University of Virginia Library


10

DIPLOMACY.

One day Augustus Richard had
A pain that seemed extremely bad,
Although it made a very slight
Effect upon his appetite.
His father recommended Dick
To fetch that new Arithmetic
And drive the trouble from his chest
With sums in Compound Interest.
At this the mother, screaming, dropped
The milk, and on the carpet flopped,
And did not stir till Mr. Peck
Had pushed the breadknife down her neck.
When she was better, she declared
She wondered how her husband dared
To scoff at her defenceless young
For being born so highly-strung!

15

She said a lot about her rights,
And rolled her eyes, to show the whites,
And asked the ceiling if a man
Had equalled Peck since time began.
Reviewing all his faults, at last
She fixed on him a lurid past,
Till Mr. Peck deplored the day
Her father gave his girl away.
A doctor came, who quickly guessed
What words would suit the mother best
Before he diagnosed the wreck
Of poor Augustus Richard Peck.
He felt his pulse, he tapped his chest,
Advised a double-woven vest,
And murmured (when he saw his tongue),
“Madam, this boy is highly-strung.”

16

“The symptoms clearly indicate
Potentialities. To date
There's nothing that, with common care,
Won't yield in time to change of air.”
“Not English, Doctor, I infer?”
The doctor read the truth in her,
And said, professionally bland,
“A month or two in Switzerland.”
When Mr. Peck was told the news
He pelted Boz with both his shoes:
As neither hit the supple cat
He got small pleasure out of that.
“I've lived to see,” cried Mrs. Peck,
“My boy less thought of than a cheque!
Pray squander on a second wife
The value of your offspring's life!”

17

She next assumed a tragic stare
And pulled some hairpins from her hair
(Dramatic thoroughness!) before
She fainted neatly on the floor.
When feathers can't be burnt, there's still
Much merit in a single quill,
If loudly used: so Mr. Peck
Revived her with a handsome cheque.
When safe upstairs, she laughed amain
To think her spouse was tricked again:
“It's lucky that my Better Half
Is no more brainy than a calf!”
Yet, on his oriental rug,
A man bent down, as if to hug
His knees, in evident delight
At something he had managed right.

18

“I beg you, Bozzy, to excuse
My tactical display of shoes.”
He hugged his knees again, and then
He burst out laughing. Such are men!

19

THE GOD APOLLO

(UP TO DATE).

Apollo of old was well content
Slowly to wander over the hill,
Sometimes touching his instrument,
Sometimes harking the blackbird's bill.
The fastest creature he cared to follow
Was not so fast as the arrowy swallow
That over the daffodils down in the hollow
Lovely flew with a will.
'Twas never a stag with the horns like gold
Hurried his Godship over the lea;
'Twas never a sinewy boar of the wold
That turned him back from the smell of the sea.
Suddenly, softer by far than the swallow,
Fleeted the nymph he was fain to follow!
Loudly there hummed in the heart of Apollo
Venus's honey-bee.

21

He found her, panting and starry fair,
Caught in a bush by her cloud of hair.
He had flung his harp to the winds, and now
Was music itself from feet to brow.
When out of the brier he wooed the strands
Were strings for the harps of his royal hands,
The life in the breast of Apollo's plunder
Was shocked and shaken by peals of thunder
And zigzag flashes of fear and wonder.
What if the Nymph and the God to-day
Were back again at the ancient play,
On English roads in an English May?
Alert and fair on a cushioned seat,
With twenty horses under her feet,
As soon as the god swung round the bend
A sign to the soul of the car she'd send!
Like arrows of green the hedges would fly,
The mountains seem to fall from the sky;

22

The fence of the park would crackle with sound,
And up in the air from the startled ground
The pebbles would leap in the sun, and beam
Like trout for an instant above the stream.
Faster, Girl! for the god is gaining,
Thirty horses beneath him straining,
Energy out of the monster raining!
Apollo would thunder along the curve,
With here and there a glorious swerve,
As cattle and carts were barely missed
(Faster, Girl! if you'd not be kissed!)
Or lovers thinking of troth and tryst.
Now, were the road or clean or dirty,
Now would he cry to his panting thirty,
And feed on space; and feel like a world
Out of the Shop of Creation hurled
To rush superbly among the stars,
One in a billion Motor Cars!

23

But long ago he was well content
Idly to wander over the hill,
Marrying dreams to his instrument,
Keenly harking the nightingale's bill.
The swiftest creature he cared to follow
Was not so swift as the arrowy swallow
That over Narcissus asleep in the hollow
Flew with a lovely will.

24

THE CONTRAST.

In the startling days of Nero,
Ere the Muse went down to zero,
Then the poet was a hero
With a fillet round his head;
And the lovely girls were running
To his roses and his funning
For to listen to the cunning
Of the mazy words he said.
Then he chose a radiant bearer
Of perfections as a sharer
Of his joy, and swore none fairer
Ever kissed a demi-god;
And he quaffed a fauny beaker
To the gay and dimpled speaker
When she said no skiey seeker
Could attract her by his nod.

26

So, forgetting tricks and treason,
There he laughed and sang in season
With a notable unreason,
Such as made him doubly dear,
Till the nightfall found him soaking
In the country grape, and poking
Clever wit at rhymers joking
With the candid Beauties near.
Of a sudden, slaves would flutter
At their meal of bread and butter,
And in several lingoes utter
Their astonishment to learn
How a courtier, rather flurried,
From the palace-yard had scurried
And incontinently hurried
To the poet with an urn.

27

It was gold! and it was jingling
With a tune that brought a tingling
To the poet's backbone, mingling
Pleasant hopes of wealth and bliss,
As he thought what he would tender
To his colleague sweet and slender
Of the honey-hearted gender,
Who inspired him with a kiss.
If it chances that a poet
Reads this poem, he will throw it
On the burning coals, or stow it
In the basket by his side,
Out of agony supernal
To remember how infernal
Is the change from Rome Eternal
To his London on the Tide.

28

Poised between a tear and titter,
If he need his pint of Bitter
He must fetch his harp and twitter
Till he raise the ghost of Joy;
For the Singer (more's the pity!)
Now must offer in the City
To a potentate his ditty
To obtain a saveloy.
While this noisy age is hounding
Art to suicide, and sounding
With a clamour too confounding
For his educated lyre,
He is gnawed by apprehension,
Lest he fail to bear the tension
Till a niggard Old Age Pension
Shall reward him for his fire.

29

Yet he knows an hour undaunted
When his bosom, lyric-haunted,
Thrills again to what was vaunted
Years ago to happier skies;
And he quivers at the blowing
Of the wind that still is going
By a compass past our knowing
To the headlands of Surmise.
In the startling days of Nero,
Ere the Muse went down to zero,
Then the poet was a hero
With a fillet round his head;
But to-day the kings, forgetting
All Apollo's brood, are letting
Off their popguns, or coquetting
With mad-hattery instead!

30

LINES WRITTEN ON BEING ASKED BY CORDELIA, AGED SIXTEEN, TO MAKE A POEM FOR HER JOURNAL.

Cordelia does not ask of me
That I should bind my hair;
Nor does she bid me mind my wheel—
It's punctured, but I don't much care;—
She does no more than bid me clear
My throat and sing for her to hear.
But, Fragrant Child, my singing days
Are nearly over, you may guess;
No longer do I yearn to praise
A girl's capillary excess,
Or whisper down her ivory nape
A compliment about her shape.
No longer do I flaunt the storm
With nothing on my rebel locks,
As when I hated to be warm,

34

And darkly welcomed holes in socks,
And dared the clouds to fill my breast
With icicles. They did their best.
No longer am I glad to squat,
As once, beneath a privet hedge,
To wait till beauty from a plot
Shall bring a peony as a pledge
That, for the moment, I am one
She rather likes to dote upon.
No longer do I weary June
With sentimental hopes and fears;
Nor whimper till the nettled Moon
Would give her eyes to box my ears;
Nor curdle heaven with oaths; nor sign
For serfs to bring the henbane wine.
In vain for Nancy I assumed
A hedgehog's manner, in a space
Too small by half, till lovely bloomed

35

That minx's curate-conquering face.
I used to reckon it a treat
To kiss her insteps, which were neat.
One day the heartless Nancy drew,
Forgetful of her porcupine,
A lean apostle into view
And gave him kisses. Eight or nine.
It filled me with Beelzebub
To see her coddle such a cub!
Till then I'd never seemed to care
A fig for Disestablishment;
But as I bounded on the pair
I saw the merit of Dissent.
I smote upon that Curate's crown
Of stubbly hair. The Church went down.
The Church, advancing a pretext
He failed with clearness to explain,
Appeared to be profoundly vexed;

36

As Abel may have been with Cain,
For all we know, before he tired
Of being murdered, and expired.
Sweet Nancy on the Curate shook
The vial of a virgin's care,
And patched him up, by hook or crook,
To open our Bazaar with prayer.
I watched him stroke, at every lull
Of words, his corrugated skull.
But Nance was lost. I'd thought the girl
The Venus of our native shire,
And treasured night and day a curl
As fair as Vulcan could desire.
I judged her Venus then; but now
She's fat and placid, like a cow.
Yes, Nance was lost. Sweet Nancy Wedge,
For whom I'd lurked, in little space,
Beneath her father's privet hedge

37

For hours to glimpse her fevering face,
Won over by Gregorian Tones,
Deserted me and fondled Jones.
'Twas then I wildly flung away,
And viewed it as a thing of dread,
The curl I'd carried every day,
And every night had kissed in bed.
I dashed it down. A building bird
Was glad to find me so absurd.
Small wonder, then, that if I take
My jangled lyre from off the pegs
E'en Echo's self begins to quake
And wish the gods had given her legs.
Beneath that hedge my Muse, being damp,
First suffered from her present cramp.
No longer will I spend my days
In dreams of girlhood's loveliness;
Nor rack the lexicon to praise

38

In terms original a tress,
A pair of eyes of Cambridge blue,
A glittering toe-cap on a shoe.
Let others tell in verse the piece
Of petticoat that Julia shows,
And how a lovely line of Greece
Is still recorded by her nose,
And how the dimple in her cheek
Can almost make a dumb man speak.
Frivolities! The fuschia wears
The petticoat enthralling me.
Frivolities! The lily bears
The neck I most desire to see.
If Cleopatra dropped her glove
Invitingly, I would not love!
Ginevra's plan is far the best
For those afraid of bosom-shocks:
The heart she carried in a chest

39

She put inside a second box.
When seekers came to where she hid,
'Tis said she never moved a lid.
And yet, my Darling, there is much
To keep me from a binding vow;
Especially as Time may touch
To buxom Then your scraggy Now,
And put ambrosia where to-day
I kiss the chocolate smudge away.
Already with delight I view
Your charms impacking from the bud:
Familiar, yet intensely new!
Alert, but wanting wilder blood! . . . . .
'Twere best, since Fortune may be foul,
To take, as chimneys do, the cowl.

42

STOLEN KISSES.

Closes now the daylight's share;
Roses watch celestial lamps
Glowing through the scented air,
Showing starry camps.
All is stilly, though afar
Fall the stanzas of a bird
Singing underneath his star
Ringing word on word.
Sweetly cuddle wearied chicks
Neatly in the blackbird's nest,
Where the farmer's cosy ricks
Dare the watery west.
Hark! I hear the lovely call
Dark were sad indeed to miss:
Dairy done, along the wall
Mary creeps to kiss.

48

Bird of die-away delights,
Heard you ever such a note
Tell how Love's delicious plights
Swell the amorous throat?
Sighs are sweetened when at length
Flies her message to the breast
Shaking with a fiery strength,
Aching with unrest.
Nearer comes my flower of eve,
Dearer than the fragrant south:
Earth and heaven again receive
Birth upon her mouth!

49

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.

'Twas coming of stars, but a bachelor thrush
Was swelling his throat with a musical rush
Of frolic and fancy
In honour of Nancy,
A feather-fine darling unable to blush.
Deliciously troubled by sweet pit-a-pat,
The heart of the virgin was moved where she sat
To yield to a passion
Conveyed in the fashion
Of sharps, with a pause for a die-away flat.
The honeymoon over, the lovers apace
Thought less of themselves, and considered the race.
They searched for a prickly
Position, and quickly
Established a circular home in the place.
One evening the Moon, who was quite in the vein
To chat with the husband, applauded his strain

50

As golden and glowing;
And charmingly throwing
A kiss with her hand, begged to hear it again.
“Because we shall have a young family soon,
My heart is as light as a penny ballon.
To guess at my breastful
Of joy in the nestful,
Imagine yourself with a chick of a moon!”
The maidenly Moon, far too flurried to speak,
Went sidling away with a blush on her cheek,
And left the gay fellow
To utter the mellow
Endearments that flowed from his positive beak.
No wonder he warbled in alto, alive
With fancy as sweet as the comb in a hive!
If naught of distressing
Should wither his blessing,
To-morrow would see him a father of five.