 | Old and New |  |
1
I. PART I
FROM THE VOLUME OF 1882
2
A cold-blooded, laggard, worrying hunt after rhymes
which can be made serviceable. . . .’
O. W. Holmes: ‘Over the Teacups.’
3
WHITE LIES
Could I be young as I once was young—
Young, body and heart, again:
Could you but be fair as you once were fair
(But wishing, ah me! is vain);
There were happiness now that we missed somehow
In days that ended in pain.
Young, body and heart, again:
Could you but be fair as you once were fair
(But wishing, ah me! is vain);
There were happiness now that we missed somehow
In days that ended in pain.
Could I but love as once I loved
In old old days that are sped:
Could you but be true as I thought you true
Ere trust in my heart was dead;
There were still to know, in place of woe,
Ah me, what a joy instead!
In old old days that are sped:
Could you but be true as I thought you true
Ere trust in my heart was dead;
There were still to know, in place of woe,
Ah me, what a joy instead!
But I may not love as I loved in youth,
Nor trust as I trusted then;
Nor beauty is yours, nor the little of truth
That you brought to the sons of men:
There is nothing to mend, and here must end
My song—but I loved you then!
Nor trust as I trusted then;
4
That you brought to the sons of men:
There is nothing to mend, and here must end
My song—but I loved you then!
5
READER TO NOVELIST
I hold it not the wisest plan
To make your hero out a man
For ever in the right,
And so alarmingly endowed
With virtue that an average cloud
(Or, if you better like it, spout)
Of envy, defamation, spite
Can scarce obscure, and can't put out,
His flickering candle-light.
Your novel-writer, not content
With average stature, 5 feet 9,
And morals such as have to serve
Mere men of God's design,
Seeks grand, chryselephantine, men
Whose strength is as the strength of ten,
Of beauty half divine.
To make your hero out a man
For ever in the right,
And so alarmingly endowed
With virtue that an average cloud
(Or, if you better like it, spout)
Of envy, defamation, spite
Can scarce obscure, and can't put out,
His flickering candle-light.
Your novel-writer, not content
With average stature, 5 feet 9,
And morals such as have to serve
Mere men of God's design,
Seeks grand, chryselephantine, men
Whose strength is as the strength of ten,
Of beauty half divine.
6
Dear novelist, unto me list;
I'd sooner death than with a breath
Of mine
Malign
This paragon of excellence
This ‘moral porcupine.’
But think how short is actual life,
Docked by old Time's pruning-knife,
How long your last romance is!
And think how brief would be your course
Had you the brilliant chances
You give your hero every day
To fall before resistless force,
Or slighted love, or dull remorse,
Or suicidal fancies.
I'd sooner death than with a breath
Of mine
Malign
This paragon of excellence
This ‘moral porcupine.’
But think how short is actual life,
Docked by old Time's pruning-knife,
How long your last romance is!
And think how brief would be your course
Had you the brilliant chances
You give your hero every day
To fall before resistless force,
Or slighted love, or dull remorse,
Or suicidal fancies.
The modern novel, I submit,
There's very much too much of it.
And all, I think, because
You give your hero such physique,
He's tougher than the toughest Greek,
(You couldn't kill him in a week!)
He scoffs at Nature's laws.
And then again, so fair a vein
His whole existence hallows,
It were insane to rack one's brain
In hope to lure this creature pure
Beyond his moral shallows,
Or catch him in one little sin,
Precursor of the gallows.
There's very much too much of it.
And all, I think, because
You give your hero such physique,
He's tougher than the toughest Greek,
(You couldn't kill him in a week!)
He scoffs at Nature's laws.
And then again, so fair a vein
His whole existence hallows,
It were insane to rack one's brain
7
Beyond his moral shallows,
Or catch him in one little sin,
Precursor of the gallows.
For human nature's daily food
He's much too strong and much too good.
He's much too strong and much too good.
THE ANSWER
Suppose, dear Reader, I should choose,
By old tradition undeterred,
Some hero from the common herd
And ask the public to peruse
By old tradition undeterred,
Some hero from the common herd
And ask the public to peruse
The story of a life that moved
For ever in a midway track,
With little record at the back
Of Vice detected, Virtue proved
For ever in a midway track,
With little record at the back
Of Vice detected, Virtue proved
(As may be thine), were it a thing
To marvel at if in an hour,
Lulled by its soporific power,
I found thee, reader, slumbering?
To marvel at if in an hour,
Lulled by its soporific power,
I found thee, reader, slumbering?
8
CAMBRIDGE ROWING, 1874-8
It's vastly engaging
When a snowstorm is raging,
And a hurricane shrieks
Thro' shadowy breeks,
To loaf by the river
And grumble and shiver
Until the boat-captain,
His ‘ulster’ well wrapt in,
Appears on the scene.
When a snowstorm is raging,
And a hurricane shrieks
Thro' shadowy breeks,
To loaf by the river
And grumble and shiver
Until the boat-captain,
His ‘ulster’ well wrapt in,
Appears on the scene.
And when we are ready,
The ‘ship’ isn't steady,
The water is ‘heady,’
The ‘work’ is oppressive,
The captain aggressive,
And swearing like mad
By everything bad—
Eternally slanging
The writer for ‘hanging,’
For ‘sugaring,’ ‘cocking,’
Or ‘knifing,’ or ‘rocking’—
And when a boat-captain,
His dignity wrapt in,
Develops his views
Bad language ensues.
The ‘ship’ isn't steady,
The water is ‘heady,’
The ‘work’ is oppressive,
The captain aggressive,
And swearing like mad
By everything bad—
Eternally slanging
The writer for ‘hanging,’
For ‘sugaring,’ ‘cocking,’
Or ‘knifing,’ or ‘rocking’—
9
His dignity wrapt in,
Develops his views
Bad language ensues.
I'll endeavour to paint,
In portraiture faint,
The pleasures of rowing;
Commencing by showing
The style of oration
The youth of this nation
Requires to inflame
His yearning for Fame,
And will offer it thee
In paraphrase free,
Replacing by dashes
Such language as clashes
With prevalent notion
Of verbal emotion.
In portraiture faint,
The pleasures of rowing;
Commencing by showing
The style of oration
The youth of this nation
Requires to inflame
His yearning for Fame,
And will offer it thee
In paraphrase free,
Replacing by dashes
Such language as clashes
With prevalent notion
Of verbal emotion.
(CAPTAIN'S ADDRESS FROM THE TOWING-PATH.)
Get her ready!
Forward! Row!
Keep her steady!
Let her go!
Now she's strolling!
Sit ùp! Bow!
You are ròlling
Like a cow!
Now then, D—N it!
Blazes, Two!
Trỳ to lamn it
On, man, do!
Feel your strètchers!
Curse you, Three!
(Can't you, splash it
Over me?)
Swing togèther
Every oar!
Off the feàther
Sooner, Four!
Keep your bàcks up!
Look alìve!
Where d'you hope to
Go to, Five?
(Go to Heaven?
Go to H—ll!)
Six, you're cocking!
Seven, you're làte!
Shocking, shocking,
Ghastly Eight!
Keep it gòing!
Nèver saw
D-mnder rowing!
E-A-S-Y all.
Forward! Row!
Keep her steady!
Let her go!
Now she's strolling!
Sit ùp! Bow!
10
Like a cow!
Now then, D—N it!
Blazes, Two!
Trỳ to lamn it
On, man, do!
Feel your strètchers!
Curse you, Three!
(Can't you, splash it
Over me?)
Swing togèther
Every oar!
Off the feàther
Sooner, Four!
Keep your bàcks up!
Look alìve!
Where d'you hope to
Go to, Five?
(Go to Heaven?
Go to H—ll!)
Six, you're cocking!
Seven, you're làte!
Shocking, shocking,
Ghastly Eight!
11
Nèver saw
D-mnder rowing!
E-A-S-Y all.
Why should I continue?
'Tis surely not in you
To list any longer
To language no stronger
Than dash it, or d—n it,
And yet if I cram it
With oaths better suited
To please the polluted
I fear some ill fame
May attach to my name;
For I often aspire
In poetry higher,
And care not to venture
Incurring the censure
Of scandalised readers
In eloquent ‘leaders,’
For I shrewdly suspect
They would rise and reject
And spurn and resent all,
With anger prodigious,
My songs sentimental,
My epics religious.
'Tis surely not in you
To list any longer
To language no stronger
Than dash it, or d—n it,
And yet if I cram it
With oaths better suited
To please the polluted
I fear some ill fame
May attach to my name;
For I often aspire
In poetry higher,
And care not to venture
Incurring the censure
Of scandalised readers
In eloquent ‘leaders,’
For I shrewdly suspect
They would rise and reject
And spurn and resent all,
With anger prodigious,
My songs sentimental,
My epics religious.
12
AN EXHORTATION
‘The spectacle of an entire nation grovelling in
contentment is an exasperating thing.’—Mark Twain.
So many battles still unfought,
So many eager to be taught,
So many preachers prone to preach,
That mere plenitude of thought
Strikes poverty on speech?
Or tell me, fellow Interchangers,
Must we henceforth meet as strangers?
See with mutual resentment
Nothing mutual in our views?
Do you ‘grovel in contentment’?
Is there nothing to make better?
Is there nothing to abuse?
Is not the army ‘standing’?
Is not monarchy a sham?
Is not Beaconsfield in office?
Do not tin tacks in the jam
Arouse your indignation?
Nor the nauseating dram-
Drinking habits of the country
(Making bumpkins into brutes)?
Nor the age of Mrs. Grundy?
Nor the price of shoddy suits?
Does not a cry of ‘Woman's Rights’
Arouse a righteous ire
To rectify her wicked wrongs,
And wickeder attire?
While sermons may be preached that sticks
Have hammered out of stones,
Are ‘cruelty to animals,’
And pictures by Burne Jones,
And ‘universal suffrage’
(Including man and beast),
Iniquities in needlework,
And ‘horrors in the East’
Themes that can move no flexile quill
To quiver in the least?
While vice is rampant through the land,
And china lovers swear
That real old ‘Chelsea’ can't be had,
Nor true blue crockery ware,
That ‘Dresden's’ unreliable,
And ‘Wedgwood’ even rare,
Should any hand be idle
That might propel a quill?
Should any pulse be placid?
Should any tongue be still?
Till decency and order reign
Where drunkenness has been,
Till curious old mezzotints
On Morris-papered walls are seen
(Replacing noxious German prints
And poisoned arsenic green),
Till that far-distant, longed-for day
When savages shall think
That Christian creed, and Christian oaths,
And Christian stores of left-off clothes,
And Christian measles, Christian drink,
Are better than their heathen oaths,
Their meagre scantity of clothes,
Their unfermented drink.
Until, in short, some longed-for day
When, happy in success,
We've taught all men to clothe themselves,
And taught ourselves to dress.
Till all the nations feel as we
On English soil to-day
That 'tis ‘sinful’ to be worsted
In a ‘great and wicked’ fray:
But to spend a little money,
And waste a lot of life,
Is a ‘Noble undertaking’
In a small unrighteous strife.
Till Mr. Gaze, and Mr. Cook,
Have cleared the space betwixt us,
And every hungry soul may look
On the Madonna of ‘San Sixtus’
Until on all her eyes have dwelt
So loving, sweet, so sad-serene,
And each, assisted by their light,
His heart just once has seen
And felt—far better than before
Yet very very mean.—
Till Love is re-established
In Mrs. Grundy's rules,
Till bloodshed is abolished
And ‘young ladies’ boarding-schools,’
Till all who pine in woful want
May roll in wilful waste,
Till every one is very good
And everything in ‘taste.’—
Should any hand be idle
That might propel a quill?
Should any pulse be placid?
Should any tongue be still?
So many eager to be taught,
So many preachers prone to preach,
That mere plenitude of thought
Strikes poverty on speech?
Or tell me, fellow Interchangers,
Must we henceforth meet as strangers?
See with mutual resentment
Nothing mutual in our views?
Do you ‘grovel in contentment’?
Is there nothing to make better?
Is there nothing to abuse?
Is not the army ‘standing’?
Is not monarchy a sham?
Is not Beaconsfield in office?
Do not tin tacks in the jam
13
Nor the nauseating dram-
Drinking habits of the country
(Making bumpkins into brutes)?
Nor the age of Mrs. Grundy?
Nor the price of shoddy suits?
Does not a cry of ‘Woman's Rights’
Arouse a righteous ire
To rectify her wicked wrongs,
And wickeder attire?
While sermons may be preached that sticks
Have hammered out of stones,
Are ‘cruelty to animals,’
And pictures by Burne Jones,
And ‘universal suffrage’
(Including man and beast),
Iniquities in needlework,
And ‘horrors in the East’
Themes that can move no flexile quill
To quiver in the least?
While vice is rampant through the land,
And china lovers swear
That real old ‘Chelsea’ can't be had,
Nor true blue crockery ware,
That ‘Dresden's’ unreliable,
And ‘Wedgwood’ even rare,
14
That might propel a quill?
Should any pulse be placid?
Should any tongue be still?
Till decency and order reign
Where drunkenness has been,
Till curious old mezzotints
On Morris-papered walls are seen
(Replacing noxious German prints
And poisoned arsenic green),
Till that far-distant, longed-for day
When savages shall think
That Christian creed, and Christian oaths,
And Christian stores of left-off clothes,
And Christian measles, Christian drink,
Are better than their heathen oaths,
Their meagre scantity of clothes,
Their unfermented drink.
Until, in short, some longed-for day
When, happy in success,
We've taught all men to clothe themselves,
And taught ourselves to dress.
Till all the nations feel as we
On English soil to-day
That 'tis ‘sinful’ to be worsted
In a ‘great and wicked’ fray:
15
And waste a lot of life,
Is a ‘Noble undertaking’
In a small unrighteous strife.
Till Mr. Gaze, and Mr. Cook,
Have cleared the space betwixt us,
And every hungry soul may look
On the Madonna of ‘San Sixtus’
Until on all her eyes have dwelt
So loving, sweet, so sad-serene,
And each, assisted by their light,
His heart just once has seen
And felt—far better than before
Yet very very mean.—
Till Love is re-established
In Mrs. Grundy's rules,
Till bloodshed is abolished
And ‘young ladies’ boarding-schools,’
Till all who pine in woful want
May roll in wilful waste,
Till every one is very good
And everything in ‘taste.’—
Should any hand be idle
That might propel a quill?
Should any pulse be placid?
Should any tongue be still?
16
NOW AND THEN
Once there was no heaven
Other than I knew
In the limitless world beyond
The fathomless blue
Of eyes that were wistful and wondrous
And loving and true.
Other than I knew
In the limitless world beyond
The fathomless blue
Of eyes that were wistful and wondrous
And loving and true.
Was the flame too fierce to be lasting?
The setting too rich for the jewel?
Was it pleasant forecasting the glances
Of eyes too kind to be cruel?
Was the setting too rich for the jewel—
(Thy face too fair in the view)?
Was it pleasant, beloved, blasting
A hope that was new
With words—a low murmur of music
On lips too sweet to be true?
The tale is the tale oft told:
Poor theme for a man to bemoan!
The eyes are the ‘wondrous’ eyes of old,
The ‘loving’ heart a heart as cold—
The self-same stone:
And the lips that have lied
Are the lips that sighed
In low sweet undertone.
The setting too rich for the jewel?
Was it pleasant forecasting the glances
Of eyes too kind to be cruel?
Was the setting too rich for the jewel—
(Thy face too fair in the view)?
Was it pleasant, beloved, blasting
A hope that was new
With words—a low murmur of music
On lips too sweet to be true?
17
Poor theme for a man to bemoan!
The eyes are the ‘wondrous’ eyes of old,
The ‘loving’ heart a heart as cold—
The self-same stone:
And the lips that have lied
Are the lips that sighed
In low sweet undertone.
18
SPRING-TIME
Where chestnuts overhang the stream
Our boat shall lie; here may we dream
An hour away, and Care may wait.
Ah! sweet—
Ah! sweet
Thus for one hour to deviate
From the rude pathway marked by Fate.
Our boat shall lie; here may we dream
An hour away, and Care may wait.
Ah! sweet—
Ah! sweet
Thus for one hour to deviate
From the rude pathway marked by Fate.
Our home is here: the skylark flings
His music down, and tiniest things
Beat the still air with labouring wings.
Ah! sweet the odours,
Sweet the song;
Sweet to forget, these scenes among,
The jarring discords of the throng.
His music down, and tiniest things
Beat the still air with labouring wings.
Ah! sweet the odours,
Sweet the song;
Sweet to forget, these scenes among,
The jarring discords of the throng.
19
Now glide we onward ever slow,
And now, in the opal afterglow,
Listen, a voice sings clear and low.
Ah! sweet the singer;
Sweet the strain!
Ah when, ah when, tired heart and brain,
Will that song gladden thee again?
And now, in the opal afterglow,
Listen, a voice sings clear and low.
Ah! sweet the singer;
Sweet the strain!
Ah when, ah when, tired heart and brain,
Will that song gladden thee again?
20
LIMITS
Ah, Ladies, that some fairy band
Would turn a barren offering
Of thanks into a richer thing!
The cunning of an artist's hand,
The tuneful harp to sing,—
Would turn a barren offering
Of thanks into a richer thing!
The cunning of an artist's hand,
The tuneful harp to sing,—
These are not mine, nor mine the power
In graceful phrase, with studied art,
To tell how in a saddened hour,
As rain upon a thirsty flower,
Kind wishes cheer the heart.
In graceful phrase, with studied art,
To tell how in a saddened hour,
As rain upon a thirsty flower,
Kind wishes cheer the heart.
Alas, dear friends! could we but train
Upon a furrowed legal brow
The Muse's sacred laurel bough—
Ah, then I might not strive in vain
(Beating an irresponsive brain)
To waft in fitting measures now
The breath of kindness back again!
Upon a furrowed legal brow
The Muse's sacred laurel bough—
Ah, then I might not strive in vain
(Beating an irresponsive brain)
To waft in fitting measures now
The breath of kindness back again!
21
TOO HARD
‘The days will be long,’ she murmured:
Her tears on his bosom fell.
‘But a little while,’ he answered,
As loth to say Farewell.
Her tears on his bosom fell.
‘But a little while,’ he answered,
As loth to say Farewell.
So the Farewell was not spoken:
Her lover crossed the main,
And the days were long while she waited,
And watched till he came again.
Her lover crossed the main,
And the days were long while she waited,
And watched till he came again.
Too hard to be spoken at parting!
Her lover came back, and they tell
How they met, and how sweetly he uttered
(After long days of waiting) Farewell.
Her lover came back, and they tell
How they met, and how sweetly he uttered
(After long days of waiting) Farewell.
22
CHARON
Charon, thy craft more slowly wends
On peaceful Cam from shore to shore,
And in thy locks the silver blends
With larger freedom than of yore.
On peaceful Cam from shore to shore,
And in thy locks the silver blends
With larger freedom than of yore.
Thy bended form has little grace
(Nimble thou wert in earlier days),
And Time has sadly marred a face
That few may love and none can praise.
(Nimble thou wert in earlier days),
And Time has sadly marred a face
That few may love and none can praise.
We quail before thy searching glance;
Nay, bold boat-captains fear thine eye,
And tremble, Charon, if perchance
They have no little ‘trifle’ by.
Nay, bold boat-captains fear thine eye,
And tremble, Charon, if perchance
They have no little ‘trifle’ by.
Thou hast a son, a stalwart lad,
Some sixty summers he or more,
Who, when thy rheumatism's bad,
Deftly manœuvreth the oar.
Some sixty summers he or more,
Who, when thy rheumatism's bad,
Deftly manœuvreth the oar.
23
And thou art yet but ninety-six—
Talk not of leaving us till he
(Thy namesake, Charon, on the Styx)
Bequeaths his pole to thee.
Talk not of leaving us till he
(Thy namesake, Charon, on the Styx)
Bequeaths his pole to thee.
24
IN THE ‘LONG’
Youth of the 'Varsity,
Flower of the land,
Here in a far city
Dreary I stand,
And pledge thee, and wring (like a ‘freshman’) thy hand.
Flower of the land,
Here in a far city
Dreary I stand,
And pledge thee, and wring (like a ‘freshman’) thy hand.
Time-honoured Colleges!
Classical halls!
Seeking for knowledge is
The last thing that palls
Under the nurturing shade of thy walls!
Classical halls!
Seeking for knowledge is
The last thing that palls
Under the nurturing shade of thy walls!
Dwellers in Trinity—
Tempest-tossed Cam—
Dons of Divinity—
‘Little-go’ cram
Alike are deserving of prostrate salaam.
Tempest-tossed Cam—
Dons of Divinity—
‘Little-go’ cram
Alike are deserving of prostrate salaam.
25
Up in an attic all
Corner and slope,
Men mathematical
Gloomily grope,
Of far away Fellowship, fostering hope.
Corner and slope,
Men mathematical
Gloomily grope,
Of far away Fellowship, fostering hope.
Burning to head all lists,
Lavish of oil,
Prizemen and medallists
Ceaselessly toil,
Burning, eternally burning for spoil.
Lavish of oil,
Prizemen and medallists
Ceaselessly toil,
Burning, eternally burning for spoil.
Slumbering lazily
Under the trees,
Ofttimes I hazily
Ponder of these
Sweet youths in their labours for ‘Honours’ degrees.
Under the trees,
Ofttimes I hazily
Ponder of these
Sweet youths in their labours for ‘Honours’ degrees.
Oft in the ‘Vac.,’ as I
Catch the perfumes
Of mingling tobaccos, I
Dream of my ‘rooms’
Haunted by ‘bedmakers,’ beetles, and glooms.
Catch the perfumes
Of mingling tobaccos, I
Dream of my ‘rooms’
Haunted by ‘bedmakers,’ beetles, and glooms.
26
Of faces congenial
Time-honoured jokes,
Of servient menial
Sedative smokes
Of bountiful ‘butteries,’ obdurate ‘oaks.’
Time-honoured jokes,
Of servient menial
Sedative smokes
Of bountiful ‘butteries,’ obdurate ‘oaks.’
Youth of the 'Varsity,
Flower of the land,
Now in a far city
Dreary I stand
And pledge thee, and wring like a freshman thy hand.
Flower of the land,
Now in a far city
Dreary I stand
And pledge thee, and wring like a freshman thy hand.
27
CAMBRIDGE LODGINGS, 1877
‘I ask not for cleanliness, care not for light,
I crave not a wide-spreading view;
But I must have my curtains of purple and white,
My table-cloth yellow and blue.’
I crave not a wide-spreading view;
But I must have my curtains of purple and white,
My table-cloth yellow and blue.’
‘I'm sure, sir, you'll find they are much to your mind,
For here is no wide-spreading view;
Neither cleanly nor light, nor excessive in height—
My curtains, moreover, are purple and white,
My table-cloth yellow and blue.’
For here is no wide-spreading view;
Neither cleanly nor light, nor excessive in height—
My curtains, moreover, are purple and white,
My table-cloth yellow and blue.’
‘But I must have a carpet of orange and green.
And then, I decidedly think
'Twould add to the general effect of the scene
Were the furniture covered in ultramarine,
Gamboge and magenta and pink.’
And then, I decidedly think
'Twould add to the general effect of the scene
Were the furniture covered in ultramarine,
Gamboge and magenta and pink.’
28
‘Oh then, sir, my rooms, if I rightly assume,
Will suit as to colours, I think;
There's an oleograph of a 'uge Magdalene
All over gamboge, sir, and ultramarine,
My furniture covers is pink.
Will suit as to colours, I think;
There's an oleograph of a 'uge Magdalene
All over gamboge, sir, and ultramarine,
My furniture covers is pink.
‘And as for magenta—but pray, sir, to enter
And look at the picturs and that:
That there's in the Bible, sir, ‘'sputin’ with doctors,’
And that's ‘little Alick,’ sir (one of the proctors),
And Longfield, the favourite bat,
And a dozen actresses, in beautiful dresses,
And a puppy dèvourin’ a rat.
And look at the picturs and that:
That there's in the Bible, sir, ‘'sputin’ with doctors,’
And that's ‘little Alick,’ sir (one of the proctors),
And Longfield, the favourite bat,
And a dozen actresses, in beautiful dresses,
And a puppy dèvourin’ a rat.
‘And a great many more, sir, the rent, sir, is L 20.’
‘My excellent woman, on questions of rent I
Assure you 'tis painful to dwell:
Your curtains and carpet, recherché and chaste;
Your pictures, selected with knowledge and taste,
Will suit me remarkably well.’
‘My excellent woman, on questions of rent I
Assure you 'tis painful to dwell:
Your curtains and carpet, recherché and chaste;
Your pictures, selected with knowledge and taste,
Will suit me remarkably well.’
29
MORAL FRAGMENTS
For money, or for money's worth,
On this unpleasant little earth
Most men will sell their souls away;
Their bodies too: to barter clay
(Unprofitable merchandise)
For glittering gold, were surely wise!
Says Rochefoucauld: ‘True wisdom brings
True knowledge of the price of things’:
We're very wise to-day.
We're very wise; I think we know
The price of all things here below.
We know that Vice and Virtue join
In having both their price in coin.
I knew of Virtue very young,
Have heard at least his praises sung;
I learned, at quite an early date,
To loathe the very name of Vice,
And circumspectly estimate
How much of goodness would suffice.
I learned from pastors, now with Shem,
That Heaven's gates seemed wide to them;
I learned from pastors, now with Ham,
How small a Vice may serve to damn.
But I digress, my gentle song
Becomes inordinately long.
Revenons a nos moutons.
On this unpleasant little earth
Most men will sell their souls away;
Their bodies too: to barter clay
(Unprofitable merchandise)
For glittering gold, were surely wise!
Says Rochefoucauld: ‘True wisdom brings
True knowledge of the price of things’:
We're very wise to-day.
We're very wise; I think we know
The price of all things here below.
We know that Vice and Virtue join
In having both their price in coin.
I knew of Virtue very young,
Have heard at least his praises sung;
I learned, at quite an early date,
To loathe the very name of Vice,
And circumspectly estimate
How much of goodness would suffice.
30
That Heaven's gates seemed wide to them;
I learned from pastors, now with Ham,
How small a Vice may serve to damn.
But I digress, my gentle song
Becomes inordinately long.
Revenons a nos moutons.
The thought to-day occurs to me
To write yet once a diary,
And therein duly to rehearse,
In careful prose, or careless verse,
All that may happen day by day,
Or wise, or witty, grave or gay:
For I, in speculation bold,
A pessimistic doctrine hold,
And would empirically decide
Whether this view be justified
By facts observed, or whether men,
Who should know better, now and then
(Being philosophers) have tried,
In sheer malignity, to make
My spiritual sponsors quake,
To spoil my happiness, to crush
The flower of young Hope, and brush
The bloom from Faith's pure cheek. And should
It prove that I have been misled
By cynics (a malignant brood),
And all my thinking on this head
Was false in drift, and in the letter,
And miserably misapplied,
All you will say is, ‘All the better.’
To write yet once a diary,
And therein duly to rehearse,
In careful prose, or careless verse,
All that may happen day by day,
Or wise, or witty, grave or gay:
For I, in speculation bold,
A pessimistic doctrine hold,
And would empirically decide
Whether this view be justified
By facts observed, or whether men,
Who should know better, now and then
(Being philosophers) have tried,
In sheer malignity, to make
My spiritual sponsors quake,
To spoil my happiness, to crush
The flower of young Hope, and brush
31
It prove that I have been misled
By cynics (a malignant brood),
And all my thinking on this head
Was false in drift, and in the letter,
And miserably misapplied,
All you will say is, ‘All the better.’
Behold then, courteous spectator,
(Reader, I mean) the raison d'être
Of this my diary. Its aim
Is purely scientific: I disclaim
All joy in any earthly things
Save such as touch the secret springs
Of human progress. . . .
(Reader, I mean) the raison d'être
Of this my diary. Its aim
Is purely scientific: I disclaim
All joy in any earthly things
Save such as touch the secret springs
Of human progress. . . .
32
VALENTINE
Not mine the painter's skill to trace
With pencil free, in flowing line,
And nice detail, a perfect face;
A figure cast in mould Divine,
Moved with a woman's grace.
With pencil free, in flowing line,
And nice detail, a perfect face;
A figure cast in mould Divine,
Moved with a woman's grace.
The poet, in his sorrow blest,
May tell with quivering quill
Some tender tale of broken rest,
And gentle eyes with teardrops fill,
And pity fills the breast.
May tell with quivering quill
Some tender tale of broken rest,
And gentle eyes with teardrops fill,
And pity fills the breast.
Nor is his labour all in vain
If heartfelt sighs his bosom wring,
And lower notes, and sadder strain,
Show distant ages wondering
A larger love, a deeper pain.
If heartfelt sighs his bosom wring,
And lower notes, and sadder strain,
Show distant ages wondering
A larger love, a deeper pain.
33
A heavy task; but heavier yet
Is grief that finds not any song—
His joy short-lived, and long regret,
Who bears his burden in the throng,
And seeks in silence to forget.
Is grief that finds not any song—
His joy short-lived, and long regret,
Who bears his burden in the throng,
And seeks in silence to forget.
34
INTROSPECTION
Through weary hours I've pondered o'er
A something which to write upon;
I've lain in frenzy on the floor,
And striven to let my fancy soar,
And nothing can I light upon!
A something which to write upon;
I've lain in frenzy on the floor,
And striven to let my fancy soar,
And nothing can I light upon!
Now shall I write in prose or verse?
Or whereunto my powers bring?
Shall I in tragic vein rehearse
A mother's grief, a father's curse?
Or tender tale nore softly sing?
Or whereunto my powers bring?
Shall I in tragic vein rehearse
A mother's grief, a father's curse?
Or tender tale nore softly sing?
Or shall I examine my mind
With the night-light of ‘Introspection’?
And then, having made from its innermost part
(Where some have a lumber-room, others a heart),
Of personal failings selection,
Explain to the world in the cleverest novels
How the normal mind abnormally grovels.
With the night-light of ‘Introspection’?
And then, having made from its innermost part
(Where some have a lumber-room, others a heart),
Of personal failings selection,
35
How the normal mind abnormally grovels.
The world of to-day wants ‘knowledge of self’—
The old true poets are all on the shelf;
And he may aspire to bays
Who gives to the world without any apology,
In metre, a volume of simple psychology.
The old true poets are all on the shelf;
And he may aspire to bays
Who gives to the world without any apology,
In metre, a volume of simple psychology.
I hope that it will not be long
Ere man knows enough of himself,
And seeks something better in song.
And yet, till the rage passes over,
A poet may live in clover,
And I willingly join the throng.—
Ere man knows enough of himself,
And seeks something better in song.
And yet, till the rage passes over,
A poet may live in clover,
And I willingly join the throng.—
‘Man, know thyself!’
All ye who are groping in college or school,
For love or for glory or pelf,
Henceforward must follow a different rule:
('Tis well for a man to know he's a fool)
Ineffable bathos! Study ‘thyself.’
All ye who are groping in college or school,
For love or for glory or pelf,
Henceforward must follow a different rule:
('Tis well for a man to know he's a fool)
Ineffable bathos! Study ‘thyself.’
36
'Tis not from his books, 'tis not from his friends
(Thank God!), nor his paltriest neighbour,
That a man will secure these desirable ends—
This ‘knowledge of life’ that makes ample amends
For the life that is lost in the labour.
(Thank God!), nor his paltriest neighbour,
That a man will secure these desirable ends—
This ‘knowledge of life’ that makes ample amends
For the life that is lost in the labour.
Then turn from thy friends: shun Poetry, Art;—
Be vain disputations avoided;
Examine, dear reader, thine innermost part;
And soon you will think you have fathomed your heart,
And know that you haven't enjoyed it.
Be vain disputations avoided;
Examine, dear reader, thine innermost part;
And soon you will think you have fathomed your heart,
And know that you haven't enjoyed it.
37
ART AND RELIGION IN CAMBRIDGE, 1874-78
Rock me to sleep! mine eyes have seen
Conflicting shades of blue and green!
Creator of each subtle sense—
God, Harmony Divine!
What agonies acute, intense,
Are his who thro' life's long suspense
Aspires to taste Divine!
Conflicting shades of blue and green!
Creator of each subtle sense—
God, Harmony Divine!
What agonies acute, intense,
Are his who thro' life's long suspense
Aspires to taste Divine!
Rock me to sleep! the True, the Chaste,
The Beautiful, the Good,—
All these, with fretting haste,
By man uncultured, boorish, rude,
Are eagerly pursued,
Whilst Thy great gift, the sense of Taste,
Lies neglected, unpursued.
The Beautiful, the Good,—
All these, with fretting haste,
By man uncultured, boorish, rude,
Are eagerly pursued,
Whilst Thy great gift, the sense of Taste,
Lies neglected, unpursued.
38
Rock me to sleep! take, take away
Thy servant's sense of sight!
Till earth again, in Thine own day,
Becomes a ‘harmony in gray’—
Take me to Thee: Let angels lay
On aching eyeballs, Night.
Thy servant's sense of sight!
Till earth again, in Thine own day,
Becomes a ‘harmony in gray’—
Take me to Thee: Let angels lay
On aching eyeballs, Night.
| Old and New | |