Flotsam and Jetsam :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘At Kylve there was no weathercock—’
You recollect the conscious shock
Of self-reproof that stifles
His curious mood, the Bard's, who knew so well
To sing the depth of trifles,
When his persistent questionings compel
The tiny Boy-romancer
To feign that fibbing answer.

II

Two childish facts may I record,
With food for thought as richly stored?—
‘What!’ with wide eyes unmoving,
I heard a small boy ask his mother mild,
‘Did God, the good, the loving,
Really bid Abram kill his darling child?’—
The long-fringed lids asunder
With horror, grief and wonder.

III

Pat reasons then and orthodox!—
Yet, smoothing her pet-Hamlet's locks,
(Black velvet dress enhancing
Of course, their gold floss soft as ever gleamed
Spun from cocoons fast-dancing
And jerking on warm water) she, it seemed,
Felt fact and gloss as cruel
Almost as did her jewel.

IV

Again. Broad walks and lawns so soft,
And ‘noble pines’ whose shoots aloft,
Long, spine-furred, sleek, like leeches
With mere luxuriance sinuously upwrithe;
And thick-leaved oaks and beeches,
And violet skies where summer suns make blithe
And blaze through hot Decembers,
Smouldering up here like embers:

V

'Tis there I see a Boy bright-eyed
Come skipping from a damsel's side,
Brimful of childish glory:

‘O such a tale she read, our nurse Aglaia,
O such a pretty story!—
There was a great great Giant named Golia'h,
As tall as any steeple,
Who frightened all the people,

VI

‘And killed them with a spear he had,
Like that big flagmast. Then a lad
(So brave, he killed a lion!)
Left his white sheep to nibble the green grass,
And came, and wouldn't try on
The iron coat and helmet all of brass;
And took five pebbles only
Picked from the streamlet lonely,

VII

‘And one small cord the stones to throw,
And came to fight the Giant so!
And when the great fierce fellow
Saw such a red-cheeked boy, “What dog am I”
(So he began to bellow)
“To fright with sticks!”—And as the lad drew nigh,
He growled, with big tusks gnashing
Great eye-balls rolling, flashing,

VIII

‘Lips smacking—“Fee! faw! fum! I smell
The blood of” . . . No!’ the boy's face fell—
‘“I'll grind his bones, I'll eat him—
‘I'll give his flesh to fowls”’ . . . A puzzled look,
False memory so did cheat him,
The place of mimic bounce and swagger took;
And so the story ended,
In Norse and Jewish blended.

IX

O commentators! neat-wigged men
Of lore! from strained conclusions when
Your hard-pressed noddles need ease,
From Moab-stones and wedge-scored fragments turn
To these cherubic D.D.s;
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings learn!
What's all your erudition
To infant intuition!

1873.