 | Select poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1909) |  |
118
FROM THE BRAZEN HEAD
A man should be tall, a man should be strong,
His shoulders be broad, his limbs be long;
He should not be mincing, pretty and petty,
A booted Miss Molly, a breeched Lady Betty;—
His brow should be open, his forehead high,
And beneath them should beam a brilliant eye,
Softened in love, but oh, in its ire
Flashing and burning with fearful fire!
His hair should be black; his beard should be blue;
And his voice deep, but musical too;
His lip should be slightly and proudly curled,
As though his spirit defied the world;
And yet, with this, the radiant light
Of a kindly nature should still unite.
Grace should be his, but not the grace
Which moves with a tutored dancing pace,
But the free, unstudied open air
Which seems as Nature had stamped it there.
His shoulders be broad, his limbs be long;
He should not be mincing, pretty and petty,
A booted Miss Molly, a breeched Lady Betty;—
His brow should be open, his forehead high,
And beneath them should beam a brilliant eye,
Softened in love, but oh, in its ire
Flashing and burning with fearful fire!
119
And his voice deep, but musical too;
His lip should be slightly and proudly curled,
As though his spirit defied the world;
And yet, with this, the radiant light
Of a kindly nature should still unite.
Grace should be his, but not the grace
Which moves with a tutored dancing pace,
But the free, unstudied open air
Which seems as Nature had stamped it there.
On such are turned the fairest eyes,
For such are breathed the softest sighs,
For such the softest words are spoken,
For such the softest hearts are broken;
For such is the billet of curious fold;
Such is the ‘angel of green and gold’
Whose form appears in the vision of bliss
Which floats o'er the sleep of the maiden miss,
When the charmed cake is hers to dream on,
To call up the shape of her own Philemon!
With such a form does the lonely student—
Beware! beware! it is too imprudent—
Invest the hero of dear romance,
A Condé of Spain, a chevalier of France;
Such the saint—Adam Blair; such the sinner—Don Juan;
Such the modern Sir Charles, and the ancient Sir Huon;
Such do poets write a book on;
Such do ladies love to look on;
Such do limners love to paint;
For such beat pulses fast and faint;
For such do young maids lime their twigs;
For such do old maids curl their wigs;
Such both maid and mistress covet;
The young heart dies, that such may love it;
For such both fair and foul endeavour—
Both young and old—both dull and clever;
For such both ink and tears are shed
By each and all—quoth THE BRAZEN HEAD.
For such are breathed the softest sighs,
For such the softest words are spoken,
For such the softest hearts are broken;
For such is the billet of curious fold;
Such is the ‘angel of green and gold’
Whose form appears in the vision of bliss
Which floats o'er the sleep of the maiden miss,
When the charmed cake is hers to dream on,
To call up the shape of her own Philemon!
With such a form does the lonely student—
Beware! beware! it is too imprudent—
Invest the hero of dear romance,
A Condé of Spain, a chevalier of France;
Such the saint—Adam Blair; such the sinner—Don Juan;
Such the modern Sir Charles, and the ancient Sir Huon;
Such do poets write a book on;
Such do ladies love to look on;
120
For such beat pulses fast and faint;
For such do young maids lime their twigs;
For such do old maids curl their wigs;
Such both maid and mistress covet;
The young heart dies, that such may love it;
For such both fair and foul endeavour—
Both young and old—both dull and clever;
For such both ink and tears are shed
By each and all—quoth THE BRAZEN HEAD.
152
ONE MORE QUADRILLE
Not yet, not yet; it's hardly four;
Not yet; we'll send the chair away;
Mirth still has many smiles in store,
And love has fifty things to say.
Long leagues the weary Sun must drive,
Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill;
The merry stars will dance till five;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
Not yet; we'll send the chair away;
Mirth still has many smiles in store,
And love has fifty things to say.
Long leagues the weary Sun must drive,
Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill;
The merry stars will dance till five;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
'Tis only thus, 'tis only here
That maids and minstrels may forget
The myriad ills they feel or fear,
Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt;
With daylight busy cares and schemes
Will come again to chafe or chill;
This is the fairy land of dreams;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
That maids and minstrels may forget
The myriad ills they feel or fear,
Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt;
153
Will come again to chafe or chill;
This is the fairy land of dreams;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
What tricks the French in Paris play,
And what the Austrians are about,
And whether that tall knave, Lord Grey,
Is staying in, or going out;
And what the House of Lords will do,
At last, with that eternal Bill,
I do not care a rush,—do you?
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
And what the Austrians are about,
And whether that tall knave, Lord Grey,
Is staying in, or going out;
And what the House of Lords will do,
At last, with that eternal Bill,
I do not care a rush,—do you?
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
My book don't sell, my play don't draw,
My garden gives me only weeds;
And Mr. Quirk has found a flaw—
Deuce take him—in my title-deeds;
My Aunt has scratched her nephew's name
From that sweet corner in her will;
My dog is dead, my horse is lame;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
My garden gives me only weeds;
And Mr. Quirk has found a flaw—
Deuce take him—in my title-deeds;
My Aunt has scratched her nephew's name
From that sweet corner in her will;
My dog is dead, my horse is lame;
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
Not yet, not yet; it is not late;
Don't whisper it to sister Jane;
Your brother, I am sure, will wait;
Papa will go to cards again.
Not yet, not yet. Your eyes are bright,
Your step is like a wood-nymph's, still.
Oh no, you can't be tired, to-night!
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
Don't whisper it to sister Jane;
Your brother, I am sure, will wait;
Papa will go to cards again.
Not yet, not yet. Your eyes are bright,
Your step is like a wood-nymph's, still.
Oh no, you can't be tired, to-night!
One more quadrille,—one more quadrille!
| Select poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1909) | |