Collected poems | ||
I pipe but fancies on a reed.
[To you I sing, whom towns immure]
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure;—
To you across whose aching sight
Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.
Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,—
To you I sing!
Scarce witting yet of love or lure;—
To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight;—
O English Girl, divine, demure,
To you I sing!
OLD-WORLD IDYLLS
A DEAD LETTER
I
It came out feebly scented
With some thin ghost of past perfume
That dust and days had lent it.
To read with due composure,
I sought the sun-lit window-sill,
Above the gray enclosure,
Faint-flowered, dimly shaded,
Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize,
Bedizened and brocaded.
Some tea-board garden-maker
Had planned it in Dutch William's day
To please some florist Quaker,
With pious care perverted,
Grew in the same grim shapes; and still
The lipless dolphin spurted;
The broken-nosed Apollo;
And still the cypress-arbour showed
The same umbrageous hollow.
From coffee-coloured laces,—
So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams
The fresher modern traces;
Upon the lawn were lying;
A magazine, a tumbled shawl,
Round which the swifts were flying;
A heap of rainbow knitting,
Where, blinking in her pleased repose,
A Persian cat was sitting.
If we too, like Tithonus,
Could find some God to stretch the gray,
Scant life the Fates have thrown us;
With buttoned heart and pocket;
Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace,—
Just like an empty locket!
May strive to make it better;
For me, this warm old window-sill,
And this old dusty letter.”
II
For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam
And Mother's storing Apples,—Prue and Me
Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam:
But we shall meet before a Week is gone,—
‘'Tis a long Lane that has no turning,’ John!
Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile—
We can go round and catch them at the Gate,
All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile;
Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on,
And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John!
Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy:
As proud as proud; and has the Vapours too,
Just like My Lady;—calls poor Sam a Boy,
And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on
Till he's past Thirty . . . I know better, John!
Before we knew each other, I and you;
And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch
Gives me enough to think a Summer through.
See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone!
Look in this corner,—mind you find it,John!”
III
A long-forgot deposit,
Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat,
Deep in a fragrant closet,
Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,—
Bonzes with squat legs undercurled,
And great jars filled with roses.
You had no thought or presage
Into what keeping you dismissed
Your simple old-world message!
Distrust beliefs and powers,
The artless, ageless things you say
Are fresh as May's own flowers,
Ere Gold had grown despotic,—
Ere Life was yet a selfish thing,
Or Love a mere exotic!
Whose lot it was to send it,
That feel upon me yet the kind,
Soft hand of her who penned it;
In by-gone, quaint apparel,
Shine from yon time-black Norway oak
The face of Patience Caryl,—
The gray gown, primly flowered;
The spotless, stately coif whose crest
Like Hector's horse-plume towered;
Where some past thought was clinging,
As when one shuts a serious book
To hear the thrushes singing.
Whose kind old hearts grow mellow,—
Whose fair old faces grow more fair
As Point and Flanders yellow;
Their placid temples shading,
Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf
With tender tints of fading.
Despite this loving letter.
And what of John? The less that's said
Of John, I think, the better.
A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL
When men were less inclined to say
That “Time is Gold,” and overlay
With toil their pleasure;
He held some land, and dwelt thereon,—
Where, I forget,—the house is gone;
His Christian name, I think, was John,—
His surname, Leisure.
Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace,
Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace
Of trouble shaded;
The eyes are blue, the hair is drest
In plainest way,—one hand is prest
Deep in a flapped canary vest,
With buds brocaded.
With silver buttons,—round his throat,
A soft cravat;—in all you note
An elder fashion,—
In shapely hats,—whose coats combine
All harmonies of hue and line,—
Inspires compassion.
Men were untravelled then, but we,
Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea
With careless parting;
He found it quite enough for him
To smoke his pipe in “garden trim,”
And watch, about the fish tank's brim,
The swallows darting.
He liked the thrush that fed her young,—
He liked the drone of flies among
His netted peaches;
He liked to watch the sunlight fall
Athwart his ivied orchard wall;
Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call
Beyond the beeches.
And yet no Ranelagh could match
The sober doves that round his thatch
Spread tails and sidled;
He liked their ruffling, puffed content,—
For him their drowsy wheelings meant
More than a Mall of Beaux that bent,
Or Belles that bridled.
He shunned the flutter of the fan;
He too had maybe “pinked his man”
In Beauty's quarrel;
But now his “fervent youth” had flown
Where lost things go; and he was grown
As staid and slow-paced as his own
Old hunter, Sorrel.
That no composer's score excelled
The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled
Its jovial riot;
But most his measured words of praise
Caressed the angler's easy ways,—
His idly meditative days,—
His rustic diet.
Beyond a sunny summer doze;
He never troubled his repose
With fruitless prying;
But held, as law for high and low,
What God withholds no man can know,
And smiled away inquiry so,
Without replying.
The jumbled strifes of creed and creed
With endless controversies feed
Our groaning tables;
Cotton's “Montaigne,” “The Grave” of Blair,
A “Walton”—much the worse for wear—
And “Æsop's Fables.”
Had searched its page as deep as we;
No sophistries could make him see
Its slender credit;
It may be that he could not count
The sires and sons to Jesse's fount,—
He liked the “Sermon on the Mount,”—
And more, he read it.
A red-cheeked lass who long was dead;
His ways were far too slow, he said,
To quite forget her;
And still when time had turned him gray,
The earliest hawthorn buds in May
Would find his lingering feet astray,
Where first he met her.
On Leisure's grave,—now little known,
A tangle of wild-rose has grown
So thick across it;
The “Benefactions” still declare
He left the clerk an elbow-chair,
And “12 Pence Yearly to Prepare
A Christmas Posset.”
With too serene a conscience drew
Your easy breath, and slumbered through
The gravest issue;
But we, to whom our age allows
Scarce space to wipe our weary brows,
Look down upon your narrow house,
Old friend, and miss you!
A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL
The Bachelor Samson Carrasco in Don Quixote had his
doubt about Second Parts, and there is a like prejudice
against Companion Pictures. A Gentlewoman of the Old
School would probably have remained unwritten if an uninvited
pendant to its forerunner (which originally came out in
St. Paul's for July 1870) had not made its appearance in
Chambers's Journal for July 8, 1871.
The Bachelor Samson Carrasco in Don Quixote had his doubt about Second Parts, and there is a like prejudice against Companion Pictures. A Gentlewoman of the Old School would probably have remained unwritten if an uninvited pendant to its forerunner (which originally came out in St. Paul's for July 1870) had not made its appearance in Chambers's Journal for July 8, 1871.
Most women then, if bards be true,
Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew
Devout and acid.
But hers was neither fate. She came
Of good west-country folk, whose fame
Has faded now. For us her name
Is “Madam Placid.”
Some prefix faintly fragrant still
As those old musky scents that fill
Our grandams' pillows;
And for her youthful portrait take
Some long-waist child of Hudson's make,
Stiffly at ease beside a lake
With swans and willows.
Beside my desk,—'tis lawned and laced,
In shadowy sanguine stipple traced
By Bartolozzi;
Is seldom seen, but yet there lies
Some vestige of the laughing eyes
Of arch Piozzi.
He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care,
With late-delayed faint roses there,
And lingering dimples,
Had spared to touch the fair old face,
And only kissed with Vauxhall grace
The soft white hand that stroked her lace,
Or smoothed her wimples.
Was comely as her youth was sage,
And yet she once had been the rage;—
It hath been hinted,
Indeed, affirmed by one or two,
Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do)
Inscribed a song to “Lovely Prue,”
Which Urban printed.
Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt;
She knew as little of the Celt
As of the Saxon;
I know she played and sang, for yet
We keep the tumble-down spinet
To which she quavered ballads set
By Arne or Jackson.
She liked plain food and homely flowers,
Refused to paint, kept early hours,
Went clad demurely;
Her art was sampler-work design,
Fireworks for her were “vastly fine,”
Her luxury was elder-wine,—
She loved that “purely.”
For June conserves, for curds and whey,
For finest tea (she called it “tay”),
And ratafia;
She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose
Could tell the sovereign wash to use
For freckles, and was learned in brews
As erst Medea.
On Sundays, “Pearson on the Creed,”
Though, as I think, she could not heed
His text profoundly;
Seeing she chose for her retreat
The warm west-looking window-seat,
Where, if you chanced to raise your feet,
You slumbered soundly.
In truth, was not so much to blame;
The excellent divine I name
Is scarcely stirring;
Pure life to precept. If she erred,
She knew her faults. Her softest word
Was for the erring.
Some ancient memory green, or wept
Over the shoulder-knot that slept
Within her cuff-box,
I know not. Only this I know,
At sixty-five she'd still her beau,
A lean French exile, lame and slow,
With monstrous snuff-box.
She'd found him in St. Giles', half dead
Of teaching French for nightly bed
And daily dinners;
Starving, in fact, 'twixt want and pride;
And so, henceforth, you always spied
His rusty “pigeon-wings” beside
Her Mechlin pinners.
She gained him pupils, gave him clothes,
Delighted in his dry bons mots
And cackling laughter;
And when, at last, the long duet
Of conversation and picquet
Ceased with her death, of sheer regret
He died soon after.
Your worth as well as he, and threw
Their flowers upon your coffin too,
I take for granted.
Their loves are lost; but still we see
Your kind and gracious memory
Bloom yearly with the almond tree
The Frenchman planted.
THE BALLAD OF “BEAU BROCADE”
There is no foundation in fact for this ballad. It has,
however, been gravely asked how a story, some of the incidents
of which take place in 1740, can possibly have been
suggested by a book published in 1739. Those who are
embarrassed by this delicate difficulty can—if they choose—
mentally substitute Forty-Nine for Thirty-Nine in the final
line.
There is no foundation in fact for this ballad. It has, however, been gravely asked how a story, some of the incidents of which take place in 1740, can possibly have been suggested by a book published in 1739. Those who are embarrassed by this delicate difficulty can—if they choose— mentally substitute Forty-Nine for Thirty-Nine in the final line.
[I]
That was the date of this tale of mine.
George the Second was plodding on.
Shared its glories with Westminster;
Went out of town to Marybone.
Porto-Bello would soon be ta'en;
“Bristol. The Rev. Mr. Whitefield . . . has been wonderfully laborious and successful, especially among the poor Prisoners in Newgate and the rude Colliers of Kingswood. . . . On Saturday the 18th instant [March] he preached at Hannum Mount to 5 or 6000 Persons, amongst them many Colliers” (Gentleman's Magazine, March 1739, vol. ix. p. 162).
Bishops in lawn sleeves preached at him;
Nobody's virtue was over-nice:—
Coaches were stopped by .. Highwaymen!
Nobody bolder than “Beau Brocade.”
Best,—maybe,—at the “Oak and Crown.”
Would “club” for a “Guard” to ride the stage
Was the Host of this hostel's sister's son.)
Under the oak with the hanging sign.
Cobbler Joe with the patch on his eye;
John the host, he was standing near.
Lumbering came the “Plymouth Fly”;—
Guard in the basket armed to the teeth;
The basket was a cumbrous wicker appendage for luggage (and frequently passengers) at the back of the coach. (See Hogarth's Country Inn Yard, 1747.) “Its [London's] fopperies come down to us . . . in the very basket”—says Mr. Hardcastle in Act i. Scene 1, of She Stoops to Conquer, 1773. In 1741 a highwayman was shot from the basket by a Captain Mawley (Gentleman's Magazine, ii. 498).
Not the less surely the coach had been tried!
By a well-dressed man!—in the open day!
Pockets of passengers all turned out!
Even an Ensign's wallet stripped!
Offered the choice of her Money or Life!
Hoped that their coppers (returned) were right;—
Hoped next time they'd travel with more;—
Such was the “Plymouth Fly's” report.
“Catch the Villain!” (But Nobody went.)
(That's where the best strong waters are!)
Things that Somebody ought to have done.
But for the Ladies had drawn his hanger!
Out-spoke Dolly the Chambermaid.
Spoke from the gallery overhead;—
“Why didn't you shoot then, George the Guard?”
“George the Guard, why didn't you shoot?”
(John was afraid of her, people said;)
(John was afraid of her—that's a fact!)
Slowly finished his quart of ale:—
Muttered—“The Baggage was far too 'cute!”
Muttered—“She'd pay for it by and by!”
Further than this made no reply.
For George was in league with “Beau Brocade”!
“That these suspicions [of connivance] were not without foundation is proved by the dying speeches of some penitent robbers of that age, who appear to have received from the innkeepers services much resembling those which Farquhar's Boniface [in the Beaux' Stratagem] rendered to Gibbet” (Macaulay's History of England, ed. 1864, i. p. 181).
Was not—on the whole—immaculate.
When Walpole talked of “a man and his price”;
'Twas certainly not on a posting road.
II
Glorious days of the Hanover line!
Now and then batches of Highwaymen hanged.
Porto-Bello at last was ta'en.
Nobody dreamed of “Beau Brocade.”
Money was coming from seaport towns!
(Only Dolly the Chambermaid!)
Money was coming in “Flys” and “Vans.”
Also, certainly, George the Guard.
That made her rise from her bed anew,
With a fixed intention to warn the “Fly.”
Just to make sure of a jerky snore;
Fetching the pistol out of the bar;
Came from the battle of Malplaquet;)
Even in “Forty,” to clear the flues;
Gave her, away in Devonshire.
With the B---sh---p of L---nd---n's “Pastoral Letter”;
Ready to use, at her pocket-hole.
Clattered away to “Exciseman's Folly”;—
Just on the edge of the London road.
As soon as she saw it, to warn the “Fly.”
As the Beau came cantering into the view.
In his famous gold-sprigged tambour vest;
The laced, historical coat of blue,
A tavern and pleasure garden at the corner of Rosoman Street and Exmouth Street, Clerkenwell, having a noted chalybeate spring on the premises.
To Islington or London-Spaw;
Some go but just to drink the water,
Some for the ale which they like better.”
(Poor Robin's Almanack, 1733.)
And robbed Sir Mungo Mucklethraw.
(Trembling a little, but not afraid,)
“Stand and Deliver, O ‘Beau Brocade’!”
For he saw by the moonlight a rosy cheek;
And a girl with her hand at her pocket-side.
For he thought 'twas a freak of Meg or Bet;—
A freak of the “Rose” or the “Rummer” set.
(Tremulous now, and sore afraid,)
“Stand and Deliver, O ‘Beau Brocade’!”—
Hit the Beau in the bridle-arm.
But it carried away his solitaire;
Glanced in under the shoulder-blade;—
Down from the saddle fell “Beau Brocade”!
Dolly grew white as a Windsor curd.
Strips of her kirtle about his wound.
Fettered his ankles—tenderly.
(Called after Bet of Portugal Street);
Roused fat John from a three-fold snore;—
Briefly, the “Plymouth Fly” was saved!
Dolly was wed to a Yorkshire squire;
Went to Town at the K---g's desire!
Hogarth jotted her down on the spot;
In the fresh contours of his “Milkmaid's” face.
John had a fit—of perplexity;
But John was never immaculate.
When his wound was healed, at Whitsuntide;
Walpole (Letters, 1857, ii. 219) says that “half White's,” with Lord Mountford at their head, went to see James Maclean (the “gentleman highwayman”) in prison. Also that Lady Caroline Petersham and Miss Ashe had been to comfort and weep over him. Maclean was hanged on October 3, 1750, for robbing the Salisbury Coach, near Turnham Green.
To the world of St. James's-Street and “White's,”
With a pomp befitting his high degree.
Fielding (Covent Garden Journal, 27th April 1752) says: “This Day five Malefactors were executed at Tyburn. No Heroes within the Memory of Man ever met their Fate with more Boldness and Intrepidity, and consequently with more felonious Glory.”
Elsewhere he says (March 27): “The real Fact at present is, that instead of making the Gallows an Object of Terror, our Executions contribute to make it an Object of Contempt in the Eye of a Malefactor; and we sacrifice the Lives of Men, not for [the italics are Fielding's] the Reformation, but for the Diversion of the Populace,” Cf. also Macaulay's History of England, ed. 1864, i. 182.
Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's;
“Another curious custom observed at this Church [St. Sepulchre's] was that of presenting a nosegay to every criminal on his way to Tyburn” (Wheatley and Cunningham's London, 1891, iii. 229, 230). When, as a boy of eight [1774], J. T. Smith watched the notorious John Rann, commonly called “Sixteen-string Jack,” on his road to Tyburn, he noticed that the robber (who was gallantly clad in bright pea green) was equipped with an immense nosegay which had come to him in this way (Book for a Rainy Day, 3rd ed., 1861, pp. 29–30).
Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car—
(“t” is omitted where Heroes are!)
Swore that he “rather admired the Jade!”—
Talked to the Chaplain after that;
This was the finish of “Beau Brocade”!
In the leaves of a dusty “Londoner's Guide”;
By the Author to Frederick, Prince of Wales:—
Ludgate-Hill, at the Blackmoor Sign.
Seventeen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nine.”
UNE MARQUISE
A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE
I
As you sit there at your ease,O Marquise!
And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,
Mute at every word you utter,
Servants to your least frill-flutter,
“Belle Marquise!”—
As you sit there growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your “beaux yeux” flash and glow;—
Ah, you used them on the Painter,
As you know,
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,
Bowing low,
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,
Or at least he told you so;—
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,
Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,
Do we love you most, or like you,
“Belle Marquise?”
II
You are fair; O yes, we know itWell, Marquise:
For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;
And he called all heaven to witness
Of his ballad and its fitness,
“Belle Marquise!”—
You were everything in ere
(With exception of sévère),—
You were cruelle and rebelle,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were “Reine,” and “Mère d' Amour”;
You were “Vénus à Cythère”;
“Sappho mise en Pompadour,”
And “Minerve en Parabère”;
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven
Lent of blood and courtly race;
And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty;
Followed these;
And you liked it, when he said it
(On his knees),
And you kept it, and you read it,
“Belle Marquise!”
III
Yet with us your toilet gracesFail to please,
And the last of your last faces,
And your mise;
For we hold you just as real,
“Belle Marquise!”
As your Bergers and Bergères,
Iles d'Amour and Batelières;
As your parcs, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles;
As your Naiads and your trees;—
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there, by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,—
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
“Belle Marquise!”
Just a thing of puffs and patches,
Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
“Belle Marquise!”
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless;—but to marry,
No, Marquise!
IV
For your Cupid, you have clipped him,Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,
And with chapeau-bras equipped him,
“Belle Marquise!”
Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your life-time,
“Belle Marquise!”
Say, to trim your toilet tapers,
Or,—to twist your hair in papers,
Or,—to wean you from the vapours;—
As for these,
You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,
Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows' feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,
“Belle Marquise!”—
Till your frothed-out life's commotion
Settles down to Ennui's ocean,
Or a dainty sham devotion,
“Belle Marquise!”
V
No: we neither like nor love you,“Belle Marquise!”
Lesser lights we place above you,—
Milder merits better please.
We have passed from Philosophe-dom
Into plainer modern days,—
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise;
And, en partant, Arsinoé,—
Without malice whatsoever,—
We shall counsel to our Chloë
To be rather good than clever;
For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other,—
You were neither Wife nor Mother,
“Belle Marquise!”
THE STORY OF ROSINA
AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANÇOIS BOUCHER
See Boucher by Arsène Houssaye, Galerie du XVIII
Siècle (Cinquième Série; Sculpteurs, Peintres, Musiciens).
The “incident” is, however, thus briefly referred to in
Charles Blanc's Histoire des Peintres de toutes les Écoles:—
“Une fois cependant Boucher se laissa prendre à un amour
simple et candide. Un jour, en passant dans la Rue Ste-Anne,
il aperçut une jeune fruitière dont la beauté l'éblouit.
C'était au temps des cerises.
Le peintre la regarda et elle se
laissa regarder sans songer à ses paniers.
Ses lèvres parurent
plus belles que ses cerises.
Un amour naïf et tendre naquit de
cette échange de regards; Boucher y trouva quelque jours de
délices; Rosine y trouva la mort après une rapide bonheur.”
See Boucher by Arsène Houssaye, Galerie du XVIII Siècle (Cinquième Série; Sculpteurs, Peintres, Musiciens). The “incident” is, however, thus briefly referred to in Charles Blanc's Histoire des Peintres de toutes les Écoles:— “Une fois cependant Boucher se laissa prendre à un amour simple et candide. Un jour, en passant dans la Rue Ste-Anne, il aperçut une jeune fruitière dont la beauté l'éblouit. C'était au temps des cerises. Le peintre la regarda et elle se laissa regarder sans songer à ses paniers. Ses lèvres parurent plus belles que ses cerises. Un amour naïf et tendre naquit de cette échange de regards; Boucher y trouva quelque jours de délices; Rosine y trouva la mort après une rapide bonheur.”
Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps,
To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping
Under an urn; yet not so sound she sleeps
But that she plainly sees his graceful act;
“He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps,” in fact.
This, as well as another reference (in The Misogynist) to the Angel in the House, led the author of that book at first, I am afraid, to doubt whether I was an entirely sympathetic student of his works. But when, in the later years of Coventry Patmore's life, I had the advantage of his personal acquaintance, it was not difficult to convince him that he had no more devoted admirer than myself.
All the sham life comes back again,—one sees
Alcôves, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher,
Patches and Ruffles, Roués and Marquises;
The little great, the infinite small thing
That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king.
A “Martin's summer,” when the nation swam,
Aimless and easy as a wayward feather,
Down the full tide of jest and epigram;—
A careless time, when France's bluest blood
Beat to the tune of “After us the Flood.”
Not now Camille had stirred the Café Foy;
Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting,
Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie;
No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring:—
This was the summer—when Grasshoppers sing.
Female and male, that tilled the earth, and wrung
Want from the soil;—lean things with livid features,
Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung:
These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bonhomme
Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum.
Rose-water Raphael,—en couleur de rose,
The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted,
Swayed the light realm of ballets and bons mots;—
Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove
Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered grove.
Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tender;
Whose greatest grace was jupes à la Camargo,
Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre;
Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose foot-steps fell
To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel;—
As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not,
Made of his work a land of languid Maying,
Filled with false gods and muses misbegot;—
A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth,
Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth
Palled in the after-taste,—our Boucher sighed
For the first beauty, falsely named the Devil's,
Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and clear-eyed;
Flung down his palette like a weary man,
And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte-Anne.
Things common come, and lineaments half-seen
Grow in a moment magically clearer;—
Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called “too green”
Rose and rebuked him, or the earth “ill-lighted”
Silently smote him with the charms he slighted.
Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal;
Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice,
Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal;
Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted,
Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted.
Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air,
Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum,
Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear:—
Here 'twas no Venus of Batavian city,
But a French girl, young, piquante, bright, and pretty.
Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring;
Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken,
Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming;
Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather;
Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together.
Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red
Seems to have burned right through the skin, and reaches
E'en to the core; and if you spoke, it spread
Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown,
And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down.
As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse
Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing
Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips.
Then a shrill mother rose upon the view;
“Cerises, M'sieu? Rosine, dépéchez-vous!”
Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay.
The Painter, watching the suspended cherries,
Never had seen such little fingers play;—
As for the arm, no Hebè's could be rounder;
Low in his heart a whisper said “I've found her.”
Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame Mère,
Almost with tears of suppliance besought her
Leave to immortalize a face so fair;
Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway
Voici Rosina,—standing at his gateway.
Rang through the studio as the girlish face
Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after
Showed like an Omphale in lion's case;
Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew
Pipes to the light its clear “Réveillez-vous.”
Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song,
Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions,
Mute little moods of misery and wrong;
Only a child, of Nature's rarest making,
Wistful and sweet,—and with a heart for breaking!
Came and returned; and still the Painter felt,
Day after day, the old theatric Nature
Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt
Paniers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene,
Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine.
Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call;
Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing;
Grew, as the flower on which the sun-rays fall;
Loved if you will; she never named it so:
Love comes unseen,—we only see it go.
Slim,—a child-face, the eyes as black as beads,
Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches
Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads.
This was no other than Rosina surely;—
None Boucher knew could else have looked so purely.
Whether he loved the little “nut-brown maid”
If, of a truth, he counted this to carry
Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed,
Nothing we know, but only that before
More had been done, a finger tapped the door.
'Twas a young girl—“une pauvre fille,” she said,
“They had been growing poorer all the summer;
Father was lame, and mother lately dead;
Bread was so dear, and,—oh! but want was bitter,
Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter?
Yes, she was pretty; and her face beside
Shamed her poor clothing by a something in it,—
Grace, and a presence hard to be denied;
This was no common offer it was certain;—
“Allez, Rosina! sit behind the curtain.”
Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise,
Passed in due time from praises to devotion;
Last when his sitter left him on his knees,
Rose in a maze of passion and surprise,—
Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes.
Still in the old traditionary way,
Power to enjoy—with yet a rarer merit,
Power to forget! Our Boucher rose, I say,
With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing,
And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing
Boucher was silent, for he knew it true.
“Est-ce que vous l'aimez?” Never answer made he!
Ah, for the old love fighting with the new!
“Est-ce que vous l'aimez?” sobbed Rosina's sorrow.
“Bon!” murmured Boucher; “she will come to-morrow.”
Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase,
Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry,
Following not less with unrelenting face.
Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee,
Woe to the Fawn! There is no way to flee.
Swift from her life the sun of gold declined.
Nothing remained but those gray shades that thicken,
Cloud and the cold,—the loneliness—the wind.
Only a little by the door she lingers,—
Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers.
Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign;
Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter,
Paled to the old sick Artifice again.
Seeing Rosina going out to die,
How should he know what Fame had passed him by?
Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light,
Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness,
Lose the round life that only Love makes bright:
There is no succour if these things are taken.
None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken.
Tired of himself, and weary as before,
Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted,
Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door.
“Ah, the poor child!” the neighbours cry of her,
“Morte, M'sieu, morte! On dit,—des peines de cœur!”
Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone,—
Just for a second, a dull feeling mocked him
With a vague sense of something priceless gone;
Then,—for at best 'twas but the empty type,
The husk of man with which the days were ripe,—
You, her own sister, that with airy ease,
Just for a moment's fancy could undo her,
Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise,
Be the sky silent, be the sea serene;
A pleasant passage—à Sainte Guillotine!
Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass,
If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her,
Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse,
Nothing we know,—but that her heart is cold,
Poor beating heart! And so the Story's told.
PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN
A pleasant memory connected with the appearance in 1873
of Vignettes in Rhyme is that the little book procured me
the friendship of the author of London Lyrics. My second
volume of verse, with the title prefixed to this note, was dedicated
to him in words which—as they have not been recently
reprinted—may be here preserved:—
“To Frederick Locker.
Is it to kindest Friend I send
This nosegay gathered new?
Or is it more to Critic sure,—
To Singer clear and true?
I know not which, indeed, nor need;
All Three I found—in You.”
A pleasant memory connected with the appearance in 1873 of Vignettes in Rhyme is that the little book procured me the friendship of the author of London Lyrics. My second volume of verse, with the title prefixed to this note, was dedicated to him in words which—as they have not been recently reprinted—may be here preserved:—
“To Frederick Locker.
Is it to kindest Friend I sendThis nosegay gathered new?
Or is it more to Critic sure,—
To Singer clear and true?
I know not which, indeed, nor need;
All Three I found—in You.”
PROLOGUE
A common taste for old costume,—
Old pictures,—books. Then dream us sitting—
Us two—in some soft-lighted room.
We, with our faces toward the fire,
Finished the feast not full but fitting,
Watch the light-leaping flames aspire.
Discuss “eclectics,” high and low;
Inspect engravings, 'twixt us passing
The fancies of Detroy, Moreau;
Anon we glide to “crocks” and plates,
Grow eloquent on glaze and classing,
And half-pathetic over “states”
Six groups in Sèvres, fresh as Youth,
And rare as Love. You pause, you wonder
(Pretend to doubt the marks, forsooth!)
The fragile figures smile and bow;
Divine, at length, the fable under
Thus grew the “Scenes” that follow now.
THE BALLAD À-LA-MODE
Scene.—A Boudoir Louis-Quinze, painted with Cupids shooting at Butterflies.
The Countess. The Baron (her cousin and suitor)
The Countess
(looking up from her work).
Baron, you doze.
The Baron
(closing his book).
I, Madame? No.
I wait your order—Stay or Go.
The Countess.
Which means, I think, that Go or Stay
Affects you nothing, either way.
The Baron.
Excuse me,—by your favour graced,
My inclinations are effaced.
Or much the same. How keen you grow!
You must be reading Marivaux.
The Baron.
Nay,—'twas a song of Sainte-Aulaire.
It is but just to the octogenarian Marquis, whom the Duchess of Maine surnamed her “vieux berger,” to say that he is guiltless of the song here ascribed to him. For it, and for the similar pieces in these Proverbs, I am alone responsible. In the Secrets of the Heart, however, I have, without attempting to revive the persons, borrowed the names of the charming heroines of À quoi rêvent les Jeunes Filles.
The Countess.
Then read me one. We've time to spare
If I can catch the clock-face there,
'Tis barely eight.
The Baron.
What shall it be,—
A tale of woe, or perfidy?
The Countess.
Not woes, I beg. I doubt your woes:
But perfidy, of course, one knows.
The Baron
(reads).
(I heard a Shepherd say,)
You hold me with your Eyes, and yet
You bid me—Go my Way!’
(The Maiden answered so,)
If that be All, the Ill is small,
I close them—You may go!’
(Although the Sun it shone,)
She found the Shepherd had not stirred—
‘Because the Light was gone!’
'Twas ever thus your Way:
When Maids would bid you ply your Wings,
You find Excuse to stay!”
The Countess.
Famous! He earned whate'er he got:—
But there's some sequel, is there not?
The Baron
(turning the page).
I think not.—No. Unless 'tis this:
My fate is far more hard than his;—
In fact, your Eyes—
The Countess.
Now, that's a breach!
Your bond is—not to make a speech.
And we must start—so call Justine.
I know exactly what you mean!—
Give me your arm—
If, in return,
Countess, I could your hand but earn!
The Countess.
I thought as much. This comes, you see,
Of sentiment, and Arcady,
Where vows are hung on every tree. . . .
The Baron
(offering his arm, with a low bow).
And no one dreams—of Perfidy.
THE METAMORPHOSIS
Scene.—A high stone Seat in an Alley of clipped Lime-trees.
The Abbé Tirili. Monsieur L'Étoile.
The Abbé
(writing).
“ This shepherdess Dorine adored—”
What rhyme is next? Implored?—ignored?
Poured?—soared?—afford? That facile Dunce,
L'Étoile, would cap the line at once.
'Twill come in time. Meanwhile, suppose
We take a meditative doze.
(Sleeps. By and by his paper falls.)
M. L'Étoile
(approaching from the back).
Some one before me. What! 'tis you,
Monsieur the Scholar? Sleeping too! (Picks up the fluttering paper.)
More “Tales,” of course One can't refuse
To chase so fugitive a Muse!
“Cum privilegio”—Zephyri! (Reads.)
“Clitander and Dorine.” Insane!
He fancies he's a La Fontaine!
“In early Days, the Gods, we find,
Paid private Visits to Mankind;—
At least, authentic Records say so
In Publius Ovidius Naso.”
(Three names for one. This passes all.
'Tis “furiously” classical!)
“No doubt their Purpose oft would be
Some ‘Nodus dignus Vindice’
‘On dit,’ not less, these earthward Tours
Were mostly Matters of Amours.
And Woe to him whose luckless Flame
Impeded that Olympic Game;
Ere he could say an ‘Ave’ o'er,
They changed him—like a Louis-d'or.”
(“Aves,” and current coinage! O!—
O shade of Nicolas Boileau!)
“Bird, Beast, or River he became:
With Women it was much the same.
In Ovid Case to Case succeeds;
But Names the Reader never reads.”
(That is, Monsieur the Abbé feels
His quantities are out at heels!)
“Suffice it that, for this our Tale,
There dwelt in a Thessalian Vale,
Of Tales like this the frequent Scene,
A Shepherdess, by name Dorine.
Trim Waist, ripe Lips, bright Eyes, had she;—
In short,—the whole Artillery.
Men marked it. So did Jupiter.
This Shepherdess Dorine adored. . . .”
Implored, ignored, and soared, and poured—
(He's scrawled them here!) We'll sum in brief
His fable on his second leaf. (Writes.)
There, they shall know who 'twas that wrote:—
“L'Étoile's is but a mock-bird's note.”
[Exit.
The Abbé
(waking).
Where is my paper? Ah! 'tis there!
Eh! what?
The Metamorphosis (not in Ovid).
The Shepherdess Dorine adoredThe Shepherd-Boy Clitander;
But Jove himself, Olympus' Lord,
The Shepherdess Dorine adored.
Our Abbé's Aid the Pair Implored;—
And changed to Goose and Gander;
The Shepherdess Dorine adored
The Shepherd-Boy Clitander!”
He's off, post-haste, to tell the rest.
No matter. Laugh, Sir Dunce, to-day;
Next time 'twill be my turn to play.
THE SONG OUT OF SEASON
Scene.—A Corridor in a Château, with Busts and Venice chandeliers.
Monsieur L'Étoile. Two Voices.
M. L'Étoile
(carrying a Rose).
“Through the Mancini room, and near
The fifth Venetian chandelier. . . .”
The fifth?—She knew there were but four;—
Still, here's the busto of the Moor.
He'll bark, no doubt, and spoil my shake!
I'll tap, I think. One can't mistake;
This surely is the door.
First saw you sleep of yore,
He cried aloud for Nectar,
The Nectar, Hebe, pour!’”
(Sings again.)
He passed you where you lay;
‘Come, Dian, rise and follow
The dappled Hart to slay,—
The rapid Hart to slay.’”
(Coquette! She heard before.)
(Sings again.)
Beside the Pillow curled,
He whispered you with Laughter,
‘Awake and witch the World,—
O Venus, witch the World!’”
O You, whom we adore;
Where Gods can be mistaken,
Mere Mortals must be more,—
Poor Mortals must be more!”
O you, whom we adore!”
Ah, Thief of Valet, always late!
Have I not told thee half-past eight
A thousand times!
M. L'Étoile
(stupefied).
What lungs! The infamous Soubrette!
This is a turn I sha'n't forget:—
To make me sing my chansonnette
Before old Jourdain's door!
They prompted her. Who can it be?
(A second Voice.)
It was the Abbé Ti---ri---li!
(In a mocking falsetto.)
Mere Poets must be more,—
Bad Poets must be more.”
THE CAP THAT FITS
Scene.—A Salon with blue and white Panels. Outside, Persons pass and re-pass upon a Terrace.
Hortense. Armande. Monsieur Loyal.
Hortense
(behind her fan).
Not young, I think.
Armande
(raising her eye-glass).
And faded, too!—
Quite faded! Monsieur, what say you?
M. Loyal.
Nay,—I defer to you. In truth,
To me she seems all grace and youth.
Graceful? You think it? What, with hands
That hang like this (with a gesture).
Armande.
And how she stands!
M. Loyal.
Nay,—I am wrong again. I thought
Her air delightfully untaught!
Hortense.
But you amuse me—
M. Loyal.
Still her dress,—
Her dress at least, you must confess—
Armande.
Is odious simply! Jacotot
Did not supply that lace, I know;
And where, I ask, has mortal seen
A hat unfeathered!
Hortense.
Edged with green!!
The words remind me. Let me say
A Fable that I heard to-day.
Have I permission?
Both
(with enthusiasm).
Monsieur, pray!
M. Loyal.
“Myrtilla (lest a Scandal rise
The Lady's Name I thus disguise),
Dying of Ennui, once decided—
Much on Resource herself she prided—
To choose a Hat. Forthwith she flies
On that momentous Enterprise.
Whether to Petit or Legros,
I know not: only this I know;—
Head-dresses then, of any Fashion,
Bore Names of Quality or Passion.
Myrtilla tried them, almost all:
‘Prudence,’ she felt, was somewhat small;
‘Retirement’ seemed the Eyes to hide;
‘Content,’ at once, she cast aside.
‘Simplicity,’—'twas out of Place;
‘Devotion,’ for an older Face;
Briefly, Selection smaller grew,
‘Vexatious!’ odious!—none would do!
Then, on a Sudden, she espied
One that she thought she had not tried:
Roses in yellow, Thorns between.
‘Quick! Bring me that!’ 'Tis brought. ‘Complete,
Superb, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat,’
In all the Tones. ‘And this you call—?’
‘“Ill-Nature,” Madame. It fits all.’”
Hortense.
A thousand thanks! So naïvely turned!
Armande.
So useful too . . . to those concerned!
'Tis yours?
M. Loyal.
And called (I think)—
THE SECRETS OF THE HEART
Scene.—A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle.
Ninette. Ninon.
Ninette.
This way—
Ninon.
No, this way—
Ninette.
This way, then. (They enter the Chalet.)
You are as changing, Child,—as Men.
Ninon.
But are they? Is it true, I mean?
Who said it?
Ninette.
Sister Séraphine.
She was so pious and so good,
With such sad eyes beneath her hood,
Her name was Eugénie la Fère.
She used to tell us,—moonlight nights,—
When I was at the Carmelites.
Ninon.
Ah, then it must be right. And yet,
Suppose for once—suppose, Ninette—
Ninette.
But what?
Ninon.
Suppose it were not so?
Suppose there were true men, you know!
Ninette.
And then?
Ninon.
Why, if that could occur,
What kind of man should you prefer?
Ninette.
What looks, you mean?
Ninon.
Looks, voice and all.
Well, as to that, he must be tall,
Or say, not “tall,”—of middle size;
And next, he must have laughing eyes,
And a hook-nose,—with, underneath,
O! what a row of sparkling teeth!
Ninon
(touching her cheek suspiciously).
Has he a scar on this side?
Ninette.
Hush!
Some one is coming. No; a thrush:
I see it swinging there.
Ninon.
Go on.
Ninette.
Then he must fence, (ah, look, 'tis gone!)
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing
“Love was a Shepherd”:—everything
I have sometimes fancied that the song referred to must have run in this wise:—
Before the towns were made,
Love was a shepherd too.
Of evil unafraid,
When this old world was new.
Who but their hearts obey'd—
Love was a shepherd too.
Not thus was life delay'd
When this old world was new.
They kiss'd their shepherd-maid—
Love was a shepherd too.
No pang of Love decay'd:
When this old world was new,
Love was a shepherd too.
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon.
Ninon.
Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair . . .
I mean he should have; then an air
Half sad, half noble; features thin;
A little royale on the chin;
And such a pale, high brow. And then,
He is a prince of gentlemen;—
Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight
No worse for that—
Ninette.
I know your man.
Ninon.
And I know yours. But you'll not tell,—
Swear it!
Ninette.
I swear upon this fan,—
My Grandmother's!
Ninon.
On this old turquoise reliquaire,—
My great—great Grandmother's!!—
I feel so sad.
Ninette.
I too. But why?
Ninon.
Alas, I know not!
Ninette
(with a sigh).
Nor do I.
“GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!”
Scene.—A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman.
Monsieur Vieuxbois. Babette.
M. Vieuxbois
(turning querulously).
Day of my life! Where can she get?
Babette! I say! Babette!—Babette!
Babette
(entering hurriedly).
Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!
M. Vieuxbois.
Where have you been?
Babette.
Why, M'sieu' knows:—
April! . . . Ville d'Avray! . . . Ma'am'selle Rose!
Ah! I am old,—and I forget.
Was the place growing green, Babette?
Babette.
And then the sky so blue!—so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
M. Vieuxbois.
She was an Angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains . . .
Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette;—
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
Babette
(sings).
“Once at the Angelus
(Ere I was dead),
Came to my Bed;
Angels in blue and white
Crowned on the Head.”
M. Vieuxbois
(drowsily).
What, was I dreaming?
Babette
(showing the empty cup).
The draught, M'sieu'?
M. Vieuxbois.
How I forget!
I am so old! But sing, Babette!
Babette
(sings).
“One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long,—long ago;
One was the Love I lost . . .
How could she know?”
M. Vieuxbois
(murmuring).
Ah, Paul! . . . old Paul! . . . Eulalie too!
And Rose . . . And O! “the sky so blue!”
(sings).
“One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me,—
Bent down and smiled!”
(He is asleep!)
M. Vieuxbois
(almost inaudibly).
“How I forget!”
“I am so old!” . . . “Good-night, Babette!”
EPILOGUE
Good-night, Ninon!—good-night, Ninette!
Your little Play is played and finished;—
Go back, then, to your Cabinet!
Alas! they heed not what we say:
They smile with ardour undiminished;
But we,—we are not always gay!
VIGNETTES IN RHYME
THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW
IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.”
—Midsummer-Night's Dream.
Prologue
Where I used this expression,
Wore the severe official gloom
Attached to that profession;
Rendered severer by a bald
And skinless Gladiator,
Whose raw robustness first appalled
The entering spectator.
Few could avoid confessing
That Jones, “On Muscular Decay,”
Is—as a rule—depressing:
I turned toward the shutter,
And peered out vacantly between
A water-butt and gutter.
If thus imagination
May dignify a square of clay
Unused to vegetation,
Filled with a dismal-looking swing—
That brought to mind a gallows—
An empty kennel, mouldering,
And two dyspeptic aloes.
About the place deserted;
Only across the swing-board hung
A battered doll, inverted,
Which sadly seemed to disconcert
The vagrant cat that scanned it,
Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt,
But failed to understand it.
Half hoping that, perchance, it
Might, in some unknown way, atone
For Jones and for “The Lancet,”
I watched; and by especial grace,
Within this stage contracted,
Saw presently before my face
A classic story acted.
And weary, World, of spinning,
That you repeat the tales to-day
You told at the beginning?
For lo! the same old myths that made
The early “stage successes,”
Still “hold the boards,” and still are played,
“With new effects and dresses.”
To-day, Alcestis dying;
To-day, in farthest Polar cold,
Ulysses' bones are lying;
Still in one's morning “Times” one reads
How fell an Indian Hector;
Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds,
Briseis' next protector;—
His oft-remanded case on;
Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle
Bewails a faithless Jason;
And here, the Doctor's sill beside,
Do I not now discover
A Thisbe, whom the walls divide
From Pyramus, her lover?
Act the First.
The cat, that like an arrow
Shot up the wall and disappeared;
And then, across the narrow,
Hid by a garden-bonnet,
Passed wearily towards the swing,
Paused, turned, and climbed upon it
At least a decade older,
A mournful mouth, and tangled hair
Flung careless round her shoulder,
Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock,
Whose black, uncomely rigour
Sardonically seemed to mock
The plaintive, slender figure.
That told the girl unmothered;
Or was it that the merciless
Black garb of mourning smothered
Life and all light:—but rocking so,
In the dull garden-corner,
The lonely swinger seemed to grow
More piteous and forlorner.
Of “next-door's” garden, that is—
To speak correctly—through its tall
Surmounting fence of lattice,
Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair,
Ripe lips, half drawn asunder,
And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare
Of frankest childish wonder.
Until the swinger, swerving,
Made, all at once, alive to these
Intentest orbs observing,
Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry,
And,—as with gathered kirtle,
Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly
Thrust through the budding myrtle,—
The eyes looked almost tragic;
Then, when they caught my watching face,
Vanished as if by magic;
And, like some sombre thing beguiled
To strange, unwonted laughter,
The gloomy garden, having smiled,
Became the gloomier after.
Act the Second.
Blank as before; and therefore,
Sinking within the patient's chair,
Half vexed, I knew not wherefore,
I dozed; till, startled by some call,
A glance sufficed to show me,
The boy again above the wall,
The girl erect below me.
To words found unavailing,
Had pushed a striped and spotted horse
Half through the blistered paling,
While he, in exultation,
Chattered some half-articulate
Excited explanation.
Stood motionless, and listened;
The ill-cut frock had gained a grace,
The pale hair almost glistened;
The figure looked alert and bright,
Buoyant as though some power
Had lifted it, as rain at night
Uplifts a drooping flower.
The old life, tired and faded,
Had slipped down with the doll that lay
Before her feet, degraded;
She only, yearning upward, found
In those bright eyes above her
The ghost of some enchanted ground
Where even Nurse would love her.
We, sick and sad, begin it;
You close it fast, if we but look
Pleased for a meagre minute;
You closed it now, for, out of sight,
Some warning finger beckoned;
Exeunt both to left and right;—
Thus ended Act the Second.
Act the Third.
Believed them gone for ever,
Half raised above the window sill,
I saw the lattice quiver;
And lo, once more appeared the head,
Flushed, while the round mouth pouted;
“Give Tom a kiss,” the red lips said,
In style the most undoubted.
Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon,
If more restraint had not been taught
In this neglected garden;
For these your code was all too stiff,
So, seeing none dissented,
Their unfeigned faces met as if
Manners were not invented.
When lip from lip had parted,
And, therefore, just two seconds late,—
A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted;
Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite
Upon a rover chicken,
And bore him sourly off, despite
His well-directed kicking.
Too subtle to unravel,
Then, with a sudden gesture took
The torn doll from the gravel;
Under the garden-bonnet,
And, passing in, I saw her press
Kiss after kiss upon it.
It made the dull room brighter,
The Gladiator almost gay,
And e'en “The Lancet” lighter.
AN AUTUMN IDYLL
Lawrence. Frank. Jack.
Lawrence.
Here, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses,
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore.
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses;
Here let us sit. We landed here before.
Frank.
Jack's undecided. Say, formose puer,
Bent in a dream above the “water wan,”
Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer,
There by the pollards, where you see the swan?
Jack.
Hist! That's a pike. Look—nose against the river
Gaunt as a wolf,—the sly old privateer!
Enter a gudgeon. Snap,—a gulp, a shiver;—
Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here.
(in the grass).
Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun;
Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper,
Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun!
Lawrence.
Sing to us then. Damœtas in a choker,
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.
Frank.
Sing you again. So musical a croaker
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.
Jack.
Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old.
Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis;—
Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told.
Frank.
Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper,
Say—by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing?
Lawrence.
Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper,
Let him declare the prize he has to bring.
Here then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted
First in the song, a Pipe I will impart;—
This, my Belovèd, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam,—a miracle of art.
Lawrence.
Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song!
Frank.
Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers,
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.
Lawrence.
Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders,
Not where the brook traditionally “purls,”—
No, in the Row, supreme among the riders,
Seek I the gem,—the paragon of girls.
Frank.
Not in the waste of column and of coping,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square,—
No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping,
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.
Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid,
Holding the roof that covers in a world.
Frank.
Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,
Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn.
Lawrence.
Best is the song with the music interwoven:
Mine's a musician,—musical at heart,—
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven,
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart.
Frank.
Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad,
Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees,
Not too divine to toss you up a salad,
Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees.
Lawrence.
Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches,
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm,
Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,
Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm.
Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,—
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.
Lawrence.
All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her
Round with so delicate divinity, that men
Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger,
Bend to the goddess, manifest again.
Frank.
None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,—
Cynics to boot. I know the children run,
Seeing her come, for naught that I discover,
Save that she brings the summer and the sun.
Lawrence.
Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly,
Crowned with a sweet, continual control,
Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely
E'en to her own nobility of soul.
Frank.
Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure,
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame:
Simply devoted to other people's pleasure,—
Jack's sister Florence,—now you know her name.
“Jack's sister Florence!” Never, Francis, never
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant.
She like the country! Ah, she's far too clever—
Frank.
There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent.
Lawrence.
You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare.
Sorry to differ. Jack,—the word's with you
Frank.
How is it, Umpire? Though the motto's thread bare,
“Cœlum, non animum”—is, I take it, true.
Jack.
“Souvent femme varie,” as a rule, is truer;
Flattered, I'm sure,—but both of you romance.
Happy to further suit of either wooer,
Merely observing—you haven't got a chance.
Yes. But the Pipe—
Frank.
The Pipe is what we care for,—
Jack.
Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain,
Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore,—
Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain.
A GARDEN IDYLL
A Lady. A Poet.The Lady.
(If it was wrong to watch you, pardon),
Behind this weeping birch withdrawn,
I watched you saunter round the garden.
I saw you bend beside the phlox,
Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle,
Review my well-ranged hollyhocks,
Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle;
Where my marauder thrush was singing,
Peered at the bee-hives curiously,
And narrowly escaped a stinging;
And then—you see I watched—you passed
Down the espalier walk that reaches
Out to the western wall, and last
Dropped on the seat before the peaches.
Sublime or graceful,—grave,—satiric?
A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song?
A tender Tennysonian lyric?
So long as speech renown disperses,
Illustrious as the spot where he—
The gifted Blank—composed his verses.
The Poet.
Grows gracious over certain pages,
Wherein the Jester's maxims lie,
It may be, thicker than the Sage's—
I hear but to obey, and could
Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you,
Some verse as whimsical as Hood,—
As gay as Praed,—should answer to you.
Our only serious vocation
Confined to giving nothings names
And dreams a “local habitation”;
Believe me there are tuneless days,
When neither marble, brass, nor vellum,
Would profit much by any lays
That haunt the poet's cerebellum.
More idle things than songs, absorb it;
The “finely-frenzied” eye, at times,
Reposes mildly in its orbit;
And—painful truth—at times, to him,
Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive,
“A primrose by a river's brim”
Is absolutely unsuggestive.
She sometimes wearies of her wooer;
A goddess, yet a woman still,
She flies the more that we pursue her;
In short, with worst as well as best,
Five months in six, your hapless poet
Is just as prosy as the rest,
But cannot comfortably show it.
Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation
Of love that came and love that went,—
Some fragrance of a lost flirtation,
Born when the cuckoo changes song,
Dead ere the apple's red is on it,
That should have been an epic long,
Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet.
He turns it to a lyric sweeter,
With birds that gossip in the tune,
And windy bough-swing in the metre;
Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms
Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms,
Round singing mouths, and chanted charms,
And mediæval orchard blossoms,—
My vagrant fancies only rambled
Back to the red-walled Rectory close,
Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled,
And chased the kitten round the beeches,
Till widening instincts made me wish
For certain slowly-ripening peaches.
Had more equality of beauty:
I would not look, yet went to see;
I wrestled with Desire and Duty;
I felt the pangs of those who feel
The Laws of Property beset them;
The conflict made my reason reel,
And, half-abstractedly, I ate them;—
More keen that one of these was rotten—
Moved me to seek some forest lair
Where I might hide and dwell forgotten,
Attired in skins, by berries stained,
Absolved from brushes and ablution;—
But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained,
Fate gave me up to execution.
That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features;
My father, scholar-like and thin,
Unroused, the tenderest of creatures;
I saw—ah me—I saw again
My dear and deprecating mother;
And then, remembering the cane,
Regretted—that I'd left the Other.
TU QUOQUE
AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY
Ou ne romprons-nous pas?”
Le Dépit Amoureux.
Nellie.
If I were you, when ladies at the play, sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir,
If I were you!
Frank.
If I were you, when persons I affected,
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would, at least, pretend I recollected,
If I were you!
Nellie.
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish,
If I were you!
If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
Whiff of the best,—the mildest “honey-dew,”
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
If I were you!
Nellie.
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter,
Even to write the “Cynical Review”;—
Frank.
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,
If I were you!
Nellie.
Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,—
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,
If I were you!
Frank.
“It is the cause.” I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!
Go, if you will. At once! And by express, sir
Where shall it be? To China—or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir,
If I were you!
Frank.
No,—I remain. To stay and fight a duel
Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do;—
Ah, you are strong,—I would not then be cruel,
If I were you!
Nellie.
One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,—
Frank.
One does not like one's friends to misconstrue.—
Nellie.
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?—
Frank.
I should admit that I was piqué, too.
Nellie.
Ask me to dance! I'd say no more about it,
If I were you!
[Waltz—Exeunt
A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO
Were fast a mist becoming;
In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,
And filled the room with humming,
And, parted light, discloses
Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze
Of muslin mixed with roses.
“O, mine's a mere romancer!”
‘So Plato is.” “Then read him—do;
And I'll read mine in answer.”
That wisdom thus should harden!)
Declares ‘blue eyes look doubly blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden.’”
(No author's name is stated)
That sometimes those Philosophers
Are sadly mis-translated.”
The Cynic School asserted
That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted!”
Observes some modern doctors
Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors.”
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
Diana's apparition.’”
No wiser precept teaches,
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,
And walk to Burnham-beeches.”
(I find he too is talking)
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease
While Beauty goes a-walking.”
The sequel's scarce essential—
Nay, more than this, I hold it still
Profoundly confidential.
THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE
Far better I should own you,
Than you should lie for random feet,
Where careless hands have thrown you!
Did heartless Mayfair use you,
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn,
For chariot wheels to bruise you?
Rose, you would scarce discover
That I she passed upon the stair
Was Edith's favoured lover,
O theme for moral writer!—
'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,
She might have been politer;
Behind the oleander—
To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Who best could understand her,—
As only Cyril's able,
With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;
Had paled away in morning,
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
She made my heart-strings quiver;
And yet—you sha'n't lie in the street
I'll drop you in the River.
LOVE IN WINTER
The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush:
“Which way did bright-eyed Bella go?
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,—
Are those her dainty tracks I see,
That wind beside the shrubbery?”
“No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,—
'Tchuck,—'tis a merry pairing-time!”
“These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of Spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency.”
I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow:—
‘Why wait,’ he said, ‘why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?’”
POT-POURRI
(An alien touch but dust perceives,
Nought else supposes;)
For me those fragrant ruins raise
Clear memory of the vanished days
When they were roses.
I can recall with what gay youth,
To what light chorus,
Unsobered yet by time or change,
We roamed the many-gabled Grange,
All life before us;
To catch the dim Arthurian camp
In misty distance;
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors
Of feigned existence.
The hot sun parched the old parterres
And “flowerful closes”;
Played hide-and-seek behind the trees,—
Then plucked these roses.
So freshly freed from school decrees
You scarce could stop her;
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalised
Our dear “Miss Proper”;—
Who wept—like Chaucer's Prioress,
When Dash was smitten;
Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when
You teased her kitten.
Louise the next—for days of jest
Or madcap masking;
And Ruth, I thought,—why, failing these,
When my High-Mightiness should please,
She'd come for asking.
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set;
And Ruth, Heaven bless her,
Ruth that I wooed,—and wooed in vain,—
Has gone where neither grief nor pain
Can now distress her.
DOROTHY
A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE
Look now, across the level rye,—
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river—she
Whose old-world name was “Dorothy.”
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,—
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper;—
Soft,—pensive,—far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
“Ma'am Fine-airs” in “Miss Dorothy.”
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;—
Perchance too candidly preferred
“Clarissa” to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth;—poor Dorothy!
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At “twice-told tales” of foxes killed;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port—and Dorothy!
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
L'ENVOI.
Below me,—“Dreams? Delusions, Fred!”
Next, with a pause,—she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile—
“But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.’”
AVICE
Has demurred,
By the dreamy Asian creed
'Tis averred,
That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,—
Or a bird.
Watched you so,
I have found your secret out;
And I know
That the restless ribboned things,
Where your slope of shoulder springs,
Are but undeveloped wings
That will grow.
It is stirred
With the wayward, flashing flight
Of a bird;
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,
And the wind-breath and the dew,
At a word.
Then again
When I heard your single cry
In the lane,
All the sound was as the “sweet”
Which the birds to birds repeat
In their thank-song to the heat
After rain.
'Twas absurd,—
But it seemed no human note
That I heard;
For your strain had all the trills.
All the little shakes and stills,
Of the over-song that rills
From a bird.
“Airs de tête,”
All their flush and fever-heat
When elate;
Every bird-like nod and beck,
And a bird's own curve of neck
When she gives a little peck
To her mate.
In that furred,
Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,
I was spurred
Just to catch you, O my Sweet,
By the bodice trim and neat,—
Just to feel your heart a-beat,
Like a bird.
But to wear
As the dew upon your plumes,
And you care
Not a whit for rest or hush;
But the leaves, the lyric gush,
And the wing-power, and the rush
Of the air.
For a day,
Lest I lose you in a flash,
As I may;
Did I tell you tender things,
You would shake your sudden wings;—
You would start from him who sings,
And away.
THE LOVE-LETTER
What could succeed. Here's brilliancy (and banter),
Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau;—
If this should fail, then tempora mutantur;
Style's out of date, and love, as a profession,
Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.
(Cynics would say twere well if they were fewer);
“I am not what I seem,”—(indeed, 'tis true;
Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);
“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie
More deep than words”—(as these exemplify).
Illumed my life,”—(it needs imagination);
“For me to see you and to love were one,”—
(This will account for some precipitation);
“Let it suffice that worship more devoted
Ne'er throbbed,” et cætera. The rest is quoted.
(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)
“If truly spirit unto spirit cry,”—
(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)
“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”
This next, I think, is more than commonplace.
Forestall the speech with favour found before:
Why should we plead?—it were an idle thing,
If Love himself be Love's ambassador!”
Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;—
'Twill show we write currente calamo.
(In point of fact, the latter's not extensive);
“Without you I am poor indeed,”—(strike through,
'Tis true but crude—'twould make her apprehensive);
“My life is yours—I lay it at your feet,”
(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).
Where never yet my faltering feet intruded;
Give me the right to call you wholly mine,”—
(That is, Consols and Three-per-Cents included);
“To guard your rest from every care that cankers,—
To keep your life,—(and balance at your banker's).
Suspense makes havoc with the mind—(and muscles);
“Winged Hope takes flight,”—(which means that I must fly,
Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);
“I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla!
Write by return.” And now for a Manilla!
And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter”;
Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—
'Twill serve again. There's but the name to alter;
And Love,—that starves,—must knock at every portal,
In formâ pauperis. We are but mortal!
THE MISOGYNIST
His locks in Hamlet-style;
His brow with thought was “sicklied o'er,”—
We rarely saw him smile;
And, e'en when none was looking on,
His air was always woe-begone.
To imitate Jean Paul;
His solitary topics were
Æsthetics, Fate, and Soul;—
Although at times, but not for long,
He bowed his Intellect to song.
I know his verses breathed
A fine funereal air of biers,
And objects cypress-wreathed;—
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled
An ode he named “The Sheeted Dead.’
He darkly would allude
To some dread sorrow undefined,—
Some passion unsubdued;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.
We thought him grandest when
He named them Siren-shapes that “chant
On blanching bones of Men”;—
Alas, not e'en the great go free
From that insidious minstrelsy!
Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge
The Billows of Despair.
We dreamed it true. We never knew
What gentler ears he told it to.
One-minded, celibate,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
Our lives to dedicate;—
We, truly, in no common sense,
Deserved his closest confidence!
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
A gradual softness enervate
That all superior mind,
He dared to speak of Etiquette.
Assumed a wanton air,—
A fond effeminate monotone
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Not ηθος stirred him now or νους,
He read “The Angel in the House”!
Grew ludicrously sore
If we but named a photograph
We found him simpering o'er;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.
He trimmed his tragic mane;
Announced at length (to our distress)
He had not “lived in vain”;—
Thenceforth his one prevailing mood
Became a base beatitude.
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
“All wool,” enwound about;
His very hat had changed its brim;—
Our course was clear,—we banished him!
A VIRTUOSO
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,—
This monstrous mélodrame of Force!
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,
Museums turned to hospitals!
Alas, 'tis true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colourists;
Speaking of colour, next your seat
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand;
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned;
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap;—
Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes—may I say it?—somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Æsthetically—still reply
That “Charity begins at Home.”
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named “Hunt”? The girl's a gem;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!
For home, and English poor! Indeed!
I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic need—
However sore—Yet though one grants
That home should have the foremost claims,
At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names;
To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities!
Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.
So well exalts his pet distress,
'Tis—Give to all, or give to none,
If you'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,
The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it;—
And life is short, you understand;
So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,
Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.
One can but be consistent, Sir!
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,—
Believe me, on these very grounds.
Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity!
That cost me quite three hundred pounds,—
That Dürer figure,—“Charity.”
LAISSEZ FAIRE
Das Weltkind in der Mitten.”
—Goethe's Diné zu Coblenz
Who talks a chastened treason,
And C., a something-else in “ist,”
Harangues, to right, on Reason.
At Throne and Constitution,
Nay—with the walnuts—advocates
Reform by revolution;
Have now in full rehearsal
Some patent new Philosophy
To make doubt universal.
Their zeal has not affected
My taste for salmon and Sauterne,
Or I might have objected:—
Has been by France refuted;
And C., mon cher, your novel views
Are just Tom Paine, diluted;
Behold its mild apostle!
My dear, declamatory pair,
Although you shout and jostle,
Time's Gordian knots shall sunder,—
Will laid three casks of this old wine:
Who'll drink the last, I wonder?
TO Q. H. F.
SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE MARTIN'S “HORACE” (“ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS”)
There's not a doubt about the date,—
You're dead and buried:
As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,
Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.
You'd think we'd learned enough, I know
To help refine us,
Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus;
Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!
We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!
We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh
Your Roman cronies;
Walk in the Park—you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail
By Lydia's ponies,
Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.
His “long-bow” hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;
Fair Neobule too! Is not
One Hebrus here—from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!
Be wise. There old Canidia sits;
No doubt she's tearing you to bits.
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind
Terentia's skirting;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;
Asterie flirting,—
Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,—
Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.
Behind the new each elder face
Defined as clearly;
Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our “world” to-day's as good or ill,—
As cultured (nearly),—
As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.
TO “LYDIA LANGUISH”
If you refuse my suit, shall die.”
(Now pray don't let this hurt you!)
Although the time be out of joint,
I should not think a bodkin's point
The sole resource of virtue;
Nor shall I, though your mood endure,
Attempt a final Water-cure
Except against my wishes;
For I respectfully decline
To dignify the Serpentine,
And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes;
But if you ask me whether I
Composedly can go,
Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer—No.
(If in this most considerate way
To treat my suit your will is),
That I shall “quickly find as fair
Some new Neæra's tangled hair—
Some easier Amaryllis.”
If smiles are kind as yours of old
On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I, if I would, forget
The homage that is Nature's debt,
While man has social duties;
But if you ask shall I prefer
To you I honour so,
A somewhat visionary Her,
I answer truly—No.
In me too late the altered mind
That altering Time estranges.”
To this I make response that we
(As physiologists agree)
Must have septennial changes;
This is a thing beyond control,
And it were best upon the whole
To try and find out whether
We could not, by some means, arrange
This not-to-be-avoided change
So as to change together:
But, had you asked me to allow
That you could ever grow
Less amiable than you are now,—
Emphatically—No.
To know how I shall really bear
This much-discussed rejection,
Behave, in best romances, when
You outrage their affection;—
With that gesticulatory woe,
By which, as melodramas show,
Despair is indicated;
Enforced by all the liquid grief
Which hugest pocket-handkerchief
Has ever simulated;
And when, arrived so far, you say
In tragic accents “Go,”
Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay,
And firmly answer—No
A GAGE D'AMOUR
------ miraris?”
You wonder what could scare me so,
And why, in this long-locked bureau,
With trembling fingers,—
With tragic air, I now replace
This ancient web of yellow lace,
Among whose faded folds the trace
Of perfume lingers.
I guess the train your thoughts pursue;
But this my state is nowise due
To indigestion;
I had forgotten it was there,
A scarf that Some-one used to wear.
Hinc illæ lacrimæ,—so spare
Your cynic question.
And wed long since. We meet and bow;
I don't suppose our broken vow
Affects us keenly;
Yet, trifling though my act appears,
Your Sternes would make it ground for tears;—
One can't disturb the dust of years,
And smile serenely.
For hers,—let them be sacred still;
But yet, I own, a boyish thrill
Went dancing through me,
Charles, when I held yon yellow lace;
For, from its dusty hiding-place,
Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face
That beckoned to me.
Like some old music-box that plays
Unfashionable airs that raise
Derisive pity;
Alas,—a nothing starts the spring;
And lo, the sentimental thing
At once commences quavering
Its lover's ditty.
The boy that was,—revived to see
The fresh young smile that shone when she,
Of old, was tender.
That mother you saw yesterday,—
And I, whom none can well portray,
As young, or slender.
Her pretty head, and stepping out
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout
Of childish pleasure.
Where we were bound no mortal knows,
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes,
And brought me blankly back to prose
And Gladstone's measure.
My brown old books around me wait,
My pipe still holds, unconfiscate,
Its wonted station.
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep
The bachelor's secluded sleep
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep,
I pour libation!
CUPID'S ALLEY
A MORALITY
Where Time plays the fiddle!
See the couples advance,—
O, Love's but a dance!
A whisper, a glance,—
“Shall we twirl down the middle?”
O, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
Across a smoky City;—
A Babel filled with buzz and whirr,
Huge, gloomy, black and gritty;
Dark-louring looks the hill-side near,
Dark-yawning looks the valley,—
But here 'tis always fresh and clear,
For here—is “Cupid's Alley.”
With aspect down the middle,
An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean,
Scrapes on an ancient fiddle;
Alert he seems, but aged enow
To punt the Stygian galley;—
With wisp of forelock on his brow,
He plays—in “Cupid's Alley.”
But, by the oddest chances,
Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon,
It suits all kinds of dances;
My Lord may walk a pas de Cour
To Jenny's pas de Chalet;—
The folks who ne'er have danced before,
Can dance—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Long, long before my ditty,
Came high and low, and young and old,
From out the crowded City;
And still to-day they come, they go,
And just as fancies tally,
They foot it quick, they foot it slow,
All day—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Here no distinction flatters,
Here Riches shakes its money-bags,
And Poverty its tatters;
Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law;—
Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet;
Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a',—
They bob—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Here capers Prudence thrifty;
Here Prodigal leads down the green
A blushing Maid of fifty;
And some but shilly-shally;
And some have danced without the ring
(Ah me!)—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And think of one behind her;
And one by one will stand, perchance,
Yet look all ways to find her;
Some seek a partner with a sigh,
Some win him with a sally;
And some, they know not how nor why,
Strange fate!—of “Cupid's Alley.”
Who came for half a minute;
And some, who like the game, will go
Before they well begin it;
And some will vow they're “danced to death,”
Who (somehow) always rally;
Strange cures are wrought (mine Author saith),
Strange cures!—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And dance no more to-morrow;
It may be one will steal away
And nurse a life-long sorrow;
What then? The rest advance evade,
Unite, dispart, and dally,
Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,
Not less—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And shuddering beams shall crumble;—
And till that Fiddler lean at last
From off his seat shall tumble;—
Till then (the Civic records say),
This quaint, fantastic ballet
Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay,
Must last—in “Cupid's Alley.”
THE IDYLL OF THE CARP
So that it lie in France, and have withal
Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees,
And Triton huge, with moss for coronal.
A Princess,—feeding fish. To her Denise.)
These, Denise, are my Suitors!
Denise.
Where?
The Princess.
These fish
I feed them daily here at morn and night
With crumbs of favour,—scraps of graciousness,
Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish,
But serving just to edge an appetite. (Throwing bread.)
Make haste, Messieurs! Make haste, then! Hurry. See,—
See how they swim! Would you not say, confess,
Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall,
When the King comes?
Denise.
You're jesting!
Not at all.
Watch but the great one yonder! There's the Duke;—
Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke;
Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings.
Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings;
Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air,
Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair?
You surely have, Denise.
Denise.
I think I have.
But there's another, older and more grave,—
The one that wears the round patch on the throat,
And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note?
The Princess.
Why that's my good chambellan—with his seal.
A kind old man!—he carves me orange-peel
In quaint devices at refection-hours,
Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers,
Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words,
Such as men loved when people wooed like birds
And spoke the true note first. No suitor he,
Yet loves me too,—though in a graybeard's key.
Look, Madam, look!—a fish without a stain!
O speckless, fleckless fish! Who is it, pray,
That bears him so discreetly?
The Princess.
Fontenay.
You know him not? My prince of shining locks!
My pearl!—My Phœnix!—my pomander-box!
He loves not Me, alas! The man's too vain!
He loves his doublet better than my suit,—
His graces than my favours. Still his sash
Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute
Not wholly out of tune—
Denise.
Ai! what a splash!
Who is it comes with such a sudden dash
Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear?
The Princess.
Ho! for a trumpet! Let the bells be rung!
Baron of Sans-terre, Lord of Prés-en-Cieux,
Vidame of Vol-au-Vent—“et aultres lieux!”
Bah! How I hate his Gasconading tongue!
Why, that's my bragging Bravo-Musketeer—
My carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar
Got in a brawl that stands for Spanish war:—
His very life's a splash!
I'd rather wear
E'en such a patched and melancholy air,
As his,—that motley one,—who keeps the wall,
And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival.
The Princess.
My frankest wooer! Thus his love he tells
To mournful moving of his cap and bells.
He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free,—
As Cowards War,—as young Maids Constancy.
Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove;
He loves me as the Inquisition Thought;—
Denise.
“He loves?—he loves?” Why all this loving's naught!
The Princess.
And “Naught (quoth Jacquot) makes the sum of Love!”
Denise.
The cynic knave! How call you this one here?—
This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near,
And circles, like a cat around a cage,
To snatch the surplus.
Chérubin, the page.
Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile,
And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache
Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile,
He lives to plague the swans upon the lake,
To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake.
Denise.
And these—that swim aside—who may these be?
The Princess.
Those—are two gentlemen of Picardy.
Equal in blood,—of equal bravery:—
Moreuil and Montcornet. They hunt in pair;
I mete them morsels with an equal care,
Lest they should eat each other,—or eat Me.
Denise.
And that—and that—and that?
The Princess.
I name them not
Those are the crowd who merely think their lot
The lighter by my land.
And is there none
More prized than most? There surely must be one,—
A Carp of carps!
The Princess.
Ah me!—he will not come!
He swims at large,—looks shyly on,—is dumb.
Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble,
But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble,
Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble,
Slips smartly in,—and gets the proffered crumb.
He should have all my crumbs—if he'd but ask;
Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task
To gain a something more. But though he's brave,
He's far too proud to be a dangling slave;
And then—he's modest! So . . . he will not come!
THE SUNDIAL
In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;
Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row:
I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone;
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.
Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone,
Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.
There came a second lady to the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale—
An inner beauty shining from her face.
Straying among the alleys with a book,—
Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.
Of some dread secret half-accounted true,—
Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,—
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;
And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.
There came a soldier gallant in her stead,
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;
So kindly fronted that you marvel how
The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge
And standing somewhat widely, like to one
More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe
Took out the note; held it as one who feared
The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way,
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.
There came no more nor dame nor cavalier;
But for a little time the brass will show
A small gray spot—the record of a tear.
AN UNFINISHED SONG
The year could not renew him; nor the cry
Of building nightingales about the nest;
Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh
Between the ampler leafage of the trees:
All these he knew not, lying open-eyed,
Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease,
His wife she was—whose clicking needles sped
To faded phrases of complaint that balked
My rising words of comfort. Overhead,
Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped.
Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars,
Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped.
“That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before
He left the doorway settle for his bed,
Sick as you see, and couldn't teach him more.
Following the light, and whiles when it was dark
And days were warm, he'd sit there whistling still,
Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark.”
Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began;
The woman turned again to want and wage,
And in the inner chamber sighed the man.
My fancies wandered from the droning wife
To sad comparison of man and bird,—
The broken song, the uncompleted life,
My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest,
That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew,
Without desire or knowledge of the rest.
Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise
Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He,
Solver of all, above his Flower of Days,
Let the man die, with that half-chant of his,—
What Now discovers not Hereafter shows,
And God will surely teach him more than this.
But Time and Death, Eternity and Change,
Talked with me ever, and the climbing song
Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange.
THE CHILD-MUSICIAN
These verses originated in an “American story” told me
orally by a friend who had found it copied into some English
paper. I “romanced” it after my own fashion. After it
was published, by the courtesy of one of the most graceful
and finished of Trans-Atlantic poets, I was furnished with a
more accurate version of the facts. Those who wish to read
the true and authentic story of poor little James Speaight
must do so in the pathetic prose setting of Mr. Thomas
Bailey Aldrich.
These verses originated in an “American story” told me orally by a friend who had found it copied into some English paper. I “romanced” it after my own fashion. After it was published, by the courtesy of one of the most graceful and finished of Trans-Atlantic poets, I was furnished with a more accurate version of the facts. Those who wish to read the true and authentic story of poor little James Speaight must do so in the pathetic prose setting of Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
He had played for her ladyship's whim,
Till the poor little head was heavy,
And the poor little brain would swim.
And the large eyes strange and bright,
And they said—too late—“He is weary!
He shall rest for, at least, To-night!”
As they watched in the silent room,
With the sound of a strained cord breaking,
A something snapped in the gloom.
And they heard him stir in his bed:—
“Make room for a tired little fellow,
Kind God!—” was the last that he said.
THE CRADLE
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest . . .
Her coffin was his bed.
BEFORE SEDAN
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies
'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim;—
Throw the earth over him.
There, at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died;—
Message or wish, may be;—
Smooth the folds out and see.
Here could have smiled!—
Only the tremulous
Words of a child;—
Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.
Morning and night,
His—her dead father's—kiss;
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. “Marguerite.”
Slumbered the pain!
Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
If the grief died;—But no;—
Death will not have it so.
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's “love or pride,”
And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,—
You came upon it—suddenly.
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”
Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven”
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read—O Irony austere!—
“Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.’
MY LANDLADY
“Yes,” so she says, “and younger, too, than some,”
Who bids me, bustling, “God speed,” when I go,
And gives me, rustling, “Welcome,” when I come.
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit—
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.”
Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays—
A life's collection—where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,
With yellow writing faded underneath.
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired. “Yes, 'tis my son!”
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head—my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly;—he was left.
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,—though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.
Or would have brought—my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent—they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, who have much work to do;—
Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!”
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
Not I who write, for certain;
If praise be due, one sure prefers
That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?
And where the crafty Cousin?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?
The plush-clad carpet lifters?—
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The “supers” and the shifters?
Unsung,—unpraised,—unpitied;
Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,
The Great unBenefit-ed!
I leave you this for Moral:—
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!
A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS
More bent with pain than age;
The mother with her lines of care;
The many-buttoned page;
With straggling train of three;
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid;—
All, curious, paused to see,
That from the almond bough,
Had poured the joyous chant they heard,
So suddenly, but now.
How many a lonely lay
That bird had sung ere fortune brought
It near the common way,
What birds must sing the song,
To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!
“'Tis still the Nightingale,
That sings where no men's feet will tread
And praise and audience fail.”
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES
A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS
By vale and hill,
By wind-flower walking
And daffodil,—
Sing stars of morning,
Sing morning skies,
Sing blue of speedwell,—
And my Love's eyes.
Full-leaved and strong,
And gay birds gossip
The orchard long,—
Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses,—
And my Love's lips.
The leaves again,
And piled sheaves bury
The broad-wheeled wain,—
Sing flutes of harvest
Where men rejoice;
Sing rounds of reapers,—
And my Love's voice.
With hail and storm,
And red fire roaring
And ingle warm,—
Sing first sad going
Of friends that part;
Then sing glad meeting,—
And my Love's heart.
THE PARADOX OF TIME
(A VARIATION ON RONSARD)
Las! le temps non: mais nous nous en allons!”
Alas, Time stays, we go;
Or else, were this not so,
What need to chain the hours,
For Youth were always ours?
Time goes, you say?—ah no!
Of men whose flying feet
Lead through some landscape low;
We pass, and think we see
The earth's fixed surface flee:—
Alas, Time stays,—we go!
Your locks were curling gold,
And mine had shamed the crow.
Now, in the self-same stage,
We've reached the silver age;
Time goes, you say?—ah no!
I filled the woods with song
To praise your “rose” and “snow”
My bird, that sang, is dead;
Where are your roses fled?
Alas, Time stays,—we go!
What backward Fate delays
The hopes we used to know;
Where are our old desires?—
Ah, where those vanished fires?
Time goes, you say?—ah no!
The past behind our feet
Lies in the even-glow!
Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands, and pray;
Alas, Time stays,—we go!
TO A GREEK GIRL
Across the years you seem to come,—
Across the years with nymph-like head,
And wind-blown brows unfilleted;
A girlish shape that slips the bud
In lines of unspoiled symmetry;
A girlish shape that stirs the blood
With pulse of Spring, Autonoë!
I hear the pebbly rillet flow;
Where'er you go,—where'er you pass,
There comes a gladness on the grass;
You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,—
Blithe airs that blow from down and sea;
You wake in me a Pan not dead,—
Not wholly dead!—Autonoë!
To wreathe the rustic garden-god;
How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade
With you to weave a basket-braid;
Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee;
To woo you in soft woodland words,
With woodland pipe, Autonoë!
Where Thamis rolls a murky tide,
I sit and fill my painful reams,
And see you only in my dreams;—
A vision, like Alcestis, brought
From under-lands of Memory,—
A dream of Form in days of Thought,—
A dream,—a dream, Autonoë!
THE DEATH OF PROCRIS
A VERSION SUGGESTED BY THE SO-NAMED PICTURE OF PIERO DI COSIMO, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY
He, till the spring had warmed to slow-winged days
Heavy with June, untired and amorous,
Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways,
His heart was gone; and evermore his gaze
Turned from her own, and ever farther ranged
His woodland war; while she, in dull amaze,
Beholding with the hours her husband changed,
Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged.
Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade
Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot
Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade;
Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid
Her crimson weed; with faltering fingers made
Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past
Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast.
And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim,
For ever, as the ivory bow she drew,
Before her ran the still unwounded game.
Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came,
And, lo, a hart that panted with the chase;
Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame,
And swift she gat her to a leafy place,
Thinking, “I yet may chance unseen to see his face.”
Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare,
Supple he was, round-limbed and vigorous,
Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair.
He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair
Move in the covert, deeming that apart
Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there;
Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart,
Bounding above the fern, fast following up the hart.
Shot in the throat. From out the little wound
The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers
Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground.
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear,
Till, at the dawn, the hornèd woodmen found
And bore her gently on a sylvan bier,
To lie beside the sea,—with many an uncouth tear.
THE PRAYER OF THE SWINE TO CIRCE
With hoofs fresh sullied from the troughs o'er-turned,—
With wrinkling snouts,—yet eyes in which desire
Of some strange thing unutterably burned,
Unquenchable; and still where'er She turned
They rose about her, striving each o'er each,
With restless, fierce impórtuning that yearned
Through those brute masks some piteous tale to teach,
Yet lacked the words thereto, denied the power of speech.
In truth, that small exploring band had been,
Whom wise Odysseus, dim precaution shaping,
Ever at heart, of peril unforeseen,
Had sent inland;—whom then the islet-Queen,—
The fair disastrous daughter of the Sun,—
Had turned to likeness of the beast unclean,
With evil wand transforming one by one
To shapes of loathly swine, imbruted and undone
Made hungry suppliance through the fire-red eyes;
Still searching aye, with impotent endeavour,
To find, if yet, in any look, there lies
A saving hope, or if they might surprise
In that cold face soft pity's spark concealed,
Which she, still scorning, evermore denies;
Nor was there in her any ruth revealed
To whom with such mute speech and dumb words they appealed.
After much war, and many travails done?—
Ah, kinder far than thy fell philtres, Circe,
The ravening Cyclops and the Lœstrigon!
And O, thrice cursèd be Laertes' son,
By whom, at last, we watch the days decline
With no fair ending of the quest begun,
Condemned in sties to weary and to pine,
And with men's hearts to beat through this foul front of swine!
The old green glamour of the glancing sea;
For us not now the laughter of the oar,—
The strong-ribbed keel wherein our comrades be;
Not now, at even, any more shall we,
Watch the beast hurry and the wild fowl flee;
Or steering shoreward, in the upland spaces
Have sight of curling smoke and fair-skinned foreign faces.
We left afore-time, cheerless must abide;
Cheerless the hearth where now no guest carouses,—
No minstrel raises song at eventide;
And O, more cheerless than aught else beside,
The wistful hearts with heavy longing full;—
The wife that watched us on the waning tide,—
The sire whose eyes with weariness are dull,—
The mother whose slow tears fall on the carded wool.
Daughter of Persé, make us swine indeed,
Well pleased on litter-straw to lie supine,—
Well pleased on mast and acorn-shales to feed,
Stirred by all instincts of the bestial breed;
But O Unmerciful! O Pitiless!
Leave us not thus with sick men's hearts to bleed!—
To waste long days in yearning, dumb distress,
And memory of things gone, and utter hopelessness!
At least consentient to the thing we be;
Not hapless doomed to loathe the forms we bear,
And senseful roll in senseless savagery;
For surely cursed above all cursed are we,
To feel the old aspirings fair and free,
Become blind motions of a powerless will
Through swine-like frames dispersed to swine-like issues still.
Yea, make us men, Enchantress, and restore
These grovelling shapes, degraded and debased,
To fair embodiments of men once more;
Yea, by all men that ever woman bore;
Yea, e'en by him hereafter born in pain,
Shall draw sustainment from thy bosom's core,
O'er whom thy face yet kindly shall remain,
And find its like therein,—make thou us men again!
That dark Hereafter which th' Olympians keep;
Make thou us men again,—if men but hoping
Behind death's doors security of sleep;—
For yet to laugh is somewhat, and to weep;—
To feel delight of living, and to plough
The salt-blown acres of the shoreless deep;
Better,—yea better far all these than bow
Foul faces to foul earth, and yearn—as we do now!
The fair-tressed Goddess, born to be their bane,
Uplifting straight her wand of ivory,
Compelled them groaning to the sties again;
To rend the oaken woodwork as before,
And tear the troughs in impotence of pain,—
Not knowing, they, that even at the door
Divine Odysseus stood,—as Hermes told of yore.
A CASE OF CAMEOS
AGATE.
(The Power of Love.)
First, in an Agate-stone, a Centaur strong,With square man-breasts and hide of dapple dun,
His brown arms bound behind him with a thong,
On strained croup strove to free himself from one,—
A bolder rider than Bellerophon.
For, on his back, by some strange power of art,
There sat a laughing Boy with bow and dart,
Who drave him where he would, and driving him,
With that barbed toy would make him rear and start.
To this was writ “World-victor” on the rim.
CHALCEDONY.
(The Thefts of Mercury.)
The next in legend bade “Beware of show!”'Twas graven this on pale Chalcedony.
Here great Apollo, with unbended bow,
His quiver hard by on a laurel tree,
For some new theft was rating Mercury.
As daring not, for utter guiltiness,
To meet that angry voice and aspect joined.
His very heel-wings drooped; but yet, not less,
His backward hand the Sun-God's shafts purloined.
SARDONYX.
(The Song of Orpheus.)
Then, on a Sardonyx, the man of Thrace,The voice supreme that through Hell's portals stole,
With carved white lyre and glorious song-lit face,
(Too soon, alas! on Hebrus' wave to roll!)
Played to the beasts, from a great elm-tree bole.
And lo! with half-shut eyes the leopard spread
His lissome length; and deer with gentle tread
Came through the trees; and, from a nearer spring,
The prick-eared rabbit paused; while overhead
The stock-dove drifted downward, fluttering.
AMETHYST.
(The Crowning of Silenus.)
Next came an Amethyst,—the grape in hue.On a mock throne, by fresh excess disgraced,
With heavy head, and thyrsus held askew,
The Youths, in scorn, had dull Silenus placed,
And o'er him “King of Topers” they had traced.
With wine-bag cheeks that bulged upon his breast,
And vat-like paunch distent from his carouse.
Meanwhile, his ass, by no respect represt,
Munched at the wreath upon her Master's brows.
BERYL.
(The Sirens.)
Lastly, with “Pleasure” was a Beryl graven,Clear-hued, divine. Thereon the Sirens sung.
What time, beneath, by rough rock-bases caven,
And jaw-like rifts where many a green bone clung
The strong flood-tide, in-rushing, coiled and swung.
Then,—in the offing,—on the lift of the sea,
A tall ship drawing shoreward—helplessly.
For, from the prow, e'en now the rowers leap
Headlong, nor seek from that sweet fate to flee . . .
Ah me, those Women-witches of the Deep!
LOVE'S QUEST
(FOR A MURAL PAINTING)
Whenas the watches of the night had grownTo that deep loneliness where dreams begin,
I saw how Love, with visage worn and thin,—
With wings close-bound, went through a town alone.
Death-pale he showed, and inly seemed to moan
With sore desire some dolorous place to win;
Sharp brambles passed had streaked his dazzling skin,—
His bright feet eke were gashed with many a stone.
And, as he went, I, sad for piteousness,
Might see how men from door and gate would move
To stay his steps; or womankind would press,
With wistful eyes, to balconies above,
And bid him enter in. But Love not less,
Mournful, kept on his way. Ah! hapless Love.
THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS
Ægrotus.Spring,—art thou come, O Spring!
I am too sick for words;
How hast thou heart to sing,
O Spring, with all thy birds?
Merula.
I sing for joy to see again
The merry leaves along the lane,
The little bud grown ripe;
And look, my love upon the bough!
Hark, how she calleth to me now,—
“Pipe! pipe!”
Ægrotus.
Ah! weary is the sun:
Love is an idle thing;
But, Bird, thou restless one,
What ails thee, wandering?
By shore and sea I come and go
To seek I know not what; and lo!
On no man's eaves I sit,
But voices bid me rise once more,
To flit again by sea and shore,—
Flit! flit!
Ægrotus.
This is Earth's bitter cup:—
Only to seek, not know.
But Thou, that strivest up,
Why dost thou carol so?
Alauda.
A secret Spirit gifteth me
With song, and wing that lifteth me,—
A Spirit for whose sake,
Striving amain to reach the sky,
Still to the old dark earth I cry,—
“Wake! wake!
Ægrotus.
My hope hath lost its wing.
Thou, that to Night dost call,
How hast thou heart to sing
Thy tears made musical?
Alas for me! a dry desire
Is all my song,—a waste of fire
That will not fade nor fail;
To me, dim shapes of ancient crime
Moan through the windy ways of time,
“Wail! wail!”
Ægrotus.
This is the sick man's song,—
Mournful, in sooth, and fit;
Unrest that cries “How long!”—
And the Night answers it.
A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA
Gay as a banner,
Spake to her mate the Rose
After this manner:—
“We are the first of flowers,
Plain-land or hilly,
All reds and whites are ours,
Are they not, Lily?”
“Watch ye my Lady
Gone to the leafy brake,
Silent and shady;
When I am near to her,
Lily, she knows;
How I am dear to her,
Look to it, Rose.”
Paler for pride,
Down where the Violet drooped,
Shy, at her side:—
Where has the summer kist
Flowers of as fair a hue,—
Turkis or Amethyst?”
Spake on this wise,
“O little flowers so proud,
Have ye seen eyes
Change through the blue in them,—
Change till the mere
Loving that grew in them
Turned to a tear?
Delicate, sweet;
Flowers, and the sight of you
Lightens men's feet;
Yea, but her worth to me,
Flowerets, even,
Sweetening the earth to me,
Sweeteneth heaven.
God, when He made ye,
Made yet a fairer thing
Making my Lady;—
Fashioned her tenderly,
Giving all weal to her;—
Girdle ye slenderly,
Go to her, kneel to her,—
He the most dutiful,
Meetly he endeth us,
Maiden most beautiful!
Let us get rest of you,
Sweet, in your breast;—
Die, being prest of you.
Die, being blest.’”
A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN
Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat
Of her young bosom under you,—
Now will I show you such a thing
As never, through thick buds of Spring,
Betwixt the daylight and the dew,
The Bird whose being no man knows—
The voice that waketh all night through—
Tells to the Rose.
Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound,
Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous;
And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit
Tall knights and silken maids, or sit
With faces bent and amorous;—
There, in the heart thereof, and crowned
With woodbine and amaracus,
My Love I found.
My heart leapt up for joy of this!—
Then when I called to her her name,—
Men's lips remember, murmuring,
At once across the sward she came,—
Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid,
And askèd ever as she came,
“Where hast thou stayed?”
The long years were an hour ago;
But I spake not, nor answerèd,
For, looking in her eyes, I saw,
A light not lit of mortal law;
And in her clear cheek's changeless red,
And sweet, unshaken speaking found
That in this place the Hours were dead,
And Time was bound.
O Love, that thou art come to me,
To this green garden glorious;
Now truly shall our life be sped
In joyance and all goodlihed,
For here all things are fair to us,
And none with burden is oppressed,
And none is poor or piteous,—
For here is Rest.
Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye,
By shrouded shapes of Yesterday;
The flawless life hangs fixen fast
In one unwearying To-Day,
That darkens not; for Sin is shriven,
Death from the doors is thrust away,
And here is Heaven.”
Her fair head like a flower-cup,
With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow;
Then set I lips to hers, and felt,—
Ah, me!—the hard pain fade and melt,
And past things change to painted show;
The song of quiring birds outbroke;
The lit leaves laughed,—sky shook, and lo,
I swooned,—and woke.
—Ye that indeed are dead,—
Now for all waiting hours,
Well am I comforted;
For of a surety, now, I see,
That, without dim distress
Of tears, or weariness,
My Lady, verily, awaiteth me;
So that until with Her I be,
For my dear Lady's sake
I am right fain to make
Out from my pain a pillow, and to take
Knowing that I, at last, shall stand
In that green garden-land,
And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand,
Forget the grieving and the misery.
ANDRÉ LE CHAPELAIN
HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS
Et ne le sçaurois jamais estre;
Mon beau printemps et mon esté
Ont fait le saut par la fenestre.”
To tend thy sacred fire,
With service bitter-sweet
Nor youths nor maidens tire;—
Goddess, whose bounties be
Large as the un-oared sea;—
First stirred his stammering tongue
In the world's youngest morn,
When the first daisies sprung:—
Whose last, when Time shall die,
In the same grave shall lie:—
Must I, thy Bard, grow old,
Bent, with the temples frore,
Not jocund be nor bold
To tune for folk in May
Ballad and virelay?
“Behold his verse doth dote,—
Leave thou Love's lute to scrape,
And tune thy wrinkled throat
To songs of ‘Flesh is Grass,’”—
Shall they cry thus and pass?
“Beshrew the grey-beard's tune!—
What ails his minstrelsy
To sing us snow in June!”
Shall they too laugh, and fleet
Far in the sun-warmed street?
Upon thy wooded hill,
With ineffectual light
The wan sun seeketh still;—
Woman, whose tears are dried,
Hardly, for Adon's side,—
Withhold not all thy sweets;
Must I thy gifts resign
For Love's mere broken meats;
That was thine Almoner?
That, in full many a cause,
Have scrolled thy just appeal?
Have I not writ thy Laws?
That none from Love shall take
Save but for Love's sweet sake;—
To Love of Love's fair dues;—
That none dear Love shall scoff
Or deem foul shame thereof;—
That none shall traitor be
To Love's own secrecy;—
Debarred thy listed sports,
Let me at least be seen
An usher in thy courts,
Outworn, but still indued
With badge of servitude.
As one who treads on air,
To string-notes soft and slow,
By maids found sweet and fair—
When I no more may be
Of Love's blithe company;—
Within thine own pleasance,
To weave, in sentence fit,
Thy golden dalliance;
When other hands than these
Record thy soft decrees;—
About thine outer wall,
To tell thy pleasuring,
Thy mirth, thy festival;
Yea, let my swan-song be
Thy grace, thy sanctity.
But One, that writeth, saith—
Betwixt his stricken chords
He heard the Wheels of Death
And knew the fruits Love bare
But Dead-Sea apples were.]
THE DYING OF TANNEGUY DU BOIS
No hay pájaros hogaño.
—Spanish Proverb.
Nor helps me herb, nor any leechraft here,
But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss,
And witness ye, I go without a fear.
Yea, I am sped, and never more shall see,
As once I dreamed, the show of shield and crest,
Gone southward to the fighting by the sea;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!
Grown faint and unremembered; voices call
High up, like misty warders dimly seen
Moving at morn on some Burgundian wall;
And all things swim—as when the charger stands
Quivering between the knees, and East and West
Are filled with flash of scarves and waving hands;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!
My wife Giselle,—who never spoke a word,
Although I knew her mouth was drawn with pain,
Her eyelids hung with tears; and though I heard
The strong sob shake her throat, and saw the cord
Her necklace made about it;—she that prest
To watch me trotting till I reached the ford;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!
Should watch me from the little-lit tourelle,
Me, coming riding by the windy lea—
Me, coming back again to her, Giselle;
Yea, I had hoped once more to hear him call,
The curly-pate, who, rushen lance in rest,
Stormed at the lilies by the orchard wall;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!
This Death will come, and whom he loves he cleaves
Sheer through the steel and leather; hating whom
He smites in shameful wise behind the greaves.
'Tis a fair time with Dennis and the Saints,
And weary work to age, and want for rest,
When harness groweth heavy, and one faints,
With no bird left in any last year's nest!
Broken in Christ's sweet hand, with whom shall rest
To keep me living, now that I must die;—
There is no bird in any last year's nest!
PALOMYDES
Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,—
The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad
Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,
Nor joy he had.
And riding ever through a lonely world,
Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,
Against the danger desperately hurled,
Crying her name.
Methinks, am come unto so high a place,
That though from hence I can but vainly yearn
For that averted favour of your face,
I shall not turn.
To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,
Towards the mountain tops I still shall ride,
And cry your name in my extremity,
As Palomyde,
No gift of grace, no pity made complete,
After much labour done,—much war with woes?
Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;—
Ah, Death—who knows?
THE MOSQUE OF THE CALIPH
“Now hearken and hear, I am weary, by Allah!
I am faint with the mere over-running of leisure;
I will rouse me and rear up a palace to Pleasure!”
“All faces grow pale if my Lord draweth near;
And the breath of his mouth not a mortal shall scoff it;—
They must bend and obey, by the beard of the Prophet!”
Drew his hand down his beard as he thought of his greatness;
Drained out the last bead of the wine in the chalice:
“I have spoken, O Seyd; I will build it, my palace!
As a gem from the mine, O my Seyd, I will build it;
Without price, without flaw, it shall stand for a token
That the word is a law which the Caliph hath spoken!”
“Who shall reason or rail if my Lord speaketh clear?
Who shall strive with his might? Let my Lord live for ever!
He shall choose him a site by the side of the river.”
To the South, to the North,—for the skilfullest freemen;
And soon, in a close, where the river breeze fanned it,
The basement uprose, as the Caliph had planned it.
And the butments and set-stones were shapen and knitted,
When lo! on a sudden the Caliph heard frowning,
That the river had swelled, and the workmen were drowning.
He sent forth his word from Teheran to Shiraz;
And the workmen came new, and the palace, built faster,
From the bases up-grew unto arch and pilaster.
When lo! in hot haste there came flying a mason,
For a cupola fallen had whelmed half the work-men;
And Hamet the chief had been slain by the Turc'-men.
Once more his scouts whirled from the Tell to the Hedjaz;
“Is my word not my word?” cried the Caliph Abdallah;
“I will build it up yet . . . by the aiding of Allah!”
Yet he felt as he spoke that a something stole o'er him;
And his soul grew as glass, and his anger passed from it
As the vapours that pass from the Pool of Mahomet.
Like a fountain it sprang when the sources feed stronger;
Shaft, turret, and spire leaped upward, diminished,
Like the flames of a fire,—till the palace was finished!
Like a diadem dropped from an emperor's treasure;
And the dome of pearl white and the pinnacles fleckless,
Flashed back to the light, like the gems in a necklace.
And he said in his pride, “Is my palace not builded?
Who is more great than I that his word can avail if
My will is my will,”—said Abdallah the Caliph.
For an earthquake had shattered the whole ere the morning;
Of the pearl-coloured dome there was left but a ruin,—
But an arch as a home for the ring-dove to coo in.
And the soul of the Caliph within him was humbled;
And he bowed in the dust:—“There is none great but Allah!
I will build Him a Mosque,”—said the Caliph Abdallah.
But the Mosque that he builded shines still by the river;
And the pilgrims up-stream to this day slacken sail if
They catch the first gleam of the “Mosque of the Caliph.”
IN THE BELFRY
WRITTEN UNDER RETHEL'S “DEATH, THE FRIEND”
Somewhere the birds seem singing still,
Though surely now the sun has set.
He must have climbed the parapet.
Did I not bar the belfry door?
That wont to pray with me of yore?
No,—for the monk was not so lean.
Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien
And tolls a knell.—This shape is Death!
How strangely now I draw my breath!
What is this haze of light I see? . . .
ARS VICTRIX
(IMITATED FROM THÉOPHILE GAUTIER)
When the hard means rebel,
Fairer the work out-grows,—
More potent far the spell.
The loosely sandalled verse,
Choose rather thou to wear
The buskin—strait and terse;
The limp and shapeless style,
See that thy form demand
The labour of the file.
The yielding clay,—consign
To Paros marble hard
The beauty of thy line;—
For bronze of Syracuse;
In the veined agate trace
The profile of thy Muse.
But transient tints anew,
Thou in the furnace fix
The firm enamel's hue;
Thy dove-drawn Erycine;
Thy Sirens blue at eve
Coiled in a wash of wine.
Enduring stays to us;
The Bust outlasts the throne,—
The Coin, Tiberius;
Only the lofty Rhyme
Not countless years o'erthrow,—
Not long array of time.
But, that the work surpass,
With the hard fashion fight,—
With the resisting mass.
AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE
[“At the Sign of the Lyre,”]
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire—
And we hope to content you!
The fruits of our leisure,
Some short and some long,—
May they all give you pleasure!
They should fail to restore you,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
They're painted to the eyes,
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you—for seconds;
They frown on you—for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true—and mine.
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR
Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?”
—Bramston's “Art of Politicks.”
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!
For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair!
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!
A friendly but anonymous critic, whose versatile pen it is, nevertheless, not easy to mistake, recalls, à-propos of the above, the following passage from Molière, which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:—
I. Porteur(prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise).
Çà, payez-nous vitement!
Mascarille.
Quoi?
I. Porteur.
Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout à l'heure.
Mascarille.
Il est raisonnable, celui-là, &c.
—Les Précieuses Ridicules, Sc. vii.
It has waited by Heidegger's “Grand Masquerade”;
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—“With Care,”—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY
The meanest thing upon its upward way.”
Five Rules of Buddha
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of “blind Mæonides”—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One
Let not thy garish wing
Come fluttering our Autumn lives
With truant dreams of Spring!
Away! Reseek thy “Flowery Land”;
Be Buddha's law obeyed;
Lest Betty's undiscerning hand
Should slay . . . a future Praed!
THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS
Comes with his kind old face,—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
And the tiny “Hôtel-de-Ville”;
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the “Belle Thérèse,”
As she knits in her dusky stall
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a “Ma foi, oui!”
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
To the furrier's daughter Lou.;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a “Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!”
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock “off-hat” to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:—
With a smile on his kind old face—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair
And his green umbrella-case.
THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS
(FOR A FRESCO)
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.
Blithe,—a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;—
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,—
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,—
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.
Blinded in a whirl of leaf,
Worn of want and travel-tattered,—
Next November, limping, battered.
Now the goodly ships are shattered,
Far at sea, on rock and reef.
Cowled for age, in ashen gray;
Fading like a fading ember,—
Last of all the shrunk December.
Him regarding, men remember
Life and joy must pass away.
TWO SERMONS
That hides the “Strangers'’ Pew,”
I hear the gray-haired Vicar pass
From Section One to Two.
Whene'er I chance to look—
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them—in a book.
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray—to her?
I hear your precepts tried;
Must I confess I also hear
A sermon at my side?
This impulse prompting me
Within my secret self to kneel
To Faith,—to Purity!
“AU REVOIR”
A Dramatic Vignette
Scene.—The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders.Monsieur Jolicœur. A Lady (unknown).
M. Jolicœur.
'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,—and tall:
A charming figure, above all!
This promises.—Ahem!
The Lady.
Monsieur?
Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name
Is Jolicœur? . . .
M. Jolicœur.
Madame, the same.
And Monsieur's goodness has to say? . . .
Your note? . . .
M. Jolicœur.
Your note.
The Lady.
Forgive me.—Nay. (Reads)
“If Madame [I omit] will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Madame—possibly—may hear
News of her Spaniel. Jolicœur.”
Monsieur denies his note?
M. Jolicœur.
I do.
Now let me read the one from you.
“If Monsieur Jolicœur will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Monsieur—possibly—may meet
An old Acquaintance. ‘ Indiscreet .”
The Lady
(scandalized).
Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true.
I never met Monsieur. And you?
(with gallantry).
Have lived in vain till now. But see:
We are observed.
The Lady
(looking round).
I comprehend . . . (After a pause.)
Monsieur, malicious brains combine
For your discomfiture, and mine.
Let us defeat that ill design.
If Monsieur but . . .
(hesitating).
M. Jolicœur
(bowing).
Rely on me.
The Lady
(still hesitating).
Monsieur, I know, will understand.
M. Jolicœur.
Madame, I wait but your command.
The Lady.
You are too good. Then condescend
At once to be a new-found Friend!
(entering upon the part forthwith)
How? I am charmed,—enchanted. Ah!
What ages since we met . . . at Spa?
The Lady
(a little disconcerted).
At Ems, I think. Monsieur, maybe,
Will recollect the Orangery?
M. Jolicœur.
At Ems, of course. But Madame's face
Might make one well forget a place.
The Lady.
It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls
The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?
M. Jolicœur.
Assuredly. Though there again
'Tis Madame's image I retain.
The Lady.
Monsieur is skilled in . . . repartee.
(How do they take it?—Can you see?)
M. Jolicœur.
Nay,—Madame furnishes the wit.
(They don't know what to make of it!)
And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came? . .
That clever . . . I forget the name.
M. Jolicœur.
The Baron? . . . It escapes me, too.
'Twas doubtless he that Madame knew?
The Lady
(archly).
Precisely. But, my carriage waits.
Monsieur will see me to the gates?
M. Jolicœur
(offering his arm).
I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem
Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.) (Aside)
(Who is she? I must find that out.)
—And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?
The Lady
(off her guard).
Monsieur de Beau—? . . . He died at Dôle!
M. Jolicœur.
How fortunate! Beau-pré?—Beau-vau?
Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)
—Madame, your enemies retreat
With all the honours of . . . defeat.
Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown
A skill Préville could not disown.
M. Jolicœur.
You flatter me. We need no skill
To act so nearly what we will.
Nay,—what may come to pass, if Fate
And Madame bid me cultivate . . .
The Lady
(anticipating).
Alas!—no farther than the gate.
Monsieur, besides, is too polite
To profit by a jest so slight.
M. Jolicœur.
Distinctly. Still, I did but glance
At possibilities . . . of Chance.
The Lady.
Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear,
Beyond the little grating here.
M. Jolicœur
(aside).
Piano, sano.)
You coachman? . . . Can I? . . .
The Lady
(smiling).
Thanks! he knows.
Thanks! Thanks!
M. Jolicœur
(insidiously).
And shall we not renew
Our . . . “Ems acquaintanceship”?
The Lady
(still smiling).
Adieu!
My thanks instead!
M. Jolicœur
(with pathos).
It is too hard! (Laying his hand on the grating.)
To find one's Paradise is barred!!
The Lady.
Nay.—“Virtue is her own Reward!”
[Exit.
M. Jolicœur
(solus).
But that's a detail!
THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH
Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least
We place it there because we fear
To bring its parable too near,
And seem to touch with impious hand
Our dear, confiding native land.)
He went about his vagrant ways,
And prowled at eve for good or bad
In lanes and alleys of Bagdad,
Once found, at edge of the bazaar,
E'en where the poorest workers are,
A Carver.
With mysteries of inlaced design,
And shapes of shut significance
To aught but an anointed glance,—
The dreams and visions that grow plain
In darkened chambers of the brain.
And all day busily he wrought
From dawn to eve, but no one bought;—
Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant,
Would pause awhile,—depreciate,—
Then buy a month's work by the weight,
Bearing it swiftly over seas
To garnish rich men's treasuries.
So lay he sullen in his stall.
Him thus withdrawn the Caliph found,
And smote his staff upon the ground—
“Ho, there, within? Hast wares to sell?
Or slumber'st, having dined too well?”
“‘Dined,’” quoth the man, with angry eyes,
“How should I dine when no one buys?”
“Nay,” said the other, answering low,—
“Nay, I but jested. Is it so?
Take then this coin, . . . but take beside
A counsel, friend, thou hast not tried.
This craft of thine, the mart to suit,
Is too refined,—remote,—minute;
These small conceptions can but fail;
'Twere best to work on larger scale,
And rather choose such themes as wear
More of the earth and less of air:
The fisherman that hauls his net,—
The merchants in the market set,—
The couriers posting in the street,—
The gossips as they pass and greet,—
These—these are clear to all men's eyes,
Therefore with these they sympathize.
Further (neglect not this advice!)
Be sure to ask three times the price.”
He knew 'twas truth the Caliph said.
From that day forth his work was planned
So that the world might understand.
He carved it deeper, and more plain;
He carved it thrice as large again;
He sold it, too, for thrice the cost;
—Ah, but the Artist that was lost!
TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM
We might perchance more boldly
Define the patient weariness
That sets your lips so coldly;
You “lived,” we know, for blame and fame;
But sure, to friend or foeman,
You bore some more distinctive name
Than mere “B. C.,”—and “Roman”?
Thereon your acts, your title,
(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)
Had doubtless due recital;
Vain hope!—not even deeds can last!
That stone, of which you're minus,
Maybe with all your virtues past
Endows . . . a Tigellinus!
But still, it needs no magic
To tell you wore, like most mankind,
Your comic mask and tragic;
Felt angry or forgiving,
As step by step you stumbled through
This life-long task . . . of living!
The montagne Russe of Pleasure;
You found the best Ambition brought
Was strangely short of measure;
You watched, at last, the fleet days fly,
Till—drowsier and colder—
You felt Mercurius loitering by
To touch you on the shoulder.
That howso Time should garble
Those deeds of yours when you were dumb,
At least you'd live—in Marble;
You smiled to think that after days,
At least, in Bust or Statue,
(We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze,
Not quite incurious, at you.
In truth, Death's worst inaction
Must be less tedious to endure
Than nameless petrifaction;
Far better, in some nook unknown,
To sleep for once—and soundly—
Than still survive in wistful stone,
Forgotten more profoundly!
MOLLY TREFUSIS
The epigram here quoted from an “old magazine” is to
be found in Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, The
Greek Anthology (Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English
Readers). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature
will recognise in the succeeding verses but another echo of
those lively stanzas of John Gay to “Molly Mog” of the
Rose Inn at Wokingham, which, in their own day, found so
many imitators.
The epigram here quoted from an “old magazine” is to be found in Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, The Greek Anthology (Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English Readers). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature will recognise in the succeeding verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to “Molly Mog” of the Rose Inn at Wokingham, which, in their own day, found so many imitators.
And ten is the number of Muses;
For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
My dear little Molly Trefusis!”
As a study it not without use is,
If we wonder a moment who she may have been,
This same “little Molly Trefusis!”
Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is
If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea
Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.
Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is;
For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose,
The lilies of Molly Trefusis.
That the evidence hard to produce is)
With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,—
This dangerous Molly Trefusis.
(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!)
All blooming in laces, fal-lals, and what not,
At the Pump Room,—Miss Molly Trefusis.
Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is;
And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,—
The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.
(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!)
His “little” could scarce be to Venus applied,
If fitly to Molly Trefusis.
And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,
And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled—you'll find—
Was certainly Molly Trefusis!
That we all of us know what a Muse is;
It is something too awful,—too acid,—too dry,—
For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.
(The rest but a verse-making ruse is)
It was all that was graceful,—intangible,—light,—
The beauty of Molly Trefusis!
Assuredly more than obtuse is;
For how could the poet have written so pat
“My dear little Molly Trefusis!”
Since of suitors the common excuse is
To take to them Wives. So it happened to her,
Of course,—“little Molly Trefusis!”
In practical matters a goose is;—
'Twas a Knight of the Shire, and a hunting J.P.,
Who carried off Molly Trefusis!
At the end, where the pick of the news is,
“On the (blank), at ‘the Bath,’ to Sir Hilary Bragg,
With a Fortune, Miss Molly Trefusis.”
Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;
So here, at the threshold we part, you and I,
From “dear little Molly Trefusis.”
AT THE CONVENT GATE
Above the length of barrier wall
And softly, now and then,
The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit
From roof to gateway-top, and sit
And watch the ways of men.
Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep
The shadowy garden seems!
And note how dimly to and fro
The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,
Like figures seen in dreams.
And yonder one apart that reads
A tiny missal's page;
And see, beside the well, the two
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew
The magpie to its cage!
With that mild grace, outlying speech,
Which comes of even mood;—
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,
And hope of higher good.
What need to these the name of Wife?
What gentler task (I said)—
What worthier—e'en your arts among—
Than tend the sick, and teach the young,
And give the hungry bread?”
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me
To face the road again:
—And yet, in that warm heart of hers,
She means the doves', for she prefers
To “watch the ways of men.”
THE MILKMAID
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE
She comes with tripping pace,—
A maid I know,—and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,
(To those who see it near!)—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
For me, from June to June,
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds—
Her laugh is like a tune;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
O tall Lent-lilies flame!
There'll be a bride at Easter-tide,
And Dolly is her name.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
AN OLD FISH POND
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.
What “wood obscure,” profound!
What jungle!—where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those “antres vast” and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;—
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;—
An ageless Autocrat,
Whose “good old rule” is “Appetite,
And subjects fresh and fat;”—
Still watch for signs in him;
And dying, hand from heir to heir
The day undawned and dim,
Or creeping in by stealth,
Some bolder brood, with common blow,
Shall found a Commonwealth.
That these themselves are gone;
That Amurath in minimis,—
Still hungry,—lingers on,
Revolving sullen things,
But most the blind unequal law
That rules the food of Kings;—
A mere time-honoured cheat;—
That bids the Great to eat the Small,
Yet lack the Small to eat!
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
AN EASTERN APOLOGUE
The initials “E. H. P.” are those of the eminent (and ill-fated)
Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely
owed their origin to his translations from Zoheir, I sent them
to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly.
It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said that these
would cause no serious disturbance to orthodox Persians, I
concluded I had succeeded in my little pastiche, and, with
his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had
been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and
versatile scholars this age has seen.
The initials “E. H. P.” are those of the eminent (and ill-fated) Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely owed their origin to his translations from Zoheir, I sent them to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly. It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said that these would cause no serious disturbance to orthodox Persians, I concluded I had succeeded in my little pastiche, and, with his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and versatile scholars this age has seen.
(TO E. H. P.)
Nodded at noon on his diván.
Jamíl the bard, and the vizier—
Then Jamíl sang, in words like these.
As boughs of the Aráka tree!
“Lean, if you will,—I call her lean.”
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!
“She makes men wander in the head!”
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!
“Dear . . and yet always to be bought.”
Shows diverse unto Youth and Age:
Time, like the Sultán, sits . . and nods.
TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY
Missal with the blazoned page,
Whence, O Missal, hither come,
From what dim scriptorium?
Ambrose or Theophilus,
Bending, through the waning light,
O'er thy vellum scraped and white;
Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;
Strife of Sathanas and Saint,
Or in secret coign entwist
Jest of cloister humourist.
Bending o'er the blazoned page!
Tired the hand and tired the wit
Ere the final Explicit!
Things that steam can stamp and fold,
Not as ours the books of yore—
Rows of type, and nothing more.
Where a wistful man might look,
Finding something through the whole,
Beating,—like a human soul.
When to labour was to pray,
Surely something vital passed
To the patient page at last;
Vaguely present in the leaves;
Something from the worker lent;
Something mute—but eloquent!
A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC
“373. St. Pierre (Bernardin de), Paul et Virginie, 12mo,
old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by
a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers, the words:
‘à Lucile St. A. . . . chez M. Batemans, à Edmonds-Bury,
en Angleterre,’ very faintly written in pencil.” (Extract from Catalogue.)
“373. St. Pierre (Bernardin de), Paul et Virginie, 12mo, old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers, the words: ‘à Lucile St. A. . . . chez M. Batemans, à Edmonds-Bury, en Angleterre,’ very faintly written in pencil.” (Extract from Catalogue.)
As I lift it from the stall;
And the leaves are frayed and tattered,
And the pendent sides are shattered,
Pierced and blackened by a ball.
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,
That in front of France's madness
Hangs a strange seductive sadness,
Grown pathetic evermore.
Which the pages half reveal,
For a folded corner covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,—
A “Savignac” and “Lucile.”
In some pleasant old château,
Once they read this book together,
In the scented summer weather,
With the shining Loire below?
Did Love slip and snare them so,
While the hours danced round the dial
To the sound of flute and viol,
In that pleasant old château?
Word of mouth could either speak?
Did the brown and gold hair mingle,
Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle
To the shock of cheek and cheek?
Some new sudden power to feel,
Some new inner spring set gushing
At the names together rushing
Of “Savignac” and “Lucile”?
“Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine”—
In his high-flown way adore her,
Urgent, eloquent implore her,
Plead his pleasure and his pain?
And the quivering lip we know,
With the full, slow eyelid brimming,
With the languorous pupil swimming,
Like the love of Mirabeau?
For his eager lips to press;
In a flash all fate fulfilling
Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling—
Crushing life to one caress?
Of attained love's after-calm,
Marking not the world—its meetness,
Marking Time not—nor his fleetness,
Only happy, palm to palm?
Red on wrist and cheek and hair,—
Sought the page where love first lighting,
Fixed their fate, and, in this writing,
Fixed the record of it there.
Shame and slaughter of it all?
Did she wander like that other
Woful, wistful, wife and mother,
Round and round his prison wall;—
Waileth, wheeleth, desolate,
Heedless of the hawk above her,
While as yet the rushes cover,
Waning fast, her wounded mate;—
Fixed and wide in their despair?
Did he burst his prison fetters,
Did he write sweet, yearning letters
“À Lucile,—en Angleterre”?
Halts him with a sudden stop,
For he feels a man's heart bleeding,
Draining out its pain's exceeding—
Half a life, at every drop:
Seems to warble and to rave;
Letters where the pent sensation
Leaps to lyric exultation,
Like a song-bird from a grave.
Peep the Pagan and the Gaul,
Politics and love competing,
Abelard and Cato greeting,
Rousseau ramping over all.
Whirled along the fever-flood;
And its touch of truth shall save it,
And its tender rain shall lave it,
For at least you read Amavit,
Written there in tears of blood.
Tracking traces in the snow?
Did they tempt him out, confiding,
Shoot him ruthless down, deriding,
By the ruined old château?
Frozen to a smile of scorn,
Just the bitter thought's suggesting,
At this excellent new jesting
Of the rabble Devil-born.
These few words the covers bear,
Some swift rush of pity blinding,
Sent them in the shot-pierced binding
“À Lucile, en Angleterre.”
Nothing more the leaves reveal,
Yet I love it for its lovers,
For the dream that round it hovers
Of “Savignac” and “Lucile.”
A MADRIGAL
Young Love his ware comes crying:
Full soon the elf untreasures
His pack of pains and pleasures,—
With roguish eye,
He bids me buy
From out his pack of treasures.
With true-love-knots and kisses,
With rings and rosy fetters,
And sugared vows and letters;—
He holds them out
With boyish flout,
And bids me try the fetters.
There's little need to show them!
Too well for new believing
I know their past deceiving,—
I am too old
(I say), and cold,
To-day, for new believing!
With honey-sweet caresses,
And still, to my undoing,
He wins me, with his wooing,
To buy his ware
With all its care,
Its sorrow and undoing.
A SONG TO THE LUTE
Fa la!
When first I came to Court,
I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy,
And Love an idle sport,
A sport whereat a man might toy
With little hurt and mickle joy—
When first I came to Court!
Fa la!
Too soon I found my fault;
The fairest of the fair brigade
Advanced to mine assault.
Alas! against an adverse maid
Nor fosse can serve nor palisade—
Too soon I found my fault!
Fa la!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
No feint the arts of war can show,
No counterstroke avail;
Naught skills but arms away to throw,
And kneel before that lovely foe,
When Silvia's eyes assail!
Fa la!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;
And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain!
A GARDEN SONG
(TO W. E. H.)
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!
A CHAPTER OF FROISSART
(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR)
This age, I think, prefers recitals
Of high-spiced crime, with “slang” for jokes,
And startling titles;
Loved “old Montaigne,” and praised Pope's Homer
(Nay, thought to style him “poet” too,
Were scarce misnomer),
I can recall how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read,
And find him pleasant;
Long since, in an old house in Surrey,
Where men knew more of “morning ale’
Than “Lindley Murray,”
'Neath Hogarth's “Midnight Conversation,”
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,
With fond elation,
All through one hopeful happy summer,
At such a page (I well knew where),
Some secret comer,
(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),
Would sometimes place for private view
A certain token;—
An ivy-leaf for “Orchard corner,”
A thorn to say “Don't come at all,”—
Unwelcome warner!—
But then Romance required dissembling,
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred
Some genuine trembling;
In such kind confidential parley
As may to you kind Fortune send,
You long-legged Charlie,
We had our crosses like our betters;
Fate sometimes looked askance upon
Those floral letters;
The dust upon the folio settled;
For some-one, in the right, was pained,
And some-one nettled,
Of fixed intent and purpose stony
To serve King George, enlist and make
Minced-meat of “Boney,”
And so, when she I mean came hither,
One day that need for letters ceased,
She brought this with her!
The English King laid siege to Calais;
I think Gran. knows it even now,—
Go ask her, Alice.
TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE
OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS
Callida nervis.”
—Hor. iii. II
To some, no doubt, the calm,—
The torpid ease of islets drest
In fan-like fern and palm;
Darwinian dreams recall;
And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance,
And ancient youth appal;
But not so mine,—for me
Your vasty vault but simply shows
A Lyre immense, per se,
A truly “Orphic tale,”
Could she but find that public want,
A Bard—of equal scale!
And lungs serenely strong,
To sweep from your sonorous chords
Niagaras of song,
The grovelling world aghast,
Should leave its paltry greed of gain,
And mend its ways . . . at last!
A ROMAN ROUND-ROBIN
(“HIS FRIENDS” TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS)
No bard we know possesses
In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;
On Fortune's ways erratic;
And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic:
Barbarian minds to soften;
But, Horace—we, we are your friends—
Why tell us this so often?
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places?
Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—
That things we love decay;
That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—
That all must Fate obey!
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost Cæcuban;—
But your didactic ‘tap’—
Forgive us!—grows monotonous;
Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
VERSES TO ORDER
(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY)
Went dragging slowly on;
The red leaf to the running brook
Dropped sadly, and was gone;
December came, and locked in ice
The plashing of the mill;
The white snow filled the orchard up;
But she was waiting still.
'Gan cawing in the loft;
The young lambs' new-awakened cries
Came trembling from the croft;
The clumps of primrose filled again
The hollows by the way;
The pale wind-flowers blew; but she
Grew paler still than they.
Through all the drowsy street,
Came distant murmurs of the war,
And rumours of the fleet;
Cried news of Joe and Tim;
But June shed all her leaves, and still
There came no news of him.
One blessèd August morn,
Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,
Pang-panging came to horn;
The swift coach paused a creaking-space,
Then flashed away, and passed;
But she stood trembling yet, and dazed
The news had come—at last!
While all around her seems
As vague and shadowy as the shapes
That flit from us in dreams;
And naught in all the world is true,
Save those few words which tell
That be she lost is found again—
Is found again—and well!
A LEGACY
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;
My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;
My Muse's friend and not my purse's!
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,—
I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit;—
Not “spacious dirt” (your own expression),
No; but the rarer, dearer prize—
The Life's Confession!
You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—
I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus!
“LITTLE BLUE-RIBBONS”
From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;
For many not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—
As a matter of face, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or bow,
When “little Blue-Ribbons” prefers it so.
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word “behave”;
Though not and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And “litle Blue-Ribbons” regards it so.
Is her ladyship's doll, “Miss Bonnibelle”;
But I think what at present the most takes up
The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;
Is the “Robin that buried the ‘Babes in Wood’”—
It is not in the least like a robin, though,
But “little Blue-Ribbons” declares it so.
That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;
Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get
To the spot where the suns of yesterday set;
And I know that she fully expects to meet
With a lion or wolf in Regent Street!
We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no;
For “little Blue-Ribbons” still dreams it so.
That she never intends to be “great” and “tall”;
(For how could she ever contrive to sit
In her “own, own, chair,” if she grew one bit!)
And, further, she says, she intends to stay
In her “darling home” till she gets “quite gray”;
Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,
But “little Blue-Ribbons” will have it so!
LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.”
—Aylmer's Field.
A stunted, not too pretty, child,
Beneath a battered gingham;
Such things, to say the least, require
A Muse of more-than-average Fire
Effectively to sing 'em.
Have sprung from such;—e'en Joan of Arc
Had scarce a grander duty;
Not always ('tis a maxim trite)
From rigtheous sources comes the right,—
From beautiful, the beauty.
Maybe some priceless germ was blown
To this unwholesome marish;
(And what must grow will still increase,
Though cackled round by half the geese
And ganders in the parish.)
A Staël before whose mannish pride
Our frailer sex shall tremble;
Perchance this audience anserine
May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)—
May hiss—a future Kemble!
An undeveloped Hannah More!—
A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!
Who shall affirm it?—who deny?—
Since of the truth nor you nor I
Can catch the faintest glimmer?
Reserve your final word,—recall
Your all-too-hasty strictures;
Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees
Undreamed potentialities
In most unhopeful pictures
A FAIRY TALE
Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite.”
—Voltaire.
I find Miss Mary, ætat six,
Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,
Absorbed in her first fairy book,
From which she scarce can pause to look,
Because it's “so delicious!”
In which they cross a magic Moat,
That's smooth as glass to row on—
A Cat that brings all kinds of things;
And see, the Queen has angel wings—
Then Ogre comes”—and so on.
(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,
So active and so pliant,
Rejecting themes in which you mix
Fond truths with pleasing facts, to fix
On tales of Dwarf and Giant!
That cats mellifluous in speech
Are painful contradictions;
That science ranks as monstrous things
Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings—
E'en angels' wings!—are fictions;
That life, although “an empty dream,”
Is scarce a “land of Fairy.”
“Of course I said all this?” Why, no;
I did a thing far wiser, though,—
I read the tale with Mary.
TO A CHILD
(FROM THE “GARLAND OF RACHEL”)
So many lyres are strung;
Or how the only tone assume
That fits a Maid so young?
Suppose—'tis on the cards—
You should grow up with quite a grand
Platonic hate for bards!
For ah! with what a scorn
Your eyes must greet that luckless One
Who rhymed you, newly born,—
His idle verse to turn;
And twanged his tiresome instrument
Above your unconcern!
That, keeping Chance in view,
Whatever after fate you meet
A part may still be true.
Your sex is always fair;
Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—
She's rich who has to spare:
A head that's sound and clear;
(Yet let the heart be not too blind,
The head not too severe!)
A not-too-large desire;
And—if you fail to find a Knight—
At least . . . a trusty Squire.
HOUSEHOLD ART
Of the kind that is built by Miss Green-away;
Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,
And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;
And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,
Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,
And “play with the pups,” and “reprove the calves,”
And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,
From “Hunt the Slipper” and “Riddle-me-ree”
To watching the cat in the apple-tree.
Of their ways “intense” and Italianate,—
They may soar on their wings of sense, and float
To the au delà and the dim remote,—
Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,
'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best;
To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,
For the Earth first laughed when the children came!
THE DISTRESSED POET
A SUGGESTION FROM HOGARTH
A word, brings back again
That room, not garnished overmuch,
In gusty Drury Lane;
The kittens on the coat,
The good-wife with her patient eyes,
The milkmaid's tuneless throat;
The luckless verseman's air:
The “Bysshe,” the foolscap and the rhyme,—
The Rhyme . . that is not there!
With dews Castalian wet—
Is built from cold abstractions squired
By “Bysshe,” his epithet!
No step upon the stair
Betrays the guest that none refuse,—
She takes us unaware;
And sets our hearts a-flame,
And then, like Ariel, off she trips,
And none know how she came.
By some dull sense grown keen,
Some blank hour blossomed into song
We feel that she has been.
JOCOSA LYRA
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.
Tight-laces,—
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,
But archly,—
Comes playing,
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer,
In answer,—
In measure!
It will last till men weary of laughter
And after!
MY BOOKS
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,
They are “warranted early editions,”
These worshipful tomes of mine;—
In their redolent “crushed Levant,”
With their delicate watered linings,
They are jewels of price, I grant;—
They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress
They are graceful, attenuate, polished,
But they gather the dust, no less;—
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and the bruised octavos,
The dear and the dumpy twelves,—
And Howell the worse for wear,
And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,
And the little old cropped Molière,
And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,—
For the others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.
THE COLLECTOR TO HIS LIBRARY
Have caused me anguish or regret,—
Save when some fiend in human shape
Has set your tender sides agape,
Or soiled with some unmanly smear
The candour of your margin clear,
Or writ you with some phrase inane,
The bantling of an idle brain,—
I love you: and because must end
This commerce between friend and friend,
I do implore each kindly Fate—
To each and all I supplicate—
That you, whom I have loved so long,
May not be vended “for a song”;—
That you, my dear desire and care,
May 'scape the common thoroughfare,
The dust, the eating rain, and all
The shame and squalor of the Stall.
Rather I trust your lot may touch
Some Crœsus—if there should be such—
To buy you, and that you may so
From Crœsus unto Crœsus go
Till that inevitable day
When comes your moment of decay.
THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION
BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE
While cynic Charles still trimm'd the vaneTwixt Querouaille and Castlemaine,
In days that shocked John Evelyn,
My First Possessor fixed me in.
In days of Dutchmen and of frost,
The narrow sea with James I cross'd,
Returning when once more began
The Age of Saturn and of Anne.
I am a part of all the past:
I knew the Georges, first and last;
I have been oft where else was none
Save the great wig of Addison;
And seen on shelves beneath me grope
The little eager form of Pope.
I lost the Third that owned me when
French Noailles fled at Dettingen;
The year James Wolfe surprised Quebec
The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;
The day that William Hogarth dy'd,
The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.
This was a Scholar, one of those
Whose Greek is sounder than their hose;
So liv'd at Streatham, next to Thrale.
'Twas there this stain of grease I boast
Was made by Dr. Johnson's toast.
(He did it, as I think, for Spite;
My Master call'd him Jacobite!)
And now that I so long to-day
Have rested post discrimina,
Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where
I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,
Must I these travell'd bones inter
In some Collector's sepulchre!
Must I be torn herefrom and thrown
With frontispiece and colophon!
With vagrant E's, and I's, and O's,
The spoil of plunder'd Folios!
With scraps and snippets that to Me
Are naught but kitchen company!
Nay, rather, Friend, this favour grant me:
Tear me at once; but don't transplant me.
THE WATER OF GOLD
Out of the market din and clatter,
The quack with his puckered persuasive face
Patters away in the ancient patter.
In this little flask that I tap with my stick, sir—
Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—
The One, Original, True Elixir!
She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—
Here is a draught that will make you fair,
Fit for an Emperor's own caresses!
Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,
Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,
Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!
Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,
Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,
Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!
Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;
Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;
And the price is a couple of silver groschen!
And still in the Great World's market-places
The Quack, with his quack catholicon,
Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;
On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;
For he sells the thing that never can come,
Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.
A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by—
“He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!”
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—
“He is older now! He will soon be dead!”
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them gently under the mould.
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
DON QUIXOTE
Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,
Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,
And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,
Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack!
To make wiseacredom, both high and low,
Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)
Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track:
Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest!
Yet would to-day when Courtesy grows chill,
And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,
Some fire of thine might burn within us still!
Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,
And charge in earnest . were it but a mill!
A BROKEN SWORD
(TO A. L.)
And twitched it down—
Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,
At half-a-crown.
In letters clear,
Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen—
“Povr Paruenyr.”
His fate to gain?
Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope
To this—in vain?
The Western Seas;
Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed
For toasting cheese!
With silken knot,
Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn—
Perchance 'twas not!
Its hilt depends,
Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,—
Remembered friends;—
A word to aid;
Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,
Its broken blade.
THE POET'S SEAT
AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS
Angulus Ridet.”
—Hor. ii. 6.
With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,
And weighty, said those five who bore
Its bulk across the lawn, and dropped it
Not once or twice, before it lay,
With two young pear-trees to protect it,
Safe where the Poet hoped some day
The curious pilgrim would inspect it.
The stately Maori, turned from etching
The ruin of St. Paul's, to try
Some object better worth the sketching:—
He saw him, and it nerved his strength
What time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,
Until the monster grew at length
The Master-piece to which he shaped it.
And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,
With shelf for cigarettes complete,
And one, but lower down, for coffee;
“Pansies for thoughts!” and rose and arum;
The Motto (that he meant to put)
Was “Ille angulus terrarum.”
“The heavy change!” When May departed,
When June with its “delightful things”
Had come and gone, the rough bark started,—
Began to lose its sylvan brown,
Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;
And, though the Poet nailed it down,
It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.
Of vague (and viscous) vegetations;
Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,
And moist, unsavoury exhalations,—
Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,
Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,
Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,
And made it like an oyster grotto.
Bare,—shameless,—till, for fresh disaster,
From end to end, one April morn,
'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,—
Drilled like a vellum of old time;
And musing on this final mystery,
The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,
And took to studying Natural History.
His five-act play is still unwritten;
The dreams that now his soul divide
Are more of Lubbock than of Lytton;
“Ballades” are “verses vain” to him
Whose first ambition is to lecture
(So much is man the sport of whim!)
On “Insects and their Architecture.”
THE LOST ELIXIR
We had it once, may be,
When our young song's impetuous flood
First poured its ecstasy;
But now the shrunk poetic vein
Yields not that priceless drop again.
Our patient hands distil
The shining spheres of chemic gold
With hard-won, fruitless skill;
But that red drop still seems to be
Beyond our utmost alchemy.
Time's after-gift, a tear,
Will strike a pathos on the page
Beyond all art sincere;
But that “one drop of human blood”
Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.
MEMORIAL VERSES
A DIALOGUE
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE
Poet.
I sing of Pope—
Friend.
What, Pope, the Twitnam Bard,
Whom Dennis, Cibber, Tibbald push'd so hard!
Pope of the Dunciad! Pope who dar'd to woo,
And then to libel, Wortley-Montagu!
Pope of the Ham-walks story—
P.
Scandals all!
Scandals that now I care not to recall.
Surely a little, in two hundred Years,
One may neglect Contemporary Sneers:—
Surely allowance for the Man may make
That had all Grub Street yelping in his Wake!
And who (I ask you) has been never Mean,
When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen?
No: I prefer to look on Pope as one
Not rightly happy till his Life was done;
Whose whole Career, romance it as you please,
Was (what he call'd it) but a “long Disease”:
Think of his Lot,—his Pilgrimage of Pain,
His “crazy Carcass” and his restless Brain;
His dreary Vigil and his aching Head;
Think of all this, and marvel then to find
The “crooked Body with a crooked Mind!”
Nay rather, marvel that, in Fate's Despite,
You find so much to solace and delight,—
So much of Courage, and of Purpose high
In that unequal Struggle not to die.
I grant you freely that Pope played his Part
Sometimes ignobly—but he lov'd his Art;
I grant you freely that he sought his Ends
Not always wisely—but he lov'd his Friends;
And who of Friends a nobler Roll could show—
Swift, St. John, Bathurst, Marchmont, Peterb'ro',
Arbuthnot—
Fr.
Atticus?
P.
Well (entre nous),
Most that he said of Addison was true.
Plain Truth, you know—
Fr.
Is often not polite
(So Hamlet thought)—
P.
And Hamlet (Sir) was right.
But leave Pope's Life. to-day, methinks, we touch
The Work too little and the Man too much.
Take up the Lock, the Satires, Eloise—
What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease!
How, keen the Irony, the Wit how bright,
The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light!
At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet.
“True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd”—
Was ever Thought so pithily express'd?
“And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line”—
Ah, what a Homily on Yours . . and Mine!
Or take—to choose at Random—take but This—
“Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss.”
Fr.
Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those
Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose.
Was he a Poet?
P.
Yes: if that be what
Byron was certainly and Bowles was not;
Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,
What Dryden had, that was denied to Tate—
Fr.
Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,
Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line—
P.
True, there are Classes. Pope was most of all
Akin to Horace, Persius, Juvenal;
Pope was, like them, the Censor of his Age,
An Age more suited to Repose than Rage;
When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools,
And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules;
With one supreme Commandment, Be thou Clear;
When Thought meant less to reason than compile,
And the Muse labour'd . . chiefly with the File.
Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath
As in the Days of great Elizabeth;
And to the Bards of Anna, was denied
The Note that Wordsworth heard on Duddon-side.
But Pope took up his Parable, and knit
The Woof of Wisdom with the Warp of Wit;
He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet,
And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat;
He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall;
He taught the Epigram to come at Call;
He wrote—
Fr.
His Iliad!
P.
Well, suppose you own
You like your Iliad in the Prose of Bohn,—
Tho' if you'd learn in Prose how Homer sang,
'Twere best to learn of Butcher and of Lang,—
Suppose you say your Worst of Pope, declare
His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,
His Art but Artifice—I ask once more
Where have you seen such Artifice before?
Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd,
Or Gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste?
Where can you show, among your Names of Note,
So much to copy and so much to quote?
And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse,
A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse?
Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;
That like along the finished Line to feel
The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel;
That like my Couplet as compact as clear;
That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe,
Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope
I fling my Cap for Polish—and for Pope!
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE
TO ------ ESQ. OF ------ WITH A LIFE OF THE LATE INGENIOUS MR. WM. HOGARTH
Dear Cosmopolitan,—I knowI should address you a Rondeau,
Or else announce what I've to say
At least en Ballade fratrisée;
But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,
And take to simple Hudibrasticks;
Why should I choose another Way,
When this was good enough for Gay?
That Age of Lustre and of Link;
Of Chelsea China and long “s”es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;
That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;
—No H---lts no K---g---n P---ls were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy Tonsons and your Curlls;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The Author in a Sheep-skin Back;
In Porridge-Island div'd for Dinners;
Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;—
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless, easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found Madam still
Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille;
When good Sir John reel'd Home to Bed,
From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head;
When Trip convey'd his Master's Cloaths,
And took his Titles and his Oaths;
While Betty, in a cast Brocade,
Ogled My Lord at Masquerade;
When Garrick play'd the guilty Richard,
Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. Pritchard;
When Foote grimac'd his snarling Wit;
When Churchill bullied in the Pit;
When the Cuzzoni sang—
The farther Catalogue I spare,
Having no Purpose to eclipse
That tedious Tale of Homer's Ships;—
This is the Man that drew it all
From Pannier Alley to the Mall,
Then turn'd and drew it once again
From Bird-Cage Walk to Lewknor's Lane;—
Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;
Its bawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;
Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,
Its Henleys, Lovats, Malcolms, Chartres;
Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;
Its quicquid agunt Homines;—
Furens quid possit Foemina;—
In short, held up to ev'ry Class
Nature's unflatt'ring looking-Glass;
And, from his Canvass, spoke to All
The Message of a Juvenal.
His weak Point is—his Chronicler!
HENRY FIELDING
(TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL)
Philosopher or Admiral,—
Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.
A soldier—of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming Comic Epos where,
As in Cervantes and Molière,
Jostles the medley of Mankind.
His was the eye that saw first clear
How, not in natures half-effaced
By cant of Fashion and of Taste,—
Not in the circles of the Great,
Faint-blooded and exanimate,—
Which we to-day reap after him.
No:—he stepped lower down and took
The piebald People for his Book!
In that large-laughing page of his!
What store and stock of Common-Sense,
Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience!
How his keen Satire flashes through,
And cuts a sophistry in two!
How his ironic lightning plays
Around a rogue and all his ways!
Ah, how he knots his lash to see
That ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!
Such round reality?—that live
With such full pulse? Fair Sophy yet
Sings Bobbing Joan at the spinet;
We see Amelia cooking still
That supper for the recreant Will;
We hear Squire Western's headlong tones
Bawling “Wut ha?—wut ha?” to Jones.
Are they not present now to us,—
The Parson with his Æschylus?
Slipslop the frail, and Northerton,
Partridge, and Bath, and Harrison?—
Are they not breathing, moving,—all
The motley, merry carnival
That Fielding kept, in days agone?
Mankind the mixture that he saw;
Not wholly good nor ill, but both,
With fine intricacies of growth.
He pulled the wraps of flesh apart,
And showed the working human heart;
He scorned to drape the truthful nude
With smooth, decorous platitude!
Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared,
Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought
Into the light their secret thought.
Therefore the Tartuffe-throng who say
“Couvrez ce sein,” and look that way,—
Therefore the Priests of Sentiment
Rose on him with their garments rent.
Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting
Plies ever round some generous thing,
Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores,
Old “might-have-beens” and “heretofores”;—
Then, from that garbled record-list,
Made him his own Apologist.
Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!
If to have sense of Joy and Pain
Too keen,—to rise, to fall again,
To live too much,—be sin, why then,
This was no pattern among men.
But those who turn that later page,
The Journal of his middle-age,
It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to the Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, published posthumously in February 1755,—a record which for its intrinsic pathos and dignity may be compared with the prologue and dedication which Fielding's predecessor and model, Cervantes, prefixed to his last romance of Persiles and Sigismunda.
Philanthropist and Magistrate;
Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend,
Faithful, and patient to the end;
Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve,
But for the loved ones he must leave:
These will admit—if any can—
That 'neath the green Estrella trees,
No artist merely, but a Man,
Wrought on our noblest island-plan,
Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.
A POSTSCRIPT TO “RETALIATION”
On the 22nd June, 1896 these verses were read for the
author by the Master of the Temple (Canon Ainger) at the
dinner given in celebration of the five hundredth meeting of
the Johnson Society of Pembroke College, Oxford. They
then concluded with a couplet appropriate to that occasion.
In their present place, it has been thought preferable to leave
them—like Goldsmith's epitaph on Reynolds—unfinished.
On the 22nd June, 1896 these verses were read for the author by the Master of the Temple (Canon Ainger) at the dinner given in celebration of the five hundredth meeting of the Johnson Society of Pembroke College, Oxford. They then concluded with a couplet appropriate to that occasion. In their present place, it has been thought preferable to leave them—like Goldsmith's epitaph on Reynolds—unfinished.
[After the Fourth Edition of Doctor Goldsmith's Retaliation was printed, the Publisher received a supplementary Epitaph on the Wit and Punster Caleb Whitefoord. Though it is found appended to the later issues of the Poem, it has been suspected that Whitefoord wrote it himself. It may be that the following, which has recently come to light, is another forgery.]
If he stir in his sleep, in his sleep he will talk.
Ye gods! how he talk'd! What a torrent of sound,
His hearers invaded, encompass'd and—drown'd!
What a banquet of memory, fact, illustration,
In that innings-for-one that he call'd conversation!
Can't you hear his sonorous “Why no, Sir!” and “Stay, Sir!
Your premiss is wrong,” or “You don't see your way, Sir!”
How he silenc'd a prig, or a slip-shod romancer!
How he pounc'd on a fool with a knock-me-down answer!
The heart of the giant was gentle and kind:
When his pistol miss'd fire, he would use the butt-end?
If he trampled your flow'rs, like a bull in a garden,
What matter for that? he was sure to ask pardon;
And you felt on the whole, tho' he'd toss'd you and gor'd you,
It was something, at least, that he had not ignor'd you.
Yes! the outside was rugged. But test him within,
You found he had nought of the bear but the skin;
And for bottom and base to his anfractuosity,
A fund of fine feeling, good taste, generosity.
He was true to his conscience, his King, and his duty;
And he hated the Whigs, and he soften'd to Beauty.
That he made little fishes talk vastly like whales;
I grant that his language was rather emphatic,
Nay, even—to put the thing plainly—dogmatic;
But read him for Style,—and dismiss from your thoughts,
The crowd of compilers who copied his faults,—
Say, where is there English so full and so clear,
So weighty, so dignified, manly, sincere?
So strong in expression, conviction, persuasion?
So prompt to take colour from place and occasion?
So widely remov'd from the doubtful, the tentative;
So truly—and in the best sense—argumentative?
But I hark back to him with a “Johnson for ever!”
And I feel as I muse on his ponderous figure,
Tho' he's great in this age, in the next he'll grow bigger;
And still while[OMITTED]
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Degere, nec cithara carentem.”
—Hor. i. 31.
Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage,
Who, in his Winter's snow,
Still sings with note as sweet and clear
As in the morning of the year
When the first violets blow!
Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat,
Have taught no feverish lure;
Whose Muse, benignant and serene,
Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green
Because his verse is pure!
Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead,
Since from the voiceless grave,
Thy voice shall speak to old and young
While song yet speaks an English tongue
By Charles' or Thamis' wave!
CHARLES GEORGE GORDON
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.
VICTOR HUGO
The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,
The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,
Rose like a storm cloud, upon angry wings.
The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,
And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings
Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.
Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill,
Look upward lonely—lonely to the height
Where thou hast climbed, for ever, out of sight!
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII.
When King Apollo's bay
Is cut midwise;
Grief that a song is stilled,
Grief for the unfulfilled
Singer that dies.
Not so we grieve that thou,
Master, art passed,
Since thou thy song didst raise,
Through the full round of days
E'en to the last.
When that the singer still
Sinks in the song;
When that the wingéd rhyme
Fails of the promised prime,
Ruined and wrong.
Not thus we grieve for thee,
Master and Friend;
Since, like a clearing flame,
Clearer thy pure song came
E'en to the end.
E'en as for those that leave
Life without name;
Lost as the stars that set,
Empty of men's regret,
Empty of fame.
Who, when his race is run,
Layeth him down,
Calm—through all coming days,
Filled with a nation's praise,
Filled with renown.
FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART
THE POET AND THE CRITICS
'Tis truly—Quis custodiet?
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by Fourdrinier.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;—
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,—in fine,
A neat and “classical” Design.
But the in-Side?—Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,—more Imitation;—
Some Accidents of Inspiration;—
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;—
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;—
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from Pope!
And Poets are as thick as—Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . . No Matter.
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.—These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.—The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.
Worked for another ten Years—hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!
They tried and tested him, no less,—
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.—The Author may, in Time . . . .
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.—These little Songs display . . . .
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.
THE TOYMAN
With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?Hereon men waste their Eloquence.
“Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.
How can you lend your Theme its Force?
How can you be direct and clear,
Concise, and (best of all) sincere,
If you must pen your Strain sublime
In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?
Who ever heard true Grief relate
Its artless Woes in ‘six’ and ‘eight’?
Or felt his manly Bosom swell
Beneath a French-made Villanelle?
How can your Mens divinior sing
Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring,
Where she must chant her Orphic Tale
In just so many Lines, or fail? . . .”
“Form is the first (the Others bawl);
If not, why write in Verse at all?
Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose
(If Verse be such Restraint) in Prose?
For surely if you speak your Soul
Most freely where there's least Control,
By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.
Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,
When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;
And barred no more by Lack of Skill,
The Mob may crowd Parnassus Hill! . .
All this was but the To-and-fro
Of Matt and Dick who played with Thought,
And lingered longer than they ought
(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box
And trifle round a Paradox!)—
There came—but I forgot to say,
'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May—
There came a Fellow where they sat,
His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,
Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load
He set upon the Ground, and showed
His newest Toy—a Card with Strings.
On this side was a Bird with Wings,
On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!
The Twain were one.
Here's the Solution in a Word:—
Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.
The Poet twirls them in his Mind,
And wins the Trick with both combined.”
THE SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR
We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.
We scarcely think our Fame eternal
If vouched for by the Farthing Journal;
But when the Craftsman's self has spoken
We take it for a certain Token.
This an Example best will show,
Derived from Dennis Diderot.
All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;
And failed to live by every Mode,
From Persian Tale to Birthday Ode;
Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,
In Theologic Speculation.
'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen
Had been most orthodox till then;
But oft, as Socrates has said,
The Stomach's stronger than the Head;
And, for a sudden Change of Creed,
There is no Jesuit like Need.
Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,
By force of Habit, from the Gaul.
That Nothing we believe is true;
But chiefly that Mistake is rife
Touching the point of After-Life;
Here all were wrong from Plato down:
His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.
The Thing created quite a Scare:—
He got a Letter from Voltaire,
Naming him Ami and Confrère;
Besides two most attractive Offers
Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.
He fell forthwith his Head to lift,
To talk of “I and Dr. Sw---ft”
And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,
On equal Terms, with Bolingbroke.
But, at the last, a Missive came
That put the Copestone to his Fame.
The Boy who brought it would not wait:
It bore a Covent-Garden Date;—
A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink,
And Air of Bridewell or the Clink.
It ran in this wise:—Learned Sir!
We, whose Subscriptions follow here,
Desire to state our Fellow-feeling
In this Religion you're revealing.
You make it plain that if so be
We 'scape on Earth from Tyburn Tree,
There's nothing left for us to fear
In this—or any other Sphere.
We offer you our Thanks; and hope
Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!
With that came all the Names beneath,
As Blueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath,
Of Rogues and Bona Robas more.
'Tis not recorded what he said.
THE DILETTANT
Is that of your Art-Dilettant:—
Or rather “was.” The Race, I own,
To-day is, happily, unknown.
Had painted—'tis no matter what;
Enough that he resolved to try
The Verdict of a critic Eye.
The Friend he sought made no Pretence
To more than candid Common-sense,
Nor held himself from Fault exempt.
He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.
Then, pausing long, showed here and there
That Parts required a nicer Care,—
A closer Thought. The Artist heard,
Expostulated, chafed, demurred.
Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—
One of those Mushroom Growths that spring
From Grand Tours and from Tailoring;—
And dealing much in terms of Art
Picked up at Sale and auction Mart.
With lifted Glass, and thus began,
Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—
“Sublime!—prodigious!—truly Greek!
That ‘Air of Head’ is just divine;
That contour Guido, every line;
That Forearm, too, has quite the Gusto
Of the third Manner of Robusto . . . .”
Then, with a Simper and a Cough,
He skipped a little farther off:—
“The middle Distance, too, is placed
Quite in the best Italian Taste;
And Nothing could be more effective
Than the Ordonnance and Perspective . . .
You've sold it?—No?—Then take my word,
I shall speak of it to My Lord.
What!—I insist. Don't stir, I beg.
Adieu!” With that he made a Leg,
Offered on either Side his Box,—
So took his Virtú off to Cock's.
Turned to the Canvas as before.
“Nay,”—said the Painter—“I allow
The Worst that you can tell me now.
'Tis plain my Art must go to School,
To win such Praises—from a Fool!”
THE TWO PAINTERS
If they but compass what they meant;
Others prefer, their Purpose gained,
Still to find Something unattained—
Something whereto they vaguely grope
With no more Aid than that of Hope.
Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!
The prudent Follower of Gay
Declines to speak for either View,
But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.
While yet in this benighted Clime
The Genius of the Arts (now known
On mouldy Pediments alone)
Protected all the Men of Mark,
Two Painters met Her in the Park.
Whether She wore the Robe of Air
Portrayed by Verrio and Laguerre;
Or, like Belinda, trod this Earth,
Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,
And armed at every Point for Slaughter
With Essences and Orange-water,
I know not: but it seems that then,
After some talk of Brush and Pen,—
Of Van's “Goose-Pie” and Kneller's “Mot,”—
The Lady, as a Goddess should,
Bade Them ask of Her what They would.
“Then, Madam, my request,” says Brisk,
Giving his Ramillie a whisk,
“Is that your Majesty will crown
My humble Efforts with Renown.
Let me, I beg it—Thanks to You—
Be praised for Everything I do,
Whether I paint a Man of Note,
Or only plan a Petticoat.”
“Nay,” quoth the other, “I confess”
(This One was plainer in his Dress,
And even poorly clad), “for me,
I scorn Your Popularity.
Why should I care to catch at once
The Point of View of every Dunce?
Let me do well, indeed, but find
The Fancy first, the Work behind;
Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted . . .”
The Goddess both Petitions granted.
But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.
THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE
Beneath some simple-sounding Name!
So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,
Will call Display but Proper Pride;
So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,
Curse not their Folly but the Jews;
So Madam, when her Roses faint,
Resorts to . . . anything but Paint.
His Trade of Mercer in Cheapside,
Until his Name on 'Change was found
Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound,
Was burdened with an Heir inclined
To thoughts of quite a different Kind.
His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse
From Morn to Night, and, what was worse,
He quitted all at length to follow
That “sneaking, whey-faced God, Apollo.”
In plainer Words, he ran up Bills
At Child's, at Batson's, and at Will's;
Discussed the Claims of rival Bards
At Midnight,—with a Pack of Cards;
Or made excuse for “t'other Bottle”
Over a point in Aristotle.
This could not last, and like his Betters
Back to his Uncle's House he flew,
Confessing that he'd not a Sou.
'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,
Were more poetical than clear:
“Alas!” he said, “I name no Names:
The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse has claims.”
His Uncle, who, behind his Till,
Knew less of Pindus than Snow-Hill,
Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)
That Youth but once can have its Day,
Equipped anew his Pride and Hope
To frisk it on Parnassus Slope.
In one short Month he sought the Door
More shorn and ragged than before.
This Time he showed but small Contrition,
And gloried in his mean Condition.
“The greatest of our Race,” he said,
“Through Asian Cities begged his Bread.
The Muse—the Muse delights to see
Not Broadcloth but Philosophy!
Who doubts of this her Honour shames,
But (as you know) she has her Claims . . . .”
“Friend,” quoth his Uncle then, “I doubt
This scurvy Craft that you're about
Will lead your philosophic Feet
Either to Bedlam or the Fleet.
Still, as I would not have you lack,
Go get some Broadcloth to your Back,
And—if it please this precious Muse—
'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes.
Though harkye, Sir . . . .” The Youth was gone,
Before the good Man could go on.
That Votary of Hippocrene.
As along Cheap his Way he took,
His Uncle spied him by a Brook,
Not such as Nymphs Castalian pour,—
'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.
His Plight was plain by every Sign
Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.
He strove to rise, and wagged his Head—
“The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse—” he said.
“Muse!” quoth the Other, in a Fury,
“The Muse shan't serve you, I assure ye.
She's just some wanton, idle Jade
That makes young Fools forget their Trade,—
Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,
From Charing Cross to Ludgate Hill.
She's just . . . .” But he began to stutter,
So left Sir Graceless in the Gutter.
THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL
This Life disputing upon Taste;
And most—let that sad Truth be written—
In this contentious Land of Britain,
Where each one holds “it seems to me”
Equivalent to Q. E. D.,
And if you dare to doubt his Word
Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd.
And then, too often, the Debate
Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate,
Some narrow Issue, where a Touch
Of more or less can't matter much,
But, and this makes the Case so sad,
Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad.
Nay,—there are some so strangely wrought,—
So warped and twisted in their Thought,—
That, if the Fact be but confest,
They like the baser Thing the best.
Take Bottom, who for one, 'tis clear,
Possessed a “reasonable Ear”;
He might have had at his Command
The Symphonies of Fairy-Land;
Well, our immortal Shakespear owns
The Oaf preferred the “Tongs and Bones”!
As the Phrase is—“to see the Town”;
(The Town, in those Days, mostly lay
Between the Tavern and the Play.)
Like all their Worships the J. P.'s,
He put up at the Hercules;
Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,
Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—
A curst, new-fangled Little-Ease,
That knocks your Nose against your Knees.
For the good 'Squire was Country-bred,
And had strange Notions in his Head,
Which made him see in every Cur
The starveling Breed of Hanover;
He classed your Kickshaws and Ragoos
With Popery and Wooden Shoes;
Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,
And sighed o'er Chaos Wine for Stingo.
Nothing could please him, high or low.
As Savages at Ships of War
He looked unawed on Temple-Bar;
Scarce could conceal his Discontent
With Fish-Street and the Monument;
And might (except at Feeding-Hour)
Have scorned the Lion in the Tower,
But that the Lion's Race was run,
And—for the Moment—there was none.
Brought him at Even to Vauxhall,
Her slow Spouse to the Water-Works,
And the coy Spinster, half-afraid,
Consults the Hermit in the Shade.
Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire
Sank in a Seat before the Choir.
The Faustinetta, fair and showy,
Warbled an Air from Arsinoë,
Playing her Bosom and her Eyes
As Swans do when they agonize.
Alas! to some a Mug of Ale
Is better than an Orphic Tale!
The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored;
His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored.
Then, straying thro' the “poppied Reign,”
He dreamed him at Clod-Hall again;
He heard once more the well-known Sounds,
The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.
He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo!
A Change had come upon the Show.
Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow,
Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow,
Was mimicking a Cock that crew.
Then came the Cry of Hounds anew,
Yoicks! Stole Away! and harking back;
Then Ringwood leading up the Pack.
The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee
At this most hugeous Pleasantry.
The sawn Wood followed; last of all
The Man brought something in a Shawl,—
Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked
As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.
So excellent he thought the Wit.
But when Sir Wag drew off the Sheath
And showed there was no Pig beneath,
His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,
Exploded in a long Guffaw:
And, to his dying Day, he'd swear
That Naught in Town the Bell could bear
From “Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat
That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!”
The 'Squire was like Titania's lover;
He put a squeaking Pig before
The Harmony of Clayton's Score.
But still it shall be added here:
He praised the Thing he understood;
'Twere well if every Critic would.
THE CLIMACTERIC
The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.
At Forty-Nine behoves it then
To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,
Since Aristotle so decreed.
Premising thus, we now proceed.
Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,
And all things nebulous grow clear
Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,
There lived, at Dumpelsheim the Lesser,
A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.
Than Grotius more alert and quick,
More logical than Burgersdyck,
His Lectures both so much transcended,
That far and wide his Fame extended,
Proclaiming him to every clime
Within a Mile of Dumpelsheim.
But chief he taught, by Day and Night,
The Doctrine of the Stagirite,
Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,
In Ways that none could well refute;
For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men
O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,
Either that all they did was “Nil,”
Or else 'twas marked by Indication
Of grievous mental Degradation:
Nay—he could even trace, they say,
That Degradation to a Day.
More famed the Herr Professor grew,
His “Locus of the Pineal Gland”
(A Masterpiece he long had planned)
Had reached the End of Book Eleven,
And he was nearing Forty-Seven.
Admirers had not long to wait;
The last Book came at Forty-Eight,
And should have been the Heart and Soul—
The Crown and Summit—of the whole.
But now the oddest Thing ensued;
'Twas so insufferably crude,
So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain
The Writer's Mind was on the wane.
Nothing could possibly be said;
E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,
While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,
Denounced it openly as “Drivel.”
Never was such Collapse. In brief,
The poor Professor died of Grief.
They buried him at Dumpelsheim,
And as they sorrowing set about
A “Short Memoir,” the Truth came out.
The Parish Clerk had put a “2”
In place of “Nought,” and made his Date
Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.
When he had written Book the Last,
His true Climacteric had past!
Be certain as to date of Birth.
TALES IN RHYME
THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS
Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays
He blurs them both beneath his touch:—
At Florence, so the legend tells,
There stood a church that men would praise
For works of price; but chief for one
They called the “Virgin with the Bells.”
With crown of gold about the hair,
And robe of blue with stars thereon,
And o'er her, in an almond tree,
Three little golden bells there were,
None knew from whence she came of old,
Nor whose the sculptor's name should be
That once from out the blaze of square,
And bickering folk that bought and sold,
Came to the church an Umbrian,
Lord of much gold and champaign fair,
To whom the priests, in humbleness,
At once to beg for alms began,
Such as for poor men's bread might pay,
Or give their saint a gala-dress.
Most Reverend! Far too well ye know,
By guile and wile, the fox's way
But ere from me the least carline
Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow;
Shall ring her bells . . but not of craft
By Bacchus! ye are none too lean
And so, across the porphyry floor,
His hand upon his dagger-haft,
Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they
At those his words, since gear and store
While yet again throughout the square,
The buyers in their noisy way,
It chanced (I but the tale reveal,
Nor true nor false therein declare)—
Before the taper's flickering flame,
Sudden a little tremulous peal
And they that heard must fain recall
The Umbrian, and the words of shame
Came news how, at that very date
And hour of time, was fixed his fall,
And all his goods, and lands as well,
To Holy Church were confiscate.
A TALE OF POLYPHEME
As he who also said “There's nothing true,”
Since, on the contrary, I hold there are
Surviving still a verity or two;
But, as to novelty, in my conviction,
There's nothing new,—especially in fiction.
If this my story is as old as Time,
Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,—
The Cyclops' love,—which, somewhat varied, I'm
To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting,
In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting.
It may be fifty years ago or more,
Beside a lonely posting-road that led
Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore,
With low-built bar and old bow-window shady,
An ancient Inn, the “Dragon and the Lady.”
You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon,
Where beast and man were equal on the sign,
Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon:
A road-side break beyond the straggling shops.
Your halting roadster to a kind of pass;
This you descended with a crumbling tread,
And found the sea beneath you like a glass;
And soon, beside a building partly walled—
Half hut, half cave—you raised your voice and called.
Tumult within—for, bleating with affright,
A goat burst out, escaping from the can;
And, following close, rose slowly into sight—
Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan—
An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man.
You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail
Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew
An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,
Bared a red forearm, bringing into view
Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.
Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse
As being but a colourable pretence
To bring an awkward hero in perforce;
Since this our smith, for reasons never known,
To most society preferred his own.
This in a sense was true—he had but one;
Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy:
We sometimes say so of the friends we shun
But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it—
The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,—
Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte,
Milking his goat at eve, and it may be,
Spearing the fish along the flats at night,
Until, at last, one April evening mild,
Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child.
One of those bright bewitching little creatures,
Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled,
Would soften out the ruggedest of features;
Fragile and slight,—a very fay for size,—
With pale town-cheeks, and “clear germander eyes.”
And pedants, possibly, pronounce her “slow”;
Or corset-makers add, that for a child,
She needed “cultivation”;—all I know
Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you
Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu.
Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid,
Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail,
Remained religiously indoors to read;
So that, in wandering at her will, the Child
Did, in reality, run “somewhat wild.”
And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar;
Then watching idly from the dusky door,
The noisy advent of a coach or car;
Then stealing out to wonder at the fate
Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate,—
Straying with each excursion more and more,
She reached the limits of the road, and passed,
Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore,
And so, as you, respected Reader, showed,
Came to the smith's “desirable abode.”
Weaving a crate; and, with a gladsome cry,
The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned
With all the terrors of his single eye;
Then from a mound came running, too, the goat,
Uttering her plaintive, desultory note.
Doubtful to go or stay, when presently
She felt a plucking, for the goat began
To crop the trail of twining briony
Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea.
And therewithal an air so grave and mild,
Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat
Of injured confidence, that soon the Child
Filled the lone shore with louder merriment,
And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent.
The girl and goat;—for thenceforth, day by day,
The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare
As might be gathered on the downward way:—
Foxglove or broom, and “yellow cytisus,”
Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus.
Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled,
Felt it at least incumbent to resist
Further encroachment, and as one beguiled
By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut,
Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut.
That daily coming, and must hear the goat
Bleating her welcome; then, towards the sea,
The happy voices of the playmates float;
Until at last, enduring it no more,
He took his wonted station by the door.
For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye
Seemed to exert an influence but slender,
Would run to question him, till, by and by,
His moody humour like a cloud dispersing,
He found himself uneasily conversing.
And this an agate rounded by the wave.
Then came inquiries still more intimate
About himself, the anvil, and the cave;
And then, at last, the Child, without alarm,
Would even spell the letters on his arm.
On his part, like some half-remembered tale,
The new-found memory of an icebound crew,
And vague garrulities of spouting whale,—
Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe,
And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo.
Locked as those frozen barriers of the North,
There came once more the season of the green,—
The tender bud-time and the putting forth;
So that the man, before the new sensation,
Felt for the child a kind of adoration;—
To lay in places where she found them first;
Hoarding his cherished goat's milk for the hour
When those young lips might feel the summer's thirst;
By that clear laughter of the little maid.
Where no to-morrow quivers in suspense,—
Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice
To break the soft forgetfulness of sense,—
Where dreams become realities; and where
I willingly would leave him—did I dare.
Until, upon a day when least of all
The softened Cyclops, by his hopes assured,
Dreamed the inevitable blow could fall,
Came the stern moment that should all destroy,
Bringing a pert young cockerel of a Boy.
A black-eyed, sun-burnt, mischief-making imp,
Pet of the mess,—a Puck with curling locks,
Who straightway travestied the Cyclops' limp,
And marvelled how his cousin so could care
For such a “one-eyed, melancholy Bear.”
For still the Child, unwilling, would not break
The new acquaintanceship, nor quite forget
The pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake,
The boding smith with clumsy efforts tried
To win the laughing scorner to his side.
More sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mind
Humbling itself, for love, to come and go
Before some petty tyrant of its kind;
Saddest, ah!—saddest far,—when it can do
Naught to advance the end it has in view.
Whether the boy beguiled the Child away,
Or whether that limp Matron on the Hill
Woke from her novel-reading trance, one day
He waited long and wearily in vain,—
But, from that hour, they never came again.
They still might come, or dreaming that he heard
The sound of far-off voices on the cliff,
Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred;
But nothing broke the silence of the shore,
And, from that hour, the Child returned no more.
Who can command the gamut of despair;
But as a man who feels his days are done,
So dead they seem,—so desolately bare;
For, though he'd lived a hermit, 'twas but only
Now he discovered that his life was lonely.
The very voices of the air were dumb;
Time was an emptiness that o'er and o'er
Ticked with the dull pulsation “Will she come?”
So that he sat “consuming in a dream,”
Much like his old forerunner Polypheme.
With such sad sick persistence that at last,
Urged by the hungry thought which drove him on
Along the steep declivity he passed,
And by the summit panting stood, and still,
Just as the horn was sounding on the hill.
The smith saw travellers standing in the sun;
Then came the horn again, and three or four
Looked idly at him from the roof, but One,—
A Child within,—suffused with sudden shame,
Thrust forth a hand, and called to him by name.
Limped back with bitter pleasure in his pain;
He was not all forgotten—could it be?
And yet the knowledge made the memory vain;
And then—he felt a pressure in his throat,
So, for that night, forgot to milk his goat.
What new resolvings then might intervene,
I know not. Only, with the morning sky,
The goat stood tethered on the “Dragon” green,
And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon,
Found the hut empty,—for the man was gone.
A STORY FROM A DICTIONARY
Formas atque animos sub juga aënea
Saevo mittere cum joco.”
—Hor. i. 33.
From sheer perversity, that arch-offender
Still yokes unequally the hot and cold,
The short and tall, the hardened and the tender;
He bids a Socrates espouse a scold,
And makes a Hercules forget his gender:—
Sic visum Veneri! Lest samples fail,
I add a fresh one from the page of Bayle.
In the last days of Alexander's rule,
While yet in Grove or Portico was heard
The studious murmur of its learned school;—
Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's bird
Who plays therein the hero (or the fool)
With a Megarian, who must then have been
A maid, and beautiful, and just eighteen.
In Anno Domini as erst B.C.;
The type is still that witching One who came,
Between the furrows, from the bitter sea;
And this our heroine in a trice would be,
Save that she wore a peplum and a chiton,
Like any modern on the beach at Brighton.
She had some qualities of disposition,
To which, in general, her sex are foes,—
As strange proclivities to erudition,
And lore unfeminine, reserved for those
Who nowadays descant on “Woman's Mission,”
Or tread instead that “primrose path” to know ledge,
That milder Academe—the Girton College.
There were no curates in that sunny Greece,
For whom the mind emotional could plan
Fine-art habiliments in gold and fleece;
(This was ere chasuble or cope began
To shake the centres of domestic peace;)
So that “admiring,” such as maids give way to,
Turned to the ranks of Zeno and of Plato.
At least, regarded in a woman's sense;
His forte, it seems, lay chiefly in expressing
Disputed fact in Attic eloquence;
His ways were primitive; and as to dressing,
His toilet was a negative pretence;
He kept, besides, the régime of the Stoic;—
In short, was not, by any means, “heroic.”
Her friends were furious, her lovers nettled;
Twas much as though the Lady Vere de Vere
On some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled.
Unheard! Intolerable!—a lumbering steer
To plod the upland with a mare high-mettled!—
They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand her
To curled Euphorion or Anaximander.
To lead to reason this most erring daughter,
Proceeding even to extremes of force,—
Confinement (solitary), and bread and water;
Then, having lectured her till they were hoarse,
Finding that this to no submission brought her
At last, (unwisely ) to the man they sent,
That he might combat her by argument.
Or else too well forewarned of that commotion
Which poets feign inseparable from Spring
To suffer danger from a school-girl notion;
Also they hoped that she might find her king,
On close inspection, clumsy and Bœotian:—
This was acute enough, and yet, between us,
I think they thought too little about Venus.
In Garrick's life. However, the man came,
And taking first his mission's end as stated,
Began at once her sentiments to tame,
Working discreetly to the point debated
By steps rhetorical I spare to name;
In other words,—he broke the matter gently.
Meanwhile, the lady looked at him intently,
Although he went on steadily, but faster.
There were some maladies he'd read about
Which seemed, at first, most difficult to master;
They looked intractable at times, no doubt,
But all they needed was a little plaster;
This was a thing physicians long had pondered,
Considered, weighed . . . and then . . . and then he wandered.
A silent auditor, with candid eyes;
With lips that speak no sentence to restore you,
And aspect, generally, of pained surprise;
Then, if we add that all these things adore you,
Tis really difficult to syllogise:—
Of course it mattered not to him a feather,
But still he wished . . they'd not been left together.)
The young especially should be suspicious;
Seeing no ailment in Hippocrates
Could be at once so tedious and capricious;
More fatal, deadlier, and more delicious—
Pernicious,—he should say,—for all its seeming . . .”
It seemed to him he simply was blaspheming.
Word in reply, or trifled with her brooch,
Or sighed, or cried, grown petulant, or fluttered,
He might (in metaphor) have “called his coach”;
Yet still, while patiently he hemmed and stuttered,
She wore her look of wondering reproach;
(And those who read the “Shakespeare of Romances”
Know of what stuff a girl's “dynamic glance” is.)
In Love,—or rather, in Philosophy.
Philosophy—no, Love—at best existed
But as an ill for that to remedy:
There was no knot so intricately twisted,
There was no riddle but at last should be
By Love—he meant Philosophy—resolved . . .”
The truth is, he was getting quite involved.
Aught that is taught of Logic or the Schools!
Here was a man, “far seen” in all the classes,
Strengthened of precept, fortified of rules,
Mute as the least articulate of asses;
Nay, at an age when every passion cools,
Conscious of nothing but a sudden yearning
Stronger by far than any force of learning!
Described his lot, how pitiable and poor;
The hut of mud,—the miserable pallet,—
The alms solicited from door to door;
The scanty fare of bitter bread and sallet,—
Could she this shame,—this poverty endure?
I scarcely think he knew what he was doing,
But that last line had quite a touch of wooing.
Took little care to keep concealment preying
At any length upon their damask cheeks,—
She answered him by very simply saying,
She could and would:—and said it as one speaks
Who takes no course without much careful weighing. . . .
Was this, perchance, the answer that he hoped?
It might, or might not be. But they eloped.
The leafy sanctuaries, remote and inner,
Where the great heart of nature, beating bare,
Receives benignantly both saint and sinner;—
Leaving propriety to gasp and stare,
And shake its head, like Burleigh, after dinner,
From pure incompetence to mar or mend them:
They fled and wed;—though, mind, I don't defend them.
No doubt too much determined by the senses;
(Alas! when these affinities attract,
We lose the future in the present tenses!)
Besides, the least establishment's a fact
Involving nice adjustment of expenses;
Moreover, too, reflection should reveal
That not remote contingent—la famille.
Milton has said (and surely Milton knows)
That, after all, philosophy is “not,—
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose;”
And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgot
Much that is needful in this world of prose:—
Perchance 'twas so with these. But who shall say?
Time has long since swept them and theirs away.
THE WATER-CURE
These verses were suggested by the recollection of an
anecdote in Madame de Genlis, which seemed to lend itself
to eighteenth-century treatment. It was therefore somewhat
depressing, not long after they were written, to find
that the subject had already been annexed in the Tatler
by an actual eighteenth-century writer, Swift's “little
Harrison,” who, moreover, claimed to have founded his
story on a contemporary incident. Burton, nevertheless,
had told it before him, as early as 1621, in the Anatomy
of Melancholy.
These verses were suggested by the recollection of an anecdote in Madame de Genlis, which seemed to lend itself to eighteenth-century treatment. It was therefore somewhat depressing, not long after they were written, to find that the subject had already been annexed in the Tatler by an actual eighteenth-century writer, Swift's “little Harrison,” who, moreover, claimed to have founded his story on a contemporary incident. Burton, nevertheless, had told it before him, as early as 1621, in the Anatomy of Melancholy.
A TALE: IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR
Until the day Cardenio married.
What then? the Nymph no doubt was young?
She was: but yet—she had a tongue!
Most women have, you seem to say.
I grant it—in a different way.
With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine,
What time we seek our nightly pillows,
Rebukes our easy peccadilloes:
'Twas not so tuneful, so composing;
'Twas louder and less often dozing;
At Ombre, Basset, Loo, Quadrille,
You heard it resonant and shrill;
You heard it rising, rising yet
Beyond Selinda's parroquet;
The chair-men and the link-boy too;
In short, wherever lungs perform,
Like Marlborough, it rode the storm
Cardenio feared his chère amie
(Like Echo by Cephissus shore)
Would turn to voice and nothing more
Which can't by practice be endured.
Cardenio, though he loved the maid,
Grew daily more and more afraid;
And since advice could not prevail
(Reproof but seemed to fan the gale),
A prudent man, he cast about
To find some fitting nostrum out.
What need to say that priceless drug
Had not in any mine been dug?
What need to say no skilful leech
Could check that plethora of speech?
Suffice it, that one lucky day
Cardenio tried—another way.
The most accessible of men!)
Near Vauxhall's sacred shade resided;
In him, at length, our friend confided.
(Simples, for show, he used to sell;
But cast Nativities as well.)
Consulted, he looked wondrous wise;
Then undertook the enterprise.
To tell the truth, she was not there.
She scorns to patch what she ignores
With Similes and Metaphors;
And so, in short, to change the scene,
She slips a fortnight in between.
In Vauxhall's garden of romance,—
That paradise of nymphs and grottoes,
Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes!
What wonder if, the lamps reviewed,
The song encored, the maze pursued,
No further feat could seem more pat
Than seek the Hermit after that?
Who then more keen her fate to see
Than this, the new Leuconoë,
On fire to learn the lore forbidden
In Babylonian numbers hidden?
Forthwith they took the darkling road
To Albumazar his abode.
Intent on hieroglyphic page,
In high Armenian cap arrayed,
And girt with engines of his trade;
(As Skeletons, and Spheres, and Cubes;
As Amulets and Optic Tubes;)
With dusky depths behind revealing
Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling;
While more to palsy the beholder
A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder.
As one whose face he'd seen before;
And then, with agitated looks,
He fell to fumbling at his books.
Her grasp upon his arm had tightened;
Judge then her horror and her dread
When “Vox Stellarum” shook his head;
Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn
Of Taurus and of Capricorn;
Of stars averse, and stars ascendant,
And stars entirely independent;
In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens
Were set at sixes and at sevens,
Portending, in her case, some fate
Too fearful to prognosticate.
“But is there naught,” Cardenio said,
“No sign or token, Sage, to show
From whence, or what, this dismal woe?”
Betook him to his charts again.
“It vaguely seems to threaten Speech:
No more (he said) the signs can teach.”
“Is there no potion in your store,
No charm by Chaldee mage concerted
By which this doom can be averted?”
Resumed his juggling cabalistic.
The aspects here again were various;
But seemed to indicate Aquarius.
Thereat portentously he frowned;
Then frowned again, then smiled;—'twas found
But 'twas too simple to be tried.
“What is it, then?” at once they cried.
To speak at length, or uninvited;
Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill
(At times, we know, the softest will!),
This word oracular, my Daughter,
Bids you to fill your mouth with water:
Further, to hold it firm and fast,
Until the danger be o'erpast.”
The prospect of escape perceived,
Rebelled a little at the diet.
Cardenio said discreetly, “Try it,
Try it, my Own. You have no choice,
What if you lose your charming voice!”
She tried, it seems. And whether then
Some god stepped in, benign to men;
Or Modesty, too long outlawed,
Contrived to aid the pious fraud,
I know not:—but from that same day
She talked in quite a different way.
THE NOBLE PATRON
Qui font les beaux jours”
And well that lifelike portrait drew.
He is a Patron who looks down
With careless eye on men who drown;
But if they chance to reach the land,
Encumbers them with helping hand.
Ah! happy we whose artless rhyme
No longer now must creep to climb!
Ah! happy we of later days,
Who 'scape those Caudine Forks of praise!
Whose votive page may dare commend
A Brother, or a private Friend!
Not so it fared with scribbling man,
As Pope says, “under my Queen Anne.”
Ere he attained his Wiltshire cure,
And settled down, like humbler folks,
To cowslip wine and country jokes)
Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame;
And dreamed of honours and a Name.
A fresh-cheeked lad, he came to Town
In homespun hose and russet brown,
Enforced in Rapin and Bossu,
Besides a stout portfolio ripe
For Lintot's or for Tonson's type.
He went the rounds, saw all the sights,
Dropped in at Will's and Tom's o' nights;
Heard Burnet preach, saw Bicknell dance,
E'en gained from Addison a glance;
Nay, once, to make his bliss complete,
He supped with Steele in Bury Street.
('Tis true the feast was half by stealth:
Prue was in bed: they drank her health.)
And he must either print or go.
He went to Tonson. Tonson said—
Well! Tonson hummed and shook his head;
Deplored the times; abused the Town;
But thought—at length—it might go down;
With aid, of course, of Elzevir,
And Prologue to a Prince, or Peer.
Dick winced at this, for adulation
Was scarce that candid youth's vocation:
Nor did he deem his rustic lays
Required a Coronet for Bays.
But there—the choice was that, or none.
The Lord was found; the thing was done.
With Horace and with Tooke's Pantheon,
He penned his tributary pæan;
Despatched his gift, nor waited long
The meed of his ingenuous song.
Brought a pert spark with languid air,
A lace cravat about his throat,—
Brocaded gown,—en papillotes,
(“My Lord himself,” quoth Dick, “at least!”
But no, 'twas that “inferior priest,”
His Lordship's man.) He held a card:
My Lord (it said) would see the Bard.
Into an anteroom, alone—
A great gilt room with mirrored door,
Festoons of flowers and marble floor,
Whose lavish splendours made him look
More shabby than a sheepskin book.
(His own book—by the way—he spied
On a far table, toss'd aside.)
Who haunt the chambers of the Great.
He heard the chairmen come and go;
He heard the Porter yawn below;
Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon,
He heard the silver stroke of noon,
And thought how at this very time
The old church clock at home would chime.
Dear heart, how plain he saw it all!
The lich-gate and the crumbling wall,
The stream, the pathway to the wood,
The bridge where they so oft had stood.
Then, in a trice, both church and clock
Vanished before . . . a shuttlecock.
The zigzag of its to-and-fro,
And so intent upon its flight
She neither looked to left nor right,
Came a tall girl with floating hair,
Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair.
And thereupon his memories quick
Ran back to her who flung the ball
In Homer's page, and next to all
The dancing maids that bards have sung;
Lastly to One at home, as young,
As fresh, as light of foot, and glad,
Who, when he went, had seemed so sad.
O Dea certé! (Still, he stirred
Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.)
Went darting gaily here and there;
Now crossed a mirror's face, and next
Shot up amidst the sprawled, perplexed
Olympus overhead. At last,
Jerked sidelong by a random cast,
The striker missed it, and it fell
Plump on the book Dick knew so well.
Judge if he moved a muscle now!)
Lifted a cover of the book;
Poohed at the Prologue, passed it o'er,
Went forward for a page or more
(Asem and Asa: Dick could trace
Almost the passage and the place);
Then for a moment with bent head
Rested upon her hand and read.
(Dick thought once more how Cousin Cis
Used when she read to lean like this;—
“Used when she read,”—why, Cis could say
All he had written,—any day!)
The great doors creaked. The reader fled.
Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter,
A waft of Bergamot, and after,
With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face,
A portly shape in stars and lace—
My Lord himself in all his pride,
His Chaplain smirking at his side.
With look half puzzled and half scared;
Then seemed to recollect, turned round,
And mumbled some imperfect sound:
A moment more, his coach of state
Dipped on its springs beneath his weight;
And Dick, who followed at his heels,
Heard but the din of rolling wheels.
And yet they left him half consoled:
Fame, after all, he thought, might wait.
Would Cis? Suppose he were too late!
Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age!
VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ
A CITY FLOWER
Tired of the ceaseless ebb and flow,
Sick of the crowded mart;
Tired of the din and rattle of wheels,
Sick of the dust as one who feels
The dust is over his heart.
I think of the lights in the leafy lanes,
With the bits of blue between;
And when about Rimmel's the perfumes play,
I smell no vapours of “Ess Bouquet,”
But violets hid in the green;
And I love—how I love—the plants that fill
The pots on my dust-dry window-sill,—
A sensitive sickly crop,—
But a flower that charms me more, I think,
Than cowslip, or crocus, or rose, or pink,
Blooms—in a milliner's shop.
Flash, abash, and suddenly sleep
Under the lids drawn in;
Mouth with a half-born smile and a pout,
And a baby breadth of chin;
Hands that light as the lighting bird,
On the bloom-bent bough, and the bough is stirred
With a delicate ecstasy;
Fingers tipped with a roseate flush,
Flicking and flirting a feathery brush
Over the papery bonnetry;—
Till the gauzy rose begins to glow,
And the gauzy hyacinths break and blow,
And the dusty grape grows red;
And the flaunting grasses seem to say,
“Do we look like ornaments—tell us, we pray—
Fit for a lady's head?”
And the butterfly wakes to a wiry life,
Like an elderly gentleman taking a wife,
Knowing he must be gay,
And all the bonnets nid-noddle about,
Like chattering chaperons set at a rout,
Quarrelling over their play.
At the beautiful face like a beautiful book
And learn a tiny part?
So I feel somehow that every day
Some flake of the dust is brushed away
That had settled over my heart.
INCOGNITA
Just for a day in the train!
It began when she feared it would wet her,
That tiniest spurtle of rain:
So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,
And carefully padded the pane;
And I sorrow in sackloth and ashes,
Longing to do it again!
A dressing-case under the seat;
She was “really so tiny a creature,
That she needed a stool for her feet!”
Which was promptly arranged to her order
With a care that was even minute,
And a glimpse—of an open-work border,
And a glance—of the fairyest boot.
“Were they houses for men or for pigs?”
Then it shifted to muscular novels,
With a little digression on prigs:
She thought “Wives and Daughters” “so jolly”
“Had I read it?” She knew when I had,
Like the rest, I should dote upon “Molly”;
And “poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!”
Too deep for her frivolous mood,
That preferred your mere metrical soufflé
To the stronger poetical food;
Yet at times he was good—“as a tonic”:
Was Tennyson writing just now?
And was this new poet Byronic
And clever, and naughty, or how?
Then she daintily dusted her face;
Then she sprinkled herself with “Ess Bouquet,’
Fished out from the foregoing case;
And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,
And voted Aunt Sally a bore;
Discussed if the tight rope were easy,
Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.
With the prettiest possible look,
And the price of two buns that she noted
In the prettiest possible book;
While her talk like a musical rillet
Flashed on with the hours that flew;
And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it
With just enough summer—for Two.
From a nest of rugs and of furs,
With the white shut eyelids sleeping
On those dangerous looks of hers,
Not wholly alive nor dead,
But with one blind impulse making
To the sounds of the spring overhead;
The shade of the down-dropt lid,
And the lip-line's delicate curving,
Where a slumbering smile lay hid,
Till I longed that, rather than sever,
The train should shriek into space,
And carry us onward—for ever,—
Me and that beautiful face.
With fears she was “nearly at home,”
And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget,
Whom I mentally wished—well, at Rome;
Got out at the very next station,
Looking back with a merry Bon Soir;
Adding, too, to my utter vexation,
A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.
To doze and to muse, till I dreamed
That we sailed through the sunniest places
In a glorified galley, it seemed;
But the cabin was made of a carriage,
And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,
And we split on a rock labelled Marriage,
And I woke,—as cold as a stone.
Incognita—one in a crowd,
Not prudent enough to be cruel,
Not worldly enough to be proud.
It was just a shut lid and its lashes,
Just a few hours in a train,
And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,
Longing to see her again.
DORA VERSUS ROSE
At least, on a practical plan—
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do., perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend “To Rose.’
Is all overscrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);
For Dora I'd willingly stem a—
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,
I cannot decide.
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(Afterthought.)
But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah),Not quite so delightful as Rose,—
Not wholly so charming as Dora,—
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,—
As the claims of the others are equal,—
And flight—in the main—is the best,—
That I might . . . But no matter,—the sequel
Is easily guessed.
AD ROSAM
Sera moretur.”
—Hor. 1. 38.
Where situated, I,
As naught can serve the telling,
Decline to specify;—
Enough 'twas neither haunted,
Entailed, nor out of date;
I put up “Tenant Wanted,”
And left the rest to Fate.
I see you passing yet,—
Ah, what could I within do,
When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my “Decline and Fall.”
That all hear—king and clown:
You smiled—the ice was broken;
You stopped—the bill was down.
Occurred to me to seek
If you had come for ever,
Or only for a week.
Seemed written in your eyes;
The thought your heart protected,
Your cheek told, missal-wise;—
I read the rubric plainly
As any Expert could;
In short, we dreamed,—insanely,
As only lovers should.
That then my chambers graced,
Because she seemed “too bony,”
To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation,
May certainly confess
Some graceful approbation,
Designed à mon adresse.
You liked me then, I think;
For your sake gall had been a
Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial,
The rack, a tour-de-force;
And banishment, convivial,—
You coming too, of course.
Would throw you in a state
That no well-timed investment
Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau
You prized my smile, I know;
I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau
The lip of d'Houdetot.
When Fate begins to frown
Best write the final “fuit,”
And gulp the physic down.
And yet,—and yet, that only,
The song should end with this:—
You left me,—left me lonely,
Rosa mutabilis!
(A dreary tête-à-tête!)
To pen my “Last Lament,” or
Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing
My bitterness of mind,—
Which is, I learn, composing
In cases of the kind.
Culture the pang prevents;
“I am not made”—excuse me—
“Of so slight elements;”
The hemlock or the hood;
My rarer soul recovers
In dreams of public good.
Or so I understand
From careful computation—
Exceed the gross demand;
And, therefore, in civility
To maids that can't be matched,
No man of sensibility
Should linger unattached.
A modern Curtius,
Plunging, from pure compassion,
To aid the overplus,—
I sit down, sad—not daunted,
And, in my weeds, begin
A new card—“Tenant Wanted,
Particulars within.”
OUTWARD BOUND
(HORACE, III. 7)
Primo restituent vere Favonii . . .
Gygen?”
Your absent Arthur back shall bring,
Enriched with many an Indian thing
Once more to woo you;
Him neither wind nor wave can check,
Who, cramped beneath the “Simla's” deck,
Still constant, though with stiffened neck,
Makes verses to you.
The terrors of the torrid zone,
The indiscriminate cyclone,
A man might parry;
But only faith, or “triple brass,”
Can help the “outward-bound” to pass
Safe through that eastward-faring class
Who sail to marry.
Ascend the tortuous cabin stair
Only to hold around his chair
Insidious sessions;
Across the plate of handed soup,
Suggesting seats upon the poop,
And soft confessions.
Romancing captains cease to boast—
Loud majors leave their whist—to roast
The youthful griffin;
All, all with pleased persistence show
His fate,—“remote, unfriended, slow,”—
His “melancholy” bungalow,—
His lonely tiffin.
Unmoved and calm as “Adam's Peak,”
Your “blameless Arthur” hears them speak
Of woes that wait him;
Naught can subdue his soul secure;
“Arthur will come again,” be sure,
Though matron shrewd and maid mature
Conspire to mate him.
To greet with too impressed an air
A certain youth with chestnut hair,—
A youth unstable;
Albeit none more skilled can guide
The frail canoe on Thamis tide,
Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide
Through “Guards” or “Mabel.”
Of acquiescence on your face,
Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space,
His airy patter;
Avoid the confidential nook;
If, when you sing, you find his look
Grow tender, close your music-book,
And end the matter.
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY
Hugh (on furlough). Helen (his cousin)Helen.
They have not come! And ten is past,—
Unless, by chance, my watch is fast;
—Aunt Mabel surely told us “ten.”
Hugh.
I doubt if she can do it, then.
In fact, their train . .
Helen.
That is,—you knew
How could you be so treacherous, Hugh?
Hugh.
Nay;—it is scarcely mine, the crime,
One can't account for railway-time!
Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;—
At least, there's nothing here of note.
Then here we'll stay, please. Once for all,
I bar all artists,—great and small!
From now until we go in June
I shall hear nothing but this tune:—
Whether I like Long's “Vashti,” or
Like Leslie's “Naughty Kitty” more;
With all that critics, right or wrong,
Have said of Leslie and of Long . . .
No. If you value my esteem,
I beg you'll take another theme;
Paint me some pictures, if you will,
But spare me these, for good and ill . . . .
Hugh.
“Paint you some pictures!” Come, that's kind
You know I'm nearly colour-blind.
Helen.
Paint then, in words. You did before;
Scenes at—where was it? Dustypoor?
You know . .
Hugh
(with an inspiration).
I'll try.
Helen.
But mind they're pretty,
Not “hog hunts.” . . . .
You shall be Committee,
And say if they are “out” or “in.”
Helen.
I shall reject them all. Begin.
Hugh.
Here is the first. An antique Hall
(Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall.
A boy, or rather lad. A girl,
Laughing with all her rows of pearl
Before a portrait in a ruff.
He meanwhile watches . . . .
Helen.
That's enough,
It wants “verve, “brio,” “breadth, “design,” . .
Besides, it's English. I decline.
Hugh.
This is the next. 'Tis finer far:
A foaming torrent (say Braemar).
A pony grazing by a boulder,
Then the same pair, a little older,
Left by some lucky chance together.
He begs her for a sprig of heather . . . .
—“Which she accords with smile seraphic.”
I know it,—it was in the “Graphic.”
Declined.
Hugh.
Once more, and I forego
All hopes of hanging, high or low:
Behold the hero of the scene,
In bungalow and palankeen . . . .
Helen.
What!—all at once! But that's absurd;—
Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird!
Hugh.
Permit me—'Tis a Panorama,
In which the person of the drama,
Mid orientals dusk and tawny,
Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee,
Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins,
In morning rides, at noonday tiffins,
In every kind of place and weather,
Is solaced . . . . by a sprig of heather. (More seriously.)
He puts that faded scrap before
The “Rajah,” or the “Koh-i-noor” . . . .
He would not barter it for all
Benares, or the Taj-Mahal . .
And word, and thought—In short—in fact—
I mean . . . . (Opening his locket.)
Look, Helen, that's the heather!
(Too late! Here come both Aunts together.)
Helen.
What heather, Sir? (After a pause.)
And why . . . . “too late?”
—Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait!
Don't you agree that it's a pity
Portraits are hung by the Committee?
THE LAST DESPATCH
At length we've “done” our pleasure
Dear “Pater,” if you only knew
How much I've longed for home and you,—
Our own green lawn and leisure!
The dear dumb friends—in Babel.
I hope my special fish is fed;—
I long to see poor Nigra's head
Pushed at me from the stable!
Old Bevis and the Collie;
And won't we read in “Traveller's Rest”!
Home readings after all are best;—
None else seem half so “jolly!”
Of fancies quaint and funny;
One misses, too, your kind bon-mot;—
The Mayfair wit I mostly know
Has more of gall than honey!
This “toujours perdrix” wearies;
I'm longing, quite, for “Notes on Knox”;
(Apropos, I've the loveliest box
For holding Notes and Queries!)
You'll take me?—on probation?
As “Lady-help,” then, let it be;
I feel (as Lavender shall see),
That Jams are my vocation!
Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?—
Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear?—
You'll let me give some picnics, Dear,
And ask the Vanes and Towers?
Sir John won't let them marry.
Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink;
And Charley,—changing Charley,—think,
Is now au mieux with Carry!
There's no one yet at present:
The Benedick I have in view
Must be a something wholly new,—
One's father's far too pleasant.
Good-bye to Piccadilly;
Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu!
Expect me, Dear, at half-past two;
Till then,—your Own Fond—Milly
“PREMIERS AMOURS”
“Requiescant in pace.”
How strange now it seems,—
“Old” Loves and “old” dreams!
Yet we once wrote you reams,
Maude, Alice, and Gracie!
Old Loves and old dreams,—
“Requiescant in pace.”
In the room with the cedar-wood presses,
Aunt Deb. was just folding away
What she calls her “memorial dresses.”
Short-waisted, of course—my abhorrence;
She'd “the loveliest”—something in “een”
That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence;
She'd the habit she got her bad fall in;
She had e'en the blue moiré antique
That she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:—
Sleek velvet and bombazine stately,—
She had hung them each over a chair
To the “paniers” she's taken to lately
And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions,
Till the faded old shapes seemed to wake
All the ghosts of my passed-away “passions”;—
When the height of my shooting idea
Was to burn, like a young Polypheme,
For a somewhat mature Galatea.
And who threw me as soon as her third came;
There was Norah, whose cut was the worst,
For she told me to wait till my “berd” came;
Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller;
Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz;
Plain Ann, that I wooed for the “siller”;—
Like “The Zephyrs” that somebody painted,
All shapes of the feminine thing—
Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,—
“How, Sir,” says that lady, disgusted,
“Do you dare to include Me among
Your loves that have faded and rusted?”
(I was just the least bit in a temper!)
“Those, alas! were the fugitive sort,
But you are my—eadem semper!”
There was surely good ground for a quarrel,—
She had checked me when just on the brink
Of—I feel—a remarkable Moral.
THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER ROOM
That puzzle wrought so neatly—
That paradise of paradox—
We once knew so completely;
You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear,
Which stood, that chill September,
Beside your Aunt Lavinia's chair
The year when . . You remember?
This florid “Fairy's Bower,”
This wonderful Swiss waterfall,
And this old “Leaning Tower”;
And here's the “Maiden of Cashmere,”
And here is Bewick's “Starling,”
And here the dandy cuirassier
You thought was “such a Darling!”
She used to say this figure
Reminded her of Count D'Orsay
“In all his youthful vigour”;
We chose for habitation,
The day that . . But I doubt if still
You'd like the situation!
Your guileless Aunt Lavinia,
Those evenings when she slumbered through
“The Prince of Abyssinia,”
That there were two beside her chair
Who both had quite decided
To see things in a rosier air
Than Rasselas provided!
And maids short waists and tippets,
When this old-fashioned screen was planned
From hoarded scraps and snippets;
But more—far more, I think—to me
Than those who first designed it,
Is this—in Eighteen Seventy-Three
I kissed you first behind it.
DAISY'S VALENTINES
Have ceaseless “rat-tats” thundered;
All night through Daisy's rosy dreams
Have devious Postmen blundered,
Delivering letters round her bed,—
Mysterious missives, sealed with red,
And franked of course with due Queen's head,—
While Daisy lay and wondered.
And Day puts off the Quaker,—
When Cook renews her morning din,
And rates the cheerful baker,—
She dreams her dream no dream at all,
For, just as pigeons come at call,
Winged letters flutter down, and fall
Around her head, and wake her.
And fraudful arts directed;
(Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old “fist,”
Through all disguise detected;)
But which is his,—her young Lothair's,—
Who wooed her on the school-room stairs
With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears,
In one neat pile collected?
(If truth may be permitted),
I doubt that young “gift-bearing Greek”
Is scarce for fealty fitted;
For has he not (I grieve to say)
To two loves more, on this same day,
In just this same emblazoned way,
His transient vows transmitted?
That even youth grows colder
You'll find is no new thing, I fear;
And when you're somewhat older,
You'll read of one Dardanian boy
Who “wooed with gifts” a maiden coy,—
Then took the morning train to Troy,
In spite of all he'd told her.
Obliging Fates, please send her
The bravest thing you have in men,
Sound-hearted, strong, and tender;—
The kind of man, dear Fates, you know,
That feels how shyly Daisies grow,
And what soft things they are, and so
Will spare to spoil or mend her.
IN TOWN
(There is that woman again!)—
June in the zenith is torrid,
Thought gets dry in the brain.
“Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!”
Thought gets dry in the brain;
Ink gets dry in the bottle.
Oh for the green of a lane!—
Ink gets dry in the bottle;
“Buzz” goes a fly in the pane!
Where one might lie and be lazy!
“Buzz” goes a fly in the pane;
Bluebottles drive me crazy!
Careless of Town and all in it!—
Bluebottles drive me crazy:
I shall go mad in a minute!
With some one to soothe and to still you;—
I shall go mad in a minute;
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!
As only one's feminine kin do,—
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:
There now! I've broken the window!
Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!—
There now! I've broken the window!
Bluebottle's off and away!
To dash one with eau de Cologne;—
Bluebottle's off and away;
And why should I stay here alone!
All over one's eminent forehead;—
And why should I stay here alone!
Toiling in Town now is “horrid.”
A SONNET IN DIALOGUE
Frank(on the Lawn).
Come to the Terrace, May,—the sun is low.
May
(in the House).
Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.
Frank.
There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.
May.
They will be riper if we let them grow.
Frank.
Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.
May.
Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.
Frank.
But surely, May, your pony must be fed.
And was, and is. I fed him hours ago.
'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.
Frank.
Still, I had something you would like to hear
May.
No doubt some new frivolity of men.
Frank.
Nay,—'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores
Chiefly, I think . . .
May
(coming to the window).
What is this secret, then?
Frank
(mysteriously).
There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!
GROWING GRAY
Me miserable! Here's one that's white,
And one that's turning;
Adieu to song and “salad days”;
My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,
And order mourning.
Renounce the gay for the severe,—
Be grave, not witty;
We have no more the right to find
That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,—
That Chloe's pretty.
Light canzonet and serenade
No more may tempt us;
Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;
From aught but sour didactic themes
Our years exempt us.
You think for one white streak we grow
At once satiric?
To which our ancient Muse shall sing
A younger lyric.
Grow rare to youth because we rail
At schoolboy dishes?
Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant
When neither Time nor Tide can grant
Belief with wishes.
VARIA
THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL
At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep;
For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;
And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.
He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;
But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;
I wot that I shall die of Love—an I die not of Ale.
Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink;
But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out— “Te-Hee!
Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?”
Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall?
Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot?
Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)—thou art a Pottle-pot!”
“Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do.”
I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail;
Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!
All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep,
But little lore of loving can any flagon teach,
For when my tongue is looséd most, then most I lose my speech.
AN APRIL PASTORAL
He.Whither away, fair Neat-herdess?
She.
Shepherd, I go to tend my kine.
He.
Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine.
She.
With thee? Nay, that were idleness.
He.
Thy kine will pasture none the less.
She.
Not so: they wait me and my sign.
He.
I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine.
She.
Thy pipe will soothe not their distress.
He.
Dost thou not hear beside the spring
How the gay birds are carolling?
She.
I hear them. But it may not be.
He.
Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now,
She.
Shepherd, farewell . . Where goest thou?
He.
I go . . to tend thy kine for thee!
A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING GARDENS
To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades;
Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;—
Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives!
For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;—
Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post!
For the wicket is free to the great and the small;—
Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back!
Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;
Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)!
Here a domino covers the short and the tall;—
Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come in
You are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;—
Sing Tantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
A LOVE-SONG
(XVIII. CENT.)
A yet unpractised pray'r,
My trembling tongue sincere ignored
The aids of “sweet” and “fair.”
I only said, as in me lay,
I'd strive her “worth” to reach;
She frowned, and turned her eyes away,—
So much for truth in speech.
I praised her to her face;
I praised her features,—praised her fan,
Her lap-dog and her lace;
I swore that not till Time were dead
My passion should decay;
She, smiling, gave her hand, and said
'Twill last then—for a Day.
OF HIS MISTRESS
(After Anthony Hamilton)
And, in a word her worth to say,
There is no maid that with her may
Compare.
There are five hundred things we see,
And then five hundred too there be,
Not seen.
But the sweet Graces from their store
A thousand finer touches more
Have given.
Beside her Flora would be wan
And white as whiteness of the swan
Her throat.
Hebe her nose and lip confess,
And, looking in her eyes, you guess
Her name.
THE NAMELESS CHARM
(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron)
Your artless look, I own;
'Tis not your dear coquettish tread,
Or this, or that, alone;
'Tis something in your face,—
The untranslated, undefined,
Uncertainty of grace,
To whom the meed was due;
All three have equal charms—but still
This one I give it to!
TO PHIDYLE
(HOR. III. 23)
Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain,At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,
O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know
Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,
And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain
Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow
'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,
Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain
The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail
Thy modest gods with much slain to assail,
Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.
Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;
More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,
Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.
TO HIS BOOK
(HOR., EP. I. 20)
With restless glances, Book of mine!
Still craving on some stall to stand,
Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand.
You chafe at locks, and burn to quit
Your modest haunt and audience fit
For hearers less discriminate.
I reared you up for no such fate.
Still, if you must be published, go;
But mind, you can't come back, you know!
And writhe beneath some critic's eye;
“What did I want?”—when, scarce polite,
They do but yawn, and roll you tight.
And yet methinks, if I may guess
(Putting aside your heartlessness
In leaving me and this your home),
You should find favour, too, at Rome.
That is, they'll like you while you're young,
When you are old, you'll pass among
Be fretted of slow moths, unread,
Or to Ilerda you'll be sent,
Or Utica, for banishment!
And I, whose counsel you disdain,
At that your lot shall laugh amain,
Wryly, as he who, like a fool,
Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule.
Nay! there is worse behind. In age
They e'en may take your babbling page
In some remotest “slum” to teach
Mere boys their rudiments of speech!
A chance of listeners, speak of me.
Tell them I soared from low estate,
A freedman's son, to higher fate
(That is, make up to me in worth
What you must take in point of birth);
Then tell them that I won renown
In peace and war, and pleased the town,
Paint me as early gray, and one
Little of stature, fond of sun,
Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more.
Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four,
Or was, the year that over us
Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus.
FOR A COPY OF HERRICK
Many days have come and gone,Many suns have set and shone,
Herrick, since thou sang'st of Wake,
Morris-dance and Barley-break;—
Many men have ceased from care,
Many maidens have been fair,
Since thou sang'st of Julia's eyes,
Julia's lawns and tiffanies;—
Many things are past: but thou,
Golden-Mouth, art singing now,
Singing clearly as of old,
And thy numbers are of gold!
WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE
When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,
A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,
At the tenth hour to Caliph Omar came.
“Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last
The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;
Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,
Who spares to eat . . . but not for piety!”
“Hast thou no calling, Friend?”—the Caliph said.
“Sir, I make verses for my daily bread.”
“Verse!”—answered Omar. “'Tis a dish, indeed,
Whereof but scantily a man may feed.
Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,—
Verse is a drug not sold in any mart.”
But this I know—he must have versified,
For, with his race, from better still to worse,
The plague of writing follows like a curse;
And men will scribble though they fail to dine,
Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.
FOR THE AVERY “KNICKER-BOCKER”
(WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY G. H. BOUGHTON)
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant!
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)
But to rhyme of this one,—Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,—
All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,—
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber
In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.
Shapes so dignified . . and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine-logs gleam and glow,
'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,—
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.
Boughton, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue—
This the Muse can never do!
TO A PASTORAL POET
(H. E. B.)
O Poet of the breeze and brook!
(That breeze and brook which blows and falls
More soft to those in city walls)
Among my best: and keep it still
Till down the fair grass-girdled hill,
Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes
The wandering wind that wakes the rose,
And scares the cohort that explore
The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er,
Or starts the restless bees that fret
The bindweed and the mignonette.
I lie beside some haunted stream;
And watch the crisping waves that pass,
And watch the flicker in the grass;
And wait—and wait—and wait to see
The Nymph . . . that never comes to me!
TO ONE WHO BIDS ME SING
Where hides his old vocation?
I'll give—the answer is not hard—
A classic explanation.
Tithonus-like, grows older,
While she, his Muse of Pindus Hill,
Still bares a youthful shoulder.
Her ageless grace and beauty,
They might, betwixt them both, achieve
A hymn de Senectute;
Her slave, whose hairs are falling,
Must e'en his Doric flute forego,
And seek some graver calling,—
To yield to minstrels fitter
His singing-robes, his singing-pride,
His fancies sweet—and bitter!
“SAT EST SCRIPSISSE”
(TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS)
And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,
It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,
Will find the present Volume and listless turn the page.
This Book you see before you,—this masterpiece of Whim,
Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),—
Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.
They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;
The hopes, the aspirations, the “dear delays” of Art.
Of Form and “lucid Order,” of “labour of the File;”
And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned
(This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend.
They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far;
And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,
They served the Muses truly,—their service was sincere.
(Yes,—fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains;
And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,
No Golden Book enrolls them among its “Names of Note.”
They marched in that procession where is no first or last;
Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire,
They too had once their ardour—they handed on the fire.
PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES
PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER”
When the Georges were ruling o'er Britain the free,
There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,
By the Goldsmith who brought out the Good-Natur'd Man.
New-fashioned, in truth—for this play, it appears,
Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears,
While the type of those days, as the learnèd will tell ye,
Was the Cumberland whine or the whimper of Kelly.
So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted,
And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted;
But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it.
Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it!
Either grizzle or bob—never mind, you look big.
You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles,
And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles.
From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre;
You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet,
And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street;
Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow,
Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know.
See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing,
And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing,
And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir,
Buzz at you like flies with their “Bill o' the Play, Sir?”
Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs,
With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs;
So issue at last on the House in its pride,
And pack yourself snug in a box at the side.
Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,—
With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming,
With its impudent orange-girls going and coming,
With its endless surprises of face and of feature,
All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature.
Then we turn to the Boxes where Trip in his lace
Is aping his master, and keeping his place.
Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn,
Like a Duke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn!
And ogles the ladies at large—like a Turk.
But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling,
And Trip must trip up to the seats at a shilling;
And spite of the mourning that most of us wear
The House takes a gay and a holiday air;
For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables,
And seem to catch coquetry even in sables.
Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars,
And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars.
But he grows every day more and more like the print
(Ah! Hogarth could draw!); and behind at the back
Hugh Kelly, who looks all the blacker in black.
That is Cumberland next, and the prim-looking person
In the corner, I take it, is Ossian Macpherson.
And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,
Comes sturdy old Johnson, dressed out in his best;
How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,
Whatever the law is, he's laying it down!
Beside him is Reynolds, who's deaf; and the hale
Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is Thrale.
Is the Author—too nervous just now to come out;
He's a queer little fellow, grave-featured, pock-pitten,
Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten.
If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight!
She Stoops. Let us hope she won't fall at full length,
For the piece—so 'tis whispered—is wanting in strength.
And the humour is “low!”—you are doubtless aware
There's a character, even, that “dances a bear!”
Then the cast is so poor,—neither marrow nor pith!
Why can't they get Woodward or Gentleman Smith!
“Lee Lewes!” Who's Lewes? The fellow has played
Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!
“Dubellamy”—“Quick,”—these are nobodies. Stay, I
Believe I saw Quick once in Beau Mordecai.
Yes, Quick is not bad. Mrs. Green, too, is funny;
But Shuter, ah! Shuter's the man for my money!
And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter.
Then there's little Bulkely . . .
From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle.
Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash,
And the music begins with a flourish and crash,
And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying,
While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing.
And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle,
Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle;
And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minute
Grows still as if naught but wax figures were in it.
Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten.
Who is it? The Prologue. He's sobbing. Hush! listen.
L'ENVOI
Good-bye to you, Kelly, your fetters are broken!Good-bye to you, Cumberland, Goldsmith has spoken!
Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming,
For Goldsmith has spoken and Sheridan's coming;
And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free air
As she laughed with the Great Ones, with Shakespeare, Molière!
PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S “QUIET LIFE”
Dazed with the stir and din of town,
Drums on the pane in discontent,
And sees the dreary rain come down,
Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass,
Beholds, in fancy, visions pass
Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves,
Of birds that build in thatch and eaves,
Of woodlands where the throstle calls,
Of girls that gather cowslip balls,
Of kine that low, and lambs that cry,
Of wains that jolt and rumble by,
Of brooks that sing by brambly ways,
Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze,
Of all the dreams with which men cheat
The stony sermons of the street,
So, in its hour, the artist brain
Weary of human ills and woes,
Weary of passion and of pain,
And vaguely craving for repose,
Deserts awhile the stage of strife
To draw the even, ordered life,
The homely round of plain delights,
The calm, the unambitioned mind,
Which all men seek, and few men find.
EPILOGUE.
Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.
Is Peace so peaceful? Nay,—who knows
There are volcanoes under snows.
DEDICATION OF “THE STORY OF ROSINA”
(TO AN IDEAL READER)
I watch, and can't conjecture:
A dubious tale?—an Ibsen play?—
A pessimistic lecture?
You like things sweet and seemly,
Old-fashioned flowers, old shapes in Bow,
“Auld Robin Gray” (extremely);
In fragrant cedar-presses;
In window corners warm and bright,
In lawn, and lilac dresses;
Charles Lamb and “Evelina;”
To you, My Dear, I dedicate
This “Story of Rosina.”
PROLOGUE TO “EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES”
(THIRD SERIES)
Quid valeant humeri.”
—Hor. Ars Poetica.
Read his Reviewers' blame, not praise
In blame, as Boileau said of old,
The truth is shadowed, if not told.
To hide the faults I mean to mend.
Why should the Public need to know
The standard that I fall below?
Or learn to search for that defect
My Critic bids me to correct?
No: in this case the Worldly-Wise
Keep their own counsel—and revise.
I may confide, my Friend, to You.
I don't pretend to paint the vast
And complex picture of the Past:
Not mine the wars of humankind,
“The furious troops in battle joined;”
The trumpets, the triumphal arch.
For detail, detail, most I care
(Ce superflu, si nécessaire!);
I cultivate a private bent
For episode, for incident;
I take a page of Some One's life,
His quarrel with his friend, his wife,
His good or evil hap at Court,
“His habit as he lived,” his sport,
The books he read, the trees he planted,
The dinners that he ate—or wanted:
As much, in short, as one may hope
To cover with a microscope.
If Gray or Walpole hold the candle;
Nor do I use a lofty tone
Where faults are weaknesses alone.
I own I feel no special pride;
The Fleet, the round-house, and the gibbets
Are not among my prize exhibits;
Nor could I, if I would, outdo
What Fielding wrote, or Hogarth drew.
What Gautier christened a “Grotesque;”
To take his oddities and “lunes,”
And drape them neatly with festoons,
Until, at length, I chance to get
The thing I designate “Vignette.”
Is modest. This is all I claim:
To paint a part and not the whole,
The trappings rather than the soul.
The silent Forces fighting Crime,
The Fetishes that fail, and pass,
The struggle between Class and Class,
The Wealth still adding land to lands,
The Crown that falls, the Faith that stands...
All this I leave to abler hands.
EPILOGUE TO “EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY VIGNETTES
(SECOND SERIES)
“What is it that attaches
Your fancy so to fans and masks,—
To periwigs and patches?
So bloodless,—you disdain it,
To ‘galvanize’ the Past once more?”
—Permit me. I'll explain it.
Is varied, rich, eventful;
But, if you touch its weaker side
Deplorably resentful:
With air of calm conviction;
Condemn it, and at once you raise
A storm of contradiction.
Their ways and dress delight me;
And should I trip by word or line,
They cannot well indict me.
To steer 'twixt blame and blindness;
I strive (as some one said in Greek)
To speak the truth with kindness:
Their title, rank, or station—
I still may sleep secure, nor fear
A suit for defamation.
ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS
In view of the very prolonged popularity which has attended the use of these old French forms in England and America, the following dates may here be preserved. Some of the Triolets at p. 461 appeared in the Graphic for May 23, 1874; the Rondeau at p. 466 and the Ballade at p. 486 in Evening Hours for May 1876; the Villanelle at p. 482 in Proverbs in Porcelain, May 1877; the Chant Royal at p. 504 in the Architect for July 14, 1877; and the Ballade à double refrain at p. 500 in Belgravia for January 1878.
The fair French daughter to learn English in;
And, gracèd with her song,
To make the language sweet upon her tongue.”
Ben Jonson, Underwoods.
[As, to the pipe, with rhythmic feet]
As, to the pipe, with rhythmic feetIn windings of some old-world dance,
The smiling couples cross and meet,
Join hands, and then in line advance,
So, to these fair old tunes of France,
Through all their maze of to and fro,
The light-heeled numbers laughing go,
Retreat, return, and ere they flee,
One moment pause in panting row,
And seem to say—Vos plaudite!
ROSE-LEAVES
A KISS.
Rose kissed me to-day.Will she kiss me to-morrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me to-day
But the pleasure gives way
To a savour of sorrow;—
Rose kissed me to-day,—
Will she kiss me to-morrow?
CIRCE.
In the School of CoquettesMadam Rose is a scholar:—
O, they fish with all nets
In the School of Coquettes!
When her brooch she forgets
'Tis to show her new collar;
In the School of Coquettes
Madam Rose is a scholar!
A TEAR.
There's a tear in her eye,—Such a clear little jewel!
What can make her cry?
There's a tear in her eye.
And it's horribly cruel;”
There's a tear in her eye,—
Such a clear little jewel!
A GREEK GIFT.
Here's a present for Rose,How pleased she is looking!
Is it verse?—is it prose?
Here's a present for Rose!
“Plats,” “Entrées,” and “Rôts,”—
Why, it's “Gouffé on Cooking”
Here's a present for Rose,
How pleased she is looking!
“URCEUS EXIT.”
I intended an Ode,And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began à la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose crossed the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turned to a Sonnet.
“PERSICOS ODI”
The subjoined “Pocket Version” was appended to this,
when it first appeared in the second edition of Proverbs in
Porcelain, 1878:—
“Davus, I detest
Persian decoration;
Roses and the rest,
Davus, I detest.
Simple myrtle best
Suits our modest station:—
Davus, I detest
Persian decoration.”
Monsieur Isaac de Benserade, in the Hotel de Rambouillet
days, translated the entire Metamorphoses of Ovid into Rondeaus.
In this, and some similar pieces that follow (cf. pp.
465, 479–481, 485, 502), I have imitated his temerity but
not his excess.
The subjoined “Pocket Version” was appended to this, when it first appeared in the second edition of Proverbs in Porcelain, 1878:—
Persian decoration;
Roses and the rest,
Davus, I detest.
Simple myrtle best
Suits our modest station:—
Davus, I detest
Persian decoration.”
Monsieur Isaac de Benserade, in the Hotel de Rambouillet days, translated the entire Metamorphoses of Ovid into Rondeaus. In this, and some similar pieces that follow (cf. pp. 465, 479–481, 485, 502), I have imitated his temerity but not his excess.
Orient display;
Wreaths on linden drest,
Davus, I detest.
Let the late rose rest
Where it fades away:—
Davus, I detest
Orient display.
Therefore, Boy, for me
Sitting 'neath the vine,—
Naught but myrtle twine;
Fitting to the wine,
Not unfitting thee;
Naught but myrtle twine
Therefore, Boy, for me.
THE WANDERER
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
We see him stand by the open door,
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.
He fain would lie as he lay before;—
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!
E'en as we doubt in our heart once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.
“VITAS HINNULEO”
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother
Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh
It vainly strives its fears to smother;—
When lizards stir the bramble dry;—
You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.
No ravening thing to rend another;
Lay by your tears, your tremors by—
A Husband's better than a brother;
Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.
“ON LONDON STONES”
Lope de Vega and Hurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets on
Sonnet-making; Voiture imitated them as regards the Rondeau.
Here is a paraphrase of Voiture:—
You bid me try, Blue-Eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What!—forthwith?—to-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;—
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still, there are five lines,—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
[OMITTED]
That makes them eight. The port's in sight;—
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in “oo”—
When maids command, what can't we do!
Behold!—the Rondeau, tasteful, light,
You bid me try!
Lope de Vega and Hurtado de Mendoza wrote sonnets on Sonnet-making; Voiture imitated them as regards the Rondeau. Here is a paraphrase of Voiture:—
A Rondeau. What!—forthwith?—to-night?
Reflect. Some skill I have, 'tis true;—
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!
“Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still, there are five lines,—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
[OMITTED] That makes them eight. The port's in sight;—
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in “oo”—
When maids command, what can't we do!
Behold!—the Rondeau, tasteful, light,
You bid me try!
For wider green and bluer sky;—
Too oft the trembling note is drowned
In this huge city's varied sound;—
“Pure song is country-born”—I cry.
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I—I too!—no more am found
On London stones!
That clearer strain I fain would try;
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts;—she is not shy
On London stones!
“FAREWELL, RENOWN!”
That grows a year to last an hour;—
Prize of the race's dust and heat,
Too often trodden under feet,—
Why should I court your “barren dower”?
The thews of Ben,—the wind of Gower,—
Not less my voice should still repeat
“Farewell, Renown!”
Is filled with rival brows that lower;—
Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,
The Bard, that “pays,” must please the street;—
But most . . . because the grapes are sour,—
Farewell, Renown!
“MORE POETS YET!”
The dedicatory initials of this rondeau stand for “John
Leicester Warren” (afterwards Lord De Tabley). He
was so kind as to read the proofs of the volume in which
it appeared; and I remember that, years after, at one of our
rare meetings, he pleasantly—and with perfect accuracy—
recalled the fact that the Homeric epithet “many-buttoned,”
applied to the page in A Nightingale in Kensington Gardens
had been suggested by himself. This suggestion by no means
exhausts my debt to his fine scholarship and fastidious taste.
When, some months before his death in 1895, he sent me his
last book, I returned him a few verses of acknowledgment.
As they pleased him—and as, moreover, Mr. Edmund
Gosse has been good enough to give them the currency
of his delightful Critical Kit-Cats—I may perhaps be pardoned
if I reproduce them here:—
“Still may the muses foster thee, O Friend,
Who, while the vacant quidnuncs stand at gaze,
Wond'ring what Prophet next the Fates may send,
Still tread'st the ancient ways;
Still climb'st the clear-cold altitudes of Song,
Or ling'ring “by the shore of old Romance,”
Heed'st not the vogue, how little or how long,
Of marvels made in France.
Still to the summits may thy face be set,
And long may we, that heard thy morning rhyme,
Hang on thy noon-day music, nor forget
In the hushed even-time!”
The dedicatory initials of this rondeau stand for “John Leicester Warren” (afterwards Lord De Tabley). He was so kind as to read the proofs of the volume in which it appeared; and I remember that, years after, at one of our rare meetings, he pleasantly—and with perfect accuracy— recalled the fact that the Homeric epithet “many-buttoned,” applied to the page in A Nightingale in Kensington Gardens had been suggested by himself. This suggestion by no means exhausts my debt to his fine scholarship and fastidious taste. When, some months before his death in 1895, he sent me his last book, I returned him a few verses of acknowledgment. As they pleased him—and as, moreover, Mr. Edmund Gosse has been good enough to give them the currency of his delightful Critical Kit-Cats—I may perhaps be pardoned if I reproduce them here:—
Who, while the vacant quidnuncs stand at gaze,
Wond'ring what Prophet next the Fates may send,
Still tread'st the ancient ways;
Or ling'ring “by the shore of old Romance,”
Heed'st not the vogue, how little or how long,
Of marvels made in France.
And long may we, that heard thy morning rhyme,
Hang on thy noon-day music, nor forget
In the hushed even-time!”
Arming his heavy hand to slay;—
“Despite my skill and ‘swashing blow,’
They seem to sprout where'er I go;—
I killed a host but yesterday!”
Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray;
And though you cut, not less will grow
More Poets yet!
The first blind motions of the May?
Who shall out-blot the morning glow?—
Or stem the full heart's overflow?
Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
More Poets yet!
“WITH PIPE AND FLUTE”
Of old made music sweet for man;
And wonder hushed the warbling bird,
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,—
The rolling river slowlier ran.
Some air of Arcady could fan
This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute!
And from Beersheba unto Dan,
Apollo's self might pass unheard,
Or find the night-jar's note preferred;—
Not so it fared, when time began,
With pipe and flute!
TO A JUNE ROSE
His feast with thee; thy petals press'd
Augustan brows; thine odour fine,
Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine,
Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.
By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd,
Half-trembled on the half-divine,
O royal Rose!
In our old gardens of the West,
Whether about my thatch thou twine,
Or Hers, that brown-eyed maid of mine,
Who lulls thee on her lawny breast,
O royal Rose!
TO DAFFODILS
O yellow flowers that danced and swung
In Wordsworth's verse, and now to me,
Unworthy, from this “pleasant lea,”
Laugh back, unchanged and ever young;—
O'erwrought, o'erreaching, hoarse of lung,
You teach by that immortal glee,
O yellow flowers!
Still hunt the New with eager tongue,
Vexed ever with the Old, but ye,
What ye have been ye still shall be,
When we are dust the dust among,
O yellow flowers!
ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME
Of old, when “letters” were “polite;”
In Anna's, or in George's days,
They could afford to turn a phrase,
Or trim a straggling theme aright.
Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;—
They meted out both blame and praise
With slower pen.
What's read at morn is dead at night:
Scant space have we for Art's delays,
Whose breathless thought so briefly stays,
We may not work—ah! would we might!—
With slower pen
“WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED”
Of fount and temple, tower and stair;
Two backswords eked a battle out;
Two supers made a rabble rout;
The Throne of Denmark was a chair!
Thrilled through all changes of Despair,
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt
When Burbadge played!
All moods, all passions, nor to care
One whit for scene, so he without
Can lead men's minds the roundabout,
Stirred as of old those hearers were
When Burbadge played!
A GREETING
To-day between us both expands
A waste of tumbling waters wide,—
A waste by me as yet untried,
Vague with the doubt of unknown lands.
A year he blots, a day he brands;
We walked, we talked by Thamis' side
But once or twice.
Are these that turn to iron bands?
What knot is this so firmly tied
That naught but Fate can now divide?—
Ah, these are things one understands
But once or twice!
LÉAL SOUVENIR
Words fitter for an old-world Muse
Than these, that in their cadence bring
Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,
And charms that rustic lovers use.
The first pale flush, the morning hues,—
Ah! but the back-look, lingering,
For old sake's sake!
To lift the veil on forward views,
Despot in most, he is not king
Of those kind memories that cling
Around his travelled avenues
For old sake's sake!
AFTER WATTEAU
Against my will. 'Neath alleys low
I bend, and hear across the air—
Across the stream—faint music rare,—
Whose “cornemuse,” whose “chalumeau”?
Who was it, hurrying, turned to show
The galley swinging by the stair?—
“Embarquons-nous!”
Frail laces flutter, satins flow;
You, with the love-knot in your hair,
“Allons, embarquons pour Cythère”;
You will not? Press her, then, Pierrot,—
“Embarquons-nous!”
TO ETHEL
(Who wishes she had lived—
“In teacup-times of hood and hoop,Or while the patch was worn.”)
Would suit your beauty, I confess;
Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;
I picture you with powdered hair,—
You'd make a charming Shepherdess!
Sir Plume's complete conceitedness,—
Could poise a clouded cane with care
“In teacup-times!”
We should achieve a huge success!
You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But . . could I love you more, or less,—
“In teacup-times”?
“WHEN FINIS COMES”
And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes,
With backward step, from stage to stage
Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . .
The thorn lies thicker than the rose!
So much un-reached that none suppose;
What flaws! what faults!—on every page,
When Finis comes.
Though not for all the laurel grows,
Perchance, in this be-slandered age,
The worker, mainly, wins his wage;—
And Time will sweep both friends and foes
When Finis comes!
“O FONS BANDUSIÆ”
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,
To-morrow shall a kid be thine
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,—
Sure sign!—of loves and battles near.
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—
The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Will rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling Spring!
“EXTREMUM TANAIN”
O Lyce, I bewail my fate;
Not Don's barbarian maids, I trow,
Would treat their luckless lovers so;
Thou,—thou alone art obstinate.
Hark! how the North Wind shakes thy gate!
Look! how the laurels bend with snow
Before thy doors!
Lest Love and I grow desperate;
If prayers, if gifts for naught must go,
If naught my frozen pallor show,—
Beware! . . . . I shall not always wait
Before thy doors!
“VIXI PUELLIS”
Nor laurelless. Now all must go;
Let this left wall of Venus show
The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.
And Memphis free from Thracian snow,
Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow,
Smite,—smite but once that pretty scold
We loved of yore!
“WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE”
You were only so high;
How fast the time goes!
You just peeped at the sky,
When I saw you last, Rose!
Now your May-time is nigh;—
How fast the time goes!
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose!
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes!)
Yet you used not to sigh,
When I saw you last, Rose;—
How fast the time goes!
ON A NANKIN PLATE
Was there ever so dismal a fate?”—
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
She passed, tho' I cried to her ‘Wait,’—
Ah me, but it might have been!
Be mine!’ 'Twas precipitate,”—
Quoth the little blue mandarin,—
Long-eyed,—as a lily straight,—
Ah me, but it might have been!
She laughed—‘You're a week too late!’”
(Quoth the little blue mandarin.)
I mourn on this Nankin Plate.
Ah me, but it might have been!”—
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS
Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine,—
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!
The beechen bowl made glad with wine . .
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine . .
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Our Northern suns too sadly shine:—
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold!
“TU NE QUAESIERIS”
(Alas! unblest the trying!)
When thou and I must go.
What shall be, vainly prying,
Seek not, O maid, to know.
Or is't with this one dying,
That thou and I must go,
And waves the reef are plying?
Seek not, O Maid, to know.
On no vain hope relying;
When thou and I must go
Now,—now, churl Time is flying;
Seek not, O Maid, to know
When thou and I must go.
THE PRODIGALS
Nobles and Barons of all degrees!
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us,—
Beggars that come from the over-seas!
Nothing we ask or of gold or fees;
Harry us not with the hounds we pray;
Lo,—for the surcote's hem we seize,—
Give us—ah! give us—but Yesterday!”
Damosels blithe as the belted bees!
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us,—
Beggars that come from the over-seas!
Nothing we ask of the things that please;
Weary are we, and worn, and gray;
Lo,—for we clutch and we clasp your knees,—
Give us—ah! give us—but Yesterday!”
(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.)
“Hear us, O Knights magnanimous!”
(But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.)
Nothing they gat or of hope or ease,
But only to beat on the breast and say:—
“Life we drank to the dregs and lees;
Give us—ah! give us—but Yesterday!”
ENVOY.
Youth, take heed to the prayer of these!Many there be by the dusty way,—
Many that cry to the rocks and seas
“Give us—ah! give us—but Yesterday!”
ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty frou-frou!
Picture above, if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!
Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through
Courtiers as butterflies bright,
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew
Here was the sign and the cue,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!
ENVOY.
Where are the secrets it knew?Weavings of plot and of plan?
—But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's Fan!
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH of the Spanish Armada
He had sworn for a year he would sack us
With an army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,—
And where are the galleons of Spain?
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are the galleons of Spain?
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!—
But where are the galleons of Spain?
ENVOY.
Gloriana! the Don may attack usWhenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us,
And where are the galleons of Spain?
A BALLAD OF HEROES
Because, in some remoter day,
Your sacred dust from doubtful spot
Was blown of ancient airs away,—
Because you perished,—must men say
Your deeds were naught, and so profane
Your lives with that cold burden? Nay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!
That hid your once imperial clay,
No greener than o'er men forgot
The unregarding grasses sway;—
Though there no sweeter is the lay
From careless bird,—though you remain
Without distinction of decay,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!
Your story stirs the pulses' play;
And men forget the sordid lot—
The sordid care, of cities gray;—
While yet, beset in homelier fray,
That Life may go, so Honour stay,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!
ENVOY.
Heroes of old! I humbly layThe laurel on your graves again;
Whatever men have done, men may,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain.
THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH
I hear him careless throw
One warning utterance sweet;
Then faint at first, and low,
The full notes closer grow;
Hark! what a torrent gush!
They pour, they overflow—
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!
Has fooled his fancy so
To scorn of dust and heat?
I, prisoned here below,
Feel the fresh breezes blow;
And see, thro' flag and rush,
Cool water sliding slow—
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!
On that dull bar, thy foe!
Somewhere the green boughs meet
Beyond the roofs a-row;
Somewhere the blue skies show,
Somewhere no black walls crush
Poor hearts with hopeless woe—
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!
ENVOY.
Bird, though they come, we know,The empty cage, the hush;
Still, ere the brief day go,
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!
THE BALLAD OF THE BARMECIDE
There came a man at eve with “Lo!
Friend, ere the day be dimmed and dead,
Hast thou a mind to feast, and know
Fair cates, and sweet wine's overflow?”
To whom that other fain replied—
“Lead on. Not backward I nor slow;—
Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?”
To where, apart from dust and glow,
They found a board with napery spread,
And gold, and glistering cups a-row.
“Eat,” quoth the host, yet naught did show
To whom his guest—“Thy board is wide;
But barren is the cheer, I trow;
Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?”
From meats unseen, and made as though
He drank of wine both white and red.
“Eat,—ere the day to darkness grow.
Short space and scant the Fates bestow!”
What time his guest him wondering eyed,
Muttering in wrath his beard below—
“Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?”
ENVOY.
Life,—'tis of thee they fable so.Thou bidd'st us eat, and still denied,
Still fasting, from thy board we go:—
“Where is thy feast, O Barmecide?”
THE BALLAD OF IMITATION
Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;
That the ballad you sing is but merely “conveyed”
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score
That is not as out-worn as the “Wandering Jew”;
Make answer—Beethoven could scarcely do more—
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
Are simply “adapted” from other men's lore;
That—plainly to speak of a “spade” as a “spade”—
You've “stolen” your grouping from three or from four;
That (however the writer the truth may deplore),
Smile only serenely—though cut to the core—
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
If they whisper your Epic—“Sir Éperon d'Or”—
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;
That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore
That you “lift” or “accommodate” all that you do;
Take heart—though your Pegasus' withers be sore—
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!—
One word in your ear. There were Critics before . . .
And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,—
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a “formal cut,”—
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the “golden prime,”
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,—
Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
In a changing quarrel of “Ayes” and “Noes,”
In a starched procession of “If” and “But,”—
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told “that no one knows,”—
Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
ENVOY.
In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes,There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
“O NAVIS”
What dost thou?—O, once more
Regain the port. Behold!
Thy sides are bare of oar,
Thy tall mast wounded sore
Of Africus, and see,
What shall thy spars restore!—
Tempt not the tyrant sea!
When all drag out from shore!
What god canst thou, too bold,
In time of need implore!
Look! for thy sails flap o'er,
Thy stiff shrouds part and flee,
Fast—fast thy seams outpour,—
Tempt not the tyrant sea!
The pines of Pontus bore!
Not now to stern of gold
Men trust, or painted prore!
Thou, or thou count'st it store
A toy of winds to be,
Shun thou the Cyclads' roar,—
Tempt not the tyrant sea!
ENVOY.
Ship of the State, beforeA care, and now to me
A hope in my heart's core,—
Tempt not the tyrant sea!
THE DANCE OF DEATH
(AFTER HOLBEIN)
Non est medicamen in hortis.”
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith—
“Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play.”
There is no King more terrible than Death.
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate;
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
The Wine-bibber,—the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth:—
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:—
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—
In the last furrow,—feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright.
The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness and decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,—
All these he leadeth by the lonely way . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
ENVOY.
Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,
Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,—
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,—
When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,—
There is no King more terrible than Death.
CARMINA VOTIVA
AND OTHER OCCASIONAL VERSES
A MADRIGAL
[Who can dwell with greatness! Greatness is too high]
[Written for Choral Songs in Honour of Queen Victoria, 1899, and set to music by Sir Hubert Parry .]
Flowers are for the meadow, suns are for the sky;—
Ah! but there is greatness in this land of ours,
High as is the sunlight, humble as the flowers!
Royal, and yet lowly, lowly, and yet great;—
Great in far dominion, great in bannered years,
Greater still as woman, greatest in thy tears!
RANK AND FILE
(SOUTH AFRICA, 1900–1)
Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep
Shows to the stars, for you I mourn,—I weep,
O undistinguished Dead!
Blacken'd and blurr'd in the wild battle's brunt,
Hotly you fell . . . with all your wounds in front:
This is your fame!
FOR A COPY OF “THE COMPLEAT ANGLER”
To dress your Chubb or Chavender;
I care no whit for line or hook,
But still I love old Izaak's book,
Wherein a man may read at ease
Of “gandergrass” and “culverkeys,”
Or with half-pitying wonder, note
What Topsell, what Du Bartas wrote,
Or list the song, by Maudlin sung,
That Marlowe made when he was young:—
These things, in truth, delight me more
Than all old Izaak's angling lore.
How men concoct the Hawthorn-fly,
Who could as soon “stroke Syllabub”
As catch your Chavender or Chubb;
And might not, in ten years, arrive
At baiting hooks with frogs, alive!—
But still I love old Izaak's page,
Old Izaak's simple Golden Age,
Where lasses “milk the sand-red cow,”
Where lads are “sturdy foot-ball swains,”
And nought but soft “May-butter” rains;
Where you may breathe untainted air
Either at Hodsden or at Ware;
And sing, or slumber, or look wise
Till Phœbus sink adown the skies;
Then, laying rod and tackle by,
Choose out some “cleanly Alehouse” nigh,
With ballads “stuck about the wall,”
Of Joan of France or English Mall—
With sheets that smell of lavender—
There eat your Chubb (or Chavender).
And keep old Izaak's honest laws
For “mirth that no repenting draws”—
To wit, a friendly stave or so,
That goes to Heigh-trolollie-loe,
Or more to make the ale-can pass,
A hunting song of William Basse—
Then talk of fish and fishy diet,
And dream you—“Study to be quiet.”
VERSES READ AT THE DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
MARCH 25, 1897
Surgit Omari aliquid.”
—Lucretius (adapted).
A Bard bobs up, and bores us with a Song.
—The Apiciad.
In Homer more than Homer knew.”
I can't pretend to claim the gift
Of playing Bentley upon Swift;
But I suspect the reading true
Is “Omar more than Omar knew,”—
Or why this large assembly met
Lest we this Omar should forget?
(In a parenthesis I note
Our Rustum here, without red coat;
Where Sohrab sits I'm not aware,
But that's Firdausi in the Chair!)—
I say then that we now are met
Lest we this Omar should forget,
Who, ages back, remote, obscure,
Wrote verses once at Naishápúr,—
Verses which, as I understand,
Were merely copied out by hand,
Of India paper, or hand-made,
Bid fair Parnassus' top to climb,
And knock the Classics out of time.
And therefore is no longer read.
Time, who could simply not endure
Slight to the Bard of Naishápúr,
(Time, by the way, was rather late
For one so often up-to-date!)
Went swiftly to the Roll of Fame
And blotted Q. H. F. his name,
Since when, for every Youth or Miss
That knows Quis multa gracilis,
There are a hundred who can tell
What Omar thought of Heav'n and Hell;
Who Bahrám was; and where (at need)
Lies hid the Beaker of Jamshyd;—
In short, without a break can quote
Most of what Omar ever wrote.
And all of us, sometimes, must dine;
And Omar Khayyám wrote of Roses,
And all of us, no doubt, have noses;
And Omar Khayyám wrote of Love,
Which some of us are not above.
Also, he charms to this extent,
We don't know, always, what he meant.
Lastly, the man's so plainly dead
We can heap honours on his head.
By his “deplorable demise.”
There is so much that we could say
Were he a Bard of yesterday!
We should discuss his draughts and pills,
His baker's and his vintner's bills;
Rake up—perhaps 'tis well we can't—
Gossip about his maiden aunt;
And all that marketable matter
Which Freeman nicknamed “Harriet-chatter!”
But here not even Persian candles
Can light us to the smallest scandals;—
Thus far your Omar gains at least
By having been so long deceased.
Back on his opus after all:—
Those quatrains so compact, complete,
So suited to FitzGerald's feet,
(And, let us add, so subtly planned
To tempt the imitative band!)—
Those censers of Omari ware
That breathe into the perfumed air
His doubt, his unrest, his despair;—
Those jewels-four-lines-long that show,
Eight hundred years and more ago,
An old thing underneath the sun
In Babylonish Babylon:—
A Body and a Soul at strife
To solve the Mystery of Life!
(To take our more familiar way)
In darkest mystery is hid;
And though (unlike our bards) his task
Was less to answer than to ask;
For all his endless Why and Whether,
He brings us here to-night together;
And therefore (as I said before),
Hail! Omar Khayyám, hail! once more!
VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
MAY 17, 1901
“It does not appear that there was any danger in holding and singing Súfi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his Salaam to Mohammed at the beginning and end of his Song” (FitzGerald, Prefaces to Rubaiyat, 1872). The last stanza here printed was an afterthought, and was not included in the version on the menu. A third piece, written for the Omar Khayyám dinner of March 1903, and kindly read for the author in his absence by Mr. Henry Newbolt, is subjoined:—
“Under which King?” “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak, or die.” —2 Henry IV. Act v., Scene 3.
“The Hermit of the Suffolk shore?—
The Tent-maker of Naishapúr?—
Omar, FitzGerald—which?” Perpend.
To judge two sonnets, answered thus:—
“One, in its way, is marvellous;
And yet—I like the other more.”
But if you further question why
I sit in this brave company,
I will—with your good leave—explain.
We all too-heavy burdens bear,
And groaning 'neath our load of care,
Run to and fro in search of rest.
Kind looks across the napery gleam;
The Past, the Future, grow a dream;
And—for the moment—we forget.
But phantasies. We snuff the air;
The green spot in the desert bare;
The Opiate of the Interval!
Have bid Black Care be banished, and invite
The Rose, the Cup, the not-too-ancient Jest
To help, and cheer us,—but beyond the Rest,
Peaceful Digestion with its blissful Calm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
And mortal Man of many Ills the Sport;
Yet still th' Oasis of the Board commends
Its Vantage-Ground for cheerful Talk of Friends,
And brings Oblivion, like an Eastern Balm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
Down the dim Way that leads to Weal or Woe;
But kindly Hearts and kindly Thoughts will last
Till Time himself—the Arch-Iconoclast—
Drops the last Coin in Charon's withered Palm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
FOR “AN APPENDIX TO THE ROWFANT LIBRARY”
(F. L. L.: IN MEMORIAM)
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,—
Some master-stroke of punning.
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,—
Such store of recollection;
So well-bred and so witty,—
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?
Praed buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no Frederick Locker.
FOR A CHARITY ANNUAL
Grows faint and sick; to left and right
The cowering houses shrink from sight,
Huddled and hopeless, eyeless, bare.
Must be the angel-shapes that light
In Angel-Court!
Death at the doorway stands to smite;
Life in its garrets leaps to light;
And Love has climbed that crumbling stair
In Angel-Court.
FOR A COPY OF “THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD”
Grows faint and distant; now no more,
From that famed street he trod of yore,
Men turn where those old Templars lie!
Pauses awhile from dust and roar
By Goldsmith's tomb!
What shadowy shapes, unseen before,
Troop back again from Lethe's shore!—
How the ghosts gather then, and sigh
By Goldsmith's tomb!
AFTER A HOLIDAY
Snuggling aside in the sun;
The sweep of a threshing-floor,
A flail with its One-two, One;
Grave as a master at class;
A foal with its heels in the air,
Rolling, for joy, in the grass;
Laughing, astride on a wall;
A collie-dog, lazily glad . . .
Why do I think of it all?
Once more through the dust-dry pane,
The sky like a great Dead Sea,
And the lash of the London rain;
Of a murder done at my gate,
And a goodly ship gone down,
And of homes made desolate;
That but for a moment's space,
We may shut our sense, and part
From the pain of this tarrying place.
THE BALLAD OF THE BORE
And, sick with hopelessness,
Invoke some kindly star,—
I see him come, not less.
Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye Gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,—
Defend us from The Bard!
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,
I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,
He stands—as one on guard,
And reads—how volubly!—
Defend us from The Bard!
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,
Of Maids that never bless
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),—
Defend us from The Bard!
Envoy.
Prince Phœbus, all must die,Or well- or evil-starred,
Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way—why?
Defend us from The Bard!
TO THE LADY DOROTHY NEVILL
Here is Horace his Life. I have ventured to draw himAs the Berrys, the Conways, the Montagus saw him:
Very kind to his friends, to the rest only so-so;
A Talker, Fine Gentleman, Wit, Virtuoso;
With—running through all his sham-Gothic gim-crackery—
A dash of Sévigné, Saint-Simon and Thackeray.
For errors of ignorance, haste, execution,
From You, his descendant, I ask absolution.
TO EDMUND GOSSE
At your pleasure here I hold“Atalanta snowy-souled:”
Rather smudgy tho',—the gold
Not so brilliant as of old;
First Edition,—that is plain;
Monogram of J. B. Payne . . .
Dogg'rel this, but it was reckoned
Metre under George the Second.
Then a man was thought a Bard
If by striving very hard
He could write—say once a quarter,
Something just as long, or shorter.
Straight they crowned his head with bay,
Nobles took him home to “tay”;
Maids of honour for his muse
Quite forgot their “P's” and “Q's.”
See his name on all the posts;
People rush to buy in hosts
Tonson's last impression with
Author's portrait, done by Smith;
All his little words are quoted;
All his little airs are noted;
And, if he goes trickling on
From his paltry Helicon,
He is made Court-Footman or,
Possibly, Ambassador!
TO THE SAME
[When Churchill wrote, th' Aonian maid]
He served was scarce of speech afraid;
She used no phrase to circumvent
The homely article she meant,
But plainly called a spade a spade.
He but his age's law obeyed;—
They liked to see the bludgeon's dent
When Churchill wrote.
Demands the finest Sheffield blade;
We use a subtler instrument;
We cut for depth and not extent . . .
But would 'twere ours—the Mark they made—
When Churchill wrote.
TO THE SAME
[Grub-street is Milton Street to-day]
And that antiqua Mater
Whom Goldsmith served has passed away;
But is our lot the greater?
His misery from his betters,
We wrap our trash in parchment sides,
And call our task-work “Letters.”
TO THE SAME
[Had I but Walpole's wit, I'd write]
A quatrain here to-day
Should turn the wig of Prior white,
And make e'en Horace gray;
That once he lent to Young),
I would as neat a couplet frame
As e'er was said or sung;
The page must go without it;
This is my latest gift; and so . . .
And so, that's all about it!
TO THE SAME
[“Book against book.” “Agreed,” I said]
But 'twas the truck of Diomed!
Dead leaves—as these—will turn to gold.
Take them, Sir Alchemist, and see!
Nothing transmutes like sympathy.
TO THE SAME
[Gossip, may we live as now]
Gossip, may we live as now,Brothers ever, I and thou;
Us may never Envy's mesh hold,
Anger never cross our threshold;
Let our modest Lares be
Friendship and Urbanity.
TO THE SAME
[Eight volumes!—all well-polished prose]
Or better verse (as some suppose);
In style more playful than severe;
Moral in tone (pour qui sait lire);
All written by my single pen,
And praised by some distinguished men,
But else not widely read, I fear:—
FOR LOCKER'S “LONDON LYRICS”
1881
Apollo made, one April day,A new thing in the rhyming way;
Its turn was neat, its wit was clear,
It wavered 'twixt a smile and tear,
Then Momus gave a touch satiric,
And it became a “London Lyric.”
TO BRANDER MATTHEWS
The nimble words, the phrases neat,
Decline to mingle or to meet;
My skill is all foregone—forgot.
My Pegasus. I spur, I beat,
In vain to-day!
That I should fail to leave complete
One poor . . . the rhyme suggests “conceit!”
Alas! 'Tis all too clear I'm not
In vein to-day.
TO THE LATE H. C. BUNNER
All ye who wrong by word or sign,
This unprotected Muse of mine,
I wish you . . . Something else to do!
May She, whose grace you seek, decline!
Witness my hand!
And candid, who in every line
Discern a spark (or sparks) divine,
Be blessed! There's good in store for You,—
Witness my hand!
TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER
Again I send, in closer throng,
No unfamiliar shapes of song,
But those that once you liked and knew.
For are you not an old friend, too?—
Old friends are best.
All things, in short, to which belong
The charm, the grace that Time makes strong,—
All these I prize, but (entre nous)
Old friends are best!
“GOOD LUCK TO YOUR FISHING!”
And what have you caught?
Ah, would that my wishing
Were more than a thought!
Ah, would you had caught her,
Young Chloe, for me,—
Young Chloe, the daughter
Of Proteus, the sea!
With blue of her eyes;
She irks me, she irks me,
With little drawn sighs;
She lures me with laughter,
She tempts me with tears;
And hope follows after,—
Hope only,—and fears!
But would you had caught
That maid beyond wishing,
That maid beyond thought!
O cast the line deeper,
Deep—deep in the sea;
And catch her, and keep her,
Dan Cupid, for me!
A BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES
The years as silent waters flow;
All things that are depart, alas!
As leaves the winnowing breezes strow;
And still while yet, full-orbed and slow,
New suns the old horizon climb,
Old Time must reap, as others sow:
We are the gleaners after Time!
We harbour all the winds may blow;
As misers we up-store, amass
All gifts the hurrying Fates bestow;
Old chronicles of feast and show,
Old waifs of by-gone rune and rhyme,
Old jests that made old banquets glow:—
We are the gleaners after Time!
Old flowers that in old gardens grow,
Old records writ on tomb and brass,
Old spoils of arrow-head and bow,
Old wrecks of old worlds' overthrow,
Old relics of Earth's primal slime,
All drift that wanders to and fro:—
We are the gleaners after Time!
Envoy.
Friends, that we know not and we know!We pray you, by this Christmas chime,
Help us to save the things that go:
We are the gleaners after Time.
A SECOND BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES
We know you now, true friends, who still,
Where'er Time's tireless scythe has led,
Have wrought with us through good and ill—
Have toiled the weary sheaves to fill.
Hail then, O known and tried!—and you,
Who know us not to-day, but will—
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!
The full sacks bulge by door and sill,
With grain the threshing-floors are spread,
The piled grist feeds the humming mill;
And—but for you—all this were nil,
A harvest of lean ears and few,
But for your service, friends, and skill;
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!
Come, let us glean once more until
Here, where the snowdrop lifts its head,
The days bring round the daffodil;
And Autumn fades; till, 'neath the yew,
Once more we cry, with Winter chill,
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!
Envoy.
Come! Unto all a horn we spill,Brimmed with a foaming Yule-tide brew,
Hail to you all, by vale and hill!—
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!
LUDIBRIA VENTIS
R. L. S.
IN MEMORIAM
As ours recall
That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving,
That laurelled pall!
By bleaker seas,
Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger,—
His golden keys!
A BALLAD OF INCAPACITY
And rightly is extolled;
For Speech, too oft, outrides the law
By waxing overbold:
Yet he, I think (of mortal mould!)
Most needs the aid of “cheek,”—
The man who can no tale unfold,—
The man who cannot speak!
And hears around him rolled
The long, reverberate guffaw
That greets the quicker-souled;
He hears the jest, or new or old,
And mutely eats his “leek,”—
Is classed as either dull or cold,—
The man who cannot speak!
He may keep down controlled
Potentialities of “jaw”
Unmatched by any scold;
He may have thoughts of sterling gold
But he must all these things withhold,—
The man who cannot speak.
ENVOY.
Friends, 'tis of me the fable's told;Your sufferance I seek;
In me that shameless sight behold,—
The man who cannot speak!
“A VOICE IN THE SCENTED NIGHT”
A step where the rose-trees blow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
What is it that shakes you so?
A voice in the scented night!
She comes in her young love's glow,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
And she hears it, hushed and low,
A voice in the scented night.
Her passionate Romeo:—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
Of its “ever so long ago,”
That voice in the scented night,—
O Love, and O Love's delight!
A WELCOME FROM THE JOHNSON CLUB
He found a Bard, to meet him on the shore,
And hail his advent with a strain as clear
As e'er was sung by Byron or by Frere.
Yet would John Gay might welcome you in rhyme;
And by some Fable, not too coldly penned,
Teach how with judgment one may praise a Friend.
Your prowess from The Paradise of Birds;
No need to show how surely you have traced
The Life in Poetry, the Law in Taste;
Or mark with what unwearied strength you wear
The weight that Warton found too great to bear.
There is no need for this or that. My plan
Is less to laud the Matter than the Man.
The mind judicial, the untroubled view;
Takes his firm foothold on the thing he knows;
Who, free alike from passion and pretence,
Holds the good rule of calm and common sense;
And be the subject or perplexed or plain,
Clear or confusing, is throughout urbane,
Patient, persuasive, logical, precise,
And only hard to vanity and vice.
These are our claims to honour you as Guest.
SURGE ET AMBULA
And lo! the sinews shrunk and dry
Loosed, and the cripple leaped on high,
Wondering, and bare aloft his bed.
Who to the halt to-day shall cry—
“Arise, and walk!”
Treads earth no more, we still may try
To smooth the couch where sick men lie,
Whispering—to hopeless heart and head—
“Arise, and walk!”
SNAP-SHOT
Background of silver, reedy shore,
Dim shapes of rounded trees, the high
Effulgence of a summer sky.
And it was fixed,—the mimic wash,
The parent bird on-oaring slow,
Her fussy little fleet in tow,
The all-pervading sultry haze,
The white lights on the waterways,—
A scene that never was before,
A scene that will be—Nevermore!
And labour but to imitate;
Vainly for new effects we seek . . .
Earth's shortest second is unique!
HORATIAN ODE ON THE TERCENTENARY OF “DON QUIXOTE”
Much we extol that may not live;
Yet to the new-born Type we give
No care at all!
More maimed than by Lepanto's fight,—
This year Cervantes gave to light
His matchless page,
The half-crazed Hero and his hind,—
To make sad laughter for mankind;
And whence they fare
Allies Life's dulness with its dreams,—
Allies what is, with what but seems,—
Fact and Romance:—
O changing give-and-take between
The aim too high, the aim too mean,
I hail your birth—
And hang, on Time's Pantheon wall,
My votive tablet to recall
That lasting gain!
PEPYS' DIARY
(TO ONE WHO ASKED WHY HE WROTE IT)
In truth I'm not a German;—
'Tis plain though that he neither meant
A Lecture nor a Sermon.
I find no other reason
But that some scribbling itch attacked
Him in and out of season,
With this for second meaning,
To “cleanse his bosom” (and indeed
It sometimes wanted cleaning);
Unhindered by repression,
To make his motley life a kind
Of Midas' ears confession;
This queer, kaleidoscopic,
Delightful, blabbing, vivid, free
Hotch-pot of daily topic,
So fleeting, so eternal,
So packed with “poor Humanity”—
We know as Pepys his Journal.
THE SIMPLE LIFE
Cheerily we rise at dawn;
Cheerily, with blameless cup,
Greet the wise world waking up;—
Ah, they little know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!
Work we ply with book and pen;
Then,—the pure air in our lungs,—
Then “persuasion tips our tongues”;
Then we write as would, I wis,
Men in Megalopolis!
Phyllis spreads the meal of noon,
Simple, frugal, choicely clean,
Gastronomically mean;—
Appetite our entrée is,
Far from Megalopolis!
Endive, beetroot,—all our own;
Milk and cream,—we know the cow;
Nothing here of “Force” or “Vis”
As at Megalopolis!
Somewhere, seats beneath a tree,
Where we—'twixt the curling rings—
Dream of transitory things;
Chiefly of what people miss
Drowsed in Megalopolis!
Comes the lounge along the lanes;
Comes the rocking shallop tied
By the reedy river-side;—
Clearer waves the light keel kiss
Than by Megalopolis!
In this Hermitage of ours
(Hermits we are not, believe!
Every Adam has his Eve,
Loved with a serener bliss
Than in Megalopolis):—
Then Good Night say each and all;
Sleep secure from smoke and din,
Quiet Conscience tucks us in;
Ah, they nothing know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!
Babbled of The Simple Life.
Then—his glances unawares
Lighting on a List of Shares—
Gulping all his breakfast down,
Bustled, by the Train, to Town.)
A NEW YEAR'S THOUGHT
The grey world rolls its tale of days;
And though its breast be chill and frore,
Still holds the songs of Spring in store,
The Autumn rains, the Summer blaze.
Succeed, and pass: what seems a maze
Is but Life's ordered course gone o'er
Yet once again.
We, fearless, turn our forward gaze,
As those who know, from days before,
What has been once will be once more,—
Good Hap or ill, and Blame, and Praise,
Yet once again!
RICHARD GARNETT
Who knew of most things more than any other;
Who loved all learning underneath the sun,
And looked on every learner as a brother.
Though far and wide his lore's domain extended
It held its quiet Poet's Corner too,
Where Mirth and Song and Irony were blended.
THE PASSIONATE PRINTER TO HIS LOVE
(Whose name is Amanda.)
With Apologies to the Shade of Christopher Marlowe.
And till that happy bond shall lapse,
I'll set your Poutings in Brevier,
Your Praises in the largest CAPS.
There's Ruby—that will match your Lips;
Pearl, for your Teeth; and Minion-size
To suit your dainty Finger-tips.
In Rubric shall your Blushes rise;
There is no Bourgeois in your Case;
Your Form can never need “Revise.”
Your Laugh as Clarendon is clear;
There's more distinction in your Dress
Than in the oldest Elzevir.
And may no “Finis” e'er intrude
To break into mere “Printers' Pie”
The Type of our Beatitude!
And choose some happier Youth to wed,
'Tis but to cross Amanda out,
And read another name instead.)
AN EPISTLE TO AN EDITOR
(Though as to that, I can dissemble
Till I hear more). But is it “new”?
And will it be a real Review?—
I mean, a Court in which the scales
Weigh equally both him that fails,
And him that hits the mark?—a place
Where the accus'd can plead his case,
If wrong'd? All this I need to know
Before I (arrogant!) say “Go.”
Is Steele's, not mine!), in former days,
Have seen so many “new Reviews”
Arise, arraign, absolve, abuse;—
Proclaim their mission to the top
(Where there's still room!), then slowly drop,
Sink down, fade out, and sans preferment,
Depart to their obscure interment;—
We should be pardon'd if we doubt
That a new venture can hold out.
Be “old.” The Old is still the True.
Nature (said Gautier) never tries
To alter her accustom'd dyes;
And all your novelties at best
Are ancient puppets, newly drest.
What you must do, is not to shrink
From speaking out the thing you think;
And blaming where 'tis right to blame
Despite tradition and a Name.
Yet don't expand a trifling blot,
Or ban the book for what it's not
(That is the poor device of those
Who cavil where they can't oppose!);
Moreover (this is very old!),
Be courteous—even when you scold!
You must give Praise the foremost part;—
Praise that to those who write is breath
Of Life, if just; if unjust, Death.
Praise then the things that men revere;
Praise what they love, not what they fear;
Praise too the young; praise those who try;
Praise those who fail, but by and by
May do good work. Those who succeed,
You'll praise perforce,—so there's no need
To speak of that. And as to each,
See you keep measure in your speech;—
See that your praise be so exprest
That the best man shall get the best;
Nor fail of the fit word you meant
Because your epithets are spent.
No limitless superlatives;
And Shakespeare, Homer, should have more
Than the last knocker at the door!
Excuse the hint you find amiss.
My thoughts, I feel, are what to-day
Men call vieux jeu. Well!—“let them say.”
The Old, at least, we know: the New
(A changing Shape that all pursue!)
Has been,—may be, a fraud.
—But there!
Wind to your sail! Vogue la galère!
TO THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
To pause in service to the Muse;
Nor counts it much for blame or praise
To him whose brow is bound with bays
If she be kindly, or refuse.
The Bard who, backward-looking, views
But blameless songs and blameless days
At seventy years!
Its morning skies, its evening hues,
Still may you walk in rhythmic ways
Companioned of the lyre whose lays
None—in this tuneless time—would lose
At seventy years!
TO MYRTALÉ
(With his verses.)
Myrtalé, when I am gone(Who was once Anacreon),
Lay these annals of my heart
In some secret shrine apart;
Into it put all my sighs,
All my lover's litanies,
All my vows and protestations,
All my jealous accusations,
All my hopes and all my fears,
All the tribute of my tears,—
Let it all be there inurned,
All my passion as it burned;
Label it, when I am gone,
“Ashes of Anacreon.”
“FAME IS A FOOD THAT DEAD MEN EAT”
(TO EDMUND GOSSE)
I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the feaster be of cheer.
Of Friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall
And of his fault make funeral.
A WAIF
Too old for childhood, and too dull for joy,
How shall you guess, thro' this forlorn disguise,
The Man you hope for, in this hopeless Boy?
And—by the grace of God—can be transformed.
LONGFELLOW
These were thy words of Chaucer who, grown old,
Like thee, those wand'ring “Wayside” tales retold,
Which all men hearken to, when hours are long.
From Western Worlds; and Northern Runes unroll'd;
And sought in Gestes and Fables manifold
Thy “Birds of Passage,” fleet of wing and strong.
Be this thy praise, that never flower'd among
Thy “Garden of Romance” aught base or mean;
And still, through all the changes of the year,
Thy stream of verse came welling pure and clear,
A stainless fount,—the truest Hippocrene.
A PLEASANT INVECTIVE AGAINST PRINTING
We are undone of chatter and on dit,
Report, retort, rejoinder, repartee,
Mole-hill and mare's nest, fiction up-to-date,
Babble of booklets, bicker of debate,
Aspect of A., and attitude of B.—
A waste of words that drive us like a sea,
Mere derelict of Ourselves, and helpless freight!
Some region unapproachable of Print,
Where never cablegram could gain access,
And telephones were not, nor any hint
Of tidings new or old, but Man might pipe
His soul to Nature,—careless of the Type!
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE RHYMER
F. of H.
I want a verse. It gives you little pains;—
You just sit down, and draw upon your brains.
Come, now, be amiable.
R.
To hear you talk,
You'd make it easier to fly than walk.
You seem to think that rhyming is a thing
You can produce if you but touch a spring;
That fancy, fervour, passion—and what not,
Are just a case of “penny in the slot.”
You should reflect that no evasive bird
Is half so shy as is your fittest word;
And even similes, however wrought,
Like hares, before you cook them, must be caught;—
Impromptus, too, require elaboration,
And (unlike eggs) grow fresh by incubation;
Then,—as to epigrams . . . .
F. of H.
Nay, nay, I've done
I did but make petition. You make fun.
Stay. I am grave. Forgive me if I ramble:
But then a negative needs some preamble
To break the blow. I feel with you, in truth,
These complex miseries of Age and Youth;
I feel with you—and none can feel it more
Than I—this burning Problem of the Poor;
The Want that grinds, the Mystery of Pain,
The Hearts that sink, and never rise again;—
How shall I set this to some careless screed,
Or jigging stave, when Help is what you need,
Help, Help,—more Help?
F. of H.
I fancied that with ease
You'd scribble off some verses that might please,
And so give help to us.
R.
Why then—take these!
TO A FRIEND WHO DEPLORED THE BRIEF LIFE OF LITERARY PERSONALITY
Though all should die of Me and You
And all of later men who press
This weary ball, 'tis like, no less,
That our stray thistle-down of thought
Claimed of some winnowing breeze, and brought
To some safe seeding-place, may lie
Securely there, and fructify;
And—in a world still out of joint—
May serve some bard for starting-point
Of some yet larger utterance whence
New bards shall borrow, aeons hence.
Our thought is living—and lives on!
A PROEM
['Tis two-score years since Carroll's art]
With topsy-turvy magic,
Sent Alice wandering through a part
Half-comic and half-tragic.
Has made your charm perennial;
And nought save “Chaos and old Night”
Can part you now from Tenniel;
In Truth, like Lear and Hamlet;
And Types may be re-draped to taste
In cloth of gold or camlet.
That Taste may gain a wrinkle
From him who drew with such deft pen
The rags of Rip van Winkle.
THE LAST PROOF
AN EPILOGUE TO ANY BOOK
No more of paragraphs to prune or mend;
No more blue pencil, with its ruthless line,
To blot the phrase ‘particularly fine’;
No more of ‘slips,’ and ‘galleys,’ and ‘revises,’
Of words ‘transmogrified,’ and ‘wild surmises’;
No more of n's that masquerade as u's,
No nice perplexities of p's and q's;
No more mishaps of ante and of post,
That most mislead when they should help the most;
No more of ‘friend’ as ‘fiend,’ and ‘warm’ as ‘worm’;
No more negations where we would affirm;
No more of those mysterious freaks of fate
That make us bless when we should execrate;
No more of those last blunders that remain
Where we no more can set them right again:
No more apologies for doubtful data;
No more fresh facts that figure as Errata;
No more, in short, O Type, of wayward lore
From thy most un-Pierian fount—no more!”
Went vaguely seeking for the vacant file,
Late stored with long array of notes, but now
Bare-wired and barren as a leafless bough;—
And even as he spoke, his mind began
Again to scheme, to purpose and to plan.
There is no end of labouring—but One;
And though we “twitch [or not] our Mantle blue,”
“To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.”
AN EPITAPH (FOR A PARISH MAGAZINE)
A man of whom, whate'er is spoken,
This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And—more than once—forgave his debtors.
Who prate about the Public Morals;
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.
To “demonstrate” on Want or Labour;
He strove to serve his fellow-man,
And did his best to love his neighbour.
He found in this his consolation:—
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.
But we, who watched his life, and knew it,
Thus mark his nameless resting place,
Because he died too poor to do it.
THE HAPPY PRINTER
Alone of all professions,
No fateful smudges ever blot
His earliest “impressions.”
No cold obstruction fetters;
He quickly learns the “types” of men,
And all the world of “letters.”
For him no “rule” has terrors;
The “slips” he makes, he can “revise”—
They are but “printers' errors.”
He wisely holds aloof;
In all polemics, more or less,
His argument is “proof.”
Small need has he to grapple!
Without dissent he still can go
To his accustomed “Chapel.”
He rarely fails to rally;
For him, his most “composing” work
Is labour of the “galley.”
He makes no lamentation;
The primal “fount” of woe to him
Is—want of occupation:
With over-close attention,
He solves the problem of the day,
And gets an Old Age pension.
This, derived, it is said, from Caxton's connection with Westminster Abbey, is the name given to the meetings held by printers to consider trade affairs, appeals, etc. (Printers' Vocabulary).
A MILTONIC EXERCISE
(TERCENTENARY, 1608–1908)
To strew thy Laureat Herse
With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?
Or Mincian vocall Reed,
That Cam and Isis breed,
When thine own Words are burning in us still?
In this Cash-cradled Age,
We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote:
Where is the Strain unknown,
Through Bronze or Silver blown,
That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?
Yet would we once again
Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;
Or watch the Comus Crew
Sweep down the Glade; or view
Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!
High up, the Clang and Roar
Of Angel Conflict,—Angel Overthrow;
Or, with a World begun,
Behold the young-ray'd Sun
Flame in the Groves where the Four Rivers go!
Only the Storm-bird's Scream
Foretells of Tempest in the Days to come;
Nowhere is heard up-climb
The lofty lyric Rhyme,
And the “God-gifted Organ-voice” is dumb.
PROLOGUE TO “DE LIBRIS”
They used to call you, years ago,—
I can't pretend to make you read
The pages that to this succeed;
Nor would I, if I could, excuse
The wayward promptings of the Muse,
At whose command I wrote them down.
I did but think some friendly soul
(Not ill-advised, upon the whole!)
Might like them; and—“to interpose
A little ease,”—between the prose,
Slipped in the scraps of verse, that thus
Things might be less monotonous.
A SONG OF THE GREENAWAY CHILD
In an article by the writer on Kate Greenaway (Art Journal, April, 1902) the following lines were included:—
“K. G.” (November 6, 1901.)
Farewell, kind heart! And if there be
In that unshored immensity
Child-Angels, they will welcome thee.
Clean-souled, clear-eyed, unspoiled, discreet,
Thou gav'st thy gifts to make Life sweet,—
These shall be flowers about thy feet!
In an article by the writer on Kate Greenaway (Art Journal, April, 1902) the following lines were included:— “K. G.” (November 6, 1901.)
In that unshored immensity
Child-Angels, they will welcome thee.
Thou gav'st thy gifts to make Life sweet,—
These shall be flowers about thy feet!
O, I met a Darling in frock and frill;
And she looked at me shyly, with eyes of blue,
“Are you going a-walking? Then take me too!”
And we played—and we played for an hour or so;
Then we climbed to the top of the old park wall,
And the Darling she threaded a cowslip ball.
This pain in my side, it has grown severe;
I ought to have told you I'm past three-score,
And I fear that I scarcely can play any more!”
You must play—you must play.—I shan't let you go!”
—And I woke with a start and a sigh of despair
And I found myself safe in my Grandfather's-chair!
FOR A VISITORS' BOOK
(TO THE LADY OF THE CASTLE)
Naught can hope to gain”:—
Shall I make denial
À la Châtelaine?
All that poets feign:
Let my verse commend me
À la Châtelaine!
Time, that churl ingrain,—
Kisses courtier fingers
À la Châtelaine;
Free from stone and stain;
Spares his sterner traces
À la Châtelaine!
Still, O Time, remain;
Send thy chiefest blessing
À la Châtelaine!
Light as summer rain;
Crosses be but bubbles
À la Châtelaine!
Save her toil and pain;
Time, be always tender
À la Châtelaine!
“TWO MAIDS UPROSE IN THE SHIMMERING LIGHT”
Aura mes amours.”—
“Qu'il gagne ou qu'il perde
Les aura toujours.”
Of the clanging battle-morn;
And one was tressed like the bird of night,
And one like the ripening corn.
And her dark eyes glowed like wine:—
“If he slay the foe, the knight I know,
He shall win this heart of mine!”
And her blue eyes 'gan to fill:
“Though he gain or lose, the man I choose,
He shall be my true love still!”
ELIM
Who—that Egyptian bondage o'er—
Had sight betimes of feathering green,
Of lengthened shadows, and between,
The cool, deep-garnered water-store.
But dearest to the travel-sore,
Whose camping-place not yet has been
Palm-trees and wells!
The long Procession of the Poor,
Still faring through the night-wind keen,
With faltering steps, to the Unseen?—
Nay: let us seek for these once more
Palm-trees and wells!
COLLABORATION:
AN ECLOGUE
Scene.—A Seat on the Thames Embankment.
Brown. Black.
Pince-nez on nose, and wisp about his throat;
Black is stiff-bearded, sturdy, brown of boot,
Wears Harris tweeds, and smokes a brier-root.)
I cannot rhyme, yet feel poetic throes.
Bl.
Rhymes I can manage. But my taste is prose.
Br.
A happy thought! Supposing we combine?
I'll find the subject,
Bl.
And I'll cap the line.
Br.
Let me premise that, whether blank or not,
Verse should be rhythmical at any rate.
Bl.
I don't object. But it must “touch the spot”;
And not be “precious” or “alembicate.”
Br.
Begin then, Muse,—begin the lofty Song!
Bl.
In plainer English,—“Roll the ball along!”
Br.
“Life is a Dream”—as Calderon has said—
Bl.
And ought to know, for he has long been dead.
Br.
A perilous Journey to a Goal unknown—
Bl.
Unless you have some income of your own.
Love is a Need, in Natures incomplete—
Bl.
Platonic rubbish!—and a mere conceit.
Br.
A gilded Apple, bitter to the Core—
Bl.
Also, a metaphor much heard before.
Br.
But Love the Need and Life the Dream exist—
Bl.
Though—as abstractions—neither would be missed.
Br.
And even Sentiment, Affection's Priest—
Bl.
Is but an entrée in the daily feast.
Br.
An entrée, yes,—and often overlooked—
Bl.
Provided that your standing-dish be cooked.
Br.
Provided, too, you banish Thought and Care—
Bl.
Both needless extras in a bill of fare.
Br.
That makes four verses. Only, your replies
Have more of crambo than of consequence.
Bl.
They have, of course. No Pegasus that flies
Can soar when handicapped by Common-sense.
Br.
Which makes another. Underneath the lamp,
I'll write them down—
Bl.
And I'll provide the stamp.
Br.
“The stamp!” For what? You think some Magazine?—
Bl.
Why not? That is precisely what I mean.
They must forthwith have posted that MS.:—
Each Bard believing, as they both retired,
That what he spoke, would be the more admired.)
ENTENTE CORDIALE
The flower of England and of France,
Tried champions, comrades leal and true,
Resolved, in all, to dare and do,—
Whom pen and pencil serve for lance.
In wit, skill, gaiety, romance,
Who shall to-day contend with you,
Now side by side?
To this fair bond bring severance!
Salut! Salut! Red, White and Blue;—
Salut! to our grim Lion too,
Who laughs to see the lines advance
Now side by side!
LATER POEMS
VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
APRIL 22, 1910
Yet o'er the Cup, a Moment-Space,
Peers into Naught with wistful Face,
As One who views but bygone Things.
Looks backward through the Past to see
Not what has been, but what may be—
We drink, not Memory, but Hope.
LA BONNE COMÉDIE
It warms the heart's cockles. 'Twas thus that he viewed it,
That simple old Critic, who smote on his knee,
And named it no more than he knew it to be.
If it makes the House merry, you never need doubt it:
It lashes the vicious; it laughs at the fool;
And it brings all the prigs and pretenders to school.
It is neither too tragic nor too sentimental;
Its thrust, like a rapier's, though cutting, is clean,
And it pricks Affectation all over the scene.
Its ways have not altered since Terence and Plautus;
Its mission is neither to praise nor to blame;
Its weapon is Ridicule; Folly, its game.
“True Comedy!”—such as our Coquelin played it!
It clears out the cobwebs; it freshens the air;
And it treads in the steps of its Master, Molière!
IN MEMORIAM
(FRIDAY, MAY 20, 1910)
Is King no more; and we that bend
Beside the bier, too surely know
We lose a Friend.
To write in tears a ruthless reign;
Rather he strove to make an end
Of strife and pain.
The half-healed wound, to hide the scar,
To purge away the lingering stain
Of racial war.
Of captured guns or banners torn,
Men hailed him as they hail a star
That comes with morn:
A morn of loosing and release—
A fruitful time of oil and corn—
An Age of Peace!
As one who, when his course is run,
May yet, in slumber, memory keep
Of duty done;
Who knows the lofty aim and pure,
Beyond all din of battles won,
Must still endure.
THREESCORE AND TEN
Fancy stands at his side.”
And wonder if he knew;
There is so much to doubt about—
So much but partly true!
Or songs that breathe and burn?
Will not the jaded Muse refuse
An acrobatic turn?
Ran readily to cantos;
But now it seems too late a date
For galliards and corantos.
Disgrace one's Roxalane,
For e'en Decrepitude, my Friend,
Must bend—in a pavane.
For Age is the spectator's,
In roomy stall reclined behind
The “paters” and the “maters,”
Whose thought is still creative—
Whose point of view is fresh and new,
Not feebly imitative.
Or rectify defect;
But it can clear a failing sight
With light of retrospect.
AN HORATIAN ODE TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY
(22ND JUNE, 1911)
Of weak-winged epithets that tire
With their own weight, or formal gush,
We greet thee, Sire!
We pray, in speech unskilled to feign,
That all good things good men desire
May crown Thy reign;
May leave in broken seas to veer,
And shape her course direct and plain,
With Thee to steer,
Where she on even keel shall ride,
Secure from reef and shoal, or fear
Of wind and tide.
Till, by God's grace, this Empire shine
More great in power than great in pride,
Through Thee and Thine;
One least bequest; or vail her claim
To aught that dowers an ancient line—
An ancient fame!
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
(“JULY 18, THACKERAY B. 1811”)
Those bald words in the Almanac!
The towering form, the grand white head;
The upturned look that seems to scent
The paltry and the fraudulent;
The kind eyes that too soon confess
Their sympathy with wretchedness;
Nor only these, but all the train
That issued from that teeming brain.
Distinct and vivid, strangers none;
Nay—if that can be—better known
Than mortal kinsfolk of our own:
‘Becky,’ ‘Amelia,’ ‘Dobbin,’ ‘Jos,’
‘Pendennis,’ ‘Warrington,’ and ‘Cos’—
‘Cos’ with his ‘oi’—Pen's uncle too!
‘Florac,’ the Colonel, ‘Ethel,’ ‘Kew,’
‘'Trix’ and her mother, and not less
That later ‘'Trix’—the Baroness.
‘Esmond’ of course, and ‘George,’ and ‘Harry,’
The rogues and rascals—‘Deuceace,’ ‘Barry,’
Evil or good, none immature,
From ‘Yellowplush’ to ‘Barbazure’;
Or drawn too vague to be believed;
But each, however small the rôle,
A thing complete, a finished whole.
But jerked by strings too manifest;
No dummies wearing surface skin
Without organic frame within;
Nor do they deal in words and looks
Found only in the story-books.
No!—for these beings use their brains,
Have pulse and vigour in their veins,
They move, they act; they take and give
E'en as the master wills; they live—
Live to the limit of their scope,
Their anger, pleasure, terror, hope!
There were who called him ‘cynical’;
Because his mood to pity leant,
They styled it ‘mawkish sentiment’;
Because—disdaining to make light
Of wrong by treating it as right—
He probed the wound he saw exist,
They dubbed him ‘heartless satirist’!
We know him better—or we may.
We know he strove by ridicule
To shame the hypocrite and fool;
He sought unshrinkingly for truth;
Made of no smallest virtue sport;
Loved honesty and good report;
Went manfully his destined way,
Doing, as far as in him lay,
His daily task without pretence—
With dignity and reticence.
Too rare, in times grown over-ripe!
Peace to his memory! Let him rest
Among our bravest and our best;
Secure, that through the years to come,
His voice shall speak, though he be dumb,
Since men unborn, or glad or vext,
Must need his Sermon and his Text.
See the verses headed “Vanitas Vanitatum” in the Cornhill Magazine for July, 1860, and particularly—
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page—I read the next,
And then the next, and still I find it.
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old, old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
The roundabout of false and true,
The ups-and-downs of good and bad,
The strange vicissitudes and sad,
The things unsolved, the seeming-chance
Complexities of Circumstance,
Yet failed not, humbly, to recall
The Power above, controlling all.
TO HUGH THOMSON
(WITH A COPY OF SIR JOHN GILBERT'S SHAKESPEARE)
These brave conceptions, people knew
Little that we to-day repeat
(Quoting the prophet in the street)
Of Value, Tone, and Point of View!
They liked red suns and skies of blue . . .
They were so frankly incomplete
In Fifty-six!
His Knights and Dames, his ruffling crew,
Where banners fly, and drums are beat,
And cloth-of-gold and drugget meet . . .
I was a lad then! Where were you
In Fifty-six?
TO TIME, THE TYRANT
What shall I bring to thee now,
Weary of heart and of brow—
Now, that the shadows are long!
Numbered am I. And I bow,
Time!
Yet—let me hail and allow
Youth, that no Combat can cow,
Strength, that is stronger than Wrong,
Time!
ADDITIONS AND TRANSLATIONS
[(Too hard it is to sing]
In these untuneful times,
When only coin can ring,
And no one cares for rhymes!
To Aganippe's spring:
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!
His feet the critic limes;
If Fame her laurel bring,
Old age his forehead rimes:
Too hard it is to sing
In these untuneful times!)
ROSE, IN THE HEDGEROW GROWN
Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay
Comes up from the fields new-mown,
You know it—you know it—alone,
So I gather you here to-day.
That she came by the woodland way,
And my heart with a hope unknown
Rose?
And her eyes like the skies of May,
And her steps like the rose-leaves strown
When the winds in the rose-trees play—
It was here—O my love!—my own
Rose!
JULY
(Virelai Nouveau)
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
In the street the water-carts ply;
And a fluter, with features awry,
Plays fitfully “Scots wha hae”—
And the throat of that fluter is dry;
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
Comes a waft like a dream of the May;
And a lady-bird lit on my tie,
And a cock-chafer came with the tray;
And a butterfly (no one knows why)
Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray;
And “next door” and “over the way”
The neighbours take wing and fly;
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh;
And the Captain to Homburg and play
Will carry his cane and his eye;
And even Miss Morgan Lefay
And my Grocer has gone—in a “Shay,”
And my Tailor has gone—in a “Fly”:
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
And it's O for the boat and the bay!
For the white foam whirling by,
And the sharp salt edge of the spray!
For the wharf where the black nets fry,
And the wrack and the oar-weed sway!
For the stroll when the moon is high
To the nook by the Flag-house gray!
For the risus ab angulo shy
From the Someone we designate “Di!”
For the moment of silence, the sigh!
“How I dote on a Moon!” “So do I!”
For the token we snatch on the sly!
(With nobody there to say Fie!)
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
For a Hansom. Ere close of the day
Between us a “world” must lie:
Good-bye to the Town! Good-bye!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
A FABLE (IN THE MANNER OF MR. JOHN GAY)
If listeners might but interrupt!
Once in a corner of the lawn,
When none was stirring with the dawn,
Save Betty, who not less, alas!
Still lingered at her looking-glass,
A Tortoise of didactic habits
Addressed some half-a-dozen Rabbits.
Contrived to break a wise man's head;
Since then the sect, report avers,
Have set up for Philosophers.
He weighed so much; was so much round;
Not slower than his kin, or quicker
(Although his shell was somewhat thicker)
And wearing just that look of thought
Which speaks profundity,—or nought,
He stretched his throat, and thus pursued:
“In this discourse I hope to bring
Before you Promptitude the Thing;
Next, if my limits space afford,
I shall take Promptitude the Word;
Lastly, to make my meaning better,
I shall examine every Letter.
How beautiful is Promptitude!
How are we quickened, roused, renewed,
By dwelling upon Promptitude!
In short, how much may we discover
By simply saying the word over!
To this one quality we owe!
'Twas Promptitude the battles won
Of Cæsar, and Napoleon;
By Promptitude to-day we boast
The blessings of the Penny Post;
By Promptitude (I dare affirm)
The early bird secures the worm. . . .”
And patient under commonplace;
But here, one rather puzzle-pated
In Gallic style “interpellated”:
“If Promptitude so much can do,
Why don't you try the practice, too?”
Clergy was posed by Mother-wit.
The Tortoise the horizon scanned;
He had no repartee at hand;
So, finding inspiration fail,
He drew his head in, then his tail.
His audience scampered off in glee:
Risu solvuntur tabulae.
ON A PICTURE BY HOPPNER
(MRS. GWYN—GOLDSMITH'S “JESSAMY BRIDE”)
You once were she, for whom
Poor Goldsmith's gentle genius found
That name of jasmine-bloom!
You who were breathing, vital,
Not feigned in books, for us have proved
Scarce but a fragrant title;
Beside the girl Primroses—
Beside the dear old Vicar, and
Our more-than-brother, Moses!
Scamp Tony's view-halloo;
For us e'en thin Beau Tibbs must show
More palpable than you!
When that kind soul had fled;
You begged his hair; you kept his name
Long on your lips, 'tis said;
Who asks! This age of ours
But marks your grass-grown headstone now
This is a poetical license, for there is a “quite typical tablet” to the “Jessamy Bride” in Weybridge Parish Church, where she lies with her mother and sister, “Little Comedy.” I take this information from a very interesting paper on “The Hornecks,” by H. P. K. Skipton, in the Connoisseur for September, 1910.
By Goldsmith's jasmine flowers!
ON THE BELFRY TOWER
A SKETCH
Rise on the right, its grassy round
Broken as by a scar?”
Where every landscape-lover should,
High on the gray old belfry's lead,
Scored with rude names, and to the tread
Waved like a sea. Below us spread
Cool grave-stones, watched by one great yew.
To right were ricks; thatched roofs a few;
Next came the rectory, with its lawn
And nestling schoolhouse; next, withdrawn
Beyond a maze of apple boughs,
The long, low-latticed Manor-house.
The wide door showed an antlered hall;
Then, over roof and chimney stack,
You caught the fish-pond at the back,
The roses, and the old red wall.
Behind, the Dorset ridges go
With straggling, wind-clipped trees, and so
The eye came down the slope to follow
The white road winding in the hollow
Beside the mound of which he spoke.)
The Roundheads rode across the down.
Sir Miles—'twas then Sir Miles's day—
Was posted farther south, and lay
Watching at Weymouth; but his son—
Rupert by name—an only one,
The veriest youth, it would appear,
Scrambling about for jackdaws here,
Spied them a league off. People say,
Scorning the tedious turret-way
(Or else because the butler's care
Had turned the key to keep him there),
He slid down by the rain-pipe. Then,
Arming the hinds and serving-men
With half-pike and with harquebuss,
Snatched from the wainscot's overplus,
Himself in rusty steel cap clad,
With flapping ear-pieces, the lad
Led them by stealth around the ridge,
So flanked the others at the bridge.
They were just six to half a score,
And yet five crop-ears, if not more,
Sleep in that mound. But, sad to tell,
The boy, by some stray petronel,
Or friend's or foe's—report is vague—
Was killed; and then, for fear of plague,
Buried within twelve hours or so.
I have his portrait here below:
Grave, olive-cheeked, a Southern face.
Something, I think, about the Queen,
Long ere the day of that disgrace,
Saddest our England yet has seen.
Poor child! The last of all his race.”
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH
The author of Dorothy, a Country Story, and the friend
of R. D. Blackmore, Arthur Joseph Munby, to whom
these verses were inscribed, died at Buttercup Farm,
Pyrford, near Ripley, in Surrey, on Saturday, January 29,
1910, aged 81. He lies in the quiet little churchyard of
Pyrford Church, of which there is a picture (by Mr. Hugh
Thomson) in Mr. Eric Parker's Highways and Byways
in Surrey, 1908, p. 232. “Ah! molliter ossa quiescant!”
The author of Dorothy, a Country Story, and the friend of R. D. Blackmore, Arthur Joseph Munby, to whom these verses were inscribed, died at Buttercup Farm, Pyrford, near Ripley, in Surrey, on Saturday, January 29, 1910, aged 81. He lies in the quiet little churchyard of Pyrford Church, of which there is a picture (by Mr. Hugh Thomson) in Mr. Eric Parker's Highways and Byways in Surrey, 1908, p. 232. “Ah! molliter ossa quiescant!”
BY A SUMMER-DAY STOIC
For roods the rabbit burrows;
You scarce can see where first begins
His range of steaming furrows;
I am not sad that he is great,
He does not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
To me it nowise matters
Whether in east or western breeze
His “dry-tongued laurel patters.”
Me too the bays become; but still,
I sleep without narcotics,
Though he should bind his brows at will
With odorous exotics.
With true bon-vivant's benison,
Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine—
His virtue and his venison:
Will blaze about the thicket;
The Common's purblind pauper horse
Will peer across my wicket;
In hissing file, to follow
The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs
Across the breezy hollow;
And look, where smoke of gipsy huts
Curls blue against the bushes—
That little copse is famed for nuts,
For nightingales and thrushes!
Some dreary deputation
Of Malice or of Wonder comes
In guise of Adulation.
Poor Neighbour! Though you “call the tune,”
One little pinch of care is
Enough to clog a whole balloon
Of aura popularis;
As tough as armadillo's,
Can shield you if Suspicion worm
Between your poppied pillows;
And though on ortolans you sup,
Beside you shadowy sitters
Can pour in your ungenial cup
Unstimulating bitters.
Let Folly ride her circuit;
I hold that—on this side the grave—
To find one's vein and work it,
To keeps one's wants both fit and few,
To cringe to no condition,
To count a truthful friend or two—
May bound a man's ambition.
Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers;
If Fate has made his rôle the whale's,
And me the minnow's offers,
I am not sad that he is great;
He need not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
THE HOLOCAUST
A little bronze sarcophagus,
Carved by its unknown artist's hands,
With this one word—Amoribus!
Across his breast his broken bow;
Elsewhere they dig his tiny bed,
And round it women wailing go:
Some Quartier-Latin sculptor's whim,
Wrought in a fit of mock despair,
With sight, it may be something dim,
Had left the grenier, light Musette,
And she who made the morrow gay,
Lutine or Mimi, was not yet—
(O friend, with sympathetic eye!)
What vows (now decently interred)
Within that “narrow compass” lie!
With one live ember I cremated
A nest of cooing billets-doux,
That just two decades back were dated.
THE SONG OF THE SEA WIND
Blowing sharply from the sea-line,
With an edge of salt that stings;
How it laughs aloud, and passes,
As it cuts the close cliff-grasses;
How it sings again, and whistles
As it shakes the stout sea-thistles—
How it sings!
In the crannies of the headland,
In the gashes of the creeks;
How it shrieks once more, and catches
Up the yellow foam in patches:
How it whirls it out and over
To the corn-field and the clover—
How it shrieks!
In the iron under-caverns,
In the hollows of the shores;
How it roars anew, and thunders,
As the strong hull splits and sunders:
And the spent ship, tempest driven,
On the reef lies rent and riven—
How it roars!
In the tangle of the wreckage,
In the flapping of the sails;
How it sobs away, subsiding,
Like a tired child after chiding;
And across the ground-swell rolling,
You can hear the bell-buoy tolling—
How it wails!
HILL AND VALLEY
He.Peak after peak in the sun,
As the rays brighten, grow rosy and lighten,
Now that the thunder has done.”
She.
“Nay; through the leafage, the light
Gentlier glimmers below;
See through the valley the rivulets sally,
Singing aloud as they go.”
He.
“Grandly, ah! grandly the hill
Broke the black storm on its crest;
All the cliff under went leaping the thunder,
Growling away in the west.”
She.
“Here it is restful and still;
Only the drops from the trees,
Where the shades darkle, fall slowly and sparkle,—
Here there is solace and ease.”
“Child, but the eagle above,
Now that the mists are withdrawn,
Never wing-weary, sails up from his eyrie,
E'en to the eye of the dawn.”
She.
“Ah, but below us the dove,
Crooning for joy on the nest,
Fills with soft slumber the leaves without number;
Shadow and quiet are best.”
A BALLAD OF THE QUEEN'S MAJESTY
(JUNE 22, 1897)
On many an alien shore and sea;
Name that in many a fateful field
Has taught the stubborn foe to flee;
Promise and proof of virtues three,
Valour unvaunting, vigour, verve,
We hail thy white-winged Sovereignty,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
Obeisance—in a bondman's key;
Monarchs whose sceptred might doth wield
Only the rod of Tyranny;
We, in free homage, being free,—
We joy that naught can shake or curve
Thy rectitude of Royalty,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
The note of greeting; therefore be,
As from a thousand springs unsealed,
Outpoured the tide of mirth and glee;
From sixty years' allegiance swerve,
Or shame thy twice-told Jubilee,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
Envoy.
Queen!—to whom true men bend the knee,Our island heart and brain and nerve
Are loyal—loyal unto thee,
Victoria! Whom God Preserve!
TO A FRIEND (ON RECEIVING HIS “COMPLETE POEMS”)
What Imp of the Perverse could set
That fateful epithet before
A reader who must wish for more!
Seen in its several symmetry;
Complete as are the stones that gem
The rondure of the diadem.
His latest as to call it last?
Or, if he make an end, be sure
'Tis not profanely premature?
The Unachieved is still to seek;
Nor may the quest relax while Hope
Still hides in every horoscope!
THE SONNET OF THE MOUNTAIN
(AFTER MELLIN DE SAINT GELLAIS)
I do but mete mine own distress thereby:
High is their head, and my desire is high;
Firm is their foot, my faith is certain too.
From me escapes betimes the wistful sigh;
And as from them the brooks and streamlets hie,
So from mine eyes the tears run down anew.
As many loves within me see the day,
And all my heart for pasture ground divide.
And 'twixt us now nought diverse is but this—
In them the snows, in me the fires abide.
REGRETS
(AFTER JOACHIM DU BELLAY)
Or him of yore that gat the Fleece of Gold,
Who comes at last, from travels manifold,
Among his kith and kindred to abide!
Once more the blue and curling smoke unrolled?
When the poor boundaries of my house behold—
Poor, but to me as any province wide?
Laugh the low portals of my boyhood's home!
More than their marble must its slate-roof be!
More than the Palatine my native hill,
And the soft air of Anjou than the sea!
REGRETS
(AFTER JOACHIM DU BELLAY)
And where the heart that still must conqueror be;
Where the strong hope of immortality,
And that fine flame to common souls denied?
Through the brown night the silver moon could see,
With all the Nine, whenas, in fancy free,
I led them dance, some sacred stream beside?
And this my heart that I would fain control
Is grown the thrall of many a fear and sigh.
No more within I feel that ancient fire,
And the sweet Muses turn from me, and fly.
TO MONSIEUR DE LA MOTHE LE VAYER, UPON THE DEATH OF HIS SON
From pp. 266–7 of Sonnets of Europe, I transcribe
Mr. Waddington's note: “François de la Mothe le
Vayer, member of the French Academy, and preceptor of
Louis XIV., lost his son in 1664, and Molière, in forwarding
him this sonnet, observes,—‘Vous voyez bien, Monsieur,
que je m'écarte fort du chemin qu'on suit d'ordinaire en
pareille rencontre, que le Sonnet que je vous envoye n'est rien
moins qu'une consolation; mais j'ay cru qu'il falloit en user
de la sorte avec vous & que c'est consoler un Philosophe que
de luy justifier ses larmes, & de mettre sa douleur en liberté. Si je n'ay pas trouvé d'assez fortes raisons pour
affranchir vostre tendresse des sévères leçons de la Philosophie,
& pour vous obliger à pleurer sans contrainte, il
en faut accuser le peu d'éloquence d'un homme qui ne
sçauroit persuader ce qu'il sçait si bien faire.’”
From pp. 266–7 of Sonnets of Europe, I transcribe Mr. Waddington's note: “François de la Mothe le Vayer, member of the French Academy, and preceptor of Louis XIV., lost his son in 1664, and Molière, in forwarding him this sonnet, observes,—‘Vous voyez bien, Monsieur, que je m'écarte fort du chemin qu'on suit d'ordinaire en pareille rencontre, que le Sonnet que je vous envoye n'est rien moins qu'une consolation; mais j'ay cru qu'il falloit en user de la sorte avec vous & que c'est consoler un Philosophe que de luy justifier ses larmes, & de mettre sa douleur en liberté. Si je n'ay pas trouvé d'assez fortes raisons pour affranchir vostre tendresse des sévères leçons de la Philosophie, & pour vous obliger à pleurer sans contrainte, il en faut accuser le peu d'éloquence d'un homme qui ne sçauroit persuader ce qu'il sçait si bien faire.’”
(AFTER MOLIÈRE)
None of scant cause thy sorrowing can accuse,
Since, losing that which thou for aye dost lose,
E'en the most wise might find a ground for woe.
The drops of pity that are Pity's dues;
And Nature's self, indignant, doth refuse
To count for fortitude that heartless show.
The son too dear, by Death untimely ta'en;
Yet, not the less, his loss is hard to bear,
Large heart, keen wit, a lofty soul and rare,—
—Surely these claim immitigable tears!
“ALBI, NE DOLEAS”
(HOR., 1. 33)
These tuneful plaints, my Albius tried
For heartless Glycera, from thee
Fled to a younger lover. See,
Low-browed Lycoris burns denied
With wolves ere she in him confide—
Turns, with base suit, to Pholoë:—
Love mocks us all!
'Neath brazen yoke pairs ill-allied
In form and mind. So linked she me
(Whom worthier wooed) to Myrtale,
Fair, but less kind than Hadria's tide:—
Love mocks us all!
AD LYRAM
(HOR., 1. 32)
If aught, to last this year and more,
Lightly, we two have wrought before;—
Come now, a song like this whose fire
Catching, thro' camp and tempest's roar,
The Muses' call,—
Bacchus, and Cupid flutt'ring o'er,
And Lycus: thou, that Phoebus bore,
Dear to Jove's feast—O aid me, Lyre!
The Muses call!
THE BALLAD OF BITTER FRUIT
(AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE)
Where the wan morn strives with the waning night,
The dim shapes strung like a chaplet dread
Shudder, and sway to the left, the right;
The soft rays touch them with fingers white
As they swing in the leaves of the oak-tree browned,
Fruits that the Turk and the Moor would fright—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Dreaming (who knows!) of what dead despight,
In the freshening breeze by the morning fed
Twirl and spin to the mad wind's might;
Over them wavers the warm sun bright;
Look on them, look on them, skies profound,
Look how they dance in the morning light!—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Cry to their fellows in evil plight,
Day meanwhile thro' the lift o'erhead
Dazzles and flames at the blue vault's height;
Ravens and crows with a jubilant sound
Over them, over them, hover and light;—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
Envoy.
Prince, we wot of no sorrier sightUnder the whispering leafage found,
Bodies that hang like a hideous blight;—
This is King Lewis his orchard-ground.
TO MAECENAS
WITH AN INVITATION
(HOR., 1. 20)
In homely ware you'll find. Yet stored
And sealed in Grecian jar 'twas first,
Dear Knight, what time your praises burst
From the full circus' serried ranks,
And your own Tiber from his banks,
And the great Mount, rang back reply.
No press of Cales yet for me
Crushed the fat grape. These cups of mine
Neither the hills of Formiae
Have tempered, nor Falernian vine.
[In after days when grasses high]
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honoured dust,
I shall not question or reply.
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!
That some one then should testify,
Saying—“He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.”
Will none?—Then let my memory die
In after days!
Collected poems | ||