University of Virginia Library

Whom shall I dedicate this Book to?
(Each Canto needs a dedication.)
I want some briny Bard to look to
For sympathy and inspiration!
The theme is primitive at present—
Nature undrest, without her stays:
To Tennyson 'twould seem unpleasant—
He blends no vine-leaves with his bays.
Scorning the flesh and all things hot,
Will Morris wanders sans culotte,
And tries the hydra-mob to tame;
While Patmore rocks a baby's cot
And sings sweet nuptials void of blame.
(Ah! gentle Bards without a spot!
Beshrew me if I envy not
Such innocent and stainless fame!)
Next, though the rogues have wit in plenty,
I still must pass politely by
The Savile bards, those four-and-twenty
Blackbirds all piping in one pic!
I do not fancy Lewis Morris
Would care for rhythmic freaks so strident—
Non sibi Venus mittit flores,
Non sibi æquora ponti rident!
Matt Arnold seeks for ‘light’ no more
But sleeps serene and satisfied;
While Edwin, of that ilk, doth pore
On screeds of luminous Eastern lore
By moonlight on the Ganges' side.
Dear Roden Noel, round whose throat
Byron's loose collar still is worn,
Now tunes his song to one clear note
Divinely gentle and forlorn;
Far, far from him whom holy choirs
Of angel infants stoop to kiss,
The stormy doubts, the fierce desires,
Of questionable songs like this!
George Meredith might serve my turn
For thoughts that breathe and words that burn,
Or, better still, his master Browning,
A sober'd Saul in evening dress;
But both these bards would end by frowning
At my mad Muse's gamesomeness.
No! these respectable and gracious
Bards with clean shirts will never do!
I need a spirit more audacious,
Morality more free and spacious,
To inspire my song and help me through.
The world is tired of things poetic,
But poets are themselves to blame;
Their wine's too sickly and emetic,
Or, grown too thin and dietetic,
It lacks the old flush of morning flame!
Far is the cry from Byron's brandy
To Pater's gods of sugar-candy!
Lost the Homeric swing and trot,
Jingle of spur and beam of blade,
Of that moss-trooper, Walter Scott,
Riding upon his border raid,
And pricking south with all his power
To capture Shakespeare's feudal tower!
Where the swashbucklers throng'd in force
The æsthete mounts his hobby horse,
And troubadours devoid of gristle
Play the French flute and Cockney whistle.
Sir Alfred only, gently glad,
Stainless and chaste as Galahad,
Clothed in white armour like a maid
Goes carolling through glen and glade,
Singing in silvern tones a song
Against the world of lust and wrong—
Certain, though all his fellows fail,
Of gaining the Parnassian Grail!

Peace with these poets one and all!
Flowers on their happy footsteps fall!
Yet would to Heaven their songs could be
More glad, more primitive and free!
Ah, for the days gone by! when Singers
Were wonder-workers, pleasure-bringers!
When Art was bold, when sunburnt Mirth
Gladden'd around the Maypole leaping;
When the mad Muses tript the earth,
Not clad, as now, in silks by Worth,
But gipsy-like and briskly skipping!
Then, skirts were lifted in the breeze
To show brown legs and lissome knees!
Then, men were hale and maids were merry,
Then, Nature felt the breath of Spring;
Then poets shouted ‘Hey down derry!’
And played at kisses-in-the-ring!
But when the trumpet-call rang round them
Threw armour on and rode to fight,
Till in due time the people crown'd them—
The Kings of Music, Mirth, and Might!

My Dedication? Well, no more
I'll linger on this sunless shore,
Where prim landlubbers of the island
Go gathering shells of verse on dry land!
No! o'er the seas I sail, to seek
My Homer of the southern seas,
Who, proudly pagan, Yankee-Greek,
Flung out his banner to the breeze,
Then, wandering onward like Ulysses,
Heard Syrens sing of Nature's charms,
Leaping on shore to greet with kisses
The dainty dimpled nutbrown misses,
Found the lost Eden in their arms!

To thee, O Hermann Melville, name
The surges trumpet into fame,
Last of the grand Homeric race,
Great tale-teller of the marines,
I give this Song, wherein I chase
Thy soul thro' magic tropic scenes!
Ah, would that I, poor modern singer,
Spell-bound with Care's mesmeric finger,
Might to the living world forth-figure
Thine Odyssean strength and vigour!
Alas! o'er waves you tost on gladly
I sail more timidly and sadly,
And find no surcease or protection
From mal de mer, or introspection!
Yet ne'er the less, in spite of all
Mishaps and ills that may befall,
Despite the tumult and commotion,
The countless shipwrecks of the time,
Away I go across the Ocean
In this my cockleshell of rhyme!

Aid me, O sea-compelling man!
Before whose wand Leviathan
Rose white and hoary from the Deep
With awful sounds that broke its sleep!
Melville, whose magic brought Typee
Radiant as Venus from the Sea!
Who, ignorant of the draper's trade,
Indifferent to the arts of dress,
Drew Fayaway the South-Sea maid
Almost in mother-nakedness!
Without a robe, or boot, or stocking
(A want of clothes to some so shocking),
With just one chemisette to dress her,
She lives, and still shall live, God bless her!
Long as the Sea rolls deep and blue,
While Heaven repeats the thunder of it,
Long as the White Whale ploughs it through,
The Shape my Sea-Magician drew
Shall still endure,—or I'm no prophet!