 | Passion-Flowers |  |
127
PHILOSOPH-MASTER AND POET-ASTER.
When I and Theologus cannot agree,
Should I give up the point, pray you, or he?
Shall I out-hector him, stubborn and horrid,
Glowing brick-scarlet from bosom to forehead?
Give womanly malice for masculine scorn?
Render sharpness for roughness, and needle for thorn?
Shall I, whose domain is poetical-quizzical,
And he, who affects the concrete-metaphysical,
Degrade the high hobbies that carry us far
(We're well-mounted, both) to the broomstick of war?
Or were it not better, for peace and digestion,
Serenely to rest in the previous question?
Should I give up the point, pray you, or he?
Shall I out-hector him, stubborn and horrid,
Glowing brick-scarlet from bosom to forehead?
Give womanly malice for masculine scorn?
Render sharpness for roughness, and needle for thorn?
Shall I, whose domain is poetical-quizzical,
And he, who affects the concrete-metaphysical,
Degrade the high hobbies that carry us far
(We're well-mounted, both) to the broomstick of war?
Or were it not better, for peace and digestion,
Serenely to rest in the previous question?
Where-unto shall I liken Theologus,
And myself, unto him not homologous?
I am a fairy that gives little feasts
To pitiful, witiful birdlings and beasts,
To birds that will sing, and to beasts that will roar,
To pay for their supper, and ask nothing more.
When Theo is good, I delight to delight him,
And so to my whimsical banquet invite him;
But, once seated there, how he lays down the law
With a sweep of his mild and magnificent paw!
He don't enter into my dishes of trifle
Any more than a bomb in the bore of a rifle;
Or if he does enter, he puts his foot in it,
And marvels of frostwork sink down in a minute.
If I venture to call for the sparkling Sillery,
He serves me a salvo of heavy artillery;
Or I offer some sweet thing: ‘I made it myself’—
He pushes the rubbish, and smashes the delf—
My terrified guests sit in silence around,
Their eyes wide with wonder, or fixed on the ground;
They leave at the earliest signal, that day,
The Thund'rer has frightened the Muses away.
And myself, unto him not homologous?
I am a fairy that gives little feasts
To pitiful, witiful birdlings and beasts,
To birds that will sing, and to beasts that will roar,
To pay for their supper, and ask nothing more.
128
And so to my whimsical banquet invite him;
But, once seated there, how he lays down the law
With a sweep of his mild and magnificent paw!
He don't enter into my dishes of trifle
Any more than a bomb in the bore of a rifle;
Or if he does enter, he puts his foot in it,
And marvels of frostwork sink down in a minute.
If I venture to call for the sparkling Sillery,
He serves me a salvo of heavy artillery;
Or I offer some sweet thing: ‘I made it myself’—
He pushes the rubbish, and smashes the delf—
My terrified guests sit in silence around,
Their eyes wide with wonder, or fixed on the ground;
They leave at the earliest signal, that day,
The Thund'rer has frightened the Muses away.
Where-unto shall I liken Theologus,
Planning attacks and preparing socdologers?
Saving the perilous soul of the nation
By holiest, wholesomest vituperation.
He is a Vulcan, concede me that, prithee,
Forging old ploughshares to swords in his smithy;
Heating, and beating, and hammering out,
Dealing huge blows and wild sparkles about.
I, as a vagabond minstrel, appear
At the smoke-darkened door, and begin: ‘Vulcan, dear,
Give over your murderous toil for an hour,
And yield your rude senses to Music's soft power.
I'll peal you a war-song, of foray and fight—
I'll lisp you a love-song, a song of delight—
I'll sing you all songs and all measures I know,
Dear Savage, if you'll leave off hammering so!
So I choose me a song, not superfluously wordy,
And wind up my wandering hurdy-gurdy.
Kling-klang goes the forge, toodle-lootle go I;
The blows cleave the anvil, the music the sky;
The full tides of harmony rise and outpour;
If ‘Music have charms,’ he is savage no more.
But as warble brings warble, so crash follows crash—
I see his brow steam in the heat and the flash;
Kling-klang, whing-whang! he strikes faster and faster:
I am silent; he cries out: ‘Acknowledge your Master!’
Planning attacks and preparing socdologers?
Saving the perilous soul of the nation
By holiest, wholesomest vituperation.
He is a Vulcan, concede me that, prithee,
Forging old ploughshares to swords in his smithy;
Heating, and beating, and hammering out,
Dealing huge blows and wild sparkles about.
I, as a vagabond minstrel, appear
At the smoke-darkened door, and begin: ‘Vulcan, dear,
129
And yield your rude senses to Music's soft power.
I'll peal you a war-song, of foray and fight—
I'll lisp you a love-song, a song of delight—
I'll sing you all songs and all measures I know,
Dear Savage, if you'll leave off hammering so!
So I choose me a song, not superfluously wordy,
And wind up my wandering hurdy-gurdy.
Kling-klang goes the forge, toodle-lootle go I;
The blows cleave the anvil, the music the sky;
The full tides of harmony rise and outpour;
If ‘Music have charms,’ he is savage no more.
But as warble brings warble, so crash follows crash—
I see his brow steam in the heat and the flash;
Kling-klang, whing-whang! he strikes faster and faster:
I am silent; he cries out: ‘Acknowledge your Master!’
Oh yes! you are foremost at that, if you will,
If a triumph of noise be a triumph of skill;
But downward comes hammering, upward goes song;
To this sturdy muscles, to that wings belong.
If a triumph of noise be a triumph of skill;
But downward comes hammering, upward goes song;
To this sturdy muscles, to that wings belong.
Where-unto shall my fancy compare him?
How find a simile that shall declare him?
I am a jockey, starved, sweated to weight,
And for love, not for money, ride wagers with Fate,
Borrowing a gallop, as oft as I'm able,
From a certain winged steed of Apollo's own stable.
Now, when my competitor's distanced and blown,
And I think the prize goblet is fairly mine own,
Out starts from the road-side a creature tremendous,
Of stride and proportion uncouthly stupendous,
And, on this Phenomenon Paleontologous
High-perched, who should sit but the doughty Theologus?
The Hypogriff trembles; I throb to the soul;
They pass, and are heralded first at the goal.
Though my steed and myself seem a mouse and a spider
Compared to that hugeness of beast and of rider,
I try to pluck up some small remnant of courage,
And at the rude victory make some demurrage.
Theologus looks from his saddle sublime,
Saying: ‘Peace, feeble nursling of music and rhyme—
I was putting Leviathan through his great paces;
Farewell—we are off for the elephant races.’
How find a simile that shall declare him?
I am a jockey, starved, sweated to weight,
And for love, not for money, ride wagers with Fate,
130
From a certain winged steed of Apollo's own stable.
Now, when my competitor's distanced and blown,
And I think the prize goblet is fairly mine own,
Out starts from the road-side a creature tremendous,
Of stride and proportion uncouthly stupendous,
And, on this Phenomenon Paleontologous
High-perched, who should sit but the doughty Theologus?
The Hypogriff trembles; I throb to the soul;
They pass, and are heralded first at the goal.
Though my steed and myself seem a mouse and a spider
Compared to that hugeness of beast and of rider,
I try to pluck up some small remnant of courage,
And at the rude victory make some demurrage.
Theologus looks from his saddle sublime,
Saying: ‘Peace, feeble nursling of music and rhyme—
I was putting Leviathan through his great paces;
Farewell—we are off for the elephant races.’
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