 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
753
“NOVISSIMA VERBA.”
THE INFINITE HEART.
I had loved with loving not of earth,
Fire divinely blest,
But delight to me was only dearth,
No attainment rest;
Though I wooed enchantments, as they lie
In imperial thought
Of the knowledge that will never die,
Into victory wrought;
I pursued the lily and the rose
Of enticing Art,
But I found not there the craved repose
For the boundless heart.
Fire divinely blest,
But delight to me was only dearth,
No attainment rest;
Though I wooed enchantments, as they lie
In imperial thought
Of the knowledge that will never die,
Into victory wrought;
I pursued the lily and the rose
Of enticing Art,
But I found not there the craved repose
For the boundless heart.
Then I turned from Reason's banquet spread
Free with splendid flowers,
Fruits that shall (when riddles all are read)
Still keep blooming bowers;
Left the Science, that with golden bridge
Fancies to things done
Links, and shows the Maker and the midge
Are most truly one;
Proved philosophy, with pathway rough,
Though of Heaven a part
Heavenly, yet alone is not enough
For the boundless heart.
Free with splendid flowers,
Fruits that shall (when riddles all are read)
Still keep blooming bowers;
Left the Science, that with golden bridge
Fancies to things done
Links, and shows the Maker and the midge
Are most truly one;
Proved philosophy, with pathway rough,
Though of Heaven a part
Heavenly, yet alone is not enough
For the boundless heart.
So I fared to women, whence the King
Wisest among men
Drew the lore for his appareling,
Beyond human ken;
Deeming they, perchance, with insight pure,
Had some hidden gate
In eternity, that made them sure
Mistresses of Fate;
If they could, who in white vesture went,
Ease my bosom smart,
And reveal the secret of content
For the boundless heart.
Wisest among men
Drew the lore for his appareling,
Beyond human ken;
Deeming they, perchance, with insight pure,
Had some hidden gate
In eternity, that made them sure
Mistresses of Fate;
If they could, who in white vesture went,
Ease my bosom smart,
And reveal the secret of content
For the boundless heart.
754
Now I questioned oracles, that flash
Out of azure eyes,
Under canopy of midnight lash,
Opening sunny skies;
Sought upon the palpitating breast,
In voluptuous looks,
Refuge, and enfranchisement of rest
Not from dusty books;
Dreamed at length in minglings fond, to find
Peace of fairer start,
More than mere bewitchings of the mind,
For the boundless heart.
Out of azure eyes,
Under canopy of midnight lash,
Opening sunny skies;
Sought upon the palpitating breast,
In voluptuous looks,
Refuge, and enfranchisement of rest
Not from dusty books;
Dreamed at length in minglings fond, to find
Peace of fairer start,
More than mere bewitchings of the mind,
For the boundless heart.
First I conquered Kate, the coy and fair,
Swore my ardent love,
Basking in the glory of her hair,
Fitted like her glove;
Circled her with honour, at her feet
Learned the blessèd ways
Only gained from glances bright and sweet
As celestial rays;
Till I proved the ripe and ready fruit,
Had a savour tart
Under, and in vain was all my suit,
For the boundless heart.
Swore my ardent love,
Basking in the glory of her hair,
Fitted like her glove;
Circled her with honour, at her feet
Learned the blessèd ways
Only gained from glances bright and sweet
As celestial rays;
Till I proved the ripe and ready fruit,
Had a savour tart
Under, and in vain was all my suit,
For the boundless heart.
Next I wooed in Ada's gipsy face
Darkly shaded charms,
Won from her a welcome resting-place
In her winding arms;
On her heavy limbs and sleepy lids
Problems raised once more,
Which the Puritan his dupes forbids,
Stuffed with frigid store;
Till I felt her beauty burn and pierce
Like a poisoned dart,
And I knew no counter guard or tierce,
For the boundless heart.
Darkly shaded charms,
Won from her a welcome resting-place
In her winding arms;
On her heavy limbs and sleepy lids
Problems raised once more,
Which the Puritan his dupes forbids,
Stuffed with frigid store;
Till I felt her beauty burn and pierce
Like a poisoned dart,
And I knew no counter guard or tierce,
For the boundless heart.
Then to Mabel, passionate and proud,
Turned my amorous will,
Braved the terrors of the thunder-cloud,
Fire vouchsafed to kill;
Though my daring wings were scorched, and faint
Reeled my spirit back,
From her clasp, half-devil and half-saint,
On her meteor track;
But within that furnace respite none
Came, nor guiding chart,
Yet the labour was a deed undone,
For the boundless heart.
Turned my amorous will,
Braved the terrors of the thunder-cloud,
Fire vouchsafed to kill;
Though my daring wings were scorched, and faint
Reeled my spirit back,
From her clasp, half-devil and half-saint,
On her meteor track;
But within that furnace respite none
Came, nor guiding chart,
Yet the labour was a deed undone,
For the boundless heart.
755
Clara then withdrew me, to the calm
Of her cold desires,
Tall and stately as an Orient palm,
Which to Heaven aspires;
Though I found, when once I boldly crost
Gulf of virgin shame,
If one side was fierce as Arctic frost,
One was torrid flame;
Still not here, in regulated love,
Measured as Mozart,
Got I peace, that lifted me above,
For the boundless heart.
Of her cold desires,
Tall and stately as an Orient palm,
Which to Heaven aspires;
Though I found, when once I boldly crost
Gulf of virgin shame,
If one side was fierce as Arctic frost,
One was torrid flame;
Still not here, in regulated love,
Measured as Mozart,
Got I peace, that lifted me above,
For the boundless heart.
Then in Marjory, I met a face
Tuned by elder times,
Music, stepping gravely to the pace
Of heroic chimes;
Bathed in other-worldly beauty, till
With no niggard dole,
All the waves that all the bosom thrill,
Overwashed my soul;
But I yet was as a passing guest,
Careful of the carte,
And in her embrace I felt no rest
For the boundless heart.
Tuned by elder times,
Music, stepping gravely to the pace
Of heroic chimes;
Bathed in other-worldly beauty, till
With no niggard dole,
All the waves that all the bosom thrill,
Overwashed my soul;
But I yet was as a passing guest,
Careful of the carte,
And in her embrace I felt no rest
For the boundless heart.
Gwendolen now took me, as a joy
For a leisure hour,
Made me thus half-ornament, half toy,
In her gilded bower;
From her varying fashionable modes,
Truth I sweetly sipped,
Such as into me by classic codes
Never had been whipped;
But dissatisfied too soon was she,
Greedy as a scart,
And no solace then remained to me,
For the boundless heart.
For a leisure hour,
Made me thus half-ornament, half toy,
In her gilded bower;
From her varying fashionable modes,
Truth I sweetly sipped,
Such as into me by classic codes
Never had been whipped;
But dissatisfied too soon was she,
Greedy as a scart,
And no solace then remained to me,
For the boundless heart.
So at last to Floribel I turned,
To her venal smile,
Charms that like a public candle burned,
With a sugared guile;
In her studied raptures, and the rose
Of a borrowed grace,
Elegance and mercenary pose,
Sought a resting-place;
Yet, alas, though she was doubly paid,
Bought upon the mart,
Even in her I won no lasting aid
For the boundless heart.
To her venal smile,
Charms that like a public candle burned,
With a sugared guile;
In her studied raptures, and the rose
Of a borrowed grace,
Elegance and mercenary pose,
Sought a resting-place;
Yet, alas, though she was doubly paid,
Bought upon the mart,
Even in her I won no lasting aid
For the boundless heart.
756
Fools, who fancy any woman can,
Though superbly done,
Give all soft delights to any man,
Gathered up in one;
Fools, who dream one beautous woman will,
If she never tires,
Always with her fond allurements thrill
Man's complete desires;
Fools, who think that ought may satisfy,
Which is only part—
Fulness less than the infinity
Of the boundless heart.
Though superbly done,
Give all soft delights to any man,
Gathered up in one;
Fools, who dream one beautous woman will,
If she never tires,
Always with her fond allurements thrill
Man's complete desires;
Fools, who think that ought may satisfy,
Which is only part—
Fulness less than the infinity
Of the boundless heart.
“VINUM DÆMONUM.”
The grim old Father—was it gaunt Tertullian?—
Starved with gray-minded lore,
Who saw through life no further than a scullion,
Cramped in his kitchen store—
That hater of sweet wine, and sweeter woman,
Which him denied their part,
Possessed with every grace but what was human,
Devoid of head and heart—
Who on the Muse's romps and Graces' revels
His prison portal slammed,
God's poetry dared call the “wine of devils,”
And so himself has damned.
Starved with gray-minded lore,
Who saw through life no further than a scullion,
Cramped in his kitchen store—
That hater of sweet wine, and sweeter woman,
Which him denied their part,
Possessed with every grace but what was human,
Devoid of head and heart—
Who on the Muse's romps and Graces' revels
His prison portal slammed,
God's poetry dared call the “wine of devils,”
And so himself has damned.
I never worked, like Huxley, at theology,
Save Watts's nursery hymns,
And little learned—though this is no apology—
Of texts and Cherubims;
And yet I deemed I was as educated
In liberal thoughts and things,
As monks and mannikins, with codes castrated
That cut away our wings;
Nor do I blush to own, the “wine of devils”
By me is oft desired,
And the gay nymph whose locks the god dishevels,
With water not inspired.
Save Watts's nursery hymns,
And little learned—though this is no apology—
Of texts and Cherubims;
And yet I deemed I was as educated
In liberal thoughts and things,
As monks and mannikins, with codes castrated
That cut away our wings;
Nor do I blush to own, the “wine of devils”
By me is oft desired,
And the gay nymph whose locks the god dishevels,
With water not inspired.
I thought the poet was a grand creator
Of lovely things and true,
A guardian angel, a crowned liberator
For wanderers without clue;
Who brought us draughts of wisdom, out of glory
By sophists never seen,
And left to meaner minds the garlands gory
That only stain earth's green;
Yea, all the noble deeds of Grants and Grevilles
Mix in the mighty bowl
Bright with the laughing dancing “wine of devils,”
That god-like makes the soul.
Of lovely things and true,
A guardian angel, a crowned liberator
For wanderers without clue;
Who brought us draughts of wisdom, out of glory
By sophists never seen,
And left to meaner minds the garlands gory
That only stain earth's green;
757
Mix in the mighty bowl
Bright with the laughing dancing “wine of devils,”
That god-like makes the soul.
If Puritans, who whine for Heaven's best favour
In prayers that falsehoods fuse,
Delight in sops of milk, I love the savour
Of “devilled” meat and Muse;
I love the flowing feast, and in mad measure
Enterpe's flying feet,
And all the passion of the rhythmic pleasure,
That if profane is sweet;
And bright as grape-juice of a hundred Sevilles,
Where ripened music runs,
Is the pale prosing Father's “wine of devils,”
Lit by Olympic suns.
In prayers that falsehoods fuse,
Delight in sops of milk, I love the savour
Of “devilled” meat and Muse;
I love the flowing feast, and in mad measure
Enterpe's flying feet,
And all the passion of the rhythmic pleasure,
That if profane is sweet;
And bright as grape-juice of a hundred Sevilles,
Where ripened music runs,
Is the pale prosing Father's “wine of devils,”
Lit by Olympic suns.
For I had dreamed—it's true, I was no Quaker—
The poet with his fire
Was more than mortal, and a Heaven-sent maker
To bid our speech aspire;
Who tunes our steps to the celestial dances
The stars in order tread,
And weaves of dew and light those love romances,
That quicken even the dead;
I fancied him a conqueror, who levels
Care with its lictor rods,
And crabbed Tertullian's poisoned “wine of devils,’
Was glorious wine of gods.
The poet with his fire
Was more than mortal, and a Heaven-sent maker
To bid our speech aspire;
Who tunes our steps to the celestial dances
The stars in order tread,
And weaves of dew and light those love romances,
That quicken even the dead;
I fancied him a conqueror, who levels
Care with its lictor rods,
And crabbed Tertullian's poisoned “wine of devils,’
Was glorious wine of gods.
And this I hold, though each sour fusty Father
Should thunder at my creed
Anathemas, which piety may gather,
That all the world has d---d;
The celibate may hug cold consolation,
In musty dusty books,
And gloat upon a future of damnation
For errant lips and looks;
Give me the golden cup the binder bevels
With his enchanting art,
And I will drain and drain the “wine of devils”
Through my whole thirsty heart.
Should thunder at my creed
Anathemas, which piety may gather,
That all the world has d---d;
The celibate may hug cold consolation,
In musty dusty books,
And gloat upon a future of damnation
For errant lips and looks;
Give me the golden cup the binder bevels
With his enchanting art,
And I will drain and drain the “wine of devils”
Through my whole thirsty heart.
LACRYMÆ DEI.
We read in Holy writ, and doubt it not,
If still false Judas on it stab his blot,
Who creeps to murder as he always crept,
That twice in His great beautiful pure Life,
Which orbed with evening hush a world at strife,
Christ wept.
If still false Judas on it stab his blot,
Who creeps to murder as he always crept,
That twice in His great beautiful pure Life,
Which orbed with evening hush a world at strife,
Christ wept.
758
Once at the grave of Lazarus, the dear
Foredoomed disciple, fell the human tear,
Which woke the slumberer where he darkly slept;
And as He saw the black procession wind
Through ages, that one stricken group behind,
Christ wept.
Foredoomed disciple, fell the human tear,
Which woke the slumberer where he darkly slept;
And as He saw the black procession wind
Through ages, that one stricken group behind,
Christ wept.
Again, when on Him flashed in starry state,
Matchless, white marble front and golden gate,
That with the kindred skies proud concert kept,
When all around was triumph glad and bright,
And all within a sorrow deep as night.
Christ wept.
Matchless, white marble front and golden gate,
That with the kindred skies proud concert kept,
When all around was triumph glad and bright,
And all within a sorrow deep as night.
Christ wept.
And we are sure, that in His childhood sweet,
While lay Creation curbed beneath His feet,
And awful angels at His bidding stept,
Yet then at times in natural tender grief,
Which even to Him gave some Divine relief,
Christ wept.
While lay Creation curbed beneath His feet,
And awful angels at His bidding stept,
Yet then at times in natural tender grief,
Which even to Him gave some Divine relief,
Christ wept.
And still, in poet's universal thought
Of sadness, into song celestial wrought,
While vengeance He in vain foreboded creeps
Grim and unmarked, on fools that dine and dance,
Blown to and fro by wind of circumstance,
God weeps.
Of sadness, into song celestial wrought,
While vengeance He in vain foreboded creeps
Grim and unmarked, on fools that dine and dance,
Blown to and fro by wind of circumstance,
God weeps.
In thundering lines, that like a battle shout
Shake the close ranks of dim and stubborn doubt,
When the drugged soldier on his watch-tower sleeps,
That knocks at tombs, where splendid spirits lie
Bound with the grave clothes of a harlot tie,
God weeps.
Shake the close ranks of dim and stubborn doubt,
When the drugged soldier on his watch-tower sleeps,
That knocks at tombs, where splendid spirits lie
Bound with the grave clothes of a harlot tie,
God weeps.
In the wild ballad from the breaking heart,
Fashioned of flame and storm and iron dart,
At woman's woe that endless vigil keeps,
Flung like a firebrand in the gilded pelf,
With burning words that pierce the Heaven itself,
God weeps.
Fashioned of flame and storm and iron dart,
At woman's woe that endless vigil keeps,
Flung like a firebrand in the gilded pelf,
With burning words that pierce the Heaven itself,
God weeps.
In the lone voice uplifted for the right
Against the rule of gold, and monstrous might
That innocents and all to ruin sweeps—
When lost the baby opens its pure eyes
To see but sin, and closes them and dies,—
God weeps.
Against the rule of gold, and monstrous might
That innocents and all to ruin sweeps—
When lost the baby opens its pure eyes
To see but sin, and closes them and dies,—
God weeps.
759
SANGUIS CORDIS.
Wrung from depths of Nature's fiery fountains,
Sin and suffering, pain and grief,
Stirred by blasts that blow on unscaled mountains,
Cares beyond the world's relief;
Made of all the mystic sounds of sorrow,
Wandering through our doubt and dearth,
Dawnless days, and nights without a morrow
Habiting a homeless earth;
Mingled with the breath of boundless oceans,
Fed by tears of ages' flood,
Torn from bruiséd breasts and lost devotions,
Drops of blood
Sin and suffering, pain and grief,
Stirred by blasts that blow on unscaled mountains,
Cares beyond the world's relief;
Made of all the mystic sounds of sorrow,
Wandering through our doubt and dearth,
Dawnless days, and nights without a morrow
Habiting a homeless earth;
Mingled with the breath of boundless oceans,
Fed by tears of ages' flood,
Torn from bruiséd breasts and lost devotions,
Drops of blood
Yet but words in semblance, wisdom only
Hammered out on iron forge,
Where the sadnesses of exiles lonely
Sigh to Heaven from sunless gorge;
Hammered out red-hot by burning passion,
In the sweater's slaving den,
Jarring on the joys that fools of fashion
Frame from goodly lives of men;
Hammered into shapes, that shine for ever
Beacons on the foaming flood,
Shedding fruitful on each brave endeavour
Rays of blood.
Hammered out on iron forge,
Where the sadnesses of exiles lonely
Sigh to Heaven from sunless gorge;
Hammered out red-hot by burning passion,
In the sweater's slaving den,
Jarring on the joys that fools of fashion
Frame from goodly lives of men;
Hammered into shapes, that shine for ever
Beacons on the foaming flood,
Shedding fruitful on each brave endeavour
Rays of blood.
All the sobs of children, chants of sages
Who of hope divine made part,
Gathered by the Poet, and like pages
Rent from his great troubled heart;
Wrought into one purpose pure, a token
Of deliverance for the slave
Manacled, who on the tyrant broken
Steps in grandeur from the grave;
Breathing promise for the souls that sicken,
At the march of famine's flood,
Till upstart from field and fortune stricken,
Flowers of blood.
Who of hope divine made part,
Gathered by the Poet, and like pages
Rent from his great troubled heart;
Wrought into one purpose pure, a token
Of deliverance for the slave
Manacled, who on the tyrant broken
Steps in grandeur from the grave;
Breathing promise for the souls that sicken,
At the march of famine's flood,
Till upstart from field and fortune stricken,
Flowers of blood.
Just a simple song, a new creation
Flashed upon the night of faith,
Bursting into blossom of salvation,
As a spirit from its spathe;
Out of inner empyrean glory,
Where the wheels of nature grind,
For discrownéd falsehoods, sceptres gory,
Speeding in the kingdom kind;
As the harvest sown by women tender,
Who endured the adverse flood,
Scatters from sweet cross of life's surrender,
Fruits of blood.
Flashed upon the night of faith,
Bursting into blossom of salvation,
As a spirit from its spathe;
Out of inner empyrean glory,
Where the wheels of nature grind,
For discrownéd falsehoods, sceptres gory,
Speeding in the kingdom kind;
As the harvest sown by women tender,
Who endured the adverse flood,
Scatters from sweet cross of life's surrender,
Fruits of blood.
760
BEWITCHED.
Ah, she was her needle threading,
When upon me first
Flashed her face, so lovely to one treading
Wilderness of thirst;
And directly passion, spurning
Forms of frigid art,
Like Athena sprang full-armed and burning
From my eager heart;
Till, entangled in her labour,
As she Fate-like stitched,
I, forgetting duty to my neighbour,
Was bewitched.
When upon me first
Flashed her face, so lovely to one treading
Wilderness of thirst;
And directly passion, spurning
Forms of frigid art,
Like Athena sprang full-armed and burning
From my eager heart;
Till, entangled in her labour,
As she Fate-like stitched,
I, forgetting duty to my neighbour,
Was bewitched.
For her hand, so softly closing
On my foolish life,
Was not then quite at her own disposing,
As another's wife;
Though she toyed with me demurely,
Like a Quaker's cat,
Which has caught and trifles with securely
Some too frisky rat;
While her legal old appendage,
Whom she early hitched,
Gave me welcome, nor would I offend age,
If bewitched.
On my foolish life,
Was not then quite at her own disposing,
As another's wife;
Though she toyed with me demurely,
Like a Quaker's cat,
Which has caught and trifles with securely
Some too frisky rat;
While her legal old appendage,
Whom she early hitched,
Gave me welcome, nor would I offend age,
If bewitched.
She, besides, seemed ever willing
Listener to my tale,
And when it waxed nearer and more thrilling,
Sometimes turning pale;
And, may be, at favoured season,
She would sweetly glance
Up at me, without a glimpse of treason,
Really quite by chance;
Things went gliding on, and gaily
As in temple niched
Her I worshipped, growing deeply, daily,
More bewitched.
Listener to my tale,
And when it waxed nearer and more thrilling,
Sometimes turning pale;
And, may be, at favoured season,
She would sweetly glance
Up at me, without a glimpse of treason,
Really quite by chance;
Things went gliding on, and gaily
As in temple niched
Her I worshipped, growing deeply, daily,
More bewitched.
Till at last, Old Fogey caught me
Making curious curves
With my lips, and thus unkindly thought me
Poaching his preserves;
Ancient he, but yet with vigour
I could never match,
Seized me with a more than youthful rigour,
Heedless of her scratch;
Yes, a vulgar arm of iron
Me most rudely switched,
And I am no more by any Siren,
Now bewitched.
Making curious curves
With my lips, and thus unkindly thought me
Poaching his preserves;
Ancient he, but yet with vigour
I could never match,
Seized me with a more than youthful rigour,
Heedless of her scratch;
Yes, a vulgar arm of iron
Me most rudely switched,
And I am no more by any Siren,
Now bewitched.
761
THE CROWNED ASS.
Once a very business people,
Eager to give Heaven a sop,
Clapt a whitewashed holy steeple,
On their old adulterous Shop;
Then, less reverent than Hindoos,
In a temple made of glass,
Brittle doors and broken windows,
Penned as god a Crownèd Ass;
Which, with tones of cracking trumpet,
Cried all night and every day,
Linked with a lewd painted Strumpet,
Let us bray.
Eager to give Heaven a sop,
Clapt a whitewashed holy steeple,
On their old adulterous Shop;
Then, less reverent than Hindoos,
In a temple made of glass,
Brittle doors and broken windows,
Penned as god a Crownèd Ass;
Which, with tones of cracking trumpet,
Cried all night and every day,
Linked with a lewd painted Strumpet,
Let us bray.
Clad in mangy skin of lion,
Did this most astounding beast
Mingle sacred songs of Zion
With the oaths of brothel feast;
And the pious unwashed masses,
While they heaped their filthy coin,
Plotting whence to cheat the classes,
In the concert loved to join;
And the monster, as it mellowed,
Guzzling port which came that way,
Louder and yet louder bellowed,
Let us bray.
Did this most astounding beast
Mingle sacred songs of Zion
With the oaths of brothel feast;
And the pious unwashed masses,
While they heaped their filthy coin,
Plotting whence to cheat the classes,
In the concert loved to join;
And the monster, as it mellowed,
Guzzling port which came that way,
Louder and yet louder bellowed,
Let us bray.
Editors, with pothouse manners,
Not concealed in white kidgloves,
Chanting most discreet Hosannas
Over their illicit loves,
Vied with spectacles and spinsters
How, while leaving in the lurch
Readers, to destroy the minsters
Old and bulwarks of the Church;
All uniting in the burden,
For which others had to pay
Much too often costly guerdon,
Let us bray.
Not concealed in white kidgloves,
Chanting most discreet Hosannas
Over their illicit loves,
Vied with spectacles and spinsters
How, while leaving in the lurch
Readers, to destroy the minsters
Old and bulwarks of the Church;
All uniting in the burden,
For which others had to pay
Much too often costly guerdon,
Let us bray.
Still the blind and stupid people,
Giving gold for worthless brass,
Only saw that holy steeple,
When they praised the Crownéd Ass;
Welcomed poets, if impurer
Than the very foulest pigs,
And in cesspools felt securer,
Dancing out their dirty jigs;
While the god, so dear to varlet
Who enjoyed lascivious play,
Thundered to the Thing in Scarlet,
Let us bray.
Giving gold for worthless brass,
Only saw that holy steeple,
When they praised the Crownéd Ass;
Welcomed poets, if impurer
Than the very foulest pigs,
And in cesspools felt securer,
Dancing out their dirty jigs;
While the god, so dear to varlet
Who enjoyed lascivious play,
Thundered to the Thing in Scarlet,
Let us bray.
762
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Of sin,
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And never will be by the gayest pen;
Here are
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The star
Beaming with borrowed gems of some one's cub,
Who heaps her harlot plate,
With all the old estate.
Come in;
And such a varied feast and damty store
Of sin,
Or scandal, never offered was to men,
And never will be by the gayest pen;
Here are
The latest stories of the loudest club,
The star
Beaming with borrowed gems of some one's cub,
Who heaps her harlot plate,
With all the old estate.
A trifle merely, ladies, never mind
The nude
And wanton figures, that would deem a blind
So rude;
Nor are they worse than that new evening dress,
A figleaf and the lovely nakedness;
These shapes
Despise the vulgar forms, which folly hides
And drapes,
And brazen forth their charms on Fashion's tides;
They would, for royal stare,
Their every limb unbare.
The nude
And wanton figures, that would deem a blind
So rude;
Nor are they worse than that new evening dress,
A figleaf and the lovely nakedness;
These shapes
Despise the vulgar forms, which folly hides
And drapes,
And brazen forth their charms on Fashion's tides;
They would, for royal stare,
Their every limb unbare.
Dear innocents, too, let your tender hearts,
If pure,
Drink in the dew of these lascivious arts,
Demure,
And learn how well a mother or a sire,
Picks doubtful jewels from undoubtful mire;
The day
Has long departed, when the baby child
With play
And decent toys was honestly beguil'd;
Now, for the nursery, vice
Is sweetened and made nice.
If pure,
Drink in the dew of these lascivious arts,
Demure,
And learn how well a mother or a sire,
Picks doubtful jewels from undoubtful mire;
The day
Has long departed, when the baby child
With play
And decent toys was honestly beguil'd;
Now, for the nursery, vice
Is sweetened and made nice.
And you, O blushing Puritan, poor maid,
Come in;
It cannot be, an English girl afraid
Of sin;
Fie, such is sacred now, the clergy look
With favour on the filthiest play or book;
Our time
Has swept away the stupid old restraints,
And slime
Or falsehood now it delicately paints;
Why, darlings should you pout,
When prelates don't stay out?
Come in;
It cannot be, an English girl afraid
Of sin;
Fie, such is sacred now, the clergy look
With favour on the filthiest play or book;
Our time
Has swept away the stupid old restraints,
And slime
Or falsehood now it delicately paints;
Why, darlings should you pout,
When prelates don't stay out?
763
KING HODGE.
Squire assures me I am King,
Says the Sovereign Masses
Need not any longer cling
To the bloated classes;
But it cannot be, my mates,
For I hate aggression,
And he keeps the old estates
Tight in his possession;
No, he is not coming down,
From the swag and swilling,
If he offers me a “crown”—
I would take a shilling.
Says the Sovereign Masses
Need not any longer cling
To the bloated classes;
But it cannot be, my mates,
For I hate aggression,
And he keeps the old estates
Tight in his possession;
No, he is not coming down,
From the swag and swilling,
If he offers me a “crown”—
I would take a shilling.
Papers lie, we know them well,
When they call us master,
Just to make their garbage sell,
Coined in money, faster;
Still I tramp about the fields,
Sweating, swearing, itching,
Heaping up what harvest yields
Not for my enriching;
Still I never have my ease,
As is bosses' habit,
Eking out the bread and cheese
With a casual rabbit.
When they call us master,
Just to make their garbage sell,
Coined in money, faster;
Still I tramp about the fields,
Sweating, swearing, itching,
Heaping up what harvest yields
Not for my enriching;
Still I never have my ease,
As is bosses' habit,
Eking out the bread and cheese
With a casual rabbit.
True, at first I rather took
To my new position,
Bought a lying Gladstone book,
Playing politician;
Thought those acres and the cow
Lovely in the distance,
Liked the mercenary bow
Begging my assistance;
Fancied I was what they said—
Though unchanged my station,
And as vilely housed and paid—
Monarch of Creation.
To my new position,
Bought a lying Gladstone book,
Playing politician;
Thought those acres and the cow
Lovely in the distance,
Liked the mercenary bow
Begging my assistance;
Fancied I was what they said—
Though unchanged my station,
And as vilely housed and paid—
Monarch of Creation.
Noblemen were “brothers” quite,
Ere the last Election,
Ladies all in pink and white
Showed me marked affection;
Swells came cadging for my vote,
Promised landed treasures,
Better wages, a good coat—
But they stopped at “measures”;
Lord Flapdoodle tried each dodge,
Introduced his sister—
Now I am but simple Hodge,
Though I then was “Mister.”
Ere the last Election,
Ladies all in pink and white
Showed me marked affection;
Swells came cadging for my vote,
Promised landed treasures,
Better wages, a good coat—
But they stopped at “measures”;
Lord Flapdoodle tried each dodge,
Introduced his sister—
Now I am but simple Hodge,
Though I then was “Mister.”
764
Yet they now salute me King.
Brag about the glories
Suffrage and the ballot bring
Slaves set free from Tories;
Though it always is but cant,
Not a bit for spending—
Only food and clothing scant,
Till the workhouse ending;
And I would, however queer
Seems my own opinion,
Barter for a glass of beer
All my new dominion.
Brag about the glories
Suffrage and the ballot bring
Slaves set free from Tories;
Though it always is but cant,
Not a bit for spending—
Only food and clothing scant,
Till the workhouse ending;
And I would, however queer
Seems my own opinion,
Barter for a glass of beer
All my new dominion.
SOPS FOR CERBERUS.
Old Cerberus has wakened from his sleep
In darkness deep,
He stretches giant limbs, and opens jaws
That menace laws,
And mocks at measures only passed to please
His iron ease—
The scraps and bones and futile fancy sops,
In dribbling drops
Of suffrage, ballot, education's cry,
To pacify
His appetite, that thirsts (a raging flood)
For blood.
In darkness deep,
He stretches giant limbs, and opens jaws
That menace laws,
And mocks at measures only passed to please
His iron ease—
The scraps and bones and futile fancy sops,
In dribbling drops
Of suffrage, ballot, education's cry,
To pacify
His appetite, that thirsts (a raging flood)
For blood.
He feels returning to his veins fresh life
For vaster strife,
Till, as he shakes his mighty frame, the towers
And golden bowers
Of painted wantons, sickening, reel and rock
With earthquake shock;
At every step each crazy bench and board,
With shameless hoard,
Trembles and turns to some escaping rift
Of shabbier shift,
As though to stay, with goose's quill or starch,
His march.
For vaster strife,
Till, as he shakes his mighty frame, the towers
And golden bowers
Of painted wantons, sickening, reel and rock
With earthquake shock;
At every step each crazy bench and board,
With shameless hoard,
Trembles and turns to some escaping rift
Of shabbier shift,
As though to stay, with goose's quill or starch,
His march.
He sharpens now, as nearer judgment hangs,
His dreadful fangs,
On the grim whetstone of a tottering State,
That offers plate
Thrice-licked already by its greedy crew,
Gentile and Jew—
On false foundations crumbling to their doom,
Tartarean gloom,
Where perjured placemen and the fools of fraud,
Or purple bawd,
Lie till peals forth for England's headless Rump,
God's trump.
His dreadful fangs,
On the grim whetstone of a tottering State,
That offers plate
Thrice-licked already by its greedy crew,
Gentile and Jew—
765
Tartarean gloom,
Where perjured placemen and the fools of fraud,
Or purple bawd,
Lie till peals forth for England's headless Rump,
God's trump.
At every hissing breath or hungry growl,
Beneath his cowl
The hireling priest turns pale, and seeks for flight
From coming night;
Stewards and guardians, who betray their trust
In Judas lust,
Arise and call on Heaven, and find in earth
Nothing but dearth,
And not one refuge from the avenging slave,
Except the grave;
For Cerberus has waked, and knows his power
And hour.
Beneath his cowl
The hireling priest turns pale, and seeks for flight
From coming night;
Stewards and guardians, who betray their trust
In Judas lust,
Arise and call on Heaven, and find in earth
Nothing but dearth,
And not one refuge from the avenging slave,
Except the grave;
For Cerberus has waked, and knows his power
And hour.
KING CLOD.
Each day he early goes to toil,
As soldiers into fight,
Stiff as his native clayey soil,
Unconscious of his might;
Sunburnt and freckled is the face,
The purpose in his talk
Gives just the one redeeming grace,
To that slow slouching walk;
He serious takes the working knocks,
And serious is his play,
As runs through youthful raven locks
A streak of sober gray;
His faiths are few, but strongly held,
And seldom on his lip,
But generations passed to weld
These to their iron grip;
He knows the labour must be done,
By roadway or in field,
The rain and sunshine are all one,
And he will never yield;
His busy hands, by weather browned,
Move like a royal rod,
And this is why he stands, uncrowned,
King Clod.
As soldiers into fight,
Stiff as his native clayey soil,
Unconscious of his might;
Sunburnt and freckled is the face,
The purpose in his talk
Gives just the one redeeming grace,
To that slow slouching walk;
He serious takes the working knocks,
And serious is his play,
As runs through youthful raven locks
A streak of sober gray;
His faiths are few, but strongly held,
And seldom on his lip,
But generations passed to weld
These to their iron grip;
He knows the labour must be done,
By roadway or in field,
The rain and sunshine are all one,
And he will never yield;
His busy hands, by weather browned,
Move like a royal rod,
And this is why he stands, uncrowned,
King Clod.
766
Yes, every day, from morn to night,
He grapples with his tasks,
And often ere a ray of light,
But respite never asks;
The winter winds, that idly beat
The lady's curtained bower,
But teach him not to own defeat,
And grant him giant power;
The summer, if it bronze his brow
And cheek, yet cannot tire
The sinewy frame that scorns to bow,
Implanting heart of fire;
He feels the freshness of the dawn,
On dewy grass and tree,
Its boundless breath into him drawn
Makes his brave spirit free;
Love him his steeds, with striving worn,
And whinny, as they raise
Their noses buried in the corn,
To have his sweeter praise;
The seasons serve him with their might,
And subject is the sod,—
These crown him, not the suffrage right,
King Clod.
He grapples with his tasks,
And often ere a ray of light,
But respite never asks;
The winter winds, that idly beat
The lady's curtained bower,
But teach him not to own defeat,
And grant him giant power;
The summer, if it bronze his brow
And cheek, yet cannot tire
The sinewy frame that scorns to bow,
Implanting heart of fire;
He feels the freshness of the dawn,
On dewy grass and tree,
Its boundless breath into him drawn
Makes his brave spirit free;
Love him his steeds, with striving worn,
And whinny, as they raise
Their noses buried in the corn,
To have his sweeter praise;
The seasons serve him with their might,
And subject is the sod,—
These crown him, not the suffrage right,
King Clod.
A quiet man, with honest aims,
While bloated Dives feasts,
He bears the burden, nor disclaims
A fellowship with beasts;
The birds his playmates are, he calls
Wild creatures to his ends,
The cattle feeding in their stalls,
Are every one his friends;
At home with Nature in each mood,
Whatever be the spur,
He loves to share his scanty food
With any starving cur;
Sometimes he feels the pinch of lack,
If his have little dearth,
But still as sturdy is his back,
As dear his Mother Earth;
And on he drudges, at his post,
Unfailing as the sun,
The hardest loads he covets most,
And counts the buffets fun;
No sovereign's sceptre yet he wields,
And he may meanly plod,
But he is ruler of the fields,
King Clod.
While bloated Dives feasts,
He bears the burden, nor disclaims
A fellowship with beasts;
The birds his playmates are, he calls
Wild creatures to his ends,
The cattle feeding in their stalls,
Are every one his friends;
At home with Nature in each mood,
Whatever be the spur,
He loves to share his scanty food
With any starving cur;
Sometimes he feels the pinch of lack,
If his have little dearth,
But still as sturdy is his back,
As dear his Mother Earth;
And on he drudges, at his post,
Unfailing as the sun,
The hardest loads he covets most,
And counts the buffets fun;
No sovereign's sceptre yet he wields,
And he may meanly plod,
But he is ruler of the fields,
King Clod.
767
He gathers in his heart the lore
Of river, sky, and land,
And if but slender be his store,
He gives with open hand;
The glory of the summer day,
The stillness of the night,
Mix in his mind with equal sway,
And make one calm delight;
He has few thoughts, his daily toil,
His children's merry tricks,
The wife and home, the surly soil
That stoutly to him sticks;
To nought he looks for solid aid,
Save his own dogged will,
Though badly fed and badly paid,
He does his duty still;
Come cold or heat, he ever wakes
True as the Sunday bell,
And, sick or sad, he simply takes
All in a working spell;
And if a humble realm be his,
If coarsely drest and shod,
He changes dirt to gold, and is
King Clod.
Of river, sky, and land,
And if but slender be his store,
He gives with open hand;
The glory of the summer day,
The stillness of the night,
Mix in his mind with equal sway,
And make one calm delight;
He has few thoughts, his daily toil,
His children's merry tricks,
The wife and home, the surly soil
That stoutly to him sticks;
To nought he looks for solid aid,
Save his own dogged will,
Though badly fed and badly paid,
He does his duty still;
Come cold or heat, he ever wakes
True as the Sunday bell,
And, sick or sad, he simply takes
All in a working spell;
And if a humble realm be his,
If coarsely drest and shod,
He changes dirt to gold, and is
King Clod.
THE GOSPEL OF DIRT. 1890.
I am a Poet, sir,
As every critic sees,
Who is a true philosopher,
And takes my golden fees;
Some for the scholar sing,
And deal in classic lore,
Or a fair snow-white mantle fling,
On any titled whore;
Let me the masses ply,
And show beneath his shirt,
How man is made of Deity
And dirt.
As every critic sees,
Who is a true philosopher,
And takes my golden fees;
Some for the scholar sing,
And deal in classic lore,
Or a fair snow-white mantle fling,
On any titled whore;
Let me the masses ply,
And show beneath his shirt,
How man is made of Deity
And dirt.
My last and greatest book—
A shilling is the price—
Takes a large comprehensive look,
On poesies of vice;
The pure romance of bawd
And unprotected sin,
It's my peculiar part to laud,
And genius note in gin;
I prove, if heroes hang,
They are with glory girt—
How every precious jewel sprang
From dirt.
A shilling is the price—
Takes a large comprehensive look,
On poesies of vice;
The pure romance of bawd
And unprotected sin,
It's my peculiar part to laud,
And genius note in gin;
768
They are with glory girt—
How every precious jewel sprang
From dirt.
The virtues are played out,
And at their sickly scent
Our maids and matrons only pout,
And won't be continent;
With marriage now they fight,
As with an iron glove,
And so I sketch them the delight
Of free, promiscuous love;
I follow good old Ham,
And draw aside the skirt
Of modesty, and mark how jam
Is dirt.
And at their sickly scent
Our maids and matrons only pout,
And won't be continent;
With marriage now they fight,
As with an iron glove,
And so I sketch them the delight
Of free, promiscuous love;
I follow good old Ham,
And draw aside the skirt
Of modesty, and mark how jam
Is dirt.
Let others stick to rule
Or stupid Decalogue,
And cold castrated bigots pule—
I play the ethnagogue;
I lead a nation on
Beneath a sunnier sky,
From shades where never comfort shone,
To lands of liberty;
Back to the blessèd fount,
With naked truth to flirt,
Where man and beast have one account
With dirt.
Or stupid Decalogue,
And cold castrated bigots pule—
I play the ethnagogue;
I lead a nation on
Beneath a sunnier sky,
From shades where never comfort shone,
To lands of liberty;
Back to the blessèd fount,
With naked truth to flirt,
Where man and beast have one account
With dirt.
For I am human, sir,
To passions give the reins,
And like by ardent strokes to stir
The blood in woman's veins;
I raise the devil, too,
With bolder, brighter play,
Whom all the darlings rush to woo,
And find they cannot lay;
I draw the sinner nude,
Except his scanty shirt,
And etch the saint below the prude
In dirt.
To passions give the reins,
And like by ardent strokes to stir
The blood in woman's veins;
I raise the devil, too,
With bolder, brighter play,
Whom all the darlings rush to woo,
And find they cannot lay;
I draw the sinner nude,
Except his scanty shirt,
And etch the saint below the prude
In dirt.
I move behind the scenes,
Unmask the muddy source
To virgins in their early teens,
Who want a candid course;
French novels point my pen,
And yield me spicy food,
With nice if naughty ways of men,
In every wanton mood;
Divorces out I track,
With but a figleaf girt,
That teach how nature soon goes back
To dirt.
Unmask the muddy source
To virgins in their early teens,
Who want a candid course;
French novels point my pen,
And yield me spicy food,
With nice if naughty ways of men,
In every wanton mood;
769
With but a figleaf girt,
That teach how nature soon goes back
To dirt.
I read the people's heart,
And study thus to please,
With visions of a warmer art
And morals that don't tease;
I open wide all gates,
Nor keep the poorest out,
Demolish bolts and bars and hates,
And superstitious doubt;
I never hint at blame,
Cut short the clogging skirt,
Revealing how to creep to fame
By dirt.
And study thus to please,
With visions of a warmer art
And morals that don't tease;
I open wide all gates,
Nor keep the poorest out,
Demolish bolts and bars and hates,
And superstitious doubt;
I never hint at blame,
Cut short the clogging skirt,
Revealing how to creep to fame
By dirt.
My mission is quite clear,
To rub off pious paints,
And the old dull unreasoning fear
Of fanatics' restraints;
To make a wider stage,
With life and loving free,
That man and woman, youth and age,
Unfettered, may agree;
That lofty minds and low
With any filth may flirt—
Till there is nothing left to show
But dirt.
To rub off pious paints,
And the old dull unreasoning fear
Of fanatics' restraints;
To make a wider stage,
With life and loving free,
That man and woman, youth and age,
Unfettered, may agree;
That lofty minds and low
With any filth may flirt—
Till there is nothing left to show
But dirt.
THE COUNTRY CADGER.
Yes, he works, if you are watching,
Or the famine at his door
Lifts a finger for unlatching,
That is terror to the poor;
But he does not love his neighbour,
And his very brow turns black
At the thought of steady labour,
With its burden on the back;
For he hates the horse's whinny,
Which at tardy feeding frets,
And his heart is in the spinny,
With the poaching traps and nets.
Or the famine at his door
Lifts a finger for unlatching,
That is terror to the poor;
But he does not love his neighbour,
And his very brow turns black
At the thought of steady labour,
With its burden on the back;
For he hates the horse's whinny,
Which at tardy feeding frets,
And his heart is in the spinny,
With the poaching traps and nets.
770
But he works for his own pleasure,
And is often out all night;
Though he cannot find the leisure
For one simple home delight;
He delays not in his vices,
And is never slow to sin—
Or the demon that entices
With the damning gulp of gin;
While he scamps the task allotted,
And would quarrel with the soil,
He will fly to feasts besotted,
And to aught save honest toil.
And is often out all night;
Though he cannot find the leisure
For one simple home delight;
He delays not in his vices,
And is never slow to sin—
Or the demon that entices
With the damning gulp of gin;
While he scamps the task allotted,
And would quarrel with the soil,
He will fly to feasts besotted,
And to aught save honest toil.
And he works as hard at begging,
As the tramp upon the road,
And his master still keeps egging
For a lightening of the load;
Ah, his tongue is never idle,
When his footsteps do not haste,
And he chafes at any bridle,
That pulls counter to his taste;
He will whine about his sorrows,
Or his weakness for the way,
While he pitilessly borrows
What he means not to repay.
As the tramp upon the road,
And his master still keeps egging
For a lightening of the load;
Ah, his tongue is never idle,
When his footsteps do not haste,
And he chafes at any bridle,
That pulls counter to his taste;
He will whine about his sorrows,
Or his weakness for the way,
While he pitilessly borrows
What he means not to repay.
And he works, at least, by others,
But enslaved to fill his purse.—
By the wife, whose tears he smothers
With the blow or fiercer curse;
By the children, whom he teaches
Only how to thieve or lie;
Though their conscience sadly preaches,
It were better far to die;
Till, at last, its vengeance wreaking,
Judgment falls with iron grip,
And he dies as he lived, sneaking,
With a falsehood on his lip.
But enslaved to fill his purse.—
By the wife, whose tears he smothers
With the blow or fiercer curse;
By the children, whom he teaches
Only how to thieve or lie;
Though their conscience sadly preaches,
It were better far to die;
Till, at last, its vengeance wreaking,
Judgment falls with iron grip,
And he dies as he lived, sneaking,
With a falsehood on his lip.
IN ANGELLO CUM LIBELLO.
There my little book and I,
There we lay in shelter,
Roses made our scarlet sky,
Far from working welter;
Oh, the pretty book, it lay
Lightly on my bosom,
Bound in sweetest silk, and gay
As the rose's blossom;
Tenderly the lines I read
And between, in quiet
Bending low my loving head
To the dainty diet;
I had known the volume well,
Learned the fairy pages
Speaking in one master spell
Joys of all the ages;
Reverently I each grace
Marked, as was my duty,
Finding in each silent space
Some new secret beauty;
Thus I clasped those thrilling charms,—
In angello,
Cum libello,
Though the world might brawl and bellow—
In my arms.
There we lay in shelter,
Roses made our scarlet sky,
Far from working welter;
Oh, the pretty book, it lay
Lightly on my bosom,
771
As the rose's blossom;
Tenderly the lines I read
And between, in quiet
Bending low my loving head
To the dainty diet;
I had known the volume well,
Learned the fairy pages
Speaking in one master spell
Joys of all the ages;
Reverently I each grace
Marked, as was my duty,
Finding in each silent space
Some new secret beauty;
Thus I clasped those thrilling charms,—
In angello,
Cum libello,
Though the world might brawl and bellow—
In my arms.
There my little book and I
Bathed in sweet blue weather,
As the busy wind went by
Laughing to the heather;
Every leaf I knew by heart,
In my memory printed,
Lines that miracles of art
Flashed, and lines but hinted;
Never yet from classic press
Did a volume issue.
Clothed in such a dazzling dress,
Woven of tender tissue;
Never was a truer type
Set in living letters,
One with all enchantments ripe,
Forging welcome fetters;
Never, framed to soothe and serve
Passion's ardent story,
Fetched a fairer brighter curve
Characters of glory;
Thus I weighed each subtle tone,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
Jealous as the worst Othello,
And alone.
Bathed in sweet blue weather,
As the busy wind went by
Laughing to the heather;
Every leaf I knew by heart,
In my memory printed,
Lines that miracles of art
Flashed, and lines but hinted;
Never yet from classic press
Did a volume issue.
Clothed in such a dazzling dress,
Woven of tender tissue;
Never was a truer type
Set in living letters,
One with all enchantments ripe,
Forging welcome fetters;
Never, framed to soothe and serve
Passion's ardent story,
Fetched a fairer brighter curve
Characters of glory;
Thus I weighed each subtle tone,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
Jealous as the worst Othello,
And alone.
There my little book and I
With each other nestled,
Fastened with the golden tie
For which love had wrestled;
Holding it with fervent hand,
Treasure of my finding
In the world of fairy-land,
Oft I praised the binding;
Glow of darling white and pink,
Wealth of wondrous cover,
Each alluring look and link
Meant to chain a lover;
Breast that only to my gaze
Half revealed the rapture,
All removed, when my amaze
Held it as a capture;
Words that would invite a kiss,
With melodious sentence,
And to make more perfect bliss
Then required repentance;
Wit I drank from dewy lips,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
As his port a college fellow,
Softly sips.
With each other nestled,
772
For which love had wrestled;
Holding it with fervent hand,
Treasure of my finding
In the world of fairy-land,
Oft I praised the binding;
Glow of darling white and pink,
Wealth of wondrous cover,
Each alluring look and link
Meant to chain a lover;
Breast that only to my gaze
Half revealed the rapture,
All removed, when my amaze
Held it as a capture;
Words that would invite a kiss,
With melodious sentence,
And to make more perfect bliss
Then required repentance;
Wit I drank from dewy lips,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
As his port a college fellow,
Softly sips.
There my little book and I
Plunged in varied vision,
While all Heaven seemed all to lie
Close, with breath Elysian;
Dreamily I found therein
Still diviner graces,
Gifts that had their origin
But in my embraces;
Gleamed the text with studies strange,
Readings bright and clever,
Mountain meanings rose, to range
On and on for ever;
Rock and river, earth and sky,
Lights in starry station,
Angels and sweet devilry,
Wrought one revelation;
Never were in wisest books
So bewitching fancies,
As in that dear volume's looks,
Big with young romances;
Thus I lay in languor bound,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
While the evening, mild and mellow,
Wrapt us round.
Plunged in varied vision,
While all Heaven seemed all to lie
Close, with breath Elysian;
Dreamily I found therein
Still diviner graces,
Gifts that had their origin
But in my embraces;
Gleamed the text with studies strange,
Readings bright and clever,
Mountain meanings rose, to range
On and on for ever;
Rock and river, earth and sky,
Lights in starry station,
Angels and sweet devilry,
Wrought one revelation;
Never were in wisest books
So bewitching fancies,
As in that dear volume's looks,
Big with young romances;
Thus I lay in languor bound,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
While the evening, mild and mellow,
Wrapt us round.
773
THE NEW SCANDALOUS CHRONICLE.
They say—we do not guarantee the truth,
If it is freely told—
That pretty Lady Splash, who played at Ruth,
Has wandered from the fold;
Eloped, with rich Lord Boaz, from a mate
Who reined her tightly in,
And wanted her sweet mind to educate,
But never could begin;
Gone off to Paris, with a China jug
Worth thousands and her maid,
Her husband's diamonds and his favourite pug—
And scores of bills unpaid.
If it is freely told—
That pretty Lady Splash, who played at Ruth,
Has wandered from the fold;
Eloped, with rich Lord Boaz, from a mate
Who reined her tightly in,
And wanted her sweet mind to educate,
But never could begin;
Gone off to Paris, with a China jug
Worth thousands and her maid,
Her husband's diamonds and his favourite pug—
And scores of bills unpaid.
They say—though it may be a shocking lie,
And careful must we be—
A peeress ate too much of cranberry pie,
Which did not quite agree;
Then talked of death, and formed a holy plan
Her errors to confess,
And sent for her pet pill, and clergyman
Who came but to—caress;
Who was indeed her lover, and abused
The grandeur of his task,
And penance and embraces all confused,
Beneath that blesséd mask.
And careful must we be—
A peeress ate too much of cranberry pie,
Which did not quite agree;
Then talked of death, and formed a holy plan
Her errors to confess,
And sent for her pet pill, and clergyman
Who came but to—caress;
Who was indeed her lover, and abused
The grandeur of his task,
And penance and embraces all confused,
Beneath that blesséd mask.
They say—but dirty mud we will not fling,
On any noble dress—
Lord Fudge, who could not do a naughty thing,
Has got into a mess;
We name it simply to deny the fact—
That he, of sober age,
Took home a lady who can partner act,
Upon and off the stage;
Then overslept, and the next day at noon,
When dreaming not of harms,
Was caught by someone that returned too soon,
In the fair sinner's arms.
On any noble dress—
Lord Fudge, who could not do a naughty thing,
Has got into a mess;
We name it simply to deny the fact—
That he, of sober age,
Took home a lady who can partner act,
Upon and off the stage;
Then overslept, and the next day at noon,
When dreaming not of harms,
Was caught by someone that returned too soon,
In the fair sinner's arms.
They say—but this is a most doubtful page,
At which we only hint—
A certain ardent Royal Personage,
Is rushing into print;
To tell the story of his thousand loves,
The honey from strange hives,
The cost each year of kisses, rosebuds, gloves,
And other persons' wives;
His ventures in new fancies and on 'Change,
Expenses of his cook
And pussy things with whom he chose to range,
His heart and betting book.
At which we only hint—
A certain ardent Royal Personage,
Is rushing into print;
To tell the story of his thousand loves,
The honey from strange hives,
The cost each year of kisses, rosebuds, gloves,
And other persons' wives;
His ventures in new fancies and on 'Change,
Expenses of his cook
And pussy things with whom he chose to range,
His heart and betting book.
774
THROUGH YELLOW SPECTACLES.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And walked about the streets,
And heard the modern Babel's cries,
Where fraud with folly meets;
I saw the swindler rising up,
The hero going down,
And leaders between kiss and cup,
Who traded on the Crown;
And teachers tossed by every wind
I saw without a plan;
But, seeking, nowhere could I find,
A MAN.
And walked about the streets,
And heard the modern Babel's cries,
Where fraud with folly meets;
I saw the swindler rising up,
The hero going down,
And leaders between kiss and cup,
Who traded on the Crown;
And teachers tossed by every wind
I saw without a plan;
But, seeking, nowhere could I find,
A MAN.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
Took lantern in my hand,
But read no rainbow in the skies,
No promise in the land;
I saw the ass who loudest brayed
Usurped the lion's power,
And rogues might plunder Christ, who prayed
With Him a little hour;
I saw a Constitution cooked
Within a kitchen pan,
But could not note (where'er I looked)
A MAN.
Took lantern in my hand,
But read no rainbow in the skies,
No promise in the land;
I saw the ass who loudest brayed
Usurped the lion's power,
And rogues might plunder Christ, who prayed
With Him a little hour;
I saw a Constitution cooked
Within a kitchen pan,
But could not note (where'er I looked)
A MAN.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And tried each Senate house,
But from such labour and such lies
Came only a meek mouse;
I saw how Parties would outbid
Each other, bought and sold
With bribes, and on the coffin lid
Of England played for gold;
I saw a nation, once so free,
Now doled its petty span
By foreign force, but could not see
A MAN.
And tried each Senate house,
But from such labour and such lies
Came only a meek mouse;
I saw how Parties would outbid
Each other, bought and sold
With bribes, and on the coffin lid
Of England played for gold;
I saw a nation, once so free,
Now doled its petty span
By foreign force, but could not see
A MAN.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And through the Churches trod,
But they had broken all the ties
That bound them unto God;
I saw the worship at the best
Was but a gorgeous wraith,
With things in millinery drest,
Preserving forms not faith;
I saw but mummeries and rites,
Beyond what hope could scan,
But not (though midges fought with mites)
A MAN.
And through the Churches trod,
But they had broken all the ties
That bound them unto God;
I saw the worship at the best
Was but a gorgeous wraith,
With things in millinery drest,
Preserving forms not faith;
I saw but mummeries and rites,
Beyond what hope could scan,
But not (though midges fought with mites)
A MAN.
775
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And strolled into the Courts,
Where dirty fingers make mud-pies,
And spoilers have their sports;
I saw dear Justice hawked for sale,
And law was longest purse,
That whitewashed even the blackest tale,
And proved the country's curse;
I saw the needy had no right,
With poverty for ban,
But met not there, while triumphed might,
A MAN.
And strolled into the Courts,
Where dirty fingers make mud-pies,
And spoilers have their sports;
I saw dear Justice hawked for sale,
And law was longest purse,
That whitewashed even the blackest tale,
And proved the country's curse;
I saw the needy had no right,
With poverty for ban,
But met not there, while triumphed might,
A MAN.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And turned where beauty blooms,
Where from red lips sweet laughter flies,
In stately drawing rooms;
I saw the fairest felt no pain,
At the most damning vice,
While all had still some hidden stain,
And every one her price;
I saw the adulterer at play,
Behind the modest fan,
But spied not on that primrose way
A MAN.
And turned where beauty blooms,
Where from red lips sweet laughter flies,
In stately drawing rooms;
I saw the fairest felt no pain,
At the most damning vice,
While all had still some hidden stain,
And every one her price;
I saw the adulterer at play,
Behind the modest fan,
But spied not on that primrose way
A MAN.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And wandered over fields
Whose soil, that niggard folly plies,
No more its fatness yields;
I saw the tenant treading yet
The ruts his fathers trod,
And simpletons who drew but debt,
Not increase, from the sod;
I saw the toiler, who would shirk
As much as cunning can,
But not in waste they miscalled work,
A MAN.
And wandered over fields
Whose soil, that niggard folly plies,
No more its fatness yields;
I saw the tenant treading yet
The ruts his fathers trod,
And simpletons who drew but debt,
Not increase, from the sod;
I saw the toiler, who would shirk
As much as cunning can,
But not in waste they miscalled work,
A MAN.
I put my glasses on my eyes,
And traversed fleets and camps,
Where the new statesman most will rise
Who most his duty scamps;
I saw the trooper without horse,
The navy served with guns
That burst on each new trial course
Which each new crotchet runs;
I saw the shores had no defence,
While traitors profit span,
But marked not in their loud pretence
A MAN.
And traversed fleets and camps,
Where the new statesman most will rise
Who most his duty scamps;
I saw the trooper without horse,
The navy served with guns
That burst on each new trial course
Which each new crotchet runs;
I saw the shores had no defence,
While traitors profit span,
But marked not in their loud pretence
A MAN.
776
THE LAST REVELATION.
We live in curious times, and even the fool
Who has his private pew
In earth or Heaven, and nothing learned at school,
Can scratch about and mew;
He has his fancies, which he only took
From some yet greater dunce,
Who with judicious extracts made a book,
And was quite famous once;
He thinks, because he deals with shining shams
And all the painted muck
That sells, God sends him special telegrams,
And goldmines he has struck.
Who has his private pew
In earth or Heaven, and nothing learned at school,
Can scratch about and mew;
He has his fancies, which he only took
From some yet greater dunce,
Who with judicious extracts made a book,
And was quite famous once;
He thinks, because he deals with shining shams
And all the painted muck
That sells, God sends him special telegrams,
And goldmines he has struck.
The revelation came of old, on wings
Of awful searching fire,
Not to the gorgeous palaces of kings,
But to the pure desire.
It came, to those that opened simple heart
For every sacred truth,
And of their life it grew a living part,
And gave them endless youth;
It came with breath of recreating power,
In beauty that was love,
Till each new nature burst in glorious flower,
And glowed from founts above.
Of awful searching fire,
Not to the gorgeous palaces of kings,
But to the pure desire.
It came, to those that opened simple heart
For every sacred truth,
And of their life it grew a living part,
And gave them endless youth;
It came with breath of recreating power,
In beauty that was love,
Till each new nature burst in glorious flower,
And glowed from founts above.
But, now, the driveller has his idols cheap,
And fashions by the score,
From cast-off harlots, and the rubbish heap
That beggars seek no more;
The scavenger has gone abroad, and waves
His banner dropping lice,
And steals the worms and carrion from the graves
Of each old buried vice;
He seeks in sewers fresh gospels dupes to bless,
Or crawls among the clods
And digs in dunghills for the nastiest mess,
Then cries, “Behold your gods!”
And fashions by the score,
From cast-off harlots, and the rubbish heap
That beggars seek no more;
The scavenger has gone abroad, and waves
His banner dropping lice,
And steals the worms and carrion from the graves
Of each old buried vice;
He seeks in sewers fresh gospels dupes to bless,
Or crawls among the clods
And digs in dunghills for the nastiest mess,
Then cries, “Behold your gods!”
The women, too, if maidens, do not blush
To take the Devil's text,
And screaming, scolding, into print they rush,
All naked and unsexed;
Each has some doctrine suited for the age,
And inspiration draws
From lowest orgies of the lowest stage,
From breaking zones and laws;
And, though upon the sullied marriage tie
They cast a poet's wreath,
Their revelation of such lusts and lies
Is only from beneath.
To take the Devil's text,
And screaming, scolding, into print they rush,
All naked and unsexed;
Each has some doctrine suited for the age,
And inspiration draws
From lowest orgies of the lowest stage,
From breaking zones and laws;
And, though upon the sullied marriage tie
They cast a poet's wreath,
Their revelation of such lusts and lies
Is only from beneath.
777
CHEAP AND NASTY.
“Lt. Gen. Sir E. Wood, commanding the Aldershot Division,
received yesterday the authority of the War Office to pay £88 15s.6d.
to Mrs. H., of ---, as a grant, in consideration of her husband's
death, having been in some measure attributable to the wound he
received from a stray bullet, about three months ago.”—Morning
Post.
He is dead, and if dead be the lion,
A live dog is far better than he,
Though his tomb were as sacred as Sion,
And he once set a Continent free;
He is buried and shunted and rotten,
And we only concerned are with life,
Not with tales of the past and forgotten,
Not with tears of a desolate wife;
What are husbands, when Budgets are brewing
For a kingdom of shopmen to hear,
Who delight in the skimping and screwing?
They are not, and will never be, dear;
They are common, domestic, colonial,
Foreign count and the patriot bore,
And purveyors of News Matrimonial
Will supply any void with a score;
What though Government bullets go straying,
And one, chancing a husband to wing,
Stirs up asses for recompense braying?
Yet economy still is the thing;
We must cut down such casual trifles,
If the harvest again we would reap;
And some fool may start costlier rifles;
Nothing pays like the cheap.
A live dog is far better than he,
Though his tomb were as sacred as Sion,
And he once set a Continent free;
He is buried and shunted and rotten,
And we only concerned are with life,
Not with tales of the past and forgotten,
Not with tears of a desolate wife;
What are husbands, when Budgets are brewing
For a kingdom of shopmen to hear,
Who delight in the skimping and screwing?
They are not, and will never be, dear;
They are common, domestic, colonial,
Foreign count and the patriot bore,
And purveyors of News Matrimonial
Will supply any void with a score;
What though Government bullets go straying,
And one, chancing a husband to wing,
Stirs up asses for recompense braying?
Yet economy still is the thing;
We must cut down such casual trifles,
If the harvest again we would reap;
And some fool may start costlier rifles;
Nothing pays like the cheap.
Cut the salaries down, say the Axes
And the Tools of the Government Gang,
We will pile on the burdens of taxes,
But our drudges may starve or go hang;
For the labouring world is extensive,
And our profits we care not to lose,
While a rope is not very expensive
For the suicide—never mind, whose;
We must stick to the loaves and the fishes,
With which Providence helps us to gains,
And will leave our successors but dishes
That are empty of all but the stains;
For who asks for the moral old manners,
That fought shy of the soiling and dust?
And cheeseparing is blazed on our banners,
Though the pauper may cry for a crust;
Cups of water suffice for the suction
Of the people, while we fill our bags,
Skinning flints, and applying reduction
To the Royal, as well as the rags;
Ah, retrenchment looks pretty on paper,
And the nation (or we) make a heap
From a practical use of the scraper;
Nothing pays, like the Cheap.
And the Tools of the Government Gang,
We will pile on the burdens of taxes,
But our drudges may starve or go hang;
For the labouring world is extensive,
And our profits we care not to lose,
While a rope is not very expensive
For the suicide—never mind, whose;
We must stick to the loaves and the fishes,
With which Providence helps us to gains,
And will leave our successors but dishes
That are empty of all but the stains;
For who asks for the moral old manners,
That fought shy of the soiling and dust?
And cheeseparing is blazed on our banners,
Though the pauper may cry for a crust;
Cups of water suffice for the suction
Of the people, while we fill our bags,
778
To the Royal, as well as the rags;
Ah, retrenchment looks pretty on paper,
And the nation (or we) make a heap
From a practical use of the scraper;
Nothing pays, like the Cheap.
All is cheap now, the man and his labour,
While the Sweaters rejoice in his need,
And his life (below trumpet and tabor)
Yet is offered the Moloch of Greed;
Bread is cheap—if you only can win it,
And your service you happen to sell,
Though, for death of a toiler each minute,
We keep tolling the funeral bell;
Lies are cheap, as the partisan's journal
With its politics sweetened to suit,
Bears a witness, that leaves out the kernel,
And retains but the husks of the fruit;
Votes are cheap, and the glory of backing
Just the dolt your employer may choose,
Though you gain not the price of the blacking
That would polish one pair of your shoes;
Words are cheap, good advice, consolation,
Merely meant at the best for a blind,
With free land and the free education,
While we kick the d---d masses behind;
Bribes are cheap, if no bread they may butter,
While the tide yet remains at the neap,
And King Demos abides in his gutter;
Nothing pays, like the Cheap.
While the Sweaters rejoice in his need,
And his life (below trumpet and tabor)
Yet is offered the Moloch of Greed;
Bread is cheap—if you only can win it,
And your service you happen to sell,
Though, for death of a toiler each minute,
We keep tolling the funeral bell;
Lies are cheap, as the partisan's journal
With its politics sweetened to suit,
Bears a witness, that leaves out the kernel,
And retains but the husks of the fruit;
Votes are cheap, and the glory of backing
Just the dolt your employer may choose,
Though you gain not the price of the blacking
That would polish one pair of your shoes;
Words are cheap, good advice, consolation,
Merely meant at the best for a blind,
With free land and the free education,
While we kick the d---d masses behind;
Bribes are cheap, if no bread they may butter,
While the tide yet remains at the neap,
And King Demos abides in his gutter;
Nothing pays, like the Cheap.
Flesh is cheap—if it simply be human,
For a sheep is a different thing;
And none thinks of the honour of woman,
Should she go to the Devil or swing—
When she barters her person for raiment,
And the food in its beggarly dole
Is ill bought, with the terrible payment
Of a lost and a sacrificed soul;
Truth is cheap, and one Hurlingham pigeon
Would fetch more than the Bible, and all
The delights of each rival religion,
If you follow a Peter or Paul;
God is cheap, and where is there a Curate
Who will now not insure you a niche—
On receipt of a prayer or pew-rate—
In the Heaven reserved for the rich;
All is cheap, my dear friends, as the novel
For a shilling, though borrowed and bad,
Which goes down for its lord to the hovel,
To the bawdhouse for ladies to gad;
Dirt is cheap, and it really is pleasant,
If with scum to the surface you leap,
And of all worlds the best is the present;
Nothing pays like the Cheap.
For a sheep is a different thing;
And none thinks of the honour of woman,
Should she go to the Devil or swing—
When she barters her person for raiment,
And the food in its beggarly dole
Is ill bought, with the terrible payment
Of a lost and a sacrificed soul;
Truth is cheap, and one Hurlingham pigeon
Would fetch more than the Bible, and all
The delights of each rival religion,
If you follow a Peter or Paul;
God is cheap, and where is there a Curate
Who will now not insure you a niche—
On receipt of a prayer or pew-rate—
In the Heaven reserved for the rich;
All is cheap, my dear friends, as the novel
For a shilling, though borrowed and bad,
779
To the bawdhouse for ladies to gad;
Dirt is cheap, and it really is pleasant,
If with scum to the surface you leap,
And of all worlds the best is the present;
Nothing pays like the Cheap.
THE DEAD CHIEF.
A child, I learned to reverence rank,
And deemed a noble must
Do noble things, if low he sank,
Who held a sacred trust;
I deemed the legendary lord,
Whose acts make history speak,
Had always ready hand and sword,
As champion of the weak;
I deemed he lived for duty's call,
With beggars shared his bread,
And opened wide his door to all—
But thou art dead.
And deemed a noble must
Do noble things, if low he sank,
Who held a sacred trust;
I deemed the legendary lord,
Whose acts make history speak,
Had always ready hand and sword,
As champion of the weak;
I deemed he lived for duty's call,
With beggars shared his bread,
And opened wide his door to all—
But thou art dead.
A man, I still respected birth
And thought the prison band
Of patriot seers, had put a girth
Of glory round the land;
I bowed my head, to titles won
Bright in the country's need,
By sacrifices grandly done,
That sowed no mortal seed;
I dreamed, if others wore a mask,
That rank a golden thread
Ran through each great and gallant task—
But thou art dead.
And thought the prison band
Of patriot seers, had put a girth
Of glory round the land;
I bowed my head, to titles won
Bright in the country's need,
By sacrifices grandly done,
That sowed no mortal seed;
I dreamed, if others wore a mask,
That rank a golden thread
Ran through each great and gallant task—
But thou art dead.
To thee I looked, a worthy chief,
As seeks a tender child
His father, and had found relief,
If he just fondly smiled;
For sure I felt, thy noble name
A nobler nature hid,
And was not over thing of shame
A painted coffin lid;
I saw in thee no common life,
That would in beauty tread,
A part of every splendid strife—
But thou art dead.
As seeks a tender child
His father, and had found relief,
If he just fondly smiled;
For sure I felt, thy noble name
A nobler nature hid,
And was not over thing of shame
A painted coffin lid;
I saw in thee no common life,
That would in beauty tread,
A part of every splendid strife—
But thou art dead.
780
My blood runs in thy niggard veins,
We claim a kindred stock,
But thou dost shrink from clansmen's pains,
And blench at battle shock;
The shadow of a craven pride
Pursues thy path, like night,
And stalks for ever at thy side,
And blinds thy better sight;
The course of thy heroic sires,
By wondering worlds was read,
Who passed for brothers through the fires—
But thou art dead.
We claim a kindred stock,
But thou dost shrink from clansmen's pains,
And blench at battle shock;
The shadow of a craven pride
Pursues thy path, like night,
And stalks for ever at thy side,
And blinds thy better sight;
The course of thy heroic sires,
By wondering worlds was read,
Who passed for brothers through the fires—
But thou art dead.
I sought thee, in the arméd field,
Where serried squadrons fight,
But thou hadst cast away thy shield,
In safe and sordid flight;
I saw thee, in the Senate, girt
With peers that empire propt,
But only found the casual dirt
Thy fleeting foot had dropped;
I sought thee, where calm justice rears
Its awful equal head,
And fashions laws of blood and tears—
But thou art dead.
Where serried squadrons fight,
But thou hadst cast away thy shield,
In safe and sordid flight;
I saw thee, in the Senate, girt
With peers that empire propt,
But only found the casual dirt
Thy fleeting foot had dropped;
I sought thee, where calm justice rears
Its awful equal head,
And fashions laws of blood and tears—
But thou art dead.
I sought thee, by the sufferer's bed,
Assuaging hopeless ill,
Whence all but comfort's voice had fled—
And thou wast dancing still;
I sought thee, in the busy hive
Of labour's iron charms,
And marked thee, not where toilers strive,
Laid in a wanton's arms;
I sought thee, in the holy courts,
Where praying hands are spread,
And heard thee cursing at thy sports—
But thou art dead.
Assuaging hopeless ill,
Whence all but comfort's voice had fled—
And thou wast dancing still;
I sought thee, in the busy hive
Of labour's iron charms,
And marked thee, not where toilers strive,
Laid in a wanton's arms;
I sought thee, in the holy courts,
Where praying hands are spread,
And heard thee cursing at thy sports—
But thou art dead.
Ah, I disown thee as my lord,
I will not follow him,
Who only wears a paper sword,
And swayed by every whim;
Who if not buried is a corpse,
To debts of duty blind,
That harlot Fashion fools, and warps
To its own harlot mind;
Who cannot bravely lead his clan,
And is by follies led
Or dainties of his kitchen pan—
But thou art dead.
I will not follow him,
Who only wears a paper sword,
And swayed by every whim;
Who if not buried is a corpse,
To debts of duty blind,
That harlot Fashion fools, and warps
To its own harlot mind;
Who cannot bravely lead his clan,
And is by follies led
Or dainties of his kitchen pan—
But thou art dead.
781
Ah, what is nature crowned with joy,
With laughter in her breath,
Below the gilding of the toy,
But decorated death?
And what art thou, O recreant chief,
Beneath thy pomp, and might
Of rank and riches, but a thief
That filches honour's right?
For fallen art thou into deeps
Lower than plummet lead,
And over thee wan England weeps—
But thou art dead.
With laughter in her breath,
Below the gilding of the toy,
But decorated death?
And what art thou, O recreant chief,
Beneath thy pomp, and might
Of rank and riches, but a thief
That filches honour's right?
For fallen art thou into deeps
Lower than plummet lead,
And over thee wan England weeps—
But thou art dead.
THE NEW REFORMATION.
Hark, the oracle has spoken,
But what promise it may bring,
Mumbling out its message broken,
That is quite another thing;
Misty words, that have no meaning,
Limp as strumpets without stays,
Doubtful sense and sentence, leaning
Half a dozen different ways;
Murky views of musty German,
Blinking blindly like a bat
Into day, though none determine
What the devil he is at.
But what promise it may bring,
Mumbling out its message broken,
That is quite another thing;
Misty words, that have no meaning,
Limp as strumpets without stays,
Doubtful sense and sentence, leaning
Half a dozen different ways;
Murky views of musty German,
Blinking blindly like a bat
Into day, though none determine
What the devil he is at.
Rénan, Reuss, and Strauss who spells mere
Pretty myths in Bible fact,
Boiled with watery Robert Elsmere,
Till the suffering kettle crackt;
Baur and Martineau and Spencer,
Huxley and his croaking frogs,
Mixed and muddled into denser
Dust, from fusty catalogues;
Learnéd nonsense, like Lux Mundi,
Or Nox Mundi—which is it?
With a dash of Mrs. Grundy,
Just to make the folly fit.
Pretty myths in Bible fact,
Boiled with watery Robert Elsmere,
Till the suffering kettle crackt;
Baur and Martineau and Spencer,
Huxley and his croaking frogs,
Mixed and muddled into denser
Dust, from fusty catalogues;
Learnéd nonsense, like Lux Mundi,
Or Nox Mundi—which is it?
With a dash of Mrs. Grundy,
Just to make the folly fit.
Ah, the oracle is vaguer
Far than oracles of old,
When through moonlight song and saga,
Ran a glorious thread of gold;
Then was method in the fables,
Pledge of an undying youth,
Not from red dissecting tables
Mangled limbs of murdered Truth;
Flashed then lightning with the thunder,
If the ore some rubbish girt,
And from clouds that burst asunder
Stept Divinity, not Dirt.
Far than oracles of old,
When through moonlight song and saga,
Ran a glorious thread of gold;
Then was method in the fables,
Pledge of an undying youth,
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Mangled limbs of murdered Truth;
Flashed then lightning with the thunder,
If the ore some rubbish girt,
And from clouds that burst asunder
Stept Divinity, not Dirt.
Now our Piety and Learning
Work, as scavengers, in gloom,
Leave the dust, and dogma spurning
Call to worship of their broom;
This is the “New Reformation,”
Destitute of light and love,
With a ragged revelation,
That can scarce be from above;
Lies at last will find their level,
Though false prophets' conjuring rod
Turn our God into the Devil,
And the Devil into God.
Work, as scavengers, in gloom,
Leave the dust, and dogma spurning
Call to worship of their broom;
This is the “New Reformation,”
Destitute of light and love,
With a ragged revelation,
That can scarce be from above;
Lies at last will find their level,
Though false prophets' conjuring rod
Turn our God into the Devil,
And the Devil into God.
MY FOUR DARLINGS.
Ten and wayward, blithe and blonde,
Precious as a Louis
d'or, and boy-like shyly fond—
Such is little Cooey;
Proud, reserved, and glad to give
Of her tiny treasure,
Quite content a while to live
In another's pleasure;
Moody, prone to manage all
With a state to keep up,
And, though each one's willing thrall,
Tempest in a tea-cup.
Precious as a Louis
d'or, and boy-like shyly fond—
Such is little Cooey;
Proud, reserved, and glad to give
Of her tiny treasure,
Quite content a while to live
In another's pleasure;
Moody, prone to manage all
With a state to keep up,
And, though each one's willing thrall,
Tempest in a tea-cup.
Eight and fragile, small and trim,
Dainty, true and tender,
Face of glowing Seraphim,—
Such is little Wenda;
Blue eyes, that with wondrous tears
Overflow too often,
And when vanished are her fears,
Sweet to laughter soften;
Sociable and kind, and yet
Just a trifle selfish
Sometimes, with her toys beset,
Shut in like a shell-fish.
Dainty, true and tender,
Face of glowing Seraphim,—
Such is little Wenda;
Blue eyes, that with wondrous tears
Overflow too often,
And when vanished are her fears,
Sweet to laughter soften;
Sociable and kind, and yet
Just a trifle selfish
Sometimes, with her toys beset,
Shut in like a shell-fish.
783
Seven and fair, with devious ways,
Fond of cats and guinea
Pigs, but not of any stays—
Such is little Winnie;
Not averse to dolls, and mud
Pies in quiet corners,
Dear, domestic, and a bud
Meant to brighten mourners;
Coy, but (breaking nurse's band)
Merry as a starling,
Everybody's torment, and
Everybody's darling.
Fond of cats and guinea
Pigs, but not of any stays—
Such is little Winnie;
Not averse to dolls, and mud
Pies in quiet corners,
Dear, domestic, and a bud
Meant to brighten mourners;
Coy, but (breaking nurse's band)
Merry as a starling,
Everybody's torment, and
Everybody's darling.
Five and noisy, dark, and ripe—
As, we'll say, a strawberry—
For a bottle or a pipe—
Such is little Aubrey;
Given to analytic joys
And unearthly vowels,
With a hand that all his toys
Daily disembowels;
Plumping on his mother's best
Bonnet, then a rover
Some pet creature to molest,
Boy of boys all over.
As, we'll say, a strawberry—
For a bottle or a pipe—
Such is little Aubrey;
Given to analytic joys
And unearthly vowels,
With a hand that all his toys
Daily disembowels;
Plumping on his mother's best
Bonnet, then a rover
Some pet creature to molest,
Boy of boys all over.
THE GRAND OLD WOMAN.
Talk of woman, as you will,
She's a splendid creature,
Whether with a golden till,
Or a Grace in feature;
But, for subjects, there is one
We delight to honour,
Who has nothing dirty done,
Pure as a Madonna;
Queen Victoria (bless her name!)
Has a heart all human,
Without fear and without blame—
She's the Grand Old Woman.
She's a splendid creature,
Whether with a golden till,
Or a Grace in feature;
But, for subjects, there is one
We delight to honour,
Who has nothing dirty done,
Pure as a Madonna;
Queen Victoria (bless her name!)
Has a heart all human,
Without fear and without blame—
She's the Grand Old Woman.
Fifty years and more have proved,
In their service loyal
To her country, she is moved
By a nature Royal;
Fifty years and more, that brought
Cares and snares not lighter,
Yet for her have only wrought
Crown of glory brighter;
Fifty years and more have past,
Left her richly human—
Wife and Mother—to the last,
She's the Grand Old Woman.
In their service loyal
To her country, she is moved
By a nature Royal;
Fifty years and more, that brought
Cares and snares not lighter,
784
Crown of glory brighter;
Fifty years and more have past,
Left her richly human—
Wife and Mother—to the last,
She's the Grand Old Woman.
Queens there are of every kind,
Some devoid of feeling,
Pulling down the window blind
At the first appealing;
Closing to the shutters hard
On the precious pocket,
If a beggar or a bard
Thinks he may unlock it;
Some are feminine in name
Merely, ours is human
Through and through her kindly frame—
She's the Grand Old Woman.
Some devoid of feeling,
Pulling down the window blind
At the first appealing;
Closing to the shutters hard
On the precious pocket,
If a beggar or a bard
Thinks he may unlock it;
Some are feminine in name
Merely, ours is human
Through and through her kindly frame—
She's the Grand Old Woman.
Long may good Victoria live
Yet, and with affection
Such as Royalty can give,
Show us God's direction;
Till, the soul no baseness thralled,
Soul the peril nigher
More heroic found, is called
To a kingdom higher;
True to trust upon her laid,
True with weakness human,
True in debts of duty paid—
She's the Grand Old Woman.
Yet, and with affection
Such as Royalty can give,
Show us God's direction;
Till, the soul no baseness thralled,
Soul the peril nigher
More heroic found, is called
To a kingdom higher;
True to trust upon her laid,
True with weakness human,
True in debts of duty paid—
She's the Grand Old Woman.
JENNY.
Sweet and shy,
Sweet and shy,
With the dusky locks and the blue-gray eye,
That has stolen its beauty from the sky
And the cheeks that are red roses;
With the head bent down,
As beneath a crown,
In the daintiest of poses;
Shy and sweet,
Shy and sweet,
With the delicate form and the tripping feet,
Where the sunlight and the moonlight meet,
And all golden as a guinea;
With the saintly look,
As of gospel book,
Is the Queen of maidens, Jenny.
Sweet and shy,
With the dusky locks and the blue-gray eye,
That has stolen its beauty from the sky
And the cheeks that are red roses;
With the head bent down,
As beneath a crown,
In the daintiest of poses;
Shy and sweet,
Shy and sweet,
With the delicate form and the tripping feet,
Where the sunlight and the moonlight meet,
And all golden as a guinea;
With the saintly look,
As of gospel book,
Is the Queen of maidens, Jenny.
785
Dark and soft,
Dark and soft,
As the midnight on a summer croft,
With the west wind low and the stars aloft,
She is true as steel, and tender
As the mating dove,
When it murmurs love
In the springtide at its splendour;
Soft and dark,
Soft and dark,
With a breast that hides a heavenly spark,
And a face where sadness sets its mark,
But as dewdrops in the spinny,
With a brighter hue
From the arching blue—
There is no one quite like Jenny.
Dark and soft,
As the midnight on a summer croft,
With the west wind low and the stars aloft,
She is true as steel, and tender
As the mating dove,
When it murmurs love
In the springtide at its splendour;
Soft and dark,
Soft and dark,
With a breast that hides a heavenly spark,
And a face where sadness sets its mark,
But as dewdrops in the spinny,
With a brighter hue
From the arching blue—
There is no one quite like Jenny.
Fond and fair,
Fond and fair,
With a halo on the glorious hair,
With an angel walk and an angel air,
And the lips of crimson coral,
The despair of Art,
That in music part,
With some pure delicious moral;
Fair and fond,
Fair and fond,
She has tones that bid you not despond,
And that echo up to heights beyond;
You would never note the whinny
Of your favourite steed,
Nor another heed,
If you only heard my Jenny.
Fond and fair,
With a halo on the glorious hair,
With an angel walk and an angel air,
And the lips of crimson coral,
The despair of Art,
That in music part,
With some pure delicious moral;
Fair and fond,
Fair and fond,
She has tones that bid you not despond,
And that echo up to heights beyond;
You would never note the whinny
Of your favourite steed,
Nor another heed,
If you only heard my Jenny.
THE BLUE HOURS.
My favourite season, you should know, sweet madam,
Is not when sunlight falls,
Nor when to stroll with some blest son of Adam,
Thee, darling, even calls;
It is not when the festive speech is spoken,
And friends are gathered round,
With jest and laughing sound,
To toast the fair, and social bread is broken;
But when with silent thrill
Each earthly voice is still,
And early morning brings with magic powers
Blue hours.
Is not when sunlight falls,
Nor when to stroll with some blest son of Adam,
Thee, darling, even calls;
It is not when the festive speech is spoken,
And friends are gathered round,
With jest and laughing sound,
To toast the fair, and social bread is broken;
But when with silent thrill
Each earthly voice is still,
And early morning brings with magic powers
Blue hours.
786
Yes, I am happy, if alone, unbothered
By the most tender talk,
When with bold front (in blanket base not smothered)
I hear the spirits walk;
In fearful rapture then I look, and listen
With ears both open wide,
As ghostly garments glide,
And in the glooming dreadful faces glisten;
My flesh begins to creep,
From haunted lands of sleep
Descend upon me, like uncanny showers,
Blue hours.
By the most tender talk,
When with bold front (in blanket base not smothered)
I hear the spirits walk;
In fearful rapture then I look, and listen
With ears both open wide,
As ghostly garments glide,
And in the glooming dreadful faces glisten;
My flesh begins to creep,
From haunted lands of sleep
Descend upon me, like uncanny showers,
Blue hours.
Then even the prettiest woman blue is painted,
By that cadaverous light,
The purest innocent is all unsainted
In nimbus of blue night;
And on round cheek the fairest reddest roses,
That shamed the sunset hue,
Are changed to ghastly blue,
That does not spare the most celestial noses;
The very snow, that slips
As kisses on dead lips,
Assumes, with awful and unearthly dowers,
Blue hours.
By that cadaverous light,
The purest innocent is all unsainted
In nimbus of blue night;
And on round cheek the fairest reddest roses,
That shamed the sunset hue,
Are changed to ghastly blue,
That does not spare the most celestial noses;
The very snow, that slips
As kisses on dead lips,
Assumes, with awful and unearthly dowers,
Blue hours.
When one great darkness now all things is over,
And the church clock strikes two,
And like a flying cloud the belfry rover,
Goes, stuttering “Who are you?”
Then does my daring fancy love to revel,
And like a conjuror calls
Wild shadows on the walls,
And skeletons from graves, and plays the devil;
Then blue my candle burns,
And bluer still it turns,
While dimly grimly pass, as from blue bowers,
Blue hours.
And the church clock strikes two,
And like a flying cloud the belfry rover,
Goes, stuttering “Who are you?”
Then does my daring fancy love to revel,
And like a conjuror calls
Wild shadows on the walls,
And skeletons from graves, and plays the devil;
Then blue my candle burns,
And bluer still it turns,
While dimly grimly pass, as from blue bowers,
Blue hours.
LAUGHING PHILOSOPHY.
(“Life is to those who think a comedy.”)
Cares and snares are like a fetter
On the person and the purse,
But no moping makes us better,
It can only edge the curse;
Men are born to toils and trials,
And they may not banish fears,
Though the trouble of denials
Never was improved by tears;
Sorrow is the soul's anointing,
Pain our portion—more than half,
Every day is disappointing—
Therefore live and laugh.
On the person and the purse,
But no moping makes us better,
It can only edge the curse;
787
And they may not banish fears,
Though the trouble of denials
Never was improved by tears;
Sorrow is the soul's anointing,
Pain our portion—more than half,
Every day is disappointing—
Therefore live and laugh.
Woes will come, and death is master
Over our poor bodies' ill,
But we yet may turn disaster
Into gain, by gallant will;
We may pluck a song from sadness,
Of which pleasure is not lord,
For the neck find wreath of gladness,
If within the hangman's cord;
But there is no food in fretting,
No despair doth comfort give,
Like the wisdom of forgetting,
Therefore laugh and live.
Over our poor bodies' ill,
But we yet may turn disaster
Into gain, by gallant will;
We may pluck a song from sadness,
Of which pleasure is not lord,
For the neck find wreath of gladness,
If within the hangman's cord;
But there is no food in fretting,
No despair doth comfort give,
Like the wisdom of forgetting,
Therefore laugh and live.
Some may reap a larger measure
Of the fishes and State loaf,
But a cheery heart is treasure
Shared alike by earl and oaf;
Some have meat without the gravy,
Some must merely drumsticks eat,
But the best confess Peccavi,
And the Devil cannot cheat;
Be not dragged by bane or Berry,
As to slaughter house a calf
Tamely, while you may be merry—
Therefore live and laugh.
Of the fishes and State loaf,
But a cheery heart is treasure
Shared alike by earl and oaf;
Some have meat without the gravy,
Some must merely drumsticks eat,
But the best confess Peccavi,
And the Devil cannot cheat;
Be not dragged by bane or Berry,
As to slaughter house a calf
Tamely, while you may be merry—
Therefore live and laugh.
Comes to all the ultimatum,
That snuffs out the Royal gas;
Vanitas O vanitatum,
Omnia sunt vanitas!
But, though every one is mortal,
Young as old, even prolix Pat
Ever knocking at our portal,
Do not be disturbed by that;
God is good—aye, God is better
Than the system or the sieve,
Which but keeps the lying letter—
Therefore laugh and live.
That snuffs out the Royal gas;
Vanitas O vanitatum,
Omnia sunt vanitas!
But, though every one is mortal,
Young as old, even prolix Pat
Ever knocking at our portal,
Do not be disturbed by that;
God is good—aye, God is better
Than the system or the sieve,
Which but keeps the lying letter—
Therefore laugh and live.
788
THE SQUEAMIST.
Have you seen the Squeamist lately,
Have you heard him talk,
Mincing up and down sedately
In his solemn walk?
Slow and sleepy,
Cold and creepy
With his pious frown
At some wicked noun,
Here he turns from fleshly dances,
There he sneers at games of chances,
Or the ribbons of romances
On a worldly gown.
Have you heard him talk,
Mincing up and down sedately
In his solemn walk?
Slow and sleepy,
Cold and creepy
With his pious frown
At some wicked noun,
Here he turns from fleshly dances,
There he sneers at games of chances,
Or the ribbons of romances
On a worldly gown.
Have you seen the squeamist, posing
Like a funeral bell,
Burying the truth, and nosing
Out some nasty smell?
Sneaky, snaky,
Rabid, raky
In the rotten hole,
He miscalls his soul,
How he masks in moral dresses,
Over all the vilest messes,
Which at heart he still caresses,
While he damns the whole.
Like a funeral bell,
Burying the truth, and nosing
Out some nasty smell?
Sneaky, snaky,
Rabid, raky
In the rotten hole,
He miscalls his soul,
How he masks in moral dresses,
Over all the vilest messes,
Which at heart he still caresses,
While he damns the whole.
Have you seen the Squeamist, playing
With his favourite pitch,
Till he tumbles, cursing, praying,
In the nearest ditch?
Sleek and slimy,
Grim and grimy,
He protests at vice,
Sins in secret nice,
Though the dungheap is his level,
And his fancy does the devil,
And beneath his sackcloth revel
All corruption's lice.
With his favourite pitch,
Till he tumbles, cursing, praying,
In the nearest ditch?
Sleek and slimy,
Grim and grimy,
He protests at vice,
Sins in secret nice,
Though the dungheap is his level,
And his fancy does the devil,
And beneath his sackcloth revel
All corruption's lice.
Have you seen the Squeamist, squirming
In a nobler air,
Worrying the great, and worming
Into lion's lair?
Stale and sticky.
Trite and tricky,
He disdains not pelf
From a richer shelf,
If he storms at starry teaching,
Worlds above his petty reaching,
He (while better men impeaching)
Only blacks himself.
In a nobler air,
Worrying the great, and worming
Into lion's lair?
Stale and sticky.
Trite and tricky,
He disdains not pelf
From a richer shelf,
If he storms at starry teaching,
Worlds above his petty reaching,
He (while better men impeaching)
Only blacks himself.
789
“ALWAYS WRONG.”
Blind to all her beauty, without notion
Save of brutal selfish aims,
Taking as a thing of course devotion
Such as Russian despot claims;
Cold was he and hard, a master cruel
To his gentle faithful wife,
Heedless of the precious heavenly jewel
In that bright and blameless life;
Her he flung the scraps of the affection
Only for his stable strong,
Sure, if dog or man defied detection,
She was always wrong.
Save of brutal selfish aims,
Taking as a thing of course devotion
Such as Russian despot claims;
Cold was he and hard, a master cruel
To his gentle faithful wife,
Heedless of the precious heavenly jewel
In that bright and blameless life;
Her he flung the scraps of the affection
Only for his stable strong,
Sure, if dog or man defied detection,
She was always wrong.
Her sweet ministries of office lowly
He to evil basely turned,
Careless how the lamp of loving holy
In her woman's bosom burned;
Truth was made of his false nature portion,
By a sordid narrow mind,
As by mirror cracked, with dark distortion
Into error most unkind;
Every note she struck he rudely strangled,
Like a discord in a song,
All she said or did he mocked and mangled—
She was always wrong.
He to evil basely turned,
Careless how the lamp of loving holy
In her woman's bosom burned;
Truth was made of his false nature portion,
By a sordid narrow mind,
As by mirror cracked, with dark distortion
Into error most unkind;
Every note she struck he rudely strangled,
Like a discord in a song,
All she said or did he mocked and mangled—
She was always wrong.
Vain her tender service, vainly squandered
Loyalty that knew not bounds,
When his heart (in crib or kennel) pondered
But on horses or on hounds;
All her purest homage was mistaken,
Though she simply strove to please,
While abode he sensual, and unshaken
In his vulgar swinish ease;
Right to him the tending of his cattle,
Right the welcome dinner gong,
And most right the lying pothouse tattle—
She was always wrong.
Loyalty that knew not bounds,
When his heart (in crib or kennel) pondered
But on horses or on hounds;
All her purest homage was mistaken,
Though she simply strove to please,
While abode he sensual, and unshaken
In his vulgar swinish ease;
Right to him the tending of his cattle,
Right the welcome dinner gong,
And most right the lying pothouse tattle—
She was always wrong.
Then she sickened, and the link was parted
Binding him to one so good,
Yet from no disease but broken-hearted,
Murdered and misunderstood;
Till the angel came whose face is hidden,
Though his presence still is rest,
And received her, bruised and spent and chidden,
In the refuge of his breast;
But she sobbed, her last breath feebly flying,
She who greatly served him long,
“If I erred in living, now, by dying,
Am I always wrong?”
Binding him to one so good,
Yet from no disease but broken-hearted,
Murdered and misunderstood;
Till the angel came whose face is hidden,
Though his presence still is rest,
And received her, bruised and spent and chidden,
In the refuge of his breast;
But she sobbed, her last breath feebly flying,
She who greatly served him long,
“If I erred in living, now, by dying,
Am I always wrong?”
790
TO A PURIST
Never go to foreign climes,
Where wild flowers and gentry
Always make their entry,
Naked, at most awkward times
Never stop in sculptor's pale,
Lest a naughty statue,
Naked should look àt you—
If you don't possess a veil
Never, when you go to bed,
Light a prying candle,
Lest some scurvy scandal
On your naked frame be shed.
Where wild flowers and gentry
Always make their entry,
Naked, at most awkward times
Never stop in sculptor's pale,
Lest a naughty statue,
Naked should look àt you—
If you don't possess a veil
Never, when you go to bed,
Light a prying candle,
Lest some scurvy scandal
On your naked frame be shed.
Never, for domestic cats,
Take the Toms as mousers,
While you put in trousers
Table legs and pegs for hats;
Never look at Highland braves
Who have not our riches,
And march without breeches,
And kick out disgusting calves
Never heed barefooted boys,
Though their tears be recent,
Who are so indecent,
And delight in naked joys.
Take the Toms as mousers,
While you put in trousers
Table legs and pegs for hats;
Never look at Highland braves
Who have not our riches,
And march without breeches,
And kick out disgusting calves
Never heed barefooted boys,
Though their tears be recent,
Who are so indecent,
And delight in naked joys.
Never note a pretty face,
Stick to kit and curate,
And be most obdúrate,
To uncovered ball-room grace;
Never glance at undressed arms,
Rot with prudes and spinsters,
Ancient men and ministers,
Who can boast of sober charms;
Never go abroad at night
Lest the dainty garter
Of some Traviata,
Shock your unprotected sight.
Stick to kit and curate,
And be most obdúrate,
To uncovered ball-room grace;
Never glance at undressed arms,
Rot with prudes and spinsters,
Ancient men and ministers,
Who can boast of sober charms;
Never go abroad at night
Lest the dainty garter
Of some Traviata,
Shock your unprotected sight.
Never call a spade a spade,
Bathe not in the water
Nude posterior quarter,
Shut the daylight out with shade;
Never in a volume look,
Lest the name of sinner,
(Harlot) spoil your dinner,
Though it be the Blessed Book;
Never own one manly creed,
Be a mere old woman,
Everything but human,
Still be proper and be d---d.
Bathe not in the water
Nude posterior quarter,
Shut the daylight out with shade;
Never in a volume look,
Lest the name of sinner,
(Harlot) spoil your dinner,
Though it be the Blessed Book;
Never own one manly creed,
Be a mere old woman,
Everything but human,
Still be proper and be d---d.
791
DONNA JUAN.
Old fogeys give me a bad name,
I really scarce know why,
And if my talk you ever blame,
You cannot call it dry;
Nor would I lightly care to vex
Good people, and be bold,
But then the freedom of my sex
Is what I must uphold;
The rights of woman, who has long
The burden borne too well,
And the deep burning sense of wrong,
Constrain me to rebel.
I really scarce know why,
And if my talk you ever blame,
You cannot call it dry;
Nor would I lightly care to vex
Good people, and be bold,
But then the freedom of my sex
Is what I must uphold;
The rights of woman, who has long
The burden borne too well,
And the deep burning sense of wrong,
Constrain me to rebel.
And so I mix on equal terms,
With pilgrims of the Park,
And study passion's hidden germs,—
If sometimes in the dark;
Of course, my uncurbed fancy takes
No orthodoxy's flight,
I liberally deal with “rakes,”
And call a “spade” aright;
Appearances I do not dread,
Nor words of solemn sound,
Archbishops could not make me tread
The stale old stupid round.
With pilgrims of the Park,
And study passion's hidden germs,—
If sometimes in the dark;
Of course, my uncurbed fancy takes
No orthodoxy's flight,
I liberally deal with “rakes,”
And call a “spade” aright;
Appearances I do not dread,
Nor words of solemn sound,
Archbishops could not make me tread
The stale old stupid round.
Let critics rather call me fast,
Than dowdy, dull, or slow,
For I have broken with the Past,
And its pale proper show;
Dead Institutions are my pet
Aversions, and the sham
Of fossil forms I don't forget,
And delicately damn;
I've left poor Custom and that fudge,
To babies led by string,
And forward hasten, and why grudge
Me just an honest fling?
Than dowdy, dull, or slow,
For I have broken with the Past,
And its pale proper show;
Dead Institutions are my pet
Aversions, and the sham
Of fossil forms I don't forget,
And delicately damn;
I've left poor Custom and that fudge,
To babies led by string,
And forward hasten, and why grudge
Me just an honest fling?
Men have their innings had, and now
We turn another page,
And Donna Juan makes her bow,
And steps upon the stage;
We cannot do much worse than males,
Who keep us under ban,
And, lo, the Tripos tells us tales,
Of what sweet woman can;
And here, though every prude should pout,
I'll snap Decorum's chain,
And smoke and drink and flirt about,
Nor be a slave again.
We turn another page,
And Donna Juan makes her bow,
And steps upon the stage;
We cannot do much worse than males,
Who keep us under ban,
And, lo, the Tripos tells us tales,
Of what sweet woman can;
And here, though every prude should pout,
I'll snap Decorum's chain,
And smoke and drink and flirt about,
Nor be a slave again.
792
DONNA QUIXOTE.
A champion I've been of the poor,
Since I began to weep,
And how to brighten their dark door
I babbled in my sleep;
I did not care for dainty dolls,
However long their hair,
And most excruciating Polls
To me were nowise fair;
Unlike all babes, I used to lothe
The bottle and the bibs,
And only dreamed that I could clothe
The babes in ragged cribs.
Since I began to weep,
And how to brighten their dark door
I babbled in my sleep;
I did not care for dainty dolls,
However long their hair,
And most excruciating Polls
To me were nowise fair;
Unlike all babes, I used to lothe
The bottle and the bibs,
And only dreamed that I could clothe
The babes in ragged cribs.
And ere I cut a single tooth,
I formed such serious plans
Of grants for beggars and Maynooth,
And broth in public pans;
Free education was my cry,
When first I practised thought,
And whence the State could best supply,
Old women news for nought;
I knew what perils lurked in beer,
While yet in girlish frocks,
And could (with any Premier) steer
Our country on the rocks.
I formed such serious plans
Of grants for beggars and Maynooth,
And broth in public pans;
Free education was my cry,
When first I practised thought,
And whence the State could best supply,
Old women news for nought;
I knew what perils lurked in beer,
While yet in girlish frocks,
And could (with any Premier) steer
Our country on the rocks.
My name is Donna Quixote, sir,
On platforms am I seen,
And ther's a little glow or stir,
Wherever I have been;
In each grand MOVEMENT do I take
A fine and foremost part,
And with my breezy whisper, shake
The masses' mighty heart;
I play with statesmen as with straws,
Who would the people rob,
And oft appeal from unjust laws
Unto the glorious MOB.
On platforms am I seen,
And ther's a little glow or stir,
Wherever I have been;
In each grand MOVEMENT do I take
A fine and foremost part,
And with my breezy whisper, shake
The masses' mighty heart;
I play with statesmen as with straws,
Who would the people rob,
And oft appeal from unjust laws
Unto the glorious MOB.
I have a Journal, too, to hold
The grounds whereon I stand,
And maxims great, by which I mould
The nation to my hand;
I flutter in the highest ranks,
And air new social creeds,
And grateful Princes murmur thanks
For all my noble deeds;
I don't believe in very much,
Though Spencer is my Sage
With Evolution, and of such
I build the Golden Age.
The grounds whereon I stand,
And maxims great, by which I mould
The nation to my hand;
I flutter in the highest ranks,
And air new social creeds,
And grateful Princes murmur thanks
For all my noble deeds;
I don't believe in very much,
Though Spencer is my Sage
With Evolution, and of such
I build the Golden Age.
793
THE LOST LORD.
He clasps me in a husband's arms,
And gives me many a kiss,
He praises me and pets my charms,
Yet him I seem to miss;
I lie unsleeping by his side,
On our dear nuptial bed,
While, severed as by ocean wide,
His spirit far hath fled;
For, though the loving lips may sigh,
The soul doth not confess,
And he himself is never nigh,
And cold seems each caress.
And gives me many a kiss,
He praises me and pets my charms,
Yet him I seem to miss;
I lie unsleeping by his side,
On our dear nuptial bed,
While, severed as by ocean wide,
His spirit far hath fled;
For, though the loving lips may sigh,
The soul doth not confess,
And he himself is never nigh,
And cold seems each caress.
He loved me once, his noble brow—
As blossoms turn to light—
For ever followed me, but now
He seeks some other sight;
We sit together at our meals,
We mix in social throngs,
Our voices blend, but all reveals
A discord in the songs;
Nor do we oft take different parts
In pleasure or in toys,
Though yawns a gulf between our hearts,
That saps the sweetest joys.
As blossoms turn to light—
For ever followed me, but now
He seeks some other sight;
We sit together at our meals,
We mix in social throngs,
Our voices blend, but all reveals
A discord in the songs;
Nor do we oft take different parts
In pleasure or in toys,
Though yawns a gulf between our hearts,
That saps the sweetest joys.
And when affection turns to him,
Where it would ever stay,
I know, if outward signs be dim,
His own is far away;
He duly drives me round the Park,
He duly walks with me,
And will to faintest whisper hark,
But still it is not he;
Our likings do not rudely rub,
He visits only where
I visit, not in any club,
And yet he is not there.
Where it would ever stay,
I know, if outward signs be dim,
His own is far away;
He duly drives me round the Park,
He duly walks with me,
And will to faintest whisper hark,
But still it is not he;
Our likings do not rudely rub,
He visits only where
I visit, not in any club,
And yet he is not there.
He brings me presents every day,
And makes my boudoir sweet
With summer flowers, but what are they,
When spirits do not meet?
The light that sparkled in his look,
And sparkled but for me,
Read clearly as in open book,
I now no longer see;
Though not by doom of cruel sword,
And not in darkness blind,
Have I not lost my dearest lord,
And shall I ever find?
And makes my boudoir sweet
With summer flowers, but what are they,
When spirits do not meet?
The light that sparkled in his look,
And sparkled but for me,
Read clearly as in open book,
I now no longer see;
Though not by doom of cruel sword,
And not in darkness blind,
Have I not lost my dearest lord,
And shall I ever find?
794
“VICTA CATONI.”
O brother, why I cannot tell,
But ever from a child,
With instinct true if wild,
I learned to reason and rebel
Against the spur, and bridling span
That shut the noblest in
To sorrow and to sin,
And gave the reins to bigots' plan;
I learned, in Nature's wiser school,
A grand and godlike hate
Of that unequal fate,
Which crowned the coward or the fool.
But ever from a child,
With instinct true if wild,
I learned to reason and rebel
Against the spur, and bridling span
That shut the noblest in
To sorrow and to sin,
And gave the reins to bigots' plan;
I learned, in Nature's wiser school,
A grand and godlike hate
Of that unequal fate,
Which crowned the coward or the fool.
I heeded not what rulers said,
Who treated man as dog,
Nor power of pedagogue,
If they but burdens on me laid;
I heeded not what preachers taught,
Who chafing peoples chid,
And nothing better did
Themselves, though hard their victims wrought;
I heeded not the penal blows,
And broke that petty box,
The dead and orthodox,
With all its windbags and vain shows.
Who treated man as dog,
Nor power of pedagogue,
If they but burdens on me laid;
I heeded not what preachers taught,
Who chafing peoples chid,
And nothing better did
Themselves, though hard their victims wrought;
I heeded not the penal blows,
And broke that petty box,
The dead and orthodox,
With all its windbags and vain shows.
Truth was my first and darling choice,
And my young fearless pride
Embraced her as a bride,
And caught each whisper of her voice;
But not the Thing, on bloody throne,
Tired in a harlot's grace,
With bold and painted face,
That long had lost the virgin zone;
Nay, rather Truth, that, under rags,
If with no honoured name,
Had kept a maiden frame,
Though stifled with the hangman's gags.
And my young fearless pride
Embraced her as a bride,
And caught each whisper of her voice;
But not the Thing, on bloody throne,
Tired in a harlot's grace,
With bold and painted face,
That long had lost the virgin zone;
Nay, rather Truth, that, under rags,
If with no honoured name,
Had kept a maiden frame,
Though stifled with the hangman's gags.
I loved the champions of the Right,
The suffering, and the weak
Who ventured not to speak,
But turned their foreheads to the Light;
And falsehood, aping what was good,
The foremost at the feast,
Upheld by prince and priest;
Though vanquished yet I still withstood;
I trod the troubled upward way,
While Baäls all of earth,
That temples made of dearth,
With all their thunders strove to stay.
The suffering, and the weak
Who ventured not to speak,
But turned their foreheads to the Light;
And falsehood, aping what was good,
The foremost at the feast,
Upheld by prince and priest;
Though vanquished yet I still withstood;
I trod the troubled upward way,
While Baäls all of earth,
That temples made of dearth,
With all their thunders strove to stay.
795
PRINCESS RITA.
Dark-eyed, true and tall,
Clad in gipsy shawl
Flung like flame across the shapely shoulder,
Flashing, more than any speech,
Looks in which the lights of sunset smoulder,
Feared and yet beloved by each;
Dark-eyed, tall and true,
With an orient hue
Flushing, as a fire that burns its way
Into something fairer, sweeter
Than the earthly bounds of common clay—
Princess Rita.
Clad in gipsy shawl
Flung like flame across the shapely shoulder,
Flashing, more than any speech,
Looks in which the lights of sunset smoulder,
Feared and yet beloved by each;
Dark-eyed, tall and true,
With an orient hue
Flushing, as a fire that burns its way
Into something fairer, sweeter
Than the earthly bounds of common clay—
Princess Rita.
Dark-haired, pale and proud,
Radiant as a cloud
Borne on magic wings of midnight splendour,
Marking all her conquering course
With the grace as of an infant tender,
Though with a restrainéd force;
Dark-haired, proud and pale,
Like a summer gale,
Wandering over sea, and land, and still,
As it wanders, waxing fleeter,
Bending all things to its devious will—
Princess Rita.
Radiant as a cloud
Borne on magic wings of midnight splendour,
Marking all her conquering course
With the grace as of an infant tender,
Though with a restrainéd force;
Dark-haired, proud and pale,
Like a summer gale,
Wandering over sea, and land, and still,
As it wanders, waxing fleeter,
Bending all things to its devious will—
Princess Rita.
White-robed, soft and slight,
Mingling day and night
Into one superb and sudden sweetness,
While she gathers beauty more
From that two-fold world and its completeness,
Dusky dross as well as precious ere;
White robed, slight and soft,
As in niche aloft
Stands a saint, above yet of this life,
Pointing as to marvels, meeter
Than this hateful round of haggling strife—
Princess Rita.
Mingling day and night
Into one superb and sudden sweetness,
While she gathers beauty more
From that two-fold world and its completeness,
Dusky dross as well as precious ere;
White robed, slight and soft,
As in niche aloft
Stands a saint, above yet of this life,
Pointing as to marvels, meeter
Than this hateful round of haggling strife—
Princess Rita.
Heavenly, though of earth,
Hungering in its dearth
For the freshness of the hidden fountains,
Where an angel at the first,
Walking in the rapture of the mountains,
Deep she quenched her holy thirst;
Earthly, though of heaven,
With the human leaven,
Savouring of the richness of the soil,
Muddy garment made to greet her
And be glorified by godlike toil—
Princess Rita.
Hungering in its dearth
For the freshness of the hidden fountains,
Where an angel at the first,
Walking in the rapture of the mountains,
Deep she quenched her holy thirst;
Earthly, though of heaven,
With the human leaven,
Savouring of the richness of the soil,
Muddy garment made to greet her
And be glorified by godlike toil—
Princess Rita.
796
BLOOD MONEY.
Hasten the old woman's tedious dying,
Hurry her off from the stage
Hung as in black with her querulous crying,
Made not for burdens like age;
She, on the milk of the land and the honey,
Long has been fattened, and we
Now want our share of the good things, and money
Meant for a funeral spree;
What if the doctor suspects, or is certain
Drugs should her sickness have cured?
Slip off the pillow, and draw down the curtain;
For she's insured.
Hurry her off from the stage
Hung as in black with her querulous crying,
Made not for burdens like age;
She, on the milk of the land and the honey,
Long has been fattened, and we
Now want our share of the good things, and money
Meant for a funeral spree;
What if the doctor suspects, or is certain
Drugs should her sickness have cured?
Slip off the pillow, and draw down the curtain;
For she's insured.
True the old woman was not a bad mother
Once, but remember the gain,
And it were kind with a blanket to smother
Such grim contortions of pain;
Drink, girls, although there is blood on the bottle
Drink will support us the best,
Just in a minute that clamour to throttle,
Spoiling our comfort and rest;
Coroners are not severe on a sinner,
When to these doings inured,
Inquests too might interfere with a dinner—
And she's insured.
Once, but remember the gain,
And it were kind with a blanket to smother
Such grim contortions of pain;
Drink, girls, although there is blood on the bottle
Drink will support us the best,
Just in a minute that clamour to throttle,
Spoiling our comfort and rest;
Coroners are not severe on a sinner,
When to these doings inured,
Inquests too might interfere with a dinner—
And she's insured.
Hang the old woman, she keeps us all waiting,
Dying so long and so hard,
When I by rights should be else where, and baiting
Neddy (the ass) in the yard;
Who would suppose, with these days of starvation,
Stript of her bed-clothes, and reft
Clean of what's needful, save parson's oration,
Breath in her body was left?
Still she can bother us with her affection,
Woes for us children endured,
Plague us with Scripture and home recollection—
But she's insured.
Dying so long and so hard,
When I by rights should be else where, and baiting
Neddy (the ass) in the yard;
Who would suppose, with these days of starvation,
Stript of her bed-clothes, and reft
Clean of what's needful, save parson's oration,
Breath in her body was left?
Still she can bother us with her affection,
Woes for us children endured,
Plague us with Scripture and home recollection—
But she's insured.
Ah, the old woman, in spite of her bleeding
Wounds, bitter tears, and white hair,
Now, girls, at last must be helped by a speeding
Up to a happier air;
Choke her, the nuisance, she loves us and lingers—
Aye, and the meat getting cold—
No one will see the blue print of the fingers,
While we shall collar the gold;
There—it is done—and the fools must be juggled
Somehow, and we are secured,
Though she was game to the finish and struggled;
And she's insured.
Wounds, bitter tears, and white hair,
Now, girls, at last must be helped by a speeding
Up to a happier air;
Choke her, the nuisance, she loves us and lingers—
Aye, and the meat getting cold—
No one will see the blue print of the fingers,
While we shall collar the gold;
There—it is done—and the fools must be juggled
Somehow, and we are secured,
Though she was game to the finish and struggled;
And she's insured.
797
QUEEN OF THE GIPSIES.
Brown as a berry,
Stately and tall,
Beautiful very,
Mistress of all;
Ah, she is queen of the gipsies, and goes
Hither and thither, and never finds foes
Finds none but friends in the lofty and least,
Playmate of Nature, the bird and the beast;
Each is aspirant,
Gladly to crown
Her, as sweet tyrant,
Beautiful brown.
Stately and tall,
Beautiful very,
Mistress of all;
Ah, she is queen of the gipsies, and goes
Hither and thither, and never finds foes
Finds none but friends in the lofty and least,
Playmate of Nature, the bird and the beast;
Each is aspirant,
Gladly to crown
Her, as sweet tyrant,
Beautiful brown.
Willowy, slender,
Perfect in plan.
Touched with a splendour
Hardly of man;
Star of the evening she moves, at her feet
Stones turn to kisses her passage to greet;
Over dark eyes fall dark lashes, and hide
Wonderful visions of womanly pride;
Sunny, not serious
Even her frown,
Softly imperious,
Beautiful, brown.
Perfect in plan.
Touched with a splendour
Hardly of man;
Star of the evening she moves, at her feet
Stones turn to kisses her passage to greet;
Over dark eyes fall dark lashes, and hide
Wonderful visions of womanly pride;
Sunny, not serious
Even her frown,
Softly imperious,
Beautiful, brown.
Born in a hovel—
Though crownèd queen,
Truer in novel
Nowhere were seen;
Royalty breathes in each gesture, and grace
Not of kings' palaces gives to her face—
Gives to the poetry framed in her form,
Calm of the Sabbath and strength of the storm
Wild as a plover
Haunting the down,
Won by no lover,
Beautiful, brown.
Though crownèd queen,
Truer in novel
Nowhere were seen;
Royalty breathes in each gesture, and grace
Not of kings' palaces gives to her face—
Gives to the poetry framed in her form,
Calm of the Sabbath and strength of the storm
Wild as a plover
Haunting the down,
Won by no lover,
Beautiful, brown.
Brown as a berry,
Ripe without art,
Beautiful very,
Outward from heart;
Child of the moorland, and maidenly kind
Ever to others and free as the wind,
Taught but by labour and knowing not fear.
Yet unashamed of an innocent tear;
Dust of her toiling
Jewels the gown,
Noble with soiling,
Beautiful, brown.
Ripe without art,
Beautiful very,
Outward from heart;
Child of the moorland, and maidenly kind
Ever to others and free as the wind,
Taught but by labour and knowing not fear.
Yet unashamed of an innocent tear;
Dust of her toiling
Jewels the gown,
Noble with soiling,
Beautiful, brown.
798
A BABY'S PRICE.
First his little shoes I sold,
Then the knitted socks
Followed, then (in spite of cold)
All his broidered frocks;
There he shivers in his bed,
Under tatters thin,
Sheets and blankets long have fled—
For the cursèd gin;
None will lend me fitting food,
Howsoe'er I lie,
And though he is very good,
Baby now must die.
Then the knitted socks
Followed, then (in spite of cold)
All his broidered frocks;
There he shivers in his bed,
Under tatters thin,
Sheets and blankets long have fled—
For the cursèd gin;
None will lend me fitting food,
Howsoe'er I lie,
And though he is very good,
Baby now must die.
Soak I will, at any cost,
For I cannot think,
Character and all are lost—
But the power to drink;
Every stick at last is gone,
That a penny gives,
And the raging thirst gnaws on,
While my darling lives;
He's a burden too, and brings
Trouble in his track,
Nothing earns, and to me clings—
Baby now must pack.
For I cannot think,
Character and all are lost—
But the power to drink;
Every stick at last is gone,
That a penny gives,
And the raging thirst gnaws on,
While my darling lives;
He's a burden too, and brings
Trouble in his track,
Nothing earns, and to me clings—
Baby now must pack.
He's insured, a pretty sum,
And one tiny twist—
Just a finger and a thumb—
Might the end assist;
That's not murder—he would go,
Shortly—it's too late,
Him to keep for sadder woe,
From a certain fate;
Children are so cheap, and this
Only death will buy,
Though he pleasant is to kiss—
Baby now must fly.
And one tiny twist—
Just a finger and a thumb—
Might the end assist;
That's not murder—he would go,
Shortly—it's too late,
Him to keep for sadder woe,
From a certain fate;
Children are so cheap, and this
Only death will buy,
Though he pleasant is to kiss—
Baby now must fly.
One more squeeze—another yet—
Fondly trusts he still,
Sure his mother won't forget,
Never means him ill;
Bless his pretty eyes and lips,
And those loving ways,
That sweet throat the demon grips,
While he mutely prays;
Ha, the money's mine, and gin
Better far than bread,
Soon will drown the needful sin—
Baby now is dead.
Fondly trusts he still,
Sure his mother won't forget,
Never means him ill;
Bless his pretty eyes and lips,
And those loving ways,
That sweet throat the demon grips,
While he mutely prays;
Ha, the money's mine, and gin
Better far than bread,
Soon will drown the needful sin—
Baby now is dead.
799
THE LILY AND THE ROSE.
Fair and white and straight and stainless,
Up to kindred Heaven she grew,
Not through stages poor and painless,
Nursed by every storm that blew;
Every bitter blast a purer
Grace upon her person laid—
Wrought by travail pangs securer
Beauty, to a perfect maid;
Cold and heat and fierce affliction,
Bent beneath her patient will,
Turned to angel benediction,
Left the Lily whiter still.
Up to kindred Heaven she grew,
Not through stages poor and painless,
Nursed by every storm that blew;
Every bitter blast a purer
Grace upon her person laid—
Wrought by travail pangs securer
Beauty, to a perfect maid;
Cold and heat and fierce affliction,
Bent beneath her patient will,
Turned to angel benediction,
Left the Lily whiter still.
Fair and dark, a ruddy blossom
Dashed with showers and shadowy dust,
Baring an undaunted bosom
Freely to the wild wind's lust;
Set in guardian thorns, that cruel
Pierced the hand those charms would draw,
While they kept the glorious jewel
Safe with its own wanton law;
Change and chance, the crushed-out sweetness
Gained from every grinding ill,
Even its scars and incompleteness,
Made the Rose more lovely still.
Dashed with showers and shadowy dust,
Baring an undaunted bosom
Freely to the wild wind's lust;
Set in guardian thorns, that cruel
Pierced the hand those charms would draw,
While they kept the glorious jewel
Safe with its own wanton law;
Change and chance, the crushed-out sweetness
Gained from every grinding ill,
Even its scars and incompleteness,
Made the Rose more lovely still.
Fairer, whiter yet, and sainted
For Pantheons of the pure,
High above all sin, untainted
By the most enticing lure;
With her heart in Heaven, and living
In its light, that laid on all
Glory it could not help giving,
Calm as sanctuary wall;
Power despised, and goodly treasure
Gathered from the mine or mill
Spurned, and each resisted pleasure,
Left the Lily farther still.
For Pantheons of the pure,
High above all sin, untainted
By the most enticing lure;
With her heart in Heaven, and living
In its light, that laid on all
Glory it could not help giving,
Calm as sanctuary wall;
Power despised, and goodly treasure
Gathered from the mine or mill
Spurned, and each resisted pleasure,
Left the Lily farther still.
Fairer, darker yet, in clouding
Of rude contact with the clay
Common to us all, the shrouding
Shed from breaking of the day;
Oh, she hourly shoots expanded
Fresh to kisses of the sun,
And the tempest she commanded,
Who its shaking did not shun;
Thus communion with the sinner's
Cares, the market and the till,
Grief of losers, joy of winners,
Made the red Rose nearer still.
Of rude contact with the clay
Common to us all, the shrouding
Shed from breaking of the day;
Oh, she hourly shoots expanded
Fresh to kisses of the sun,
And the tempest she commanded,
Who its shaking did not shun;
Thus communion with the sinner's
Cares, the market and the till,
Grief of losers, joy of winners,
Made the red Rose nearer still.
800
THE INNOCENTS.
Thou wee helpless thing,
Baby,
Who could ever bring,
Baby,
Pain or sickness, want or wounds, to thee,
With the woes that follow after?
When thy dawning day should brightly be,
Ringed with rainbow of gay laughter,
Rich in happiness, and love
Fitting fair and tight,
As make pretty hand and glove
One delight.
Baby,
Who could ever bring,
Baby,
Pain or sickness, want or wounds, to thee,
With the woes that follow after?
When thy dawning day should brightly be,
Ringed with rainbow of gay laughter,
Rich in happiness, and love
Fitting fair and tight,
As make pretty hand and glove
One delight.
O sweet tender thing,
Baby,
Only made to cling,
Baby,
Round a mother's neck, and fondly frame
From the trust that passes seeing,
Wealth of rapturous union, and the same
Perfect bliss of perfect being;
Why, a burden unto some,
Dost thou suffer so,
If unwanted thou shouldst come,
But to go?
Baby,
Only made to cling,
Baby,
Round a mother's neck, and fondly frame
From the trust that passes seeing,
Wealth of rapturous union, and the same
Perfect bliss of perfect being;
Why, a burden unto some,
Dost thou suffer so,
If unwanted thou shouldst come,
But to go?
Thou soft winsome thing,
Baby,
Fashioned for a king,
Baby,
Meant to govern every human heart,
As a gentle loving tyrant,
And to lift by ways of heavenly art,
Grovelling breasts to be aspirant;
But if all unduly born,
Out of marriage tie,
Sold to fiends in kindly form,
Just to die.
Baby,
Fashioned for a king,
Baby,
Meant to govern every human heart,
As a gentle loving tyrant,
And to lift by ways of heavenly art,
Grovelling breasts to be aspirant;
But if all unduly born,
Out of marriage tie,
Sold to fiends in kindly form,
Just to die.
O dear dainty thing,
Baby,
Under death's black wing,
Baby,
Cast and cuddled on a she-wolf's breast,
Worse than the sepulchral portal,
Never now to know a moment's rest,
In that grip whose kiss is mortal;
Grudged the common meed of life,
Shared by very beast,
Slowly sapped with hungry strife,
In the feast.
Baby,
Under death's black wing,
Baby,
Cast and cuddled on a she-wolf's breast,
Worse than the sepulchral portal,
Never now to know a moment's rest,
In that grip whose kiss is mortal;
Grudged the common meed of life,
Shared by very beast,
Slowly sapped with hungry strife,
In the feast.
801
Thou bright angel thing,
Baby,
Bird-like meant to sing,
Baby,
Tunes that God Himself alone hath taught,
Who the fairest of his creatures,
Thee at first endowed, and richly wrought
With Divine and glorious features;
Born to feed, that Moloch flame
Pity cannot quell,
For the bloody gold of shame—
Pact with hell.
Baby,
Bird-like meant to sing,
Baby,
Tunes that God Himself alone hath taught,
Who the fairest of his creatures,
Thee at first endowed, and richly wrought
With Divine and glorious features;
Born to feed, that Moloch flame
Pity cannot quell,
For the bloody gold of shame—
Pact with hell.
O lost homeless thing,
Baby,
Pierced by fatal sting,
Baby,
Left by last on thy rejoicing morn,
Innocent and pure in meetness,
Rudely shaken now, and fiercely torn
Into crushed and crumpled sweetness;
Doomed by devils, who suck gain
Out of nameless woes,
From thy agonies of pain—
Dying throes.
Baby,
Pierced by fatal sting,
Baby,
Left by last on thy rejoicing morn,
Innocent and pure in meetness,
Rudely shaken now, and fiercely torn
Into crushed and crumpled sweetness;
Doomed by devils, who suck gain
Out of nameless woes,
From thy agonies of pain—
Dying throes.
AN EAGLE'S NEST.
An eagle's nest,
Built on the waving tops of wooded hills,
Where shadows rest,
And the deep heart of Nature throbs and thrills
With thunderous rapture, when the demon wakes
That music makes
Of broken branches, and the wounded pines
His arm entwines;
Where wanton wandering winds can never sleep,
And shakes its shrouded form,
With stammering lips that madly laugh and weep,
The storm.
Built on the waving tops of wooded hills,
Where shadows rest,
And the deep heart of Nature throbs and thrills
With thunderous rapture, when the demon wakes
That music makes
Of broken branches, and the wounded pines
His arm entwines;
Where wanton wandering winds can never sleep,
And shakes its shrouded form,
With stammering lips that madly laugh and weep,
The storm.
On rocky perch,
Rich with the memories of its many years,
The hoary church,
A beacon light its rugged belfry rears,
A wrinkled shape that now for centuries seven
Still points to Heaven,
And tells the crowded dead that round it lie
Love cannot die;
And for the children whom its worship charms,
Beneath that sacred dome,
Spreads in the Sabbath of its ancient arms
A home.
Rich with the memories of its many years,
The hoary church,
A beacon light its rugged belfry rears,
A wrinkled shape that now for centuries seven
Still points to Heaven,
And tells the crowded dead that round it lie
Love cannot die;
802
Beneath that sacred dome,
Spreads in the Sabbath of its ancient arms
A home.
With poet's heart,
A shy and cloistered man the Rector lives
His reverend part,
And of his scanty substance freely gives
What he can hardly spare, and precious thought
None ever bought,
And pearls of wisdom from the ocean mines
That wit refines;
And works in secret kindness (as he prays)
Which humbly yet he hides,
Among the souls his wisdom gently sways
And guides.
A shy and cloistered man the Rector lives
His reverend part,
And of his scanty substance freely gives
What he can hardly spare, and precious thought
None ever bought,
And pearls of wisdom from the ocean mines
That wit refines;
And works in secret kindness (as he prays)
Which humbly yet he hides,
Among the souls his wisdom gently sways
And guides.
Along the road,
Sesquipedalian tower, the doctor swings,
And bears the load
Of others' pangs, that sickness daily brings—
A landmark quite—who lends a ready ear
To every fear,
And has a pleasant word for weaker clay
In cottage gray;
His portly presence breathes a cheery balm
From his own vital health,
And sheds on trembling shades the blessed calm
Of health.
Sesquipedalian tower, the doctor swings,
And bears the load
Of others' pangs, that sickness daily brings—
A landmark quite—who lends a ready ear
To every fear,
And has a pleasant word for weaker clay
In cottage gray;
His portly presence breathes a cheery balm
From his own vital health,
And sheds on trembling shades the blessed calm
Of health.
The foundry here,
By day a cloud, at night a pillared fire,
Its lurid sphere
Torments, as looks to Heaven some large desire,
That born in gloom breaks with its burning hope
The envelope
Of darkness, leaping to its native light,
The inner sight;
And there the forge the stirring strain it knows
For ever grimly chants,
While like a thing in pain the furnace glows
And pants.
By day a cloud, at night a pillared fire,
Its lurid sphere
Torments, as looks to Heaven some large desire,
That born in gloom breaks with its burning hope
The envelope
Of darkness, leaping to its native light,
The inner sight;
And there the forge the stirring strain it knows
For ever grimly chants,
While like a thing in pain the furnace glows
And pants.
The master smith,
A rugged man, hewn as of granite rock
With iron pith,
Fronts the whole world and bears unmoved the shock;
Just, self-reliant, brave, and strong in right
Whereon his might
Is centred, he plants steadfast feet on earth
Whose moorland dearth
He turns to power and plenty, while his heart
In music dwells and clings
To sacred Sion's peaks, in praise apart,
And sings.
A rugged man, hewn as of granite rock
With iron pith,
Fronts the whole world and bears unmoved the shock;
Just, self-reliant, brave, and strong in right
Whereon his might
Is centred, he plants steadfast feet on earth
Whose moorland dearth
803
In music dwells and clings
To sacred Sion's peaks, in praise apart,
And sings.
The farmer plods
About the stony fields his patience tames,
That grudging clods
Sweats into gold which yet his voice disclaims;
Cumbered with serving, yet a genial man
Of prudent plan,
He orders, rules, his teams and toilers bends
To prosperous ends;
In spite of dreadful times and falling wheat,
A costly cart he drives,
Or in the County Council holds a seat,
And thrives.
About the stony fields his patience tames,
That grudging clods
Sweats into gold which yet his voice disclaims;
Cumbered with serving, yet a genial man
Of prudent plan,
He orders, rules, his teams and toilers bends
To prosperous ends;
In spite of dreadful times and falling wheat,
A costly cart he drives,
Or in the County Council holds a seat,
And thrives.
The labourer, still
And stalwart, buckles to his daily task,
A stubborn will
Concealed behind a smug and smiling mask;
Though underfed and underpaid, big thews
He yet renews
With stern robustness, in the dreary round
Of prison bound;
If sometimes through his poor ill-furnished brain,
Moves in the murmuring dark,
From blaze of frantic schemes of future gain,
A spark.
And stalwart, buckles to his daily task,
A stubborn will
Concealed behind a smug and smiling mask;
Though underfed and underpaid, big thews
He yet renews
With stern robustness, in the dreary round
Of prison bound;
If sometimes through his poor ill-furnished brain,
Moves in the murmuring dark,
From blaze of frantic schemes of future gain,
A spark.
Old Grannie Gray,
The nurse, Lucina, friend of rich and poor,
Her kindly way
Pursues, and welcome finds at every door;
The children kiss her seamed and trembling hand,
And staring stand,
Attentive to the stories none can tell
So wisely well
As she, who saw the giants in her youth,
And, wakeful in strange posts,
Snatched awful visions of forgotten truth,
And ghosts.
The nurse, Lucina, friend of rich and poor,
Her kindly way
Pursues, and welcome finds at every door;
The children kiss her seamed and trembling hand,
And staring stand,
Attentive to the stories none can tell
So wisely well
As she, who saw the giants in her youth,
And, wakeful in strange posts,
Snatched awful visions of forgotten truth,
And ghosts.
Here scandal's track
Is marked and measured by the filthy tale,
Whose creeping clack
At first a whisper, then a winter gale,
Goes scattering seeds of poison, that take root
And deadly fruit
Bear; till, beneath each flower and bower of bliss
The serpent's hiss
Is darkly heard; and still, where all is fair,
Its murderous trade it plies,
And even in virgin breast it makes its lair
Of lies.
Is marked and measured by the filthy tale,
Whose creeping clack
At first a whisper, then a winter gale,
Goes scattering seeds of poison, that take root
And deadly fruit
Bear; till, beneath each flower and bower of bliss
The serpent's hiss
804
Its murderous trade it plies,
And even in virgin breast it makes its lair
Of lies.
The children lift
Sweet piping trebles, at their simple games,
And rudely rift
The veil of silence with shrill sharp-edged names;
Or, at their lessons in the crowded school,
Against the rule,
Low voices hum, as wind among the trees,
Or swarming bees;
And there the Rector's feet are often set,
Who loves the Scripture hour,
Unknown, unhonoured by the world, and yet
A power.
Sweet piping trebles, at their simple games,
And rudely rift
The veil of silence with shrill sharp-edged names;
Or, at their lessons in the crowded school,
Against the rule,
Low voices hum, as wind among the trees,
Or swarming bees;
And there the Rector's feet are often set,
Who loves the Scripture hour,
Unknown, unhonoured by the world, and yet
A power.
Rise rounded heights,
That carry beeches to their very tops,
And catch the lights,
In splendid splashes or in twinkling drops,
And gently slope tier behind tier, in mist
Of amethyst
Or rose to sunset, as they fade and fly
Into the sky;
A forest land, that in its winding scrolls
The hills with foliage frames,
While through the valley it enriches rolls
The Thames.
That carry beeches to their very tops,
And catch the lights,
In splendid splashes or in twinkling drops,
And gently slope tier behind tier, in mist
Of amethyst
Or rose to sunset, as they fade and fly
Into the sky;
A forest land, that in its winding scrolls
The hills with foliage frames,
While through the valley it enriches rolls
The Thames.
THE T'OTHER WORLD.
I am just a simple plain ole body,
And a woman, if ye please,
One who likes at times a glass of toddy,
As it gives the in'ards ease;
But a tiny drop of comfort, mostly
When the lamp be burnin blue,
And the sights and sounds is getting ghostly,
And the footstep doant fall true;
I mebbe no scholard, as at Girton
The young ladies coached and curled,—
A mere “ignorama”—but I'm certain
Of the t'other wurld.
And a woman, if ye please,
One who likes at times a glass of toddy,
As it gives the in'ards ease;
But a tiny drop of comfort, mostly
When the lamp be burnin blue,
And the sights and sounds is getting ghostly,
And the footstep doant fall true;
I mebbe no scholard, as at Girton
The young ladies coached and curled,—
A mere “ignorama”—but I'm certain
Of the t'other wurld.
As to present things, I be a sceppick,
It appear a wurld of lies
After suppm, if the fiend dyspeppick
His pursuits of darkness plies;
Then, it look a wurld of dreams and phantoms,
And with no sort of solid pegs—
A delusion, like my purty bantam's,
When she sat on addled eggs;
But, if made of sugar-plums, or brimstone
On the guilty rebels hurled,
I am sure, as of my favourite hymn's tone,
Of the t'other wurld.
It appear a wurld of lies
After suppm, if the fiend dyspeppick
His pursuits of darkness plies;
805
And with no sort of solid pegs—
A delusion, like my purty bantam's,
When she sat on addled eggs;
But, if made of sugar-plums, or brimstone
On the guilty rebels hurled,
I am sure, as of my favourite hymn's tone,
Of the t'other wurld.
I am only an honest workin body,
And I never were at school,
But I knows good cloth from shams like shoddy,
And you cannot call me fool;
If I never tried my hand at Science,
And my fancy may be dense,
Yet in business ways I puts reliance,
And I trusts my common-sense;
Ye may stop at the Eiffel or the cellar,
But for me, and perhaps if furled,
There be room for my faithful ole umbreller,
In the t'other wurld.
And I never were at school,
But I knows good cloth from shams like shoddy,
And you cannot call me fool;
If I never tried my hand at Science,
And my fancy may be dense,
Yet in business ways I puts reliance,
And I trusts my common-sense;
Ye may stop at the Eiffel or the cellar,
But for me, and perhaps if furled,
There be room for my faithful ole umbreller,
In the t'other wurld.
I woant say I believes in blank damnation,
For the millions of the Show,
For I knows as above is compensation,
For us poor that sweats below;
Theer is summut in my buzzum, nabour,
Though your Huxleys at me scoff,
That assure me when I done my labour,
These here pins 'll be better off;
I aint greedy, as I fears no scorner,
For the garmints gole and pearled,
But I reckuns on a quiet corner,
In the t'other wurld.
For the millions of the Show,
For I knows as above is compensation,
For us poor that sweats below;
Theer is summut in my buzzum, nabour,
Though your Huxleys at me scoff,
That assure me when I done my labour,
These here pins 'll be better off;
I aint greedy, as I fears no scorner,
For the garmints gole and pearled,
But I reckuns on a quiet corner,
In the t'other wurld.
THE MAN-WO.
Ah, it is not one of either sex,
And to neither is it dear,
Though combining faults of both, to vex
Victims that may come too near;
Feminine in form alone, and dress
Borrowed from the ancient books—
Not the modern lovely nakedness,
Just a figleaf and some hooks;
All that fashion will not choose to take,
If the fancy farthest go,
It adopts as armour, thus to make
The Man-Wo.
And to neither is it dear,
Though combining faults of both, to vex
Victims that may come too near;
Feminine in form alone, and dress
Borrowed from the ancient books—
Not the modern lovely nakedness,
Just a figleaf and some hooks;
All that fashion will not choose to take,
If the fancy farthest go,
It adopts as armour, thus to make
The Man-Wo.
806
Mark, this monster hides in crystal house,
Playing still with lives and straws,
And is death to any man or mouse,
In the compass of its claws;
For, behind the spectacles, it spies
Each defect in Church and State,
Coloured by the jaundice of its eyes,
Blasting like an evil fate;
Nought is sacred to its demon spite,
As it ravens to and fro,
And descends on monarch or on mite
The Man-Wo.
Playing still with lives and straws,
And is death to any man or mouse,
In the compass of its claws;
For, behind the spectacles, it spies
Each defect in Church and State,
Coloured by the jaundice of its eyes,
Blasting like an evil fate;
Nought is sacred to its demon spite,
As it ravens to and fro,
And descends on monarch or on mite
The Man-Wo.
In ill-fitting, ill-assorted clothes,
Out it sallies on the murderous march,
Dealing looks that dreadful are as oaths,
Grim with learnéd stays and starch;
Children know its warpath well from far,
Fly the lips that tightly purse,
Thankful to escape with scratch or scar,
Or the blessing that is worse;
Innocents too young to tell that shape,
Smiling turn to it, and, lo,
Find a terror, human half, half ape,
The Man-Wo.
Out it sallies on the murderous march,
Dealing looks that dreadful are as oaths,
Grim with learnéd stays and starch;
Children know its warpath well from far,
Fly the lips that tightly purse,
Thankful to escape with scratch or scar,
Or the blessing that is worse;
Innocents too young to tell that shape,
Smiling turn to it, and, lo,
Find a terror, human half, half ape,
The Man-Wo.
Free from passions of the earth, and prone
To the penance and the prayer,
Bound with mockery of virgin zone,
Shame wherein it has no share;
Cold and hard and narrow as the grave,
To whate'er is sweet and nice,
Stiff as stones that clammy churchyards pave,
And without one honest vice;
Hating every charm of face or dress,
And each grace, with damning no
For the gifts of Nature meant to bless,—
The Man-Wo.
To the penance and the prayer,
Bound with mockery of virgin zone,
Shame wherein it has no share;
Cold and hard and narrow as the grave,
To whate'er is sweet and nice,
Stiff as stones that clammy churchyards pave,
And without one honest vice;
Hating every charm of face or dress,
And each grace, with damning no
For the gifts of Nature meant to bless,—
The Man-Wo.
WHITE HEATHEN.
A man of mighty intellect and aims,
He moves
A giant among men, and centuried claims
Approves,
Before he takes them to his boundless heart,
And makes them of his glorious mind a part;
He knows the proudest life is but a breath,
And death
A deeper life, and he disdains the lot
Of pelf;
And yet, in all his wisdom, he knows not
Himself.
He moves
A giant among men, and centuried claims
Approves,
Before he takes them to his boundless heart,
And makes them of his glorious mind a part;
He knows the proudest life is but a breath,
And death
A deeper life, and he disdains the lot
Of pelf;
And yet, in all his wisdom, he knows not
Himself.
807
Omniscient, he is armed with wondrous lore,
That drains
The treasures of the earth and sky and shore,
And gains
Pearls from the dust, and promise out of nought,
That to his eye is big with beauteous thought;
The rocks he reads, nor is the darkness dim
To him;
On the wild waves, where others feebly sank,
He trod;
But, in his wealthy world, an awful blank
Is God.
That drains
The treasures of the earth and sky and shore,
And gains
Pearls from the dust, and promise out of nought,
That to his eye is big with beauteous thought;
The rocks he reads, nor is the darkness dim
To him;
On the wild waves, where others feebly sank,
He trod;
But, in his wealthy world, an awful blank
Is God.
A man called Christian, but a heathen still,
He stands
A bulwark of the State, and guides at will
The lands;
He decks his body with the best of gold,
And would not leave his spaniel in the cold,
And gives his mistress way for each new huff
Or muff;
But though refusing not to honest need
Its dole,
He grudges rag or crumb to clothe or feed
His soul.
He stands
A bulwark of the State, and guides at will
The lands;
He decks his body with the best of gold,
And would not leave his spaniel in the cold,
And gives his mistress way for each new huff
Or muff;
But though refusing not to honest need
Its dole,
He grudges rag or crumb to clothe or feed
His soul.
Complete, and yet in all his riches poor,
As wide
To nothing opens out a dazzling door
Of pride;
Sun-like, and yet in all his brightness dark,
Without redemption of one heavenly spark,
And with his learning that a world would suit
No fruit;
He lacks the one last touch, that never can
Go down—
Without faith's final glory, meant to span
His crown.
As wide
To nothing opens out a dazzling door
Of pride;
Sun-like, and yet in all his brightness dark,
Without redemption of one heavenly spark,
And with his learning that a world would suit
No fruit;
He lacks the one last touch, that never can
Go down—
Without faith's final glory, meant to span
His crown.
So a great temple rises in the air,
And spreads
Round its white wings, and lifts a splendour fair
That treads
The paths of light, with fluted column rich,
The silver shrine, the shy and frosted niche;
While every gift of art and worship bends
To ends
Sublime its service, for the pillared space
And spire;
But, from the laden altar, leaps no grace
Of fire.
And spreads
Round its white wings, and lifts a splendour fair
That treads
The paths of light, with fluted column rich,
The silver shrine, the shy and frosted niche;
While every gift of art and worship bends
To ends
Sublime its service, for the pillared space
And spire;
But, from the laden altar, leaps no grace
Of fire.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |