”
Arise, arraign, absolve, abuse;—
Proclaim their mission to the top
(Where there's still room!), then slowly drop,
Sink down, fade out, and sans preferment,
Depart to their obscure interment;—
We should be pardon'd if we doubt
That a new venture can hold out.
It will, you say. Then don't be “new”;
Be “old.” The Old is still the True.
Nature (said Gautier) never tries
To alter her accustom'd dyes;
And all your novelties at best
Are ancient puppets, newly drest.
What you must do, is not to shrink
From speaking out the thing you think;
And blaming where 'tis right to blame
Despite tradition and a Name.
Yet don't expand a trifling blot,
Or ban the book for what it's not
(That is the poor device of those
Who cavil where they can't oppose!);
Moreover (this is very old!),
Be courteous—even when you scold!
Is Steele's, not mine!), in former days,
Have seen so many “new Reviews”
Arise, arraign, absolve, abuse;—
Proclaim their mission to the top
(Where there's still room!), then slowly drop,
Sink down, fade out, and sans preferment,
Depart to their obscure interment;—
We should be pardon'd if we doubt
That a new venture can hold out.
565
Be “old.” The Old is still the True.
Nature (said Gautier) never tries
To alter her accustom'd dyes;
And all your novelties at best
Are ancient puppets, newly drest.
What you must do, is not to shrink
From speaking out the thing you think;
And blaming where 'tis right to blame
Despite tradition and a Name.
Yet don't expand a trifling blot,
Or ban the book for what it's not
(That is the poor device of those
Who cavil where they can't oppose!);
Moreover (this is very old!),
Be courteous—even when you scold!
Blame I put first, but not at heart.
You must give Praise the foremost part;—
Praise that to those who write is breath
Of Life, if just; if unjust, Death.
Praise then the things that men revere;
Praise what they love, not what they fear;
Praise too the young; praise those who try;
Praise those who fail, but by and by
May do good work. Those who succeed,
You'll praise perforce,—so there's no need
To speak of that. And as to each,
See you keep measure in your speech;—
See that your praise be so exprest
That the best man shall get the best;
Nor fail of the fit word you meant
Because your epithets are spent.
Remember that our language gives
No limitless superlatives;
And Shakespeare, Homer, should have more
Than the last knocker at the door!
You must give Praise the foremost part;—
Praise that to those who write is breath
Of Life, if just; if unjust, Death.
Praise then the things that men revere;
Praise what they love, not what they fear;
Praise too the young; praise those who try;
Praise those who fail, but by and by
May do good work. Those who succeed,
You'll praise perforce,—so there's no need
To speak of that. And as to each,
See you keep measure in your speech;—
See that your praise be so exprest
That the best man shall get the best;
Nor fail of the fit word you meant
Because your epithets are spent.
566
No limitless superlatives;
And Shakespeare, Homer, should have more
Than the last knocker at the door!
“We, that are very old!”—May this
Excuse the hint you find amiss.
My thoughts, I feel, are what to-day
Men call vieux jeu. Well!—“let them say.”
The Old, at least, we know: the New
(A changing Shape that all pursue!)
Has been,—may be, a fraud.
—But there!
Wind to your sail! Vogue la galère!
Excuse the hint you find amiss.
My thoughts, I feel, are what to-day
Men call vieux jeu. Well!—“let them say.”
The Old, at least, we know: the New
(A changing Shape that all pursue!)
Has been,—may be, a fraud.
—But there!
Wind to your sail! Vogue la galère!
1906.
567
TO THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
At seventy years one well might choose
To pause in service to the Muse;
Nor counts it much for blame or praise
To him whose brow is bound with bays
If she be kindly, or refuse.
To pause in service to the Muse;
Nor counts it much for blame or praise
To him whose brow is bound with bays
If she be kindly, or refuse.
Least—least of all, need we excuse
The Bard who, backward-looking, views
But blameless songs and blameless days
At seventy years!
The Bard who, backward-looking, views
But blameless songs and blameless days
At seventy years!
And yet, Sing on. While life renews
Its morning skies, its evening hues,
Still may you walk in rhythmic ways
Companioned of the lyre whose lays
None—in this tuneless time—would lose
At seventy years!
Its morning skies, its evening hues,
Still may you walk in rhythmic ways
Companioned of the lyre whose lays
None—in this tuneless time—would lose
At seventy years!
1906.
568
TO MYRTALÉ
(With his verses.)
Myrtalé, when I am gone(Who was once Anacreon),
Lay these annals of my heart
In some secret shrine apart;
Into it put all my sighs,
All my lover's litanies,
All my vows and protestations,
All my jealous accusations,
All my hopes and all my fears,
All the tribute of my tears,—
Let it all be there inurned,
All my passion as it burned;
Label it, when I am gone,
“Ashes of Anacreon.”
1906.
569
“FAME IS A FOOD THAT DEAD MEN EAT”
(TO EDMUND GOSSE)
Fame is a food that dead men eat,—
I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the feaster be of cheer.
I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the feaster be of cheer.
But Friendship is a nobler thing,—
Of Friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall
And of his fault make funeral.
Of Friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall
And of his fault make funeral.
1906.
570
A WAIF
Ragged and starved, with shifting look, and eyes
Too old for childhood, and too dull for joy,
How shall you guess, thro' this forlorn disguise,
The Man you hope for, in this hopeless Boy?
Too old for childhood, and too dull for joy,
How shall you guess, thro' this forlorn disguise,
The Man you hope for, in this hopeless Boy?
There is no heart so cold but may be warmed;
And—by the grace of God—can be transformed.
And—by the grace of God—can be transformed.
1907.
571
LONGFELLOW
“And his old age made beautiful with song.”
These were thy words of Chaucer who, grown old,
Like thee, those wand'ring “Wayside” tales retold,
Which all men hearken to, when hours are long.
These were thy words of Chaucer who, grown old,
Like thee, those wand'ring “Wayside” tales retold,
Which all men hearken to, when hours are long.
But thou hadst added to the rest a throng
From Western Worlds; and Northern Runes unroll'd;
And sought in Gestes and Fables manifold
Thy “Birds of Passage,” fleet of wing and strong.
From Western Worlds; and Northern Runes unroll'd;
And sought in Gestes and Fables manifold
Thy “Birds of Passage,” fleet of wing and strong.
Bard of the bygone days when we were young!
Be this thy praise, that never flower'd among
Thy “Garden of Romance” aught base or mean;
And still, through all the changes of the year,
Thy stream of verse came welling pure and clear,
A stainless fount,—the truest Hippocrene.
Be this thy praise, that never flower'd among
Thy “Garden of Romance” aught base or mean;
And still, through all the changes of the year,
Thy stream of verse came welling pure and clear,
A stainless fount,—the truest Hippocrene.
1907.
572
A PLEASANT INVECTIVE AGAINST PRINTING
“Flee fro the Prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse.”
—Chaucer, Balade de Bon Conseil.
The Press is too much with us, small and great:
We are undone of chatter and on dit,
Report, retort, rejoinder, repartee,
Mole-hill and mare's nest, fiction up-to-date,
Babble of booklets, bicker of debate,
Aspect of A., and attitude of B.—
A waste of words that drive us like a sea,
Mere derelict of Ourselves, and helpless freight!
We are undone of chatter and on dit,
Report, retort, rejoinder, repartee,
Mole-hill and mare's nest, fiction up-to-date,
Babble of booklets, bicker of debate,
Aspect of A., and attitude of B.—
A waste of words that drive us like a sea,
Mere derelict of Ourselves, and helpless freight!
“O for a lodge in some vast wilderness!”
Some region unapproachable of Print,
Where never cablegram could gain access,
And telephones were not, nor any hint
Of tidings new or old, but Man might pipe
His soul to Nature,—careless of the Type!
Some region unapproachable of Print,
Where never cablegram could gain access,
And telephones were not, nor any hint
Of tidings new or old, but Man might pipe
His soul to Nature,—careless of the Type!
1907.
573
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE RHYMER
“Emam tua carmina sanus?”
—Martial.
F. of H.
I want a verse. It gives you little pains;—
You just sit down, and draw upon your brains.
Come, now, be amiable.
R.
To hear you talk,
You'd make it easier to fly than walk.
You seem to think that rhyming is a thing
You can produce if you but touch a spring;
That fancy, fervour, passion—and what not,
Are just a case of “penny in the slot.”
You should reflect that no evasive bird
Is half so shy as is your fittest word;
And even similes, however wrought,
Like hares, before you cook them, must be caught;—
Impromptus, too, require elaboration,
And (unlike eggs) grow fresh by incubation;
Then,—as to epigrams . . . .
F. of H.
Nay, nay, I've done
I did but make petition. You make fun.
574
Stay. I am grave. Forgive me if I ramble:
But then a negative needs some preamble
To break the blow. I feel with you, in truth,
These complex miseries of Age and Youth;
I feel with you—and none can feel it more
Than I—this burning Problem of the Poor;
The Want that grinds, the Mystery of Pain,
The Hearts that sink, and never rise again;—
How shall I set this to some careless screed,
Or jigging stave, when Help is what you need,
Help, Help,—more Help?
F. of H.
I fancied that with ease
You'd scribble off some verses that might please,
And so give help to us.
R.
Why then—take these!
1907.
575
TO A FRIEND WHO DEPLORED THE BRIEF LIFE OF LITERARY PERSONALITY
It is most true—and most untrue!
Though all should die of Me and You
And all of later men who press
This weary ball, 'tis like, no less,
That our stray thistle-down of thought
Claimed of some winnowing breeze, and brought
To some safe seeding-place, may lie
Securely there, and fructify;
And—in a world still out of joint—
May serve some bard for starting-point
Of some yet larger utterance whence
New bards shall borrow, aeons hence.
Though all should die of Me and You
And all of later men who press
This weary ball, 'tis like, no less,
That our stray thistle-down of thought
Claimed of some winnowing breeze, and brought
To some safe seeding-place, may lie
Securely there, and fructify;
And—in a world still out of joint—
May serve some bard for starting-point
Of some yet larger utterance whence
New bards shall borrow, aeons hence.
What skills it then, though We be done:
Our thought is living—and lives on!
Our thought is living—and lives on!
1907.
576
A PROEM
['Tis two-score years since Carroll's art]
'Tis two-score years since Carroll's art,
With topsy-turvy magic,
Sent Alice wandering through a part
Half-comic and half-tragic.
With topsy-turvy magic,
Sent Alice wandering through a part
Half-comic and half-tragic.
Enchanting Alice! Black-and-white
Has made your charm perennial;
And nought save “Chaos and old Night”
Can part you now from Tenniel;
Has made your charm perennial;
And nought save “Chaos and old Night”
Can part you now from Tenniel;
But still you are a Type, and based
In Truth, like Lear and Hamlet;
And Types may be re-draped to taste
In cloth of gold or camlet.
In Truth, like Lear and Hamlet;
And Types may be re-draped to taste
In cloth of gold or camlet.
Here comes a fresh Costumier then;
That Taste may gain a wrinkle
From him who drew with such deft pen
The rags of Rip van Winkle.
That Taste may gain a wrinkle
From him who drew with such deft pen
The rags of Rip van Winkle.
1907.
577
THE LAST PROOF
AN EPILOGUE TO ANY BOOK
“Finissons. Mais demain, Muse, à recommencer.”
Boileau.
“Finis at last—the end, the End, the End!
No more of paragraphs to prune or mend;
No more blue pencil, with its ruthless line,
To blot the phrase ‘particularly fine’;
No more of ‘slips,’ and ‘galleys,’ and ‘revises,’
Of words ‘transmogrified,’ and ‘wild surmises’;
No more of n's that masquerade as u's,
No nice perplexities of p's and q's;
No more mishaps of ante and of post,
That most mislead when they should help the most;
No more of ‘friend’ as ‘fiend,’ and ‘warm’ as ‘worm’;
No more negations where we would affirm;
No more of those mysterious freaks of fate
That make us bless when we should execrate;
No more of those last blunders that remain
Where we no more can set them right again:
No more apologies for doubtful data;
No more fresh facts that figure as Errata;
No more, in short, O Type, of wayward lore
From thy most un-Pierian fount—no more!”
No more of paragraphs to prune or mend;
No more blue pencil, with its ruthless line,
To blot the phrase ‘particularly fine’;
No more of ‘slips,’ and ‘galleys,’ and ‘revises,’
Of words ‘transmogrified,’ and ‘wild surmises’;
No more of n's that masquerade as u's,
No nice perplexities of p's and q's;
No more mishaps of ante and of post,
That most mislead when they should help the most;
No more of ‘friend’ as ‘fiend,’ and ‘warm’ as ‘worm’;
No more negations where we would affirm;
No more of those mysterious freaks of fate
That make us bless when we should execrate;
No more of those last blunders that remain
Where we no more can set them right again:
No more apologies for doubtful data;
No more fresh facts that figure as Errata;
No more, in short, O Type, of wayward lore
From thy most un-Pierian fount—no more!”
578
So spoke Papyrius. Yet his hand meanwhile
Went vaguely seeking for the vacant file,
Late stored with long array of notes, but now
Bare-wired and barren as a leafless bough;—
And even as he spoke, his mind began
Again to scheme, to purpose and to plan.
Went vaguely seeking for the vacant file,
Late stored with long array of notes, but now
Bare-wired and barren as a leafless bough;—
And even as he spoke, his mind began
Again to scheme, to purpose and to plan.
There is no end to Labour 'neath the sun;
There is no end of labouring—but One;
And though we “twitch [or not] our Mantle blue,”
“To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.”
There is no end of labouring—but One;
And though we “twitch [or not] our Mantle blue,”
“To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.”
1907.
579
AN EPITAPH (FOR A PARISH MAGAZINE)
“On n'y lit aucun nom.”
—V. Hugo.
Here sleeps, at last, in narrow bed,
A man of whom, whate'er is spoken,
This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.
A man of whom, whate'er is spoken,
This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.
He boasted no high-sounding name,
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And—more than once—forgave his debtors.
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And—more than once—forgave his debtors.
He never joined the cry of those
Who prate about the Public Morals;
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.
Who prate about the Public Morals;
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.
It never came within his plan
To “demonstrate” on Want or Labour;
He strove to serve his fellow-man,
And did his best to love his neighbour.
To “demonstrate” on Want or Labour;
He strove to serve his fellow-man,
And did his best to love his neighbour.
580
When Doubt disturbed his honest soul,
He found in this his consolation:—
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.
He found in this his consolation:—
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.
And this, at least, he felt was sure:—
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.
So, all unpraised, he ran his race;
But we, who watched his life, and knew it,
Thus mark his nameless resting place,
Because he died too poor to do it.
But we, who watched his life, and knew it,
Thus mark his nameless resting place,
Because he died too poor to do it.
1908.
581
THE HAPPY PRINTER
“Hoc est vivere.”
—Martial.
The Printer's is a happy lot:
Alone of all professions,
No fateful smudges ever blot
His earliest “impressions.”
Alone of all professions,
No fateful smudges ever blot
His earliest “impressions.”
The outgrowth of his youthful ken
No cold obstruction fetters;
He quickly learns the “types” of men,
And all the world of “letters.”
No cold obstruction fetters;
He quickly learns the “types” of men,
And all the world of “letters.”
With “forms” he scorns to compromise;
For him no “rule” has terrors;
The “slips” he makes, he can “revise”—
They are but “printers' errors.”
For him no “rule” has terrors;
The “slips” he makes, he can “revise”—
They are but “printers' errors.”
From doubtful questions of the “Press”
He wisely holds aloof;
In all polemics, more or less,
His argument is “proof.”
He wisely holds aloof;
In all polemics, more or less,
His argument is “proof.”
582
Save in their “case,” with High and Low,
Small need has he to grapple!
Without dissent he still can go
To his accustomed “Chapel.”
Small need has he to grapple!
Without dissent he still can go
To his accustomed “Chapel.”
From ills that others scape or shirk,
He rarely fails to rally;
For him, his most “composing” work
Is labour of the “galley.”
He rarely fails to rally;
For him, his most “composing” work
Is labour of the “galley.”
Though ways be foul, and days are dim,
He makes no lamentation;
The primal “fount” of woe to him
Is—want of occupation:
He makes no lamentation;
The primal “fount” of woe to him
Is—want of occupation:
And when, at last, Time finds him grey
With over-close attention,
He solves the problem of the day,
And gets an Old Age pension.
With over-close attention,
He solves the problem of the day,
And gets an Old Age pension.
1908.
This, derived, it is said, from Caxton's connection with Westminster Abbey, is the name given to the meetings held by printers to consider trade affairs, appeals, etc. (Printers' Vocabulary).
583
A MILTONIC EXERCISE
(TERCENTENARY, 1608–1908)
“Stops of various Quills.”
—Lycidas.
What need of votive Verse
To strew thy Laureat Herse
With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?
Or Mincian vocall Reed,
That Cam and Isis breed,
When thine own Words are burning in us still?
To strew thy Laureat Herse
With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?
Or Mincian vocall Reed,
That Cam and Isis breed,
When thine own Words are burning in us still?
Bard, Prophet, Archimage!
In this Cash-cradled Age,
We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote:
Where is the Strain unknown,
Through Bronze or Silver blown,
That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?
In this Cash-cradled Age,
We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote:
Where is the Strain unknown,
Through Bronze or Silver blown,
That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?
Yes—“we are selfish Men”:
Yet would we once again
Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;
Or watch the Comus Crew
Sweep down the Glade; or view
Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!
Yet would we once again
Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;
Or watch the Comus Crew
Sweep down the Glade; or view
Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!
584
Or could we catch once more,
High up, the Clang and Roar
Of Angel Conflict,—Angel Overthrow;
Or, with a World begun,
Behold the young-ray'd Sun
Flame in the Groves where the Four Rivers go!
High up, the Clang and Roar
Of Angel Conflict,—Angel Overthrow;
Or, with a World begun,
Behold the young-ray'd Sun
Flame in the Groves where the Four Rivers go!
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Only the Storm-bird's Scream
Foretells of Tempest in the Days to come;
Nowhere is heard up-climb
The lofty lyric Rhyme,
And the “God-gifted Organ-voice” is dumb.
Only the Storm-bird's Scream
Foretells of Tempest in the Days to come;
Nowhere is heard up-climb
The lofty lyric Rhyme,
And the “God-gifted Organ-voice” is dumb.
1908.
585
PROLOGUE TO “DE LIBRIS”
Lector
Benevole!—for so
They used to call you, years ago,—
I can't pretend to make you read
The pages that to this succeed;
Nor would I, if I could, excuse
The wayward promptings of the Muse,
At whose command I wrote them down.
They used to call you, years ago,—
I can't pretend to make you read
The pages that to this succeed;
Nor would I, if I could, excuse
The wayward promptings of the Muse,
At whose command I wrote them down.
I have no hope to “please the town.”
I did but think some friendly soul
(Not ill-advised, upon the whole!)
Might like them; and—“to interpose
A little ease,”—between the prose,
Slipped in the scraps of verse, that thus
Things might be less monotonous.
I did but think some friendly soul
(Not ill-advised, upon the whole!)
Might like them; and—“to interpose
A little ease,”—between the prose,
Slipped in the scraps of verse, that thus
Things might be less monotonous.
Then, Lector, be Benevolus!
1908.
586
A SONG OF THE GREENAWAY CHILD
In an article by the writer on Kate Greenaway (Art Journal, April, 1902) the following lines were included:—
“K. G.” (November 6, 1901.)
Farewell, kind heart! And if there be
In that unshored immensity
Child-Angels, they will welcome thee.
Clean-souled, clear-eyed, unspoiled, discreet,
Thou gav'st thy gifts to make Life sweet,—
These shall be flowers about thy feet!
In an article by the writer on Kate Greenaway (Art Journal, April, 1902) the following lines were included:— “K. G.” (November 6, 1901.)
Farewell, kind heart! And if there be
In that unshored immensity
Child-Angels, they will welcome thee.
In that unshored immensity
Child-Angels, they will welcome thee.
Clean-souled, clear-eyed, unspoiled, discreet,
Thou gav'st thy gifts to make Life sweet,—
These shall be flowers about thy feet!
Thou gav'st thy gifts to make Life sweet,—
These shall be flowers about thy feet!
As I went a-walking on Lavender Hill,
O, I met a Darling in frock and frill;
And she looked at me shyly, with eyes of blue,
“Are you going a-walking? Then take me too!”
O, I met a Darling in frock and frill;
And she looked at me shyly, with eyes of blue,
“Are you going a-walking? Then take me too!”
So we strolled to the field where the cowslips grow,
And we played—and we played for an hour or so;
Then we climbed to the top of the old park wall,
And the Darling she threaded a cowslip ball.
And we played—and we played for an hour or so;
Then we climbed to the top of the old park wall,
And the Darling she threaded a cowslip ball.
Then we played again, till I said—“My Dear,
This pain in my side, it has grown severe;
I ought to have told you I'm past three-score,
And I fear that I scarcely can play any more!”
This pain in my side, it has grown severe;
I ought to have told you I'm past three-score,
And I fear that I scarcely can play any more!”
But the Darling she answered,—“O no! O no!
You must play—you must play.—I shan't let you go!”
—And I woke with a start and a sigh of despair
And I found myself safe in my Grandfather's-chair!
You must play—you must play.—I shan't let you go!”
—And I woke with a start and a sigh of despair
And I found myself safe in my Grandfather's-chair!
1908.
587
FOR A VISITORS' BOOK
(TO THE LADY OF THE CASTLE)
“He who fears the trial,
Naught can hope to gain”:—
Shall I make denial
À la Châtelaine?
Naught can hope to gain”:—
Shall I make denial
À la Châtelaine?
Come then, Muse, and lend me
All that poets feign:
Let my verse commend me
À la Châtelaine!
All that poets feign:
Let my verse commend me
À la Châtelaine!
Time, that rarely lingers,—
Time, that churl ingrain,—
Kisses courtier fingers
À la Châtelaine;
Time, that churl ingrain,—
Kisses courtier fingers
À la Châtelaine;
Leads her by soft places
Free from stone and stain;
Spares his sterner traces
À la Châtelaine!
Free from stone and stain;
Spares his sterner traces
À la Châtelaine!
588
Ah! benign, caressing,
Still, O Time, remain;
Send thy chiefest blessing
À la Châtelaine!
Still, O Time, remain;
Send thy chiefest blessing
À la Châtelaine!
Make her sorest troubles
Light as summer rain;
Crosses be but bubbles
À la Châtelaine!
Light as summer rain;
Crosses be but bubbles
À la Châtelaine!
Neither mar nor mend her;
Save her toil and pain;
Time, be always tender
À la Châtelaine!
Save her toil and pain;
Time, be always tender
À la Châtelaine!
1908.
589
“TWO MAIDS UPROSE IN THE SHIMMERING LIGHT”
“Que gagne bataille
Aura mes amours.”—
“Qu'il gagne ou qu'il perde
Les aura toujours.”
Aura mes amours.”—
“Qu'il gagne ou qu'il perde
Les aura toujours.”
Two maids uprose in the shimmering light
Of the clanging battle-morn;
And one was tressed like the bird of night,
And one like the ripening corn.
Of the clanging battle-morn;
And one was tressed like the bird of night,
And one like the ripening corn.
Then out spoke she with the raven locks,
And her dark eyes glowed like wine:—
“If he slay the foe, the knight I know,
He shall win this heart of mine!”
And her dark eyes glowed like wine:—
“If he slay the foe, the knight I know,
He shall win this heart of mine!”
But softlier she of the yellow hair,
And her blue eyes 'gan to fill:
“Though he gain or lose, the man I choose,
He shall be my true love still!”
And her blue eyes 'gan to fill:
“Though he gain or lose, the man I choose,
He shall be my true love still!”
1908.
590
ELIM
Palm-trees and wells they found of yore
Who—that Egyptian bondage o'er—
Had sight betimes of feathering green,
Of lengthened shadows, and between,
The cool, deep-garnered water-store.
Who—that Egyptian bondage o'er—
Had sight betimes of feathering green,
Of lengthened shadows, and between,
The cool, deep-garnered water-store.
Dear,—dear is Rest by sea and shore:
But dearest to the travel-sore,
Whose camping-place not yet has been
Palm-trees and wells!
But dearest to the travel-sore,
Whose camping-place not yet has been
Palm-trees and wells!
For such we plead. Shall we ignore
The long Procession of the Poor,
Still faring through the night-wind keen,
With faltering steps, to the Unseen?—
Nay: let us seek for these once more
Palm-trees and wells!
The long Procession of the Poor,
Still faring through the night-wind keen,
With faltering steps, to the Unseen?—
Nay: let us seek for these once more
Palm-trees and wells!
1909.
591
COLLABORATION:
AN ECLOGUE
“Alternis dicetis: amant alterna Camenae.”
—Virg.
Scene.—A Seat on the Thames Embankment.
Brown. Black.
(Brown has fair hair, displays a velvet coat,
Pince-nez on nose, and wisp about his throat;
Black is stiff-bearded, sturdy, brown of boot,
Wears Harris tweeds, and smokes a brier-root.)
Br.
Pince-nez on nose, and wisp about his throat;
Black is stiff-bearded, sturdy, brown of boot,
Wears Harris tweeds, and smokes a brier-root.)
I cannot rhyme, yet feel poetic throes.
Bl.
Rhymes I can manage. But my taste is prose.
Br.
A happy thought! Supposing we combine?
I'll find the subject,
Bl.
And I'll cap the line.
Br.
Let me premise that, whether blank or not,
Verse should be rhythmical at any rate.
Bl.
I don't object. But it must “touch the spot”;
And not be “precious” or “alembicate.”
Br.
Begin then, Muse,—begin the lofty Song!
Bl.
In plainer English,—“Roll the ball along!”
Br.
“Life is a Dream”—as Calderon has said—
Bl.
And ought to know, for he has long been dead.
Br.
A perilous Journey to a Goal unknown—
Bl.
Unless you have some income of your own.
592
Love is a Need, in Natures incomplete—
Bl.
Platonic rubbish!—and a mere conceit.
Br.
A gilded Apple, bitter to the Core—
Bl.
Also, a metaphor much heard before.
Br.
But Love the Need and Life the Dream exist—
Bl.
Though—as abstractions—neither would be missed.
Br.
And even Sentiment, Affection's Priest—
Bl.
Is but an entrée in the daily feast.
Br.
An entrée, yes,—and often overlooked—
Bl.
Provided that your standing-dish be cooked.
Br.
Provided, too, you banish Thought and Care—
Bl.
Both needless extras in a bill of fare.
Br.
That makes four verses. Only, your replies
Have more of crambo than of consequence.
Bl.
They have, of course. No Pegasus that flies
Can soar when handicapped by Common-sense.
Br.
Which makes another. Underneath the lamp,
I'll write them down—
Bl.
And I'll provide the stamp.
Br.
“The stamp!” For what? You think some Magazine?—
Bl.
Why not? That is precisely what I mean.
(So said, so done. We find them here and guess
They must forthwith have posted that MS.:—
Each Bard believing, as they both retired,
That what he spoke, would be the more admired.)
They must forthwith have posted that MS.:—
Each Bard believing, as they both retired,
That what he spoke, would be the more admired.)
1909.
593
ENTENTE CORDIALE
Now side by side curvet and prance
The flower of England and of France,
Tried champions, comrades leal and true,
Resolved, in all, to dare and do,—
Whom pen and pencil serve for lance.
The flower of England and of France,
Tried champions, comrades leal and true,
Resolved, in all, to dare and do,—
Whom pen and pencil serve for lance.
“Knights of the Joyous Countenance!”—
In wit, skill, gaiety, romance,
Who shall to-day contend with you,
Now side by side?
In wit, skill, gaiety, romance,
Who shall to-day contend with you,
Now side by side?
Salut, Messires! May no mischance
To this fair bond bring severance!
Salut! Salut! Red, White and Blue;—
Salut! to our grim Lion too,
Who laughs to see the lines advance
Now side by side!
To this fair bond bring severance!
Salut! Salut! Red, White and Blue;—
Salut! to our grim Lion too,
Who laughs to see the lines advance
Now side by side!
1909.
| Collected poems | |