English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
SECTION III.
Laughing Philosophy. |
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| V. |
| VI. |
 | English Roses |  |
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SECTION III. Laughing Philosophy.
THE MODERN OLYMPUS.
O, ye elegant reviewers, with the very best of wineAnd the hands that dip in ewers all of crystal superfine,
Do ye trifle with your sherry and the choicest of cigars
While with Cato waxing merry over “merum” and guitars?
Holy teachers love to skimp us and allow us little marge,
But like gods upon Olympus ye are liberal and large;
And we earthworms, humbly plodding in a labour often stern,
Never dream ye may be nodding in your catholic concern;
We look up to you with wonder in your golden-shadowed show,
As ye launch the bolts of thunder on our little world below.
There are exquisite fine ladies, who discourse of laws and loves
On your thrones, and send to Hades our poor souls with white kid gloves.
Are they goddesses like Venus or Minerva with her owl,
Who so lightly step between us and soft vices as we prowl?
Though we hear a breezy bustling when we sow our wildest oats,
As of fragrant roseleaves rustling or of pretty petticoats.
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With the educated whisper of Divine philosophers;
And we follow, if ye spurn us, though as lambs to slaughter led,
For we love the blue cothurnus and for it have freely bled.
O, forgive us the transgression, if we kiss your dainty feet
And repeat the indiscretion just because it is so sweet.
THE LAST MAN.
Bald as a vulture,Toothless and blind,
See the result of the curse of our Culture—
Progress of Science and marching of mind;
All head and no body,
All brain without sense,
With a lip more suggestive of tea than of toddy,
And an ear less for music than Greek root or tense!
No fist and no muscle,
No stomach, just nerves
Shrinking in awe from the shade of a tussle,
And a pitiful poacher on female preserves;
Dogs in the gutter,
Birds of the air,
Snap at him, peck at him—thin bread and butter,
Reason's delight and the ages' despair!
Look at him hobbling
Blear-eyed and blank,
Back to the jelly-fish whence he came wobbling
Down the dim times to a dignified rank;
Scold at him, sparrows,
Tramp on him, swine,
And away with homunculus now as he narrows
To mere cerebral tissue his glory Divine.
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IS IT PEACE?
I asked a Frenchman, “Is it war or peace?”
“It's peace of course,” he cried with laughing eyes,
“Though still our flag has that confounded crease.”
And then he built a dozen iron ships.
“It's peace of course,” he cried with laughing eyes,
“Though still our flag has that confounded crease.”
And then he built a dozen iron ships.
I asked a German, “Is it war or peace?”
“It's peace of course,” he wrote with ready pen,
“If only France and her ally would cease.”
And he enrolled a few more thousand men.
“It's peace of course,” he wrote with ready pen,
“If only France and her ally would cease.”
And he enrolled a few more thousand men.
I asked the Russian, “Is it war or peace?”
“It's peace of course,” he frowned, “you cackling goose,
I give it to the world in endless lease.”
And then he let his bloody Cossacks loose.
“It's peace of course,” he frowned, “you cackling goose,
I give it to the world in endless lease.”
And then he let his bloody Cossacks loose.
I asked the Briton, “Is it war or peace?”
“It's peace, of course, the only cure for ills,
Though I keep Egypt stewing in her grease.
But Labouchere will have no butcher's bills.”
“It's peace, of course, the only cure for ills,
Though I keep Egypt stewing in her grease.
But Labouchere will have no butcher's bills.”
If this be Peace, then war at any price—
I tell my sweet pacific Quaker nieces—
Beats armèd Peace and empty sacrifice;
And Europe soon will be reduced to pieces.
I tell my sweet pacific Quaker nieces—
Beats armèd Peace and empty sacrifice;
And Europe soon will be reduced to pieces.
RATHER REVEREND.
The Rather Reverend Peter Brown,
Who was a rural Dean,
Enjoyed a living in a town
Like him not very lean—
A country town, where people woke
Up only once a week
On market day, and dimly spoke
As drowsy people speak,
And sank to rest again and kept
At bay each lively sound,
And did their business as they slept
Till Saturday came round;
A place, where farmers one or two,
Some dirty pigs at play,
And none with anything to do,
Composed a market day:
Where, if you went into a shop
By pressing duty nerved,
The tradesmen seemed to need a prop
And nodded as they served;
Where, when you sadly needed change,
No vendor could be wil'd,
But only thought the question strange
And feebly at you smil'd.
Who was a rural Dean,
Enjoyed a living in a town
Like him not very lean—
A country town, where people woke
Up only once a week
On market day, and dimly spoke
As drowsy people speak,
And sank to rest again and kept
At bay each lively sound,
And did their business as they slept
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A place, where farmers one or two,
Some dirty pigs at play,
And none with anything to do,
Composed a market day:
Where, if you went into a shop
By pressing duty nerved,
The tradesmen seemed to need a prop
And nodded as they served;
Where, when you sadly needed change,
No vendor could be wil'd,
But only thought the question strange
And feebly at you smil'd.
The Rather Reverend Peter Brown
Was somewhat sleepy too,
And once put on his partner's gown—
Which nobody should do—
Instead of his own Oxford best,
His beautiful M.A.,
Wherein his portly person drest
Swept worldly things away—
And thus paraded to the church,
Before he marked the wrong
Which left a lady in the lurch
And spoiled his matin song.
He had a round and ruddy face,
A fat and feeling voice,
And all he did demanded space—
Indeed, he had no choice:
His sentiments and body grew
As he had richly sown,
Of life he took a liberal view—
If mainly for his own.
He met with large opinions all
And packed each larder shelf,
Believed in God, filled sty and stall,
Expanding still himself.
Was somewhat sleepy too,
And once put on his partner's gown—
Which nobody should do—
Instead of his own Oxford best,
His beautiful M.A.,
Wherein his portly person drest
Swept worldly things away—
And thus paraded to the church,
Before he marked the wrong
Which left a lady in the lurch
And spoiled his matin song.
He had a round and ruddy face,
A fat and feeling voice,
And all he did demanded space—
Indeed, he had no choice:
His sentiments and body grew
As he had richly sown,
Of life he took a liberal view—
If mainly for his own.
He met with large opinions all
And packed each larder shelf,
Believed in God, filled sty and stall,
Expanding still himself.
The Rather Reverend Peter Brown
Was greatly given to snuff,
In spite of the conjugal frown
And many a sharp rebuff;
He took it boldly as he preached
Before the Bishop's face,
And out of doors until it reached
Across the market-place;
Where'er he went he left a track
No testimony dim,
And little boys behind his back
Ran sneezing after him;
He took it oft when'er he ate
From dusty pockets deep—
A ready witness was his plate,
He took it in his sleep.
And once, when he was duly bound
On preaching for a friend,
And to avoid the wind turned round
Just for the usual end,
He quite forgot again to turn
In his ecstatic state,
And travelled home and did not learn
The error till too late.
Was greatly given to snuff,
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And many a sharp rebuff;
He took it boldly as he preached
Before the Bishop's face,
And out of doors until it reached
Across the market-place;
Where'er he went he left a track
No testimony dim,
And little boys behind his back
Ran sneezing after him;
He took it oft when'er he ate
From dusty pockets deep—
A ready witness was his plate,
He took it in his sleep.
And once, when he was duly bound
On preaching for a friend,
And to avoid the wind turned round
Just for the usual end,
He quite forgot again to turn
In his ecstatic state,
And travelled home and did not learn
The error till too late.
The Rather Reverend Peter Brown
Invested in a horse,
And threw a mint of money down
Without the least remorse;
But soon repenting of his deed
And with a knowing air,
He cantered off upon the steed
And sold it at the Fair;
Next morning merrily he came
With crafty tone and touch,
And bought once more the very same—
For merely twice as much.
It's said he trotted to a Meet—
But not of hunting hounds—
Where clergy people found it sweet,
To sport on sacred grounds;
But ere the others he would fain
Pursue his homeward course,
Yet could not tell with all his pain
Which was the proper horse;
So when an hour was sadly past
And nothing further known,
He humbly mounted on the last
And hoped it was his own.
Invested in a horse,
And threw a mint of money down
Without the least remorse;
But soon repenting of his deed
And with a knowing air,
He cantered off upon the steed
And sold it at the Fair;
Next morning merrily he came
With crafty tone and touch,
And bought once more the very same—
For merely twice as much.
It's said he trotted to a Meet—
But not of hunting hounds—
Where clergy people found it sweet,
To sport on sacred grounds;
But ere the others he would fain
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Yet could not tell with all his pain
Which was the proper horse;
So when an hour was sadly past
And nothing further known,
He humbly mounted on the last
And hoped it was his own.
The Rather Reverend Peter Brown
Delighted much to sing
Good loyal tunes, and took the Crown
Beneath his ample wing;
He played at politics and cards
And somehow always won,
He had a cousin in the Guards
And coached Lord Acre's son;
He hobnobbed with Sir Oyly Smith
A knighted grocer man,
And taught him how the solar myth
To wild excesses ran;
He went to London every year
To clear his country mind,
And found hotels were wondrous dear,
But left his wife behind;
He laid a fiver on his choice
To win the Derby race,
And wrapt in cotton wool his voice
When in a doubtful place;
He gave poor people soup and coal,
And never hurt a friend
Or enemy, and on the whole
Was “Rather Reverend.”
Delighted much to sing
Good loyal tunes, and took the Crown
Beneath his ample wing;
He played at politics and cards
And somehow always won,
He had a cousin in the Guards
And coached Lord Acre's son;
He hobnobbed with Sir Oyly Smith
A knighted grocer man,
And taught him how the solar myth
To wild excesses ran;
He went to London every year
To clear his country mind,
And found hotels were wondrous dear,
But left his wife behind;
He laid a fiver on his choice
To win the Derby race,
And wrapt in cotton wool his voice
When in a doubtful place;
He gave poor people soup and coal,
And never hurt a friend
Or enemy, and on the whole
Was “Rather Reverend.”
THE NEW CODE OF 1999.
When the New Code of the ages, carefully evolved through stages
Of more Aclands into pages of the most portentous length;
Reached the climax of perfection by a process of selection
Heedless of mere class objection, it attained a fearful strength;
And My Lords who elevated England's youth and fulminated
Their imperial laws, orated in proud rescripts without pause
Comforts for the millions yearly coddled, and instructed clearly
How to bleed Producers dearly with some fresh and leech-like clause.
Of more Aclands into pages of the most portentous length;
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Heedless of mere class objection, it attained a fearful strength;
And My Lords who elevated England's youth and fulminated
Their imperial laws, orated in proud rescripts without pause
Comforts for the millions yearly coddled, and instructed clearly
How to bleed Producers dearly with some fresh and leech-like clause.
Every pupil had a teacher to himself who was a preacher
Of strange gospels, and a reacher through all science and each art
And unheard of pranks and passes loved by molecules and gases,
Precious to the sovereign Masses and their rather costly heart;
And he had as much of Learning or as little as his yearning
Mind which never thought of earning for himself or others chose,
And no tutor would (however scientifical and clever
His certificates) endeavour to disturb one child's repose.
Of strange gospels, and a reacher through all science and each art
And unheard of pranks and passes loved by molecules and gases,
Precious to the sovereign Masses and their rather costly heart;
And he had as much of Learning or as little as his yearning
Mind which never thought of earning for himself or others chose,
And no tutor would (however scientifical and clever
His certificates) endeavour to disturb one child's repose.
Every pupil trained in “Do Fa” and the rest enjoyed a sofa.
From the rates which had to go far now, and were a monstrous drain
On the groaning squire and squarson and the casual fossil parson
Left by taxes worse than arson in their greediness of gain;
Yes, he had an arm-chair present and his own apartment pleasant—
Far more spacious for the peasant than for any royal Prince—
And a cheery stove the latest and the best, which gave the greatest
Warmth and stood the awful State test, at which feebler stoves would wince.
From the rates which had to go far now, and were a monstrous drain
On the groaning squire and squarson and the casual fossil parson
Left by taxes worse than arson in their greediness of gain;
Yes, he had an arm-chair present and his own apartment pleasant—
Far more spacious for the peasant than for any royal Prince—
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Warmth and stood the awful State test, at which feebler stoves would wince.
Every pupil had a servant waiting on him fond and fervent
Just to help his harassed nerve, anticipating the least need,
In the winter with hot water-bottles for his cosy quarter
When the Influenza slaughter spared no person's cloth or creed;
In the summer time with fanning to assuage the heat unmanning
By a little pleasant planning, and in other welcome ways
To make parishes more debtful, and insure him from the fretful
Cares and flies that were forgetful or the sun's aggressive rays.
Just to help his harassed nerve, anticipating the least need,
In the winter with hot water-bottles for his cosy quarter
When the Influenza slaughter spared no person's cloth or creed;
In the summer time with fanning to assuage the heat unmanning
By a little pleasant planning, and in other welcome ways
To make parishes more debtful, and insure him from the fretful
Cares and flies that were forgetful or the sun's aggressive rays.
Every pupil had his dinners free and paid for by the sinners
Who were better off and winners of the wealth the State required,
Not mere miserable pottage once a boon to boor and cottage
But prime thumping steaks and what age quite as much as youth desired;
Pudding too (and not by measure meted) at his utmost pleasure
To sustain the priceless treasure as the standards' course went on,
And all delicacies grateful to his palate by the plateful
Even at lessons, no more hateful to the school phenomenon.
Who were better off and winners of the wealth the State required,
Not mere miserable pottage once a boon to boor and cottage
But prime thumping steaks and what age quite as much as youth desired;
Pudding too (and not by measure meted) at his utmost pleasure
To sustain the priceless treasure as the standards' course went on,
And all delicacies grateful to his palate by the plateful
Even at lessons, no more hateful to the school phenomenon.
Every pupil had the papers night and morning, and cut capers
With the last new lamps and tapers, if his eyesight was not good;
And though later he might grovel in some mean and grimy hovel,
Yet at school could claim the novel which adjacent ever stood;
And discussed each burning question whether sex or indigestion
With a frank and broad suggestion and with all his learning pat,
Never in the dullest season at a loss for some fit reason
Why he played at cards or treason like a free Arithmocrat.
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And though later he might grovel in some mean and grimy hovel,
Yet at school could claim the novel which adjacent ever stood;
And discussed each burning question whether sex or indigestion
With a frank and broad suggestion and with all his learning pat,
Never in the dullest season at a loss for some fit reason
Why he played at cards or treason like a free Arithmocrat.
Every pupil had the middle of his studies and each riddle
Soothed by the delectant fiddle found by his paternal Board,
And indulged in pure immersions and the elegant excursions
With all kinds of dear diversions lavished from rich neighbours' hoard;
While he patronized his betters and he multiplied the fetters
Forged by statesmen turned to sweaters of a large imperial kind,
And requited with rude chatter benefits that made him fatter
In developing his matter at the cost of his small mind.
Soothed by the delectant fiddle found by his paternal Board,
And indulged in pure immersions and the elegant excursions
With all kinds of dear diversions lavished from rich neighbours' hoard;
While he patronized his betters and he multiplied the fetters
Forged by statesmen turned to sweaters of a large imperial kind,
And requited with rude chatter benefits that made him fatter
In developing his matter at the cost of his small mind.
Every pupil was a master and with progress moved the faster
On in spite of such disaster as the overburdened Rates,
Living on the milk and honey and expending still more money
Ere he came to matrimony and the life that educates;
Till Her Majesty's Inspector, now no more a paid detector
Of abuses and dissector of the knowledge without shape,
Grieving for his lost vocation and the sad abomination
Of the general desolation, hanged himself in his Red Tape.
On in spite of such disaster as the overburdened Rates,
Living on the milk and honey and expending still more money
Ere he came to matrimony and the life that educates;
Till Her Majesty's Inspector, now no more a paid detector
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Grieving for his lost vocation and the sad abomination
Of the general desolation, hanged himself in his Red Tape.
PARENTS AT SCHOOL.
As they please
My petted darlings, who have got the upper hand,
At their ease
Recline on sofas, and make parents humbly stand;
While they toy with bread and butter
Or are trifling with the cake,
And in languid accents utter
Edicts, as if half awake.
For not with my leave or by my leave they masterfully teach,
And then use me (I acknowledge) as a not unwilling tool;
Though I feel, to hear them gravely teach,
O very much at school.
My petted darlings, who have got the upper hand,
At their ease
Recline on sofas, and make parents humbly stand;
While they toy with bread and butter
Or are trifling with the cake,
And in languid accents utter
Edicts, as if half awake.
For not with my leave or by my leave they masterfully teach,
And then use me (I acknowledge) as a not unwilling tool;
Though I feel, to hear them gravely teach,
O very much at school.
As they like
Since we have abdicated now the parents' throne,
They can strike
Or work five minutes at some easy text or tone;
While we know that we are sitting
At their feet in humble style,
On the chance of just the flitting
Of some sweet rebuke or smile.
When I seem to be instructing, I am really learning yet
How to be a docile father and a happy chick-pecked fool;
For they won't allow me to forget
I'm very much at school.
Since we have abdicated now the parents' throne,
They can strike
Or work five minutes at some easy text or tone;
While we know that we are sitting
At their feet in humble style,
On the chance of just the flitting
Of some sweet rebuke or smile.
When I seem to be instructing, I am really learning yet
How to be a docile father and a happy chick-pecked fool;
For they won't allow me to forget
I'm very much at school.
To their will
I love to hearken as a proper pupil would,
And fulfil
The duties patiently which those dear tyrants should;
For if they show capriciousness,
I would not care to miss
The pink and gold deliciousness
Consenting to a kiss.
For I love my little master and I love my mistress well,
If their lessons are not Acland's and their conduct may be cool;
And they keep me, though they cannot spell,
So very much at school.
I love to hearken as a proper pupil would,
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The duties patiently which those dear tyrants should;
For if they show capriciousness,
I would not care to miss
The pink and gold deliciousness
Consenting to a kiss.
For I love my little master and I love my mistress well,
If their lessons are not Acland's and their conduct may be cool;
And they keep me, though they cannot spell,
So very much at school.
To the end
I feel quite certain I shall ever be their slave,
And not mend
Their manners which might stir my grandsire in his grave;
For my chains are wreathed with roses
Of their blushing cheek and lip,
And my studies are the poses
When their footsteps turn or trip.
At the mouths of babes and sucklings I am taught the bravest code,
Who in penitence take kindly to the stupid dunce's stool,
And delight in my own heart's abode
While very much at school.
I feel quite certain I shall ever be their slave,
And not mend
Their manners which might stir my grandsire in his grave;
For my chains are wreathed with roses
Of their blushing cheek and lip,
And my studies are the poses
When their footsteps turn or trip.
At the mouths of babes and sucklings I am taught the bravest code,
Who in penitence take kindly to the stupid dunce's stool,
And delight in my own heart's abode
While very much at school.
VERB. SAT. SAP.
Let Haeckel with his magisterial nodWhich shows his small acumen,
Deny the Being of his God (poor God!)
And deify Albumen;
He tells us Carbon is the source of all
By wondrous combination,
And snaps his fingers at mere Christ and Paul
With Science's salvation.
But how, I ask, did Carbon first combine
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Except from some great Mystery Divine
Or hidden sacred sources!
Give me the Great Unknown the awful X,
The Plus of all and Spencer;
And they may crown the meanest mollusc rex
To make the darkness denser.
Let grubby Camper set his fossil throne
With brother fossils round him,
On his pet intermaxillary bone—
A Goethe can confound him.
And let the os hyoides be the crux
Or crust of dry contention,
I humbly bow to the evolving Flux
And slow but sure ascension;
Let Darwin with his undecided nose
But views of grand decision
Find little room for God, whom seers disclose
That bring the truer vision.
Let sophists of the scientific kind
Demur to praise or mention
The One who is all works and laws behind,
Or honour with a pension!
I care not for collective wisdom's vow,
Or drum whoe'er may thump it;
I only see it falling ap'onou,
At the first penny trumpet.
And though Laplace did sweep through mighty space
To find no Blessed Being,
Yet that vast vision was His glorious Face,
And all he lacked was seeing.
The hand that holds the telescope is God's,
If mortals mark but Tophet,
Or poke among the gases and the clods
Before the Veilèd Prophet.
I know He is within me and without
And bridges every chasm,
Though pedants mock or pull his worlds about
Or prate of protoplasm.
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Nor from His moulding Fingers,
The shadow of my far-off ancestry
Yet on me darkly lingers.
His heaven is Love, and there is burning hell
In any evil action;
But still the smallness of the parent shell,
Bequeathes a tell-tale fraction.
Yea, all the cries and passions of the Past,
The reptile, brute, and savage,
Toss in me like a surging sea upcast
And long to rend and ravage.
While all the pulses of a fairer morn
And worlds no words can utter,
The formless plumes of beauties yet unborn
Deep in my bosom flutter.
THE NEW SCHOOL OF MANNERS.
Place for children now, ye parents, take the lowest seat;
Be content, if ye have nothing but your house-room and your clothing,
And enough to eat.
Be upon your best behaviour,
To attention stand, humbly hat in hand,
For the child is now the paviour
Of the awful path of Progress, and the only modern saviour
For this blessed Land!
Things are changing fast, and all (dogs and masters) rise and fall.
Be content, if ye have nothing but your house-room and your clothing,
And enough to eat.
Be upon your best behaviour,
To attention stand, humbly hat in hand,
For the child is now the paviour
Of the awful path of Progress, and the only modern saviour
For this blessed Land!
Things are changing fast, and all (dogs and masters) rise and fall.
We shall doubtless get accustomed soon to any change,
Even if the nails drive hammers and we turn again to grammars
Or to pastures strange;
Now the bit is reckoned vaster
Than the blooming whole, and the body soul,
While the prize is to the faster
Not the better man or braver, and the pupil is the master
And the start the goal.
Servants reign and children rule, and the parents go to school.
Even if the nails drive hammers and we turn again to grammars
Or to pastures strange;
Now the bit is reckoned vaster
Than the blooming whole, and the body soul,
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Not the better man or braver, and the pupil is the master
And the start the goal.
Servants reign and children rule, and the parents go to school.
Place for children now, old fogies, be prepared to wait;
Walk behind your little tyrants, and obey these young aspirants
Who control the state!
Calm as Herakles they throttle
Every serpent ill, palsied by their will;
The triumphant bib and bottle
Coming to the front and wiser far than any Aristotle,
Though we pay the bill.
Ah, they spend whate'er we earn, and we daily live and learn.
Walk behind your little tyrants, and obey these young aspirants
Who control the state!
Calm as Herakles they throttle
Every serpent ill, palsied by their will;
The triumphant bib and bottle
Coming to the front and wiser far than any Aristotle,
Though we pay the bill.
Ah, they spend whate'er we earn, and we daily live and learn.
We have ceased to raise objections and are glad to serve,
Though like Englishmen we grumble when our masters chance to stumble
On a toe or nerve;
Now that chidhood wears the breeches,
We abide at home and dislike to roam,
While we put protective stitches
In small garments torn and draggled by the hedges and the ditches
And adhesive loam.
When old childhood brings us pain, they will go to school again.
Though like Englishmen we grumble when our masters chance to stumble
On a toe or nerve;
Now that chidhood wears the breeches,
We abide at home and dislike to roam,
While we put protective stitches
In small garments torn and draggled by the hedges and the ditches
And adhesive loam.
When old childhood brings us pain, they will go to school again.
Place for children now, instructors, let them have their fling,
Let them have a trifle more ease, juniores sunt priores,
And the Babe is King;
Let the spirits turn the tables,
Just a little while with transparent guile;
We are living modern fables,
And the steed is in the saddle and the rider in the stables
Till it does its mile;
And the parents will be free, if they only live to see.
Let them have a trifle more ease, juniores sunt priores,
And the Babe is King;
Let the spirits turn the tables,
Just a little while with transparent guile;
We are living modern fables,
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Till it does its mile;
And the parents will be free, if they only live to see.
THE BIG POT OF SOCIALISM.
“La Propriété, c'est le vol.”
Let us be logical, sir, if you please,Let us be logical first,
Calmly discussing the case at our ease
Just with a rational thirst.
You are a Socialist, sir—very good;
I may observe, I am not;
Property, land with its corn and its wood,
Money and honey and all that you could,
Whether you ought not or whether you should,
Palace and labourer's plot,
Served up with ignorance hot—
All that for ages has privately stood,
Proof against Radical shot—
Even the Monk, I suppose with his hood—
You would pitch into the Pot.
In they go tumbling—O, let us commence,
None of your shabby reserves or pretence,
Only be logical now—
Vestals with virginal brow,
Dives in purple with pickings immense,
Hodge with his acres and cow;
Sinners and saints and the Gentile and Jew,
All must souse into the General Stew,
None must have luxuries, down with the beer!
While one poor brother is starved,
Cut up the capons, distribute the cheer—
What if the landlord is carved?
Castle and cottage both mix in the pottage,
Hovel in ruins and Hall,
Wise men like Platos and tiny potatoes—
Plenty of room for them all.
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Nothing to claim as your own;
Every possession is simply a theft,
If it may still be unknown;
Taken perhaps by some rascally Lord
Ages ago against right,
When there existed no rule but the sword
And the one tenure was Might.
Empty your pockets of treasures and purse,
Watch and the trinkets of gold;
Do not forget selfish hoards are a curse,
Even if centuries old!
Never suppose you can chalk off a line
Really Protection by name,
Though you may choose to demur and repine—
Manfully play out the game.
Yes, your dear labours as well as your neighbour's,
Product of brain or the hand,
Equally grateful a pan or a plateful
Yield to the public demand.
Make no exceptions of jewels or clay—
Nothing—howe'er it be got;
No “moral minimum,” no private pay
Rises from national rot.
Now for your clothing—be logical, pray—
Keep not one leprosy spot;
Strip like a man in the primitive way,
Breeches and all in the Pot!
Do have the courage, I beg, of your creed
Blazoned in glorious crudity,
Proved to the hilt by your personal need;
Who cares for trifles like nudity?
Spare not a rag of your wardrobe, be true,
Sir, to your principles yet;
Grudge not the General Fund what is due,
Cast in your poodle or pet;
In with your pudding and in with your parson,
In with your penny or pound,
In with your patriot playing at arson
Though in the holiest bound.
248
Long so indulged in and hugged;
Be a brave Socialist, down with the price—
If it's your grandmother jugged.
Yes, that reminds me, relations are nought;
Ties are obstructions that block,
Family fetters have merely been wrought
Just to replenish the Stock.
Children—of course, they belong to the State,
Sentiment goes to the wall;
Ah, and the helpmeet misjoined to your fate,
Now belongs freely to all!
Mine, sir, if thine, and poor tumble-down Dick
Claims with connubial band
Her to whom you would so jealously stick—
Married is she to the Land!
Married to Matthew and married to Mark,
Married to Peter and Paul,
Married to men of the light and the dark
Married (God bless her!) to all!
Those precious darlings too curled and too kissed,
Daintily gartered and gowned,
Now will receive (what they fain would have missed)
Tubbing and scrubbing right round.
O, and your Baby (which follows the Purse)
Each will with emulous wits
Handle and dandle, and awfully nurse
Out of its senses to fits.
Each of us now will be welcome to brush
Each of your treasures at will,
Or if we like with a whipping to hush
Each little lacrymal rill.
They will be combed and corrected and led
Nightly to each little stall,
Comforted, physicked, instructed and fed
Everywhere ever by all.
Hope not by subterfuge yet to defy us,
Think not from duty to swerve,
Playing the part of a false Ananias
249
Holding a tit bit away from the Store,
Lips or delights of the shelf,
Something to guzzle alone or adore—
Kisses or cakes for yourself!
Near ones and dear ones, the choicest and chief,
Those of the tenderest lot,
Those who partook of your gladness or grief,
All are condemned to the Pot.
Private taps too you say now are forbidden,
Into one Tap they are thrown;
How then can you retain ever unchidden.
One rosy mouth as your own?
All fingers poke in one general pie,
All are the Hydra-like head,
All are the tail and all brotherly lie
Snoring in one blessed bed.
All eat from one and the same precious plate,
All drink of one common mug,
All are both governed and governing State,
All share the parson and pug.
Make no objections or idle corrections,
Let us be logical, do;
Persons and chattels, though twopenny rattles,
Droned by the devil knows who—
Each whether peg or propriety dress,
Plumps as a part in your catholic mess.
We are advancing—it's well—with the times,
Taking together our ills,
Cant, influenza, our churches and chimes,
Beggaring neighbours by legalized crimes—
Aye, and political pills;
Now let's apportion the bills;
Nothing is sacred in reason or rhymes,
All must partake of all tills.
We are returning to early old founts,
Civilized backward again;
Savage simplicity here only counts,
As the Great People ordain.
Why, my good sir, have you sacrificed friends,
250
Each to your conscience and Socialist ends—
You yet remaining outside?
Let us be logical, let us be fair
Always to Truth and its kin;
Muse on the happy regenerate air,
When you are boiling within.
Think of your bed-fellows in the same Stew,
Honesty, honour and love,
Empire and Union and faith, with the new
Devilry dancing above;
Bess of the brothel and Sal of the slum
Shouldering Bishop and Peer,
Scrapings of gutter and crossing and scum
Reeking of skittles and beer.
O, it's a wondrous receptacle—this,
Great with class-levelling greed,
Grandly capacious and like the Abyss;
Here's a “solution” indeed.
All things are solved or dissolved—it is one,
All folks are equal and free,
Subjects are sovereigns and all work is done
Jointly and all disagree.
Bless the Big Pot which contains lean and fat,
Capital, labour and Grace
With the last century hit off his bat,
And for the Crofter finds place.
Stir it and feed it with fuel till hot,
Properly heated right through;
Throw in our Royalty too,
Playing decorum or loo,
Welshman and German and Paddy and Scot,
Millionaire's mansion and penury's cot;
Then take a header yourself in the Pot—
I, my dear sir, after you.
Life may be broken—not theories bend,
Let us be logical still to the end.
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CAPTAIN MARY JONES (S. A.)
Captain Mary Jones
Listed in the Army with the tambourine and bones;
Just because she felt a call
And a process of conviction,
Like a ramming home of damning
To a sinner, as she told us sinners one and all.
Then chock-full of benediction,
Colours blowing, overflowing,
Souse into the slums she went
And held on;
Pale and sweetly penitent,
While the halo of her goodness grew and round her shone.
Listed in the Army with the tambourine and bones;
Just because she felt a call
And a process of conviction,
Like a ramming home of damning
To a sinner, as she told us sinners one and all.
Then chock-full of benediction,
Colours blowing, overflowing,
Souse into the slums she went
And held on;
Pale and sweetly penitent,
While the halo of her goodness grew and round her shone.
Captain Mary Jones
Pleaded with the masses, in the most persuasive tones;
Getting grace she laid it thick
Like the very best of butter,
With an unction and compunction
For unhapy souls in night who had not learnt the trick;
O, she raked the stews and gutter,
Of the creepings and the sweepings
And the refuse and the dregs.
She was game,
Nor regarded rotten eggs,
With her silky hair and saucy figure and proud name.
Pleaded with the masses, in the most persuasive tones;
Getting grace she laid it thick
Like the very best of butter,
With an unction and compunction
For unhapy souls in night who had not learnt the trick;
O, she raked the stews and gutter,
Of the creepings and the sweepings
And the refuse and the dregs.
She was game,
Nor regarded rotten eggs,
With her silky hair and saucy figure and proud name.
Captain Mary Jones
Preached salvation free and full, with palms and crowns and thrones;
She was great at doctrine sound
And the rapture of endurance,
Though the arrow first might harrow
Hearts obdurate, ere the Rock and remedy were found.
And she promised you assurance
True and tender, on surrender
Of the vilest to the Lord;
She fought well,
And the Bible was her sword—
Ah, she fluttered the old Devil down in darkest hell.
Preached salvation free and full, with palms and crowns and thrones;
She was great at doctrine sound
And the rapture of endurance,
Though the arrow first might harrow
Hearts obdurate, ere the Rock and remedy were found.
And she promised you assurance
True and tender, on surrender
252
She fought well,
And the Bible was her sword—
Ah, she fluttered the old Devil down in darkest hell.
Captain Mary Jones
Faced a mob, and imprecations worse than sticks and stones;
And she gave them brimstone hot
Or the comforts of conversion,
Speaking plainly and not vainly;
Till she button-holed the bully and awoke the sot,
And the unclean asked immersion
In the river, to deliver
Flesh from all the filthy smears
And the curse.
She was beautiful at tears,
And the rogue when born again accepted her wetnurse.
Faced a mob, and imprecations worse than sticks and stones;
And she gave them brimstone hot
Or the comforts of conversion,
Speaking plainly and not vainly;
Till she button-holed the bully and awoke the sot,
And the unclean asked immersion
In the river, to deliver
Flesh from all the filthy smears
And the curse.
She was beautiful at tears,
And the rogue when born again accepted her wetnurse.
Captain Mary Jones
Slap-dash made for Kingdom-Come, when clerics thought of nones;
Knocking down like ninepins all
Godless creatures, rake and rambler,
With her pretty eyes and jetty
Lashes long, and artless accents, in one blessed fall.
Death she was to any gambler,
With his horses and ill courses,
If he ever barred the way—
Down he flopt!
And she only paused to pray,
Till the rescued wretch by Scripture had been underpropt.
Slap-dash made for Kingdom-Come, when clerics thought of nones;
Knocking down like ninepins all
Godless creatures, rake and rambler,
With her pretty eyes and jetty
Lashes long, and artless accents, in one blessed fall.
Death she was to any gambler,
With his horses and ill courses,
If he ever barred the way—
Down he flopt!
And she only paused to pray,
Till the rescued wretch by Scripture had been underpropt.
Captain Mary Jones
Spared no social evil, and attacked the gilded zones;
Caught a Duke, who follows yet
Humbly after her wild bonnet,
While he draggles on and waggles
Proudly in the dirt beneath her his great coronet—
Aye, he dances now upon it!
And the Duchess asks, if such is
Just the single saving road—
Through the slums;
And would drop her jewelled load,
If she could but stand the dowdy dress and kettledrums
Spared no social evil, and attacked the gilded zones;
Caught a Duke, who follows yet
Humbly after her wild bonnet,
While he draggles on and waggles
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Aye, he dances now upon it!
And the Duchess asks, if such is
Just the single saving road—
Through the slums;
And would drop her jewelled load,
If she could but stand the dowdy dress and kettledrums
Captain Mary Jones
Hustled out to judgment light, the sins the world condones;
Dragged them shivering from the shade
Into Gospel sunshine, vices
Patched and painted and half sainted
By the mummery of Fashion and its Masquerade.
Other women had their prices,
This one money, that one honey,
But she never could be bought—
Never was on sale;
For the Master still she fought,
Hawked not up and down the Marriage Market as a bale.
Hustled out to judgment light, the sins the world condones;
Dragged them shivering from the shade
Into Gospel sunshine, vices
Patched and painted and half sainted
By the mummery of Fashion and its Masquerade.
Other women had their prices,
This one money, that one honey,
But she never could be bought—
Never was on sale;
For the Master still she fought,
Hawked not up and down the Marriage Market as a bale.
Captain Mary Jones
Rose to rank and credit, by the tambourine and bones;
None could give an honest bang
Like her method and its powder
With such muscle, or could bustle
Sinners out of Darkness with her soul-compelling slang;
If they lingered, she waxed louder
With a wrestling and a pestling
Of harmonious lips and hands,
And heart-thirst;
For her preachments were commands,
And she bundled them right into Heaven and all head first.
Rose to rank and credit, by the tambourine and bones;
None could give an honest bang
Like her method and its powder
With such muscle, or could bustle
Sinners out of Darkness with her soul-compelling slang;
If they lingered, she waxed louder
With a wrestling and a pestling
Of harmonious lips and hands,
And heart-thirst;
For her preachments were commands,
And she bundled them right into Heaven and all head first.
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BROTHER BATHOS.
Brother Bathos—
This will tell you how he figured, how he fared
Up and down the golden city;
How he wept aloud for sin, and sweetly cared
For our modern Babylon;
With his pathos,
With his mathos
And an unctuous power of pity—
Oozing his Eirenicon.
He believed in talk and tears,
In the fission
Or the shaking
And awaking
Of the hearts that passion sears,
In the glory of a well-conducted mission.
Here he truly romped and revelled
In a proper sort of way
Over hostile doubts and fears,
With discourses nicely “devilled”
And appeals to mortal clay.
Ah, his voice was like a rousing funeral hymn's tone,
When he wrestled with the lusts
In the agitated busts
Of his audient virginity
And attentive femininity—
Or laid on the fire and brimstone.
This will tell you how he figured, how he fared
Up and down the golden city;
How he wept aloud for sin, and sweetly cared
For our modern Babylon;
With his pathos,
With his mathos
And an unctuous power of pity—
Oozing his Eirenicon.
He believed in talk and tears,
In the fission
Or the shaking
And awaking
Of the hearts that passion sears,
In the glory of a well-conducted mission.
Here he truly romped and revelled
In a proper sort of way
Over hostile doubts and fears,
With discourses nicely “devilled”
And appeals to mortal clay.
Ah, his voice was like a rousing funeral hymn's tone,
When he wrestled with the lusts
In the agitated busts
Of his audient virginity
And attentive femininity—
Or laid on the fire and brimstone.
Brother Bathos—
Thus they called him, friends and enemies as well,
From his love of fraternising
With the worshippers who followed his church bell,
In our fallen Babylon;
With his pathos,
With his mathos
In insidious modes surprising,
Out of his great Organon.
He rejoiced in every tool,
From the flotage
Of the ages
And the sages
Or the saints of any school,
And he voyaged on a sea of anecdotage.
Artless frumps and ancient fogeys
Bowed before him, as the reed
Swaying in a wind-swept pool,
At the venerable Bogeys
Of his dew-and-thunder creed.
With convincing mop he stirred the suds and sediment
Down in the old Adam rock
'Neath some unregenerate frock,
Like another sorcerous Elymas,
To an abject state of jelly-mass—
Till he broke through all impediment.
Thus they called him, friends and enemies as well,
From his love of fraternising
With the worshippers who followed his church bell,
In our fallen Babylon;
With his pathos,
With his mathos
In insidious modes surprising,
Out of his great Organon.
255
From the flotage
Of the ages
And the sages
Or the saints of any school,
And he voyaged on a sea of anecdotage.
Artless frumps and ancient fogeys
Bowed before him, as the reed
Swaying in a wind-swept pool,
At the venerable Bogeys
Of his dew-and-thunder creed.
With convincing mop he stirred the suds and sediment
Down in the old Adam rock
'Neath some unregenerate frock,
Like another sorcerous Elymas,
To an abject state of jelly-mass—
Till he broke through all impediment.
Brother Bathos
Was a prophet of a certain sort and size,
And uncertain years and temper;
Nor had spidery spinster yet achieved the prize,
Still on sale in Babylon
With his pathos,
With his mathos
And those serious views ut semper—
Of the Pope and Parthenon.
Sometimes he would almost burst
With his visions,
And the story
Of the glory
Gained in sloughing flesh accurst—
Orthodoxy hung upon his sound decisions.
O his edicts shook the cloister
And the licence of the camp,
As no other preacher durst,
And made eyes of angels moister
With the sternness of their stamp.
He was nothing if not absolutely clerical,
In his garments and the grace
Of the fat and foolish space,
Occupied by his rotundity
And its bottomless profundity
Trading upon qualms hysterical.
Was a prophet of a certain sort and size,
And uncertain years and temper;
Nor had spidery spinster yet achieved the prize,
Still on sale in Babylon
With his pathos,
With his mathos
And those serious views ut semper—
Of the Pope and Parthenon.
Sometimes he would almost burst
With his visions,
And the story
Of the glory
Gained in sloughing flesh accurst—
Orthodoxy hung upon his sound decisions.
O his edicts shook the cloister
And the licence of the camp,
As no other preacher durst,
And made eyes of angels moister
With the sternness of their stamp.
He was nothing if not absolutely clerical,
256
Of the fat and foolish space,
Occupied by his rotundity
And its bottomless profundity
Trading upon qualms hysterical.
Brother Bathos
Had a talent for unfolding Scripture truth,
And most tenderly expounded
Solemn mysteries to yearning eyes and youth,
Mid the snares of Babylon;
With a pathos,
With a mathos
Which conclusively confounded
All the errors built upon.
He was with his holy guiles
Great at unction,
And in cassock
Or on hassock
Manufactured tears and smiles,
Which he shed on all without the least compunction.
But he doted on sweet sinners
Of the devious foot and glance,
And ensnared them with soft wiles,
Cups of tea and dainty dinners
Or a casual country dance.
But they proved him very nice and more than lenient
In the penance on them laid,
On the matron or the maid;
Help they found, who chose to titillate
Ready ears, and (should they sit till late)
Arms for fainting forms convenient.
Had a talent for unfolding Scripture truth,
And most tenderly expounded
Solemn mysteries to yearning eyes and youth,
Mid the snares of Babylon;
With a pathos,
With a mathos
Which conclusively confounded
All the errors built upon.
He was with his holy guiles
Great at unction,
And in cassock
Or on hassock
Manufactured tears and smiles,
Which he shed on all without the least compunction.
But he doted on sweet sinners
Of the devious foot and glance,
And ensnared them with soft wiles,
Cups of tea and dainty dinners
Or a casual country dance.
But they proved him very nice and more than lenient
In the penance on them laid,
On the matron or the maid;
Help they found, who chose to titillate
Ready ears, and (should they sit till late)
Arms for fainting forms convenient.
CAVE CANEM.
I hear it now—O, Cave Canem,
The Cerberus that asks for sops
257
Ere the great heavens in thunder bow
And belch their bolts, the cry of Panem
(That sheathes old enses)
And the Circenses!
Fate's warhounds still may wear a muzzle,
And whine and whimper in their chain
Which yet is yielding to the strain,
And take the catlap
From Dives' fat lap;
But they alone can solve the puzzle,
And some day in their slavering jaws
Will mumble monarchs and their laws,
And pick the bones
Or tear the warm and quivering flesh
From bloated bodies full and fresh,
Of tumbled States and toppled Thrones.
Awake, ye peoples,
Downtrodden sore through ghastly years
Of impotence and fumbling fears,
By kings and priests and perjured statesmen,
And lay the steeples
Or hoary towers
Of ill-got powers
Flush with the kennel—ye are Fate's men!
Red revolution is about—
It's in the air, and on the threshold
And at the door and faintly knocking,
Nor will it long be kept without
By mouldy bars and musty blocking—
And Death has woven its awful mesh-hold.
It mocks at ancient bounds precarious,
And clearer looms
From cruel glooms—
God's retiarius.
I hear the dreadful white lips mutter,
Low in the caverns at their forges
And drunken orgies,
The final sentence;
And soon the trumpet blast will stutter
258
With doom and fixed,
Past praying and beyond repentance.
THE ASTRAL PLANE.
Don't say this is the heavenly land,The final goal to Man for ever
Of happy thought, and high endeavour
To find a basis where to stand;
Don't tell me, what around environs
My view, is hell-without gridirons,
And all the precious tools to brand.
Too bad for Heaven, too good for hell,
With pleasant sounds if not like Simms' tone;
It has not even the proper smell,
Nor just the faintest breath of brimstone.
It can't be Tophet or Gehenna,
Or (what is worse) our own Vienna;
It can't be Calvin's blissful bound,
Or Hebrew Sheol or Greek Hades—
For I can see no nice old ladies,
Who deemed salvation to be sound.
I'm sorely puzzled at the sight,
And whether under this or that sky
I waver between day and night—
But here (good luck) is the Blavatsky!
“Dear Madam, is it bliss or bane?”
“You d—d fool, it's the Astral Plane.”
GOÜN TO THE DAWGS.
There is Jerry round the carner
With his sassages and horl,
And the Ragmon and his garner—
For they pickuns beant smorl.
Thar's the Dorkter with his coffin
That he fills with payritch boans,
Which I reckins is as offin
As them wants to lay the stoans.
Them is horl for milk and 'unny
And more vittuls and fine tawgs,
While it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
With his sassages and horl,
And the Ragmon and his garner—
For they pickuns beant smorl.
Thar's the Dorkter with his coffin
That he fills with payritch boans,
Which I reckins is as offin
259
Them is horl for milk and 'unny
And more vittuls and fine tawgs,
While it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
Thar's the Parson with his texties,
Which be good enough for moast;
But his first, whate'er the next is,
Be the best of buttered toast.
And the Kewrut e's a korshun
Not unlike the Fatted Karf,
And 'e gets a looshus porshun
While hus oanly has the charf.
O, the gayum might still be funny
If hus lived as some on frawgs,
But its munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
Which be good enough for moast;
But his first, whate'er the next is,
Be the best of buttered toast.
And the Kewrut e's a korshun
Not unlike the Fatted Karf,
And 'e gets a looshus porshun
While hus oanly has the charf.
O, the gayum might still be funny
If hus lived as some on frawgs,
But its munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
Thar's the landlord, and the new uns
Aint no better nor the ould,
With their scrapuns and their screwuns
And their everlastun hould;
Orl a bleedun yer on pay day
Just with nuthun else to do,
As if arth had lost its May-day
In black winter through and through.
Aye, thar's nort now sweet and sunny
And no ile about the cawgs,
For it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
Aint no better nor the ould,
With their scrapuns and their screwuns
And their everlastun hould;
Orl a bleedun yer on pay day
Just with nuthun else to do,
As if arth had lost its May-day
In black winter through and through.
Aye, thar's nort now sweet and sunny
And no ile about the cawgs,
For it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
And the Boss 'e tries his squeedges,
For 'e mun be mayster still;
And the mon would riz the weedges,
With a 'and uporn the Till.
So between 'em boath they throttul
Hour pore Trade till it be broak,
And hus keep the empty bottul
While the Torkers 'as the soak.
If un poach a 'are or bunny,
It means rollun prison lawgs;
For it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
For 'e mun be mayster still;
And the mon would riz the weedges,
With a 'and uporn the Till.
So between 'em boath they throttul
Hour pore Trade till it be broak,
And hus keep the empty bottul
While the Torkers 'as the soak.
If un poach a 'are or bunny,
260
For it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the dawgs.
Ah, they sez as orl be brothers,
And jist eekals befoor Gawd;
But the Lor, it cooms and mothers
Hus and fathers with the rawd.
It's palaver and fine wishus
For the bearer of the blarst,
While the foremost grabs the dishus
And the Divil grabs the larst.
So yer sees our lot, my sonny,
Be a wusser nor the hawgs;
For it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the Dawgs.
And jist eekals befoor Gawd;
But the Lor, it cooms and mothers
Hus and fathers with the rawd.
It's palaver and fine wishus
For the bearer of the blarst,
While the foremost grabs the dishus
And the Divil grabs the larst.
So yer sees our lot, my sonny,
Be a wusser nor the hawgs;
For it's munny, munny, munny—
Hus be goün to the Dawgs.
QUEER STREET.
I strolled at random down the street called Queer,And watched the tenants at their occupations
Or gravitations—
Though these were mainly Beer.
They seemed but careless folks and jolly,
Given up to idle ways and useless things
Or works of folly,
And some were tied to pretty apron strings.
Both sexes there and every age and class
Disported as they chose
And clinked the frequent glass,
Or kissed their neighbours' maids beneath the rose.
All were in trouble,
Which they invoked with quite religious claims
And rendered double
By suicidal aims.
All were at sixes and at sevens,
Unless they played at fives,
And had their own peculiar hells and heavens
But not their proper wives;
They lived on borrowed money
261
Or buzzed about the alien honey
Which tempted them to stumble more and stray.
None looked before and none behind,
They found the present
Enough and beautiful and pleasant,
And in the passing moment were confined.
From hand to mouth they lived, and tarried
For no wise future or good end
Or the matured and mellow fruit;
But simply loved to splash and spend,
And without service and fair suit
Were married and unmarried,
And doddered down the same sad courses
With wine and women, hounds and horses,
Wrecked now by shadow, now by shoal
And every day with fresh divorces,
Unto the fated goal.
They never thought
And drowned their many cares in drink,
Were vainly sold and vainly bought
And dreamed not of the least production,
Excepting their own self-destruction,
But toppled over the wild brink;
By mocking loves and meteor lights illumed,
Consuming and consumed.
Not one was serious, few were sane,
And all
Turned with each breath of Fashion's weather vane,
They cared not to what dreadful issue of time and tissue,
To the last curtain's fall.
IRONY OF THINGS.
What makes the kitten hunt her shadow
And cheats the poet with his dream,
Or paints the moonbeam on the meadow
To mock the lover by its gleam?
Why does the deed by fine confusion
Think right will thus redeem its own,
Or sages merely seek delusion
And sacrifice to the Unknown?
The world for ever like the kitten
Pursues but phantoms to its fall,
And irony (wrought out or written)
Still reigneth at the heart of all.
And cheats the poet with his dream,
Or paints the moonbeam on the meadow
To mock the lover by its gleam?
Why does the deed by fine confusion
262
Or sages merely seek delusion
And sacrifice to the Unknown?
The world for ever like the kitten
Pursues but phantoms to its fall,
And irony (wrought out or written)
Still reigneth at the heart of all.
What bids the hound yet hug and follow
The master strings as though it led,
And woman find a comfort hollow
In bliss that only drapes the dead?
Why are we tricked by cold reflection,
Who with our fingers bait the trap
Of sordid gain or false affection,
Which cannot hide the grave-like gap?
Earth, like a hound upon its questing
Mistakes for power the captive strings,
And heeds not in the march unresting
The mockery at the core of things.
The master strings as though it led,
And woman find a comfort hollow
In bliss that only drapes the dead?
Why are we tricked by cold reflection,
Who with our fingers bait the trap
Of sordid gain or false affection,
Which cannot hide the grave-like gap?
Earth, like a hound upon its questing
Mistakes for power the captive strings,
And heeds not in the march unresting
The mockery at the core of things.
What dupes with lies the dazzled reason
Until it deems we really live,
When nought is true but shame and treason
And death our grand prerogative?
Why do we plough a barren furrow
Or gather fruit of bitter wombs,
And harvest loss or sin, and burrow
In mines to be our golden tombs?
We build for that which cometh after,
And with our blood cement its gate;
Divine and dreadful is the Laughter,
Which guides us to a common fate.
Until it deems we really live,
When nought is true but shame and treason
And death our grand prerogative?
Why do we plough a barren furrow
Or gather fruit of bitter wombs,
And harvest loss or sin, and burrow
In mines to be our golden tombs?
We build for that which cometh after,
And with our blood cement its gate;
Divine and dreadful is the Laughter,
Which guides us to a common fate.
What makes us war for toys and trifles
To reap but sterile tears and stains,
And consecrate the Christian rifles
Which blow out Christian lives and brains?
Why must we toil in vain for others
Who lightly squander wealth of years,
And worship with a smile that smothers
But cannot kill our mortal fears?
Faith is a figment of intrusion,
Which sends no satisfying feast;
We feed on wind, and by illusion
God rules and governs man and beast.
To reap but sterile tears and stains,
And consecrate the Christian rifles
Which blow out Christian lives and brains?
Why must we toil in vain for others
Who lightly squander wealth of years,
And worship with a smile that smothers
263
Faith is a figment of intrusion,
Which sends no satisfying feast;
We feed on wind, and by illusion
God rules and governs man and beast.
THE SKELETONS' DANCE.
Brother Skeletons, rise and no longer be dull,
Give a thump to the thorax, a scrape to the skull;
Don't be stupid and awkward, it's not a low trick,
I'm the Sexton who used with the spade and the pick
Once to do the last offices neatly for all,
At a modest expense and at every man's call,
Peer or pauper—I cared not, nor offered to strike
For more wages, as some folks—I served you alike.
And now shake off the dust, with its dolorous brand;
Come up, Barebones
And Sparebones,
The Lord is at hand.
Ha! the trumpet rings out with a terrible blast
And the Angel of Doom has awakened at last,
With a critical eye to the cut of your ribs
And a hand that goes down like a hammer on fibs;
For you cannot deceive him, he tells to a joint
Just the place of each toe and he misses no point;
And I'm ready to jog him and aid at a pinch,
Who have measured you down to the uttermost inch;
He will suffer no mixing of fancies or ends,
If your digits
Are Bridget's
Or some other good friend's.
Give a thump to the thorax, a scrape to the skull;
Don't be stupid and awkward, it's not a low trick,
I'm the Sexton who used with the spade and the pick
Once to do the last offices neatly for all,
At a modest expense and at every man's call,
Peer or pauper—I cared not, nor offered to strike
For more wages, as some folks—I served you alike.
And now shake off the dust, with its dolorous brand;
Come up, Barebones
And Sparebones,
The Lord is at hand.
Ha! the trumpet rings out with a terrible blast
And the Angel of Doom has awakened at last,
With a critical eye to the cut of your ribs
And a hand that goes down like a hammer on fibs;
For you cannot deceive him, he tells to a joint
Just the place of each toe and he misses no point;
And I'm ready to jog him and aid at a pinch,
Who have measured you down to the uttermost inch;
He will suffer no mixing of fancies or ends,
If your digits
Are Bridget's
Or some other good friend's.
Step out, skeletons, fast from your graves and the soil
Which has coated you thus as its portion and spoil;
We must celebrate somehow, at least with a Dance,
This surprising event which is more than romance
And (I take it) right welcome to sinner and saint,
Though we most of us ask for a daubing of paint;
And we seem fairly fit on the whole, in a lump,
Save your servant who cannot get rid of his hump;
Age has left you too withered and sombre and sere,
Sister Slybones
And Drybones—
Resurrection is here.
We feel awkward and stiffer than folks would desire,
In a dazzle of daylight and fusty attire;
But the worms have made free with our houses of flesh
And the heartiest need all a-building afresh,
A re-clothing and padding to fill in the cracks
And some substance and warmth on our bosoms and backs.
Aye, a cartload of hay, not a miserly dole,
Would be splendid and warm, and stop many a hole.
Come, os coccyx, patella, though brown as the Nile
Or the Ganges,
Phalanges,
Hurry up with a smile.
Which has coated you thus as its portion and spoil;
We must celebrate somehow, at least with a Dance,
This surprising event which is more than romance
And (I take it) right welcome to sinner and saint,
Though we most of us ask for a daubing of paint;
And we seem fairly fit on the whole, in a lump,
264
Age has left you too withered and sombre and sere,
Sister Slybones
And Drybones—
Resurrection is here.
We feel awkward and stiffer than folks would desire,
In a dazzle of daylight and fusty attire;
But the worms have made free with our houses of flesh
And the heartiest need all a-building afresh,
A re-clothing and padding to fill in the cracks
And some substance and warmth on our bosoms and backs.
Aye, a cartload of hay, not a miserly dole,
Would be splendid and warm, and stop many a hole.
Come, os coccyx, patella, though brown as the Nile
Or the Ganges,
Phalanges,
Hurry up with a smile.
Yes, away with the clammy dead mould, look alive;
For the fiddlers are marching, and you must revive.
Here's a clout for you, Harry, to rouse you and raise
Those poor sticks to the style of appropriate praise;
There's a cuff to you, Charlie, with one foot in earth
And no visage adapted for singing or mirth;
I have orders to get you prepared for the show,
When the Lord (who is gracious) descends to my row;
So be ready to kick off the cumbering clay,
Bully Mawbones,
And Jawbones
If toothless be gay.
Right leg foremost and steady, stretch out with a will,
And keep time and together with me and my drill;
I am Sexton and buried you each, and I know
How you fitted and paired before shovelled below.
Dear old neighbours, attend to the tune and be smart,
And not off in your shuffle or out in your part.
It is like hoeing turnips, as you boys have seen,
To divide this grand fuddle and find space between.
Come, the game is not settled and hardly begun;
Here's the Doctor,
As Proctor,
Who provided my fun.
For the fiddlers are marching, and you must revive.
Here's a clout for you, Harry, to rouse you and raise
Those poor sticks to the style of appropriate praise;
There's a cuff to you, Charlie, with one foot in earth
And no visage adapted for singing or mirth;
I have orders to get you prepared for the show,
When the Lord (who is gracious) descends to my row;
So be ready to kick off the cumbering clay,
Bully Mawbones,
And Jawbones
If toothless be gay.
Right leg foremost and steady, stretch out with a will,
And keep time and together with me and my drill;
I am Sexton and buried you each, and I know
How you fitted and paired before shovelled below.
Dear old neighbours, attend to the tune and be smart,
And not off in your shuffle or out in your part.
It is like hoeing turnips, as you boys have seen,
To divide this grand fuddle and find space between.
265
Here's the Doctor,
As Proctor,
Who provided my fun.
Merry meeting to you, sir, the Powers ordain—
Aye, and here you're at home with your patients again,
For it is chiefly your work and most came from your shop,
Taken down by the Science you used as a sop;
While you finished them neatly with beautiful fits,
And then trundled them off for dissection in bits;
Whence I learnt all the names of the blooming old parts,
And a taste of your tricks in the surgical arts.
For I was not a bungler or lazy or blind,
Doctor Sawbones,
Like Rawbones
Your assistant behind!
Don't you see him? Hook on, you can lighten the task.
And correct my mistakes—it is little to ask—
With a name here and there and a caution or knock,
If I get them confused or we end in a block.
We were partners in spoils and had many a spree
Above ground and below, we had sense to agree;
Fellow rogues should not quarrel; you dosed them, and I
Had a harvest of blunders, because they would die;
Kill and cure was your motto, a fine one for trade;
Ah, your bleeding
Was weeding
And food for the spade.
Aye, and here you're at home with your patients again,
For it is chiefly your work and most came from your shop,
Taken down by the Science you used as a sop;
While you finished them neatly with beautiful fits,
And then trundled them off for dissection in bits;
Whence I learnt all the names of the blooming old parts,
And a taste of your tricks in the surgical arts.
For I was not a bungler or lazy or blind,
Doctor Sawbones,
Like Rawbones
Your assistant behind!
Don't you see him? Hook on, you can lighten the task.
And correct my mistakes—it is little to ask—
With a name here and there and a caution or knock,
If I get them confused or we end in a block.
We were partners in spoils and had many a spree
Above ground and below, we had sense to agree;
Fellow rogues should not quarrel; you dosed them, and I
Had a harvest of blunders, because they would die;
Kill and cure was your motto, a fine one for trade;
Ah, your bleeding
Was weeding
And food for the spade.
Ah, if Somebody sounds the reveillée again
And you folks are not out, He will surely complain;
So a truce to your squabbles and patch up your strife,
And though grubby and mouldy aroused to new life
Flock in numbers and welcome the call, grey or green,
White or yellow, and sketches of what you have been.
Never mind your complexion, don't stick at the hue,
Let me sort you and size you—posssssing the clue.
You old hussy, who stink now as ever you stank!
Come, that nigh bone
Is thigh bone
Of Betty who drank:
It's not yours, put it down, take your own proper crutch,
And get clear of her quarters—you're in the wrong hutch;
For she has not the sweetest of tempers, you know,
And is hasty and spiteful, a word and a blow;
She can hit pretty hard, as your cranium tells,
And of brandy (good Lord!) even here how she smells!
It is pitiful work, all this dawdling and fuss,
With a muddle of tibia, cervix and crus;
If you are not more speedy, I must use the stick;
From your furrows
And burrows,
Pop as rabbits—be quick.
And you folks are not out, He will surely complain;
So a truce to your squabbles and patch up your strife,
And though grubby and mouldy aroused to new life
Flock in numbers and welcome the call, grey or green,
266
Never mind your complexion, don't stick at the hue,
Let me sort you and size you—posssssing the clue.
You old hussy, who stink now as ever you stank!
Come, that nigh bone
Is thigh bone
Of Betty who drank:
It's not yours, put it down, take your own proper crutch,
And get clear of her quarters—you're in the wrong hutch;
For she has not the sweetest of tempers, you know,
And is hasty and spiteful, a word and a blow;
She can hit pretty hard, as your cranium tells,
And of brandy (good Lord!) even here how she smells!
It is pitiful work, all this dawdling and fuss,
With a muddle of tibia, cervix and crus;
If you are not more speedy, I must use the stick;
From your furrows
And burrows,
Pop as rabbits—be quick.
Brother Skeletons, this is a jollier chime
Than the tune when we met last at burying time,
While the church bell was tolling and tears were the thing
With the Parson half drunk and mad George as our king;
You were mum then as mice and had nothing to speak,
Not a curse in your larynx or ghost of a squeak.
D---n that humerus there! It's your brother's, my man,
Who was drowned in his beer though so well he began,
With a voice in the Choir and the singing to do
Like a trombone:
Not, Tom, bone
The baggage for you.
I see changes about but forget not this hoard
And my duty, whatever the luck be abroad,
Or the shifting of landmarks—I spy the big yew
Where I planted Black Bill, who was always a screw.
Ah, and there he goes hobbling, as rusty as then
With no manners and scarcely the weakness of men.
Stop a moment, you thief, you are getting too mixed
With the butcher and must be directly unfixed;
You had never a sacrum like this, though you sat
On the labours
Of neighbours,
And flourished thereat.
Than the tune when we met last at burying time,
While the church bell was tolling and tears were the thing
With the Parson half drunk and mad George as our king;
You were mum then as mice and had nothing to speak,
Not a curse in your larynx or ghost of a squeak.
D---n that humerus there! It's your brother's, my man,
Who was drowned in his beer though so well he began,
With a voice in the Choir and the singing to do
Like a trombone:
Not, Tom, bone
The baggage for you.
I see changes about but forget not this hoard
267
Or the shifting of landmarks—I spy the big yew
Where I planted Black Bill, who was always a screw.
Ah, and there he goes hobbling, as rusty as then
With no manners and scarcely the weakness of men.
Stop a moment, you thief, you are getting too mixed
With the butcher and must be directly unfixed;
You had never a sacrum like this, though you sat
On the labours
Of neighbours,
And flourished thereat.
Ho, the ladies are foremost and powdered and spry,
If with only the dust—I feel horribly dry,
And would give for a pint my few lingering “pegs,”
Just to stand a bit steady and trim on my legs.
Why, God bless me! I have the dear baker's left shin,
Quite an inch or two short and all shabby and thin.
Am I dreaming? I heard the last Trump sound a close,
If it weren't the new Vicar at play with his nose,
Or the Curate who thinks God is deaf with his talk,
But is Leanbones
And Meanbones
On a Puritan stalk.
Nay, it's right—they are risen and skulking from me,
The cussed beggars who grudged me that moderate fee;
When I scooped out their quarters and scamped not the toil,
Though the winter might freeze me or summer would boil,
And dug deeply and widely and filched from their sires
Or the future a space for the largest desires,
And then tucked them up warmly and turfed them in fast
In their beds and at peace, to be cheated at last.
You shall pay me now, robbers, or rest here and stink
With cracked Kensit—
But when's it,
Boys, coming to drink?
If with only the dust—I feel horribly dry,
And would give for a pint my few lingering “pegs,”
Just to stand a bit steady and trim on my legs.
Why, God bless me! I have the dear baker's left shin,
Quite an inch or two short and all shabby and thin.
Am I dreaming? I heard the last Trump sound a close,
If it weren't the new Vicar at play with his nose,
Or the Curate who thinks God is deaf with his talk,
But is Leanbones
And Meanbones
On a Puritan stalk.
Nay, it's right—they are risen and skulking from me,
The cussed beggars who grudged me that moderate fee;
When I scooped out their quarters and scamped not the toil,
Though the winter might freeze me or summer would boil,
And dug deeply and widely and filched from their sires
Or the future a space for the largest desires,
And then tucked them up warmly and turfed them in fast
In their beds and at peace, to be cheated at last.
You shall pay me now, robbers, or rest here and stink
With cracked Kensit—
268
Boys, coming to drink?
That looks better, good people—yes, bustle about,
Choose your own and choose all—mind, no dancing without!
But of course it is hard work and thankless at first,
And like me you are drowsy and cramped and athirst.
Where's that ulna, poor Bob, that would set you up right,
Which you dropped in the scrummage of Waterloo fight?
Go and fetch it—'twas fought in next parish—and run
While you can, ere the business has really begun.
Now the Quality come, and they answer my call;
Hitch on, Tallbones
And Smallbones—
My respects to you all.
It's the Squire, not so lusty in these narrow bounds
As when booted and spurred he rode after the hounds,
In his red coat on Polly of whom he was vain,
Though she threw him at length and he rose not again.
Sir, I wish you long life and all blessings and sport
With the gun and the rod—I remember your port,
Sir, and tasted it still through those famishing years—
I'll be pleased, if God will, to wipe off the arrears.
But excuse me, sir, please—that belongs to the law,
That incisor
And eyesore—
He was mighty of jaw.
Choose your own and choose all—mind, no dancing without!
But of course it is hard work and thankless at first,
And like me you are drowsy and cramped and athirst.
Where's that ulna, poor Bob, that would set you up right,
Which you dropped in the scrummage of Waterloo fight?
Go and fetch it—'twas fought in next parish—and run
While you can, ere the business has really begun.
Now the Quality come, and they answer my call;
Hitch on, Tallbones
And Smallbones—
My respects to you all.
It's the Squire, not so lusty in these narrow bounds
As when booted and spurred he rode after the hounds,
In his red coat on Polly of whom he was vain,
Though she threw him at length and he rose not again.
Sir, I wish you long life and all blessings and sport
With the gun and the rod—I remember your port,
Sir, and tasted it still through those famishing years—
I'll be pleased, if God will, to wipe off the arrears.
But excuse me, sir, please—that belongs to the law,
That incisor
And eyesore—
He was mighty of jaw.
Sister Skeletons, hug me, and babies and boys;
All the trouble has fled, and there's nothing but toys;
Though your eyes are mere sockets—you had not a choice—
And the rasping of files is more soft than your voice.
We want friction and use and the polish of Time,
To bring back the dead music and murmurous chime;
And by rubbing together we must grow more fair,
With superior gloss and an elegant air.
Lo, I see shaping out from her shadowy nook
Pretty Shybones
And Sprybones,
My sweetheart the cook.
Don't you mind in that kitchen, the Parson's, my dear,
How with kisses we drank out the old dying year
While we drank in the new and were merry and that,
Though you married another and dropt me—you cat!
But I'm not unforgiving, shake hands, and have me
As a partner in frolicking, now you are free;
Let the past be the past, while the present is ours;
Resurrection is here, with new promise and powers,
Come up, costa and vertebra, bravely step on:
And, you omen,
Abdomen
With viscera gone.
All the trouble has fled, and there's nothing but toys;
Though your eyes are mere sockets—you had not a choice—
And the rasping of files is more soft than your voice.
We want friction and use and the polish of Time,
To bring back the dead music and murmurous chime;
And by rubbing together we must grow more fair,
269
Lo, I see shaping out from her shadowy nook
Pretty Shybones
And Sprybones,
My sweetheart the cook.
Don't you mind in that kitchen, the Parson's, my dear,
How with kisses we drank out the old dying year
While we drank in the new and were merry and that,
Though you married another and dropt me—you cat!
But I'm not unforgiving, shake hands, and have me
As a partner in frolicking, now you are free;
Let the past be the past, while the present is ours;
Resurrection is here, with new promise and powers,
Come up, costa and vertebra, bravely step on:
And, you omen,
Abdomen
With viscera gone.
Let us skip till we rattle, and skip till we drop,
Since old death has departed and life is our prop;
For the graves are quite empty and pining with lack,
While our joints that want tallow keep groaning and crack;
They'll be supple and limber before we cry stay,
When the oil that we long for is wafted our way.
Make your postures, my children, as grateful as love
For the Mercy that lifts you from darkness above,
Or my staff will show how with a heavier stripe;
Smoker Bluebones
And Truebones,
Come, lend me a pipe.
You are fools, and at sixes and sevens in lots,
That I can't disentangle in time from their knots;
And despite my instructions and acting the nurse,
It's confusion confounded twice over and worse.
There is Jack running off with the femur of Dick,
And the Devil alone can have taught him the trick;
There's Betty with 'Lizabeth's uterus on,
And young Joe is a patchwork of Peter and John.
But, alack, I'm not me—it's your headpiece, Abe Strong;
I have huddled,
And muddled
My skeletons wrong.
Since old death has departed and life is our prop;
For the graves are quite empty and pining with lack,
While our joints that want tallow keep groaning and crack;
They'll be supple and limber before we cry stay,
When the oil that we long for is wafted our way.
Make your postures, my children, as grateful as love
For the Mercy that lifts you from darkness above,
Or my staff will show how with a heavier stripe;
Smoker Bluebones
And Truebones,
Come, lend me a pipe.
You are fools, and at sixes and sevens in lots,
That I can't disentangle in time from their knots;
And despite my instructions and acting the nurse,
It's confusion confounded twice over and worse.
There is Jack running off with the femur of Dick,
And the Devil alone can have taught him the trick;
There's Betty with 'Lizabeth's uterus on,
And young Joe is a patchwork of Peter and John.
270
I have huddled,
And muddled
My skeletons wrong.
Hullo, Parson, I'm seeking my head—you have mine,
O, you reverend rascal, so fond of your wine
And tobacco and gossip—I know you as well
As you did the Squire's dinner and sound of his bell;
Give it back then, and softly—don't swear as of old,
With the worms on your axis and mouth full of mould;
Come, no nonsense—I'm monarch here, this is my patch,
And I'll hold it against even hell and “Old Scratch.”
What, you fight me? Take that from the shovel and see,
Master Beerbones
And Queerbones,
You've a master in me.
But, my God, do have pity! Who's rising up now,
Rib on rib, piece by piece, with a thunderous brow;
Though I packed her in quicklime and dumped a huge stone
On her temper and trusted she'd leave me alone?
It is Nancy, my wife, and she's grown to her knob,
Though she borrows from neighbours to hasten the job;
And she's looking this way and like broomsticks and knives,
Or a hundred cross cats with a hundred cross lives.
Let me slip in my grave, it is quiet at least.
She's the image
Of scrimmage,
And will find them a feast.
O, you reverend rascal, so fond of your wine
And tobacco and gossip—I know you as well
As you did the Squire's dinner and sound of his bell;
Give it back then, and softly—don't swear as of old,
With the worms on your axis and mouth full of mould;
Come, no nonsense—I'm monarch here, this is my patch,
And I'll hold it against even hell and “Old Scratch.”
What, you fight me? Take that from the shovel and see,
Master Beerbones
And Queerbones,
You've a master in me.
But, my God, do have pity! Who's rising up now,
Rib on rib, piece by piece, with a thunderous brow;
Though I packed her in quicklime and dumped a huge stone
On her temper and trusted she'd leave me alone?
It is Nancy, my wife, and she's grown to her knob,
Though she borrows from neighbours to hasten the job;
And she's looking this way and like broomsticks and knives,
Or a hundred cross cats with a hundred cross lives.
Let me slip in my grave, it is quiet at least.
She's the image
Of scrimmage,
And will find them a feast.
AN EGOTIST.
There are some things I value most,
A pretty girl, a pipe, a ghost,
A lily on the lea,
A legacy, a crimson kiss,
White arms that make a bower of bliss,
A cottage by the sea.
271
A lily on the lea,
A legacy, a crimson kiss,
White arms that make a bower of bliss,
A cottage by the sea.
There are some things I value most,
A lawyer's letter by the post—
With nothing in the bank,
A walk with Una and the stars,
The pick of neighbours' best cigars,
An evening's fun with Frank.
A lawyer's letter by the post—
With nothing in the bank,
A walk with Una and the stars,
The pick of neighbours' best cigars,
An evening's fun with Frank.
There are some things I value most,
A haunch of venison hot and roast
For which I never paid,
A vote, a Punch-and-Judy show,
A jest, clear soup, a quiet row
With Undine's tender aid.
A haunch of venison hot and roast
For which I never paid,
A vote, a Punch-and-Judy show,
A jest, clear soup, a quiet row
With Undine's tender aid.
There are some things I value most,
A yachting trip along the coast
At some dear man's expense,
A play, a cousin in the Guards,
A lucky chance to cheat at cards,
A passion if intense.
A yachting trip along the coast
At some dear man's expense,
A play, a cousin in the Guards,
A lucky chance to cheat at cards,
A passion if intense.
There are some things I value most,
A salmon steak, a hearty toast
Of beauty's lips or legs,
A ballet queen, a Dresden jug,
A royal Prince, a clever pug,
That (like a parson) begs.
A salmon steak, a hearty toast
Of beauty's lips or legs,
A ballet queen, a Dresden jug,
A royal Prince, a clever pug,
That (like a parson) begs.
There are some things I value most,
A billet doux, good beer, a host
Who gives his treasure stored,
A nap in Church, a borrowed silk
Umbrella, rich relations, milk
By human kindness poured.
A billet doux, good beer, a host
Who gives his treasure stored,
A nap in Church, a borrowed silk
Umbrella, rich relations, milk
By human kindness poured.
There are some things I value most,
A horse whereon to bet and boast,
A woman going straight,
A moor where grouse are sometimes killed,
A golden goose, a hamper filled
With precious Christmas freight.
272
A woman going straight,
A moor where grouse are sometimes killed,
A golden goose, a hamper filled
With precious Christmas freight.
There are some things I value most,
Beyond the fruits of vat and oast,
A little honest pelf
From maiden aunts and wealthy friends
Who drop their coin like candle ends—
But above all myself.
Beyond the fruits of vat and oast,
A little honest pelf
From maiden aunts and wealthy friends
Who drop their coin like candle ends—
But above all myself.
BIDDY.
Painted BiddyWas a most distracting widdy,
Who had served in many schools
And was trying
Ere she turned to thoughts of dying
How to sit upon two stools;
And to make the best and utmost
Of both worlds, with wide maternity;
Not by any chance to miss
Those hot pleasures, which abut most
On this side of the Abyss
In eternity.
O her unconfounded face
Was a beacon and a landmark,
Blazing like a warming-pan
Or a copper kitchen-can,
Till it left each haunted place
Dry and dusty with the sand-mark
Of an ever ebbing sea.
She was mighty too at tea,
And her tattle
Spared not any
Of the many,
When she sniffed from far the battle,
And disdained the orphan's plea.
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Up and down, at Devil's tasks,
With a dozen different masks
Lean and louring
And devouring
All who came within her reach
And remained to hear her preach
Of the plots she had unravelled.
Woe to even the bravest parson,
When upon the wartrack keen
Biddy breathing death and arson
Was to his confusion seen!
Soon he felt he was post-dated,
Scalped and scotched, eviscerated
By her blarney;
While the widdy snuffed and snorted,
Till he wished himself transported
(If she only came not thither)
Anywhither—
To Killarney.
She was equal to the best,
And no lawyer
Or top-sawyer
Was her match, as all confest.
Yet she loved the stole and cassock
In her way,
And kept clean and nigh a hassock
Of a solemn
Cut and colour,
Where a priestly friend might pray;
Then her voice assumed the dolour
Of a pallid penitent,
And she rose up like a column
Of the dear Establishment.
In subscription
Lists, her name was always foremost;
And she once gave her Egyptian
Bonds or plagues, but yet her own,
To the cause which they adore most
Who on Temperance have grown.
274
Though a widdy,
Had a host of hot admirers
(Quite perspirers)
Ready to divide the spoil
Which they fancied she possest,
With a maximum of toil
And a minimum of rest.
So they liked to fetch and follow,
And upon a courteous leg
Bow and beg;
Though I knew the nut was hollow,
And a maggot
Merely occupied the shell.
If she boasted
Of her riches and her hoard,
Yet her nose smelt out the faggot
Where she would be rightly toasted
(Though a member of our Board)
Down in h—ll!
But she had a virtuous blending
With some honey,
And secreted not pure gall;
She was generous in spending
Others' money,
Squeezing from them by her wiles
And those false affected smiles,
At her pleasure,
Coin and credit without measure—
Quite a bankful,
Coal and beeftea and good wine
And the choicest things in raiment
(For her sugared words repayment);
But was then alas! unthankful,
And continued still to whine,
Still to ask and still went further;
While her victims thought of murther
And still somehow kept on giving
More and more
To her never-sated store,
275
For refusal led to slander
New and old,
With infractions of the Bible;
And our careful Alexander,
Though a copper-smith, dropt gold—
To escape her thirst for libel.
And her name, despite her nature,
Was uplifted
As the sifted
Precious grain, by every Press-cat
And the local legislature;
Till the journals, which she read,
Praised the Lord that she was dead
With a snuffling “Requiescat.”
And cried Amen,
Clerks and laymen.
O BAAL, HEAR US!
Baal is king
Of our latter society,
Secular, sacred—both under his wing,
Schooling and fooling each modern variety
Heedless of codes or a plain contrariety—
Baal is king!
Broaden his temples and gather him gold
All of the finest, a generous fee;
Spinsters may fret and the dowager scold,
Yet must we offer our best for his coffer,
Whether we earn or abstract what we proffer—
Bowing the knee.
Of our latter society,
Secular, sacred—both under his wing,
Schooling and fooling each modern variety
Heedless of codes or a plain contrariety—
Baal is king!
Broaden his temples and gather him gold
All of the finest, a generous fee;
Spinsters may fret and the dowager scold,
Yet must we offer our best for his coffer,
Whether we earn or abstract what we proffer—
Bowing the knee.
Baal is Lord
Of the soul and the body,
Swaying the sceptre or baring the sword;
Feared by philosopher, friend to the noddy—
Clothed in the life of the sham and the shoddy—
Baal is Lord!
Burn to him incense and pray at his shrine
Mumbling petitions though dying or dead,
Bringing him treasures of women and wine;
Clamour and caring, and spoil without sparing
Down to the last little crumb or least paring—
Bowing the head.
Of the soul and the body,
Swaying the sceptre or baring the sword;
Feared by philosopher, friend to the noddy—
Clothed in the life of the sham and the shoddy—
Baal is Lord!
Burn to him incense and pray at his shrine
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Bringing him treasures of women and wine;
Clamour and caring, and spoil without sparing
Down to the last little crumb or least paring—
Bowing the head.
Baal is God
And his cloisters are clouded,
Worn by the worshippers' feet that have trod
Daily and gaily each avenue crowded
Deep with his awe and in mystery shrouded—
Baal is God!
Sacrifice victims, your babies and wives,
Leaving the happiest homes but a wreck
Pallid with perishing loves and your lives;
Grudge not the nearest and lavish your dearest,
Though the young light of the morning is clearest—
Bowing the neck.
And his cloisters are clouded,
Worn by the worshippers' feet that have trod
Daily and gaily each avenue crowded
Deep with his awe and in mystery shrouded—
Baal is God!
Sacrifice victims, your babies and wives,
Leaving the happiest homes but a wreck
Pallid with perishing loves and your lives;
Grudge not the nearest and lavish your dearest,
Though the young light of the morning is clearest—
Bowing the neck.
Baal is best
And he asks not for morals,
Only the paint and his dupes to be drest;
Dealing then largely the bells and the corals
Suited to slaves who aspire not to laurels—
Baal is best!
Give him your heart or the masking at most,
One in the end and a mockery still—
Even if conscience arise as a ghost;
Study mere manners, and strive for the banners
Waved over wisdom that puffeth his planners—
Bowing the will.
And he asks not for morals,
Only the paint and his dupes to be drest;
Dealing then largely the bells and the corals
Suited to slaves who aspire not to laurels—
Baal is best!
Give him your heart or the masking at most,
One in the end and a mockery still—
Even if conscience arise as a ghost;
Study mere manners, and strive for the banners
Waved over wisdom that puffeth his planners—
Bowing the will.
Baal is all
Though the fools are religious,
Looking to Christ and obeying His call
Dumbly and humbly in service litigious,
Prating of doctrines and doings prodigious—
Baal is all!
Work for him, weep for him, honour him yet
Drudging along the same weary old track
Grimly bedewed with the blood and the sweat,
Poured on the pages of dutiful stages—
This is your tribute, and these are his wages—
Bowing the back.
Though the fools are religious,
Looking to Christ and obeying His call
Dumbly and humbly in service litigious,
Prating of doctrines and doings prodigious—
Baal is all!
Work for him, weep for him, honour him yet
Drudging along the same weary old track
Grimly bedewed with the blood and the sweat,
277
This is your tribute, and these are his wages—
Bowing the back.
Baal is first,
And he brooks not affection
Paid unto others for whom we may thirst;
Innocent homage and vain recollection,
Slain by his priests who resent resurrection—
Baal is first!
Live for him, die for him, mother and child,
Gray beard and youth, who despise all control;
What if his fountains be doom'd and defil'd,
When they bring station for bosoms' oblation?
Drink (and be damned) of his earthly salvation—
Bowing the soul.
And he brooks not affection
Paid unto others for whom we may thirst;
Innocent homage and vain recollection,
Slain by his priests who resent resurrection—
Baal is first!
Live for him, die for him, mother and child,
Gray beard and youth, who despise all control;
What if his fountains be doom'd and defil'd,
When they bring station for bosoms' oblation?
Drink (and be damned) of his earthly salvation—
Bowing the soul.
THE PLYMOUTH BROTHER.
I have always been partial to blessed St. Peter,
And accustomed to take off my hat
When I entered a Church with his presence completer,
After wiping my shoes on the mat.
For I feel he was human, and most in the trial
When he yielded to weakness and fell;
And I too should have uttered his faithless denial
Were I tempted, and cursed quite as well.
And his mortal infirmities draw him yet nearer
To my foibles, and render us kin;
And I humbly confess that my fellows are dearer,
Who resemble me likewise in sin.
And accustomed to take off my hat
When I entered a Church with his presence completer,
After wiping my shoes on the mat.
For I feel he was human, and most in the trial
When he yielded to weakness and fell;
And I too should have uttered his faithless denial
Were I tempted, and cursed quite as well.
And his mortal infirmities draw him yet nearer
To my foibles, and render us kin;
And I humbly confess that my fellows are dearer,
Who resemble me likewise in sin.
So it happened one day when his prudence was sleeping
And the evening uncommonly late,
I secured his permission a moment for peeping
Just inside the celestial gate.
I had sworn to my hatred of cocks and such vermin
With vulgarity's notes at all hours,
And I said I was sure he would rightly determine
In my favour the use of his powers.
'Twas the least of offences, the lightest concession
To my earthliness, thus to unbar;
And on me (not on him) would devolve the transgression,
If he left the great portal ajar.
And the evening uncommonly late,
I secured his permission a moment for peeping
Just inside the celestial gate.
I had sworn to my hatred of cocks and such vermin
With vulgarity's notes at all hours,
And I said I was sure he would rightly determine
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'Twas the least of offences, the lightest concession
To my earthliness, thus to unbar;
And on me (not on him) would devolve the transgression,
If he left the great portal ajar.
As I gazed through the crevice at mysteries boundless,
With set eyes and an angular chin;
Lo, a “Brother” from Plymouth came creeping up soundless,
And before Peter knew it was in.
Then, believe me, the wretch with his Bible propounded
Which he bore like a bayonet's point,
With all learning and logic and reason confounded
Put authority's nose out of joint.
There was discord at once in the beautiful heavens,
And a shadow swept over the sky;
For the angels were wildly at sixes and sevens,
With their harps and their haloes awry.
With set eyes and an angular chin;
Lo, a “Brother” from Plymouth came creeping up soundless,
And before Peter knew it was in.
Then, believe me, the wretch with his Bible propounded
Which he bore like a bayonet's point,
With all learning and logic and reason confounded
Put authority's nose out of joint.
There was discord at once in the beautiful heavens,
And a shadow swept over the sky;
For the angels were wildly at sixes and sevens,
With their harps and their haloes awry.
First he button-holed Paul on the score of election,
And made nonsense of faith and the facts;
Till the worthy Apostle deplored Resurrection,
And resolved a new course of the “Acts.”
Then he went for poor James in a fury fanatical,
And maintained that mere works were no ground;
While he dubbed his Epistle as clearly schismatical,
And the teaching absured and unsound.
Till he showed that the authors brow-beaten and smitten,
Who had lacked his superior aid,
Never wrote what their ignorance thought they had written
And said nothing of what they had said.
And made nonsense of faith and the facts;
Till the worthy Apostle deplored Resurrection,
And resolved a new course of the “Acts.”
Then he went for poor James in a fury fanatical,
And maintained that mere works were no ground;
While he dubbed his Epistle as clearly schismatical,
And the teaching absured and unsound.
Till he showed that the authors brow-beaten and smitten,
Who had lacked his superior aid,
Never wrote what their ignorance thought they had written
And said nothing of what they had said.
But the doctrine of John was not his or Exclusive,
He observed, when he cornered the Saint;
And his language at last was so coarse and abusive,
The Evangelist almost turned faint.
As for even Apollos, he doubted his greatness
In the scriptures and asked for a proof;
If he gave us the “Hebrews” so void of sedateness,
With a style like a buffalo's hoof.
Till in utter despair that most erudite person,
Wisely deeming a pitfall was set
And forewarned by the fate of the Musty Macpherson,
Cried the case was not settled as yet.
He observed, when he cornered the Saint;
And his language at last was so coarse and abusive,
The Evangelist almost turned faint.
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In the scriptures and asked for a proof;
If he gave us the “Hebrews” so void of sedateness,
With a style like a buffalo's hoof.
Till in utter despair that most erudite person,
Wisely deeming a pitfall was set
And forewarned by the fate of the Musty Macpherson,
Cried the case was not settled as yet.
And then Timothy fled in a horrible panic,
Though he knew Holy Writ very well;
For he had a suspicion of treason Satanic,
And perceived a peculiar smell.
Not the odour, alas, of a Christian piety—
But a reek of a rabider hue,
Pettifogging, and cavil of sheer contrariety
To whatever was ancient and true.
For a glance at that visage, so furtive and foxy,
Was enough to intimidate all;
While the “Brother” in Heaven bewailed orthodoxy,
And lamented the Deity's fall.
Though he knew Holy Writ very well;
For he had a suspicion of treason Satanic,
And perceived a peculiar smell.
Not the odour, alas, of a Christian piety—
But a reek of a rabider hue,
Pettifogging, and cavil of sheer contrariety
To whatever was ancient and true.
For a glance at that visage, so furtive and foxy,
Was enough to intimidate all;
While the “Brother” in Heaven bewailed orthodoxy,
And lamented the Deity's fall.
He was noisy and rough and profoundly religious,
And despoiling the Bible he spared
Not a tome or a text in his frenzy litigious,
And denied what at first he declared.
He was querulous too as the feeble Andromache
And not slack in hysterical fears,
While he watered the soil of each barren logomachy
With a feminine tribute of tears.
He was mixed in his views of the Fathers' theology,
And to saints and historians rude;
He looked down with contempt on our Newman's “Apology,”
And his fingers he snapped at dear Jude.
And despoiling the Bible he spared
Not a tome or a text in his frenzy litigious,
And denied what at first he declared.
He was querulous too as the feeble Andromache
And not slack in hysterical fears,
While he watered the soil of each barren logomachy
With a feminine tribute of tears.
He was mixed in his views of the Fathers' theology,
And to saints and historians rude;
He looked down with contempt on our Newman's “Apology,”
And his fingers he snapped at dear Jude.
But as Peter protested and thought of the apple,
Yet one more out of Plymouth popt in;
Who was fresh from his strife with both Church and the Chapel,
And with carping grown mangy and thin.
But then he was Inclusive, and so with a sputter
They suggested a cold in the head,
The Exclusive slipt off, for he wanted no butter
Of that kind to turn bitter his bread.
And the second arrival, detecting a “Brother”
Who was built on a narrower base,
And the rank Nonconformity smell of the other,
Made his exit at once and gave chase.
Yet one more out of Plymouth popt in;
Who was fresh from his strife with both Church and the Chapel,
And with carping grown mangy and thin.
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They suggested a cold in the head,
The Exclusive slipt off, for he wanted no butter
Of that kind to turn bitter his bread.
And the second arrival, detecting a “Brother”
Who was built on a narrower base,
And the rank Nonconformity smell of the other,
Made his exit at once and gave chase.
STEAM DEVILRY.
Engines and axles and pistons and rods,
Snorting and sporting and sweating away,
Building us Churches and chattels and gods,
Teaching us methodised murder in play;
Yoking the thunder and lightning to steel
Riven and driven to perfected form,
Bidding brute forces walk humbly at heel
Tamed as the fire, and attempering storm;
O ye are mighty though merciless powers
Crashing and thrashing out purpose and plan,
But from the fulness of terrible dowers
Make us a man!
Snorting and sporting and sweating away,
Building us Churches and chattels and gods,
Teaching us methodised murder in play;
Yoking the thunder and lightning to steel
Riven and driven to perfected form,
Bidding brute forces walk humbly at heel
Tamed as the fire, and attempering storm;
O ye are mighty though merciless powers
Crashing and thrashing out purpose and plan,
But from the fulness of terrible dowers
Make us a man!
Broaden us charters, and charities weld
Stronger and longer to triumph on time,
Vast as the loves of the heroes of Eld,
Sweeter than music and poems in crime;
Give us an utterance larger than steam,
Ready and steady for problems of night,
Glad to deliver its message or dream,
Leaving all space with its perfume more bright;
Read us the riddle of tears, and the clue
Pleading and leading from blighting and ban
Into a haven of happier blue—
Make us a man!
Stronger and longer to triumph on time,
Vast as the loves of the heroes of Eld,
Sweeter than music and poems in crime;
Give us an utterance larger than steam,
Ready and steady for problems of night,
Glad to deliver its message or dream,
Leaving all space with its perfume more bright;
Read us the riddle of tears, and the clue
Pleading and leading from blighting and ban
Into a haven of happier blue—
Make us a man!
Boilers and furnaces, wonders in wheels,
Funnels like tunnels a-roaring to hell
Gospels of blood till the universe reels,
Sick with the smoke and the smother and smell;
Cranks and ye cogs that go working at will
Nations' damnations and sputter and spume,
Marvels infernal of horrible skill,
Swart as the fires that lost regions illume;
Out of your cranes and your pulleys and pumps,
Devilries' revelries, spitting your span,
Earthquake, eclipse and demoniac thumps—
Make us a man!
Funnels like tunnels a-roaring to hell
Gospels of blood till the universe reels,
281
Cranks and ye cogs that go working at will
Nations' damnations and sputter and spume,
Marvels infernal of horrible skill,
Swart as the fires that lost regions illume;
Out of your cranes and your pulleys and pumps,
Devilries' revelries, spitting your span,
Earthquake, eclipse and demoniac thumps—
Make us a man!
Soften the burdens of bitterest woes
Binding and grinding the toilers to dust,
Out of the reach of our ruinous foes
Raise us to something more lofty than lust;
Forth from the turmoil and stutter and stir,
Spewing and chewing of fangs as they swear
Pounding along with a whizzing and whirr,
O from destruction a minute forbear!
Sweeten the cup of our sorrow, and churn
Peace to inspire us to do what we can
Dimly, however ye bellow and burn—
Make us a man!
Binding and grinding the toilers to dust,
Out of the reach of our ruinous foes
Raise us to something more lofty than lust;
Forth from the turmoil and stutter and stir,
Spewing and chewing of fangs as they swear
Pounding along with a whizzing and whirr,
O from destruction a minute forbear!
Sweeten the cup of our sorrow, and churn
Peace to inspire us to do what we can
Dimly, however ye bellow and burn—
Make us a man!
Forges and levers of iron and steel
Moaning and groaning and panting in strife
Darkly, that when ye devour us do kneel
Though not to God, and are glutted with life;
Poisoning water and sowing in earth
Sadness and madness and cursing and blight,
Turning our Eden to desert and dearth
Canopied over at noontide with night;
Scattering sickness and sorrow with dire
Suction, eruction, where bright rivers ran
Gaily beneath the old cloister and spire—
Make us a man!
Moaning and groaning and panting in strife
Darkly, that when ye devour us do kneel
Though not to God, and are glutted with life;
Poisoning water and sowing in earth
Sadness and madness and cursing and blight,
Turning our Eden to desert and dearth
Canopied over at noontide with night;
Scattering sickness and sorrow with dire
Suction, eruction, where bright rivers ran
Gaily beneath the old cloister and spire—
Make us a man!
Not a machine, or a toy and a tool
Drudging a grudging dim pathway of pain,
On the same millround that fetters the fool
Down to his inch with a grovelling chain;
Not a mere pivot or part of your whole
Stamping and champing in discord and dusk,
Squeezing right out all the beautiful soul
While ye allow him the leavings and husk;
Ah, with your hubbub and howling and reek—
Spoiling and soiling what goodness began,
Graces that now we find not if we seek—
Make us a man!
Drudging a grudging dim pathway of pain,
On the same millround that fetters the fool
Down to his inch with a grovelling chain;
Not a mere pivot or part of your whole
282
Squeezing right out all the beautiful soul
While ye allow him the leavings and husk;
Ah, with your hubbub and howling and reek—
Spoiling and soiling what goodness began,
Graces that now we find not if we seek—
Make us a man!
Hammers and anvils and rivets, and gear
Shaking and raking the bowels of rocks,
Weapons deforming the world by the fear
Shadowing all with their sinister shocks;
Plagues, that like sacrilege ruthlessly brand
Creatures with features that are not their own,
Taking away half the spell from the land
While ye exult in the sins ye have sown;
Where is the profit in serfdom and dire
Progress, the ogress, that scouts as we scan
Glories of nature which daily expire—
Make us a man!
Shaking and raking the bowels of rocks,
Weapons deforming the world by the fear
Shadowing all with their sinister shocks;
Plagues, that like sacrilege ruthlessly brand
Creatures with features that are not their own,
Taking away half the spell from the land
While ye exult in the sins ye have sown;
Where is the profit in serfdom and dire
Progress, the ogress, that scouts as we scan
Glories of nature which daily expire—
Make us a man!
Lighten our troubles, and lessen the care
Sapping and lapping around like a sea
Rolled with the surges that wreck us and spare
Nothing, and never yet harkened to plea;
Crown us with dignity, ease and repose
Cheering and steering the State and its ark,
Unto the haven of dreams that disclose
Shelter and anchorage safe in the dark;
Mete to us liberty, leisure and grace,
Not the mud crest of the billowing van
Only a monster of passion and pace—
Make us a man!
Sapping and lapping around like a sea
Rolled with the surges that wreck us and spare
Nothing, and never yet harkened to plea;
Crown us with dignity, ease and repose
Cheering and steering the State and its ark,
Unto the haven of dreams that disclose
Shelter and anchorage safe in the dark;
Mete to us liberty, leisure and grace,
Not the mud crest of the billowing van
Only a monster of passion and pace—
Make us a man!
Engines and axles and pistons that yet
Ravish, and lavish your tempest and tears,
Filling our acres with ruddier sweat
Poured from the harvest of dolorous years;
Fed with the sighs and the sobbings of toil
Bending and spending its majesty's might,
Just to add shackles and shame to the coil
Weighing us down, when the soul wants delight;
Grim as a giant octopus, your mesh
Purges and scourges with flame like a fan,
Stern as a judgment, the mind and the flesh—
Make us a man!
Ravish, and lavish your tempest and tears,
Filling our acres with ruddier sweat
Poured from the harvest of dolorous years;
Fed with the sighs and the sobbings of toil
Bending and spending its majesty's might,
Just to add shackles and shame to the coil
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Grim as a giant octopus, your mesh
Purges and scourges with flame like a fan,
Stern as a judgment, the mind and the flesh—
Make us a man!
Give us more promise of pleasure and room,
Diet of quiet, not deified haste
Robbing the dawn of its dew and the bloom,
Turning the fairness of things but to waste;
Stay for a moment this nightmare of noise,
Hurry and flurry and fever and rage,
So that our lives may recover their poise
Stepping at large on a healthier stage;
Leave us some beauty and strength for the poor
Places and faces ye torture and tan,
Not a mere peg or a stupefied boor—
Make us a man!
Diet of quiet, not deified haste
Robbing the dawn of its dew and the bloom,
Turning the fairness of things but to waste;
Stay for a moment this nightmare of noise,
Hurry and flurry and fever and rage,
So that our lives may recover their poise
Stepping at large on a healthier stage;
Leave us some beauty and strength for the poor
Places and faces ye torture and tan,
Not a mere peg or a stupefied boor—
Make us a man!
THE STRAYED ANGEL.
He left alas! the door of Heaven ajar—
It was the watchman Peter,
Who wandered off to chat with Paul afar
How faith might grow completer;
If they could now decide which was the one
And only true proportion,
Without the least distortion,
Of faith and works whereby God's will was done;
And then and thus of course arose the fuss
Recorded in these pages,
When zeal misposed forgot the gate unclosed
To trouble meet for ages.
It was the watchman Peter,
Who wandered off to chat with Paul afar
How faith might grow completer;
If they could now decide which was the one
And only true proportion,
Without the least distortion,
Of faith and works whereby God's will was done;
And then and thus of course arose the fuss
Recorded in these pages,
When zeal misposed forgot the gate unclosed
To trouble meet for ages.
A little Angel who was tired of song
And praise for ever going
With innocence that did not dream of wrong
Came sweetly up tiptoeing;
And at a glance she saw no guardian grim
Was waiting at the portal,
That shut in the immortal—
No Porter hummed his solitary hymn;
And peeping out to satisfy her doubt
She felt a fatal wonder,
If other strains brought with them weary pains
In worlds outside and under.
And praise for ever going
With innocence that did not dream of wrong
Came sweetly up tiptoeing;
And at a glance she saw no guardian grim
Was waiting at the portal,
284
No Porter hummed his solitary hymn;
And peeping out to satisfy her doubt
She felt a fatal wonder,
If other strains brought with them weary pains
In worlds outside and under.
Then forth she stept with finger to her lips
Right through the golden entry,
Regardless of the rules and danger slips
When she descried no sentry;
And wide she spread her pretty wings and Flew
Straight to the nearest planet,
And marvelled what began it
Or how to such surpassing grace it grew;
She travelled on, while glory shook and shone
From each white waving feather,
And all afire in infinite desire
With love she sailed together.
Right through the golden entry,
Regardless of the rules and danger slips
When she descried no sentry;
And wide she spread her pretty wings and Flew
Straight to the nearest planet,
And marvelled what began it
Or how to such surpassing grace it grew;
She travelled on, while glory shook and shone
From each white waving feather,
And all afire in infinite desire
With love she sailed together.
Until she saw a spark of emerald light
That trembled in the distance,
And though with rays refreshing to the sight
Seemed asking her assistance;
And in a moment she was there and came
Upon a moonbeam gliding
And in its silver hiding,
Robed in the shadow of her own pure shame;
For in the vast Expanse was rest at last,
And so she left her pinions
Just at the shore of Time, as none before
In quest of new dominions.
That trembled in the distance,
And though with rays refreshing to the sight
Seemed asking her assistance;
And in a moment she was there and came
Upon a moonbeam gliding
And in its silver hiding,
Robed in the shadow of her own pure shame;
For in the vast Expanse was rest at last,
And so she left her pinions
Just at the shore of Time, as none before
In quest of new dominions.
She touched the Earth and in a city dropt
Where men and beasts were sleeping,
And from the silence as awhile she stopt,
Went up the dirge of weeping;
What did it mean? For never had her ear
Met with the sound of sadness
Where life was love and gladness,
And all her bosom thrilled with sudden fear;
Till looking low and through the curtained glow
Whence rose the waft of crying,
She saw how cold amid a cloud of gold
A little babe was lying.
Where men and beasts were sleeping,
And from the silence as awhile she stopt,
Went up the dirge of weeping;
What did it mean? For never had her ear
Met with the sound of sadness
Where life was love and gladness,
And all her bosom thrilled with sudden fear;
285
Whence rose the waft of crying,
She saw how cold amid a cloud of gold
A little babe was lying.
And a great pity filled the Angel's heart,
To mark that sorrow surging
Around one soul set as an isle apart
In a wide sea of scourging;
So in unseen she slipt with noiseless grace
And not a plume to rustle,
Too swift to make a bustle,
And lightly took the dear dead infant's place;
But then the hue flowed back in brighter blue
To eyes now full of blisses,
And lips rose-red with passion all unfed
Unclosed and asked for kisses.
To mark that sorrow surging
Around one soul set as an isle apart
In a wide sea of scourging;
So in unseen she slipt with noiseless grace
And not a plume to rustle,
Too swift to make a bustle,
And lightly took the dear dead infant's place;
But then the hue flowed back in brighter blue
To eyes now full of blisses,
And lips rose-red with passion all unfed
Unclosed and asked for kisses.
And the quick sense of higher things passed soon
Away with the broad vision,
Which swept through Mighty Space from sun to moon
And wrought of Time derision;
The splendour faded from the spirit now
That took a mortal vesture,
And every tiny gesture
Was human and to earth conformed the brow;
She learnt with years the tender use of tears,
And behind bars of clothing
To snatch as toys the glimpses of old joys,
And found a fresh betrothing.
Away with the broad vision,
Which swept through Mighty Space from sun to moon
And wrought of Time derision;
The splendour faded from the spirit now
That took a mortal vesture,
And every tiny gesture
Was human and to earth conformed the brow;
She learnt with years the tender use of tears,
And behind bars of clothing
To snatch as toys the glimpses of old joys,
And found a fresh betrothing.
And with the contact of our grosser air
Beneath the carnal sentence
She waxed less heavenly but O not less fair,
And smiled and sought repentance;
She showed the impress of her altered lot,
A different law and being,
And walked too much by seeing
Or here or there assumed a pretty spot;
But in the strife of this rude worldly life
She felt no hope arrested,
And never yearned for summits undiscerned
Or craved for wings divested.
Beneath the carnal sentence
She waxed less heavenly but O not less fair,
And smiled and sought repentance;
She showed the impress of her altered lot,
A different law and being,
And walked too much by seeing
Or here or there assumed a pretty spot;
But in the strife of this rude worldly life
286
And never yearned for summits undiscerned
Or craved for wings divested.
The former fashion now was but a dream
That gave a moment's trouble,
A bit of sky just mirrored in the gleam
Upon a passing bubble;
She stretched new tendrils to the dew and light
With calm and free consenting,
Although a strange relenting
Stirred sometimes in her heart for upward flight;
And the sweet chime of recollected time
With its immortal message,
Rang in her mind with hopes and fears combined
Instead a glorious presage.
That gave a moment's trouble,
A bit of sky just mirrored in the gleam
Upon a passing bubble;
She stretched new tendrils to the dew and light
With calm and free consenting,
Although a strange relenting
Stirred sometimes in her heart for upward flight;
And the sweet chime of recollected time
With its immortal message,
Rang in her mind with hopes and fears combined
Instead a glorious presage.
She grew at length to hug the little stains
Of earthlier affection,
She revelled in her rose-hung prison chains
And chosen imperfection;
She quite forgot the tyranny of song,
And the perpetual praising
Of voices still upraising
The same one endless theme she bore so long;
Though casual keys that rattled made a breeze
Within her of quaint terror,
And the mere name of Peter woke the shame
Of unremembered error.
Of earthlier affection,
She revelled in her rose-hung prison chains
And chosen imperfection;
She quite forgot the tyranny of song,
And the perpetual praising
Of voices still upraising
The same one endless theme she bore so long;
Though casual keys that rattled made a breeze
Within her of quaint terror,
And the mere name of Peter woke the shame
Of unremembered error.
But O what evil through the unguarded door
Was done by careless Peter,
Who knew that angels from the crystal floor
Fell once, if now discreeter!
Yet no, for when they missed their little friend
And saw that outside glimmer,
Their sense of right grew dimmer,
They dared to play the truant and descend;
They took their harps of dulcet flats and sharps,
They spared no palm to flutter.
They packed their crowns and haloes and white gowns
And left the silence utter.
Was done by careless Peter,
Who knew that angels from the crystal floor
Fell once, if now discreeter!
Yet no, for when they missed their little friend
And saw that outside glimmer,
Their sense of right grew dimmer,
They dared to play the truant and descend;
They took their harps of dulcet flats and sharps,
They spared no palm to flutter.
287
And left the silence utter.
Meanwhile the Two, who dwelt on high affairs,
Discussed the modes and measure
Of faith and works and creeds that begged repairs,
And argued at their pleasure;
The one indulged in learning and loud speech
And logic full of bristles
As crabbed as his epistles,
The other all a-flame did nought but preach;
They proved that faith was not an idle wraith,
Though works must make it stiffer,
But could not count to each the right amount
And so agreed to differ.
Discussed the modes and measure
Of faith and works and creeds that begged repairs,
And argued at their pleasure;
The one indulged in learning and loud speech
And logic full of bristles
As crabbed as his epistles,
The other all a-flame did nought but preach;
They proved that faith was not an idle wraith,
Though works must make it stiffer,
But could not count to each the right amount
And so agreed to differ.
They did not see the figures trooping by
Through that neglected doorsill,
In search of mischief and a lower sky
And just one luscious morsel;
They did not note the pulse of hurrying feet,
And hear a harp wire cracking
Or there the sound of packing,
And everywhere a movement shy and fleet;
They did not know the bait of things below,
And the forbidden apple
Might lure the Church from its celestial perch
To earth's poor vulgar chapel.
Through that neglected doorsill,
In search of mischief and a lower sky
And just one luscious morsel;
They did not note the pulse of hurrying feet,
And hear a harp wire cracking
Or there the sound of packing,
And everywhere a movement shy and fleet;
They did not know the bait of things below,
And the forbidden apple
Might lure the Church from its celestial perch
To earth's poor vulgar chapel.
But, when the Porter came to claim his own,
He found what never dreamt he;
For every bird had seized the chance and flown,
And the great Nest was empty;
He found no harp or even a golden string,
But one enormous feather—
For it was moulting weather—
From Gabriel's holy archangelic wing;
“Fret not,” said Paul, “Heaven is no place at all,
Ut aiunt docti semper,
But just a state of feeling and of fate—”
“Or,” Peter cried, “a Temper.”
He found what never dreamt he;
For every bird had seized the chance and flown,
And the great Nest was empty;
He found no harp or even a golden string,
But one enormous feather—
For it was moulting weather—
From Gabriel's holy archangelic wing;
“Fret not,” said Paul, “Heaven is no place at all,
288
But just a state of feeling and of fate—”
“Or,” Peter cried, “a Temper.”
STATE NURSING.
They wrapt It (yes, the People) up in clothes
And tied it round and round with many bands,
But gave it all things that a Baby loathes
And coddled with a thousand thousand hands;
They fed it and they bled it every hour
And fooled it and then cooled to give it power;
But wondered it grew thinner;
They laid it down in its grandmother's gown,
And lifted up for dinner;
They nursed it and they cursed whene'er it cried,
They blessed it and caressed it if it tried
To play the precious sinner.
And tied it round and round with many bands,
But gave it all things that a Baby loathes
And coddled with a thousand thousand hands;
They fed it and they bled it every hour
And fooled it and then cooled to give it power;
But wondered it grew thinner;
They laid it down in its grandmother's gown,
And lifted up for dinner;
They nursed it and they cursed whene'er it cried,
They blessed it and caressed it if it tried
To play the precious sinner.
They would not let it walk a single pace,
They did not grant its little limbs relief
And smothered both its body and the face
In silver paper or a handkerchief;
They stroked it and they poked its tiny chest,
They took it and they shook it till unrest
Pursued its sleep as well as waking;
They mocked its thumbs with pills like sugar plums,
And useless toys for ever breaking;
They teased it and appeased it with mere shams,
They told it who controlled it sheep were lambs
And idly left its heart more aching.
They did not grant its little limbs relief
And smothered both its body and the face
In silver paper or a handkerchief;
They stroked it and they poked its tiny chest,
They took it and they shook it till unrest
Pursued its sleep as well as waking;
They mocked its thumbs with pills like sugar plums,
And useless toys for ever breaking;
They teased it and appeased it with mere shams,
They told it who controlled it sheep were lambs
And idly left its heart more aching.
Its bonds were such that it could never grow,
With straps and checks and rules and patent laws
Which kept it in a helpless state below
And when it asked for freedom dealt it straws;
They washed it and they squashed it with new salves,
They shut it in and cut in cruel halves
Its few remaining cakes and pleasures,
And added pains of all the earthly chains
That could destroy the best of treasures;
They hedged it and they wedged it beyond harm,
They stopt it and they propt it from alarm
Until it could not breathe for measures.
With straps and checks and rules and patent laws
Which kept it in a helpless state below
And when it asked for freedom dealt it straws;
They washed it and they squashed it with new salves,
They shut it in and cut in cruel halves
Its few remaining cakes and pleasures,
And added pains of all the earthly chains
289
They hedged it and they wedged it beyond harm,
They stopt it and they propt it from alarm
Until it could not breathe for measures.
They watched its going out and coming in,
They fenced its rising up and lying down
And tucked it close with bibs unto the chin
For fear of colds in country or in town;
They swaddled it and coddled it in gloves
Or smothered it and brothered it with loves,
And buried it beneath convention;
They carried it to guard against a fit,
Or fall or any least declension;
They made it as they bade it not run out,
To cure it and insure it from the gout,
And killed with overmuch attention.
They fenced its rising up and lying down
And tucked it close with bibs unto the chin
For fear of colds in country or in town;
They swaddled it and coddled it in gloves
Or smothered it and brothered it with loves,
And buried it beneath convention;
They carried it to guard against a fit,
Or fall or any least declension;
They made it as they bade it not run out,
To cure it and insure it from the gout,
And killed with overmuch attention.
NEBULAR ENGLISH.
They talked for full an hour by Greenwich time,
The poet and the high debater;
They heard the great clock strike the quarters chime
And made a feast of reason and of rhyme,
But still the mental fog grew greater;
For words had lost their leaning and their use,
And come to have a meaning so profuse
That not a mortal now could tell
What others said with all the clearest aid
Of dictionaries' learnèd spell;
One might be playing golf, one at the wicket,
But each alike was in a hopeless thicket.
The poet and the high debater;
They heard the great clock strike the quarters chime
And made a feast of reason and of rhyme,
But still the mental fog grew greater;
For words had lost their leaning and their use,
And come to have a meaning so profuse
That not a mortal now could tell
What others said with all the clearest aid
Of dictionaries' learnèd spell;
One might be playing golf, one at the wicket,
But each alike was in a hopeless thicket.
The Poet murmured on in misty flowers
Of speech, and worlds with golden axes
Refulgent rose and trembled into towers,
Where giant creeds had carved their deathless dowers;
The Statesman dealt on tolls and taxes,
Imperial needs that present were and asked
New policies or pleasant issues masked,
In diplomatic doubtful style;
And either hoped the other also coped
With the same cause, with cultured smile.
Though one trod earth and one tried eagle pinions,
Both looked through clouds that darkened both dominions.
Of speech, and worlds with golden axes
Refulgent rose and trembled into towers,
Where giant creeds had carved their deathless dowers;
The Statesman dealt on tolls and taxes,
Imperial needs that present were and asked
New policies or pleasant issues masked,
290
And either hoped the other also coped
With the same cause, with cultured smile.
Though one trod earth and one tried eagle pinions,
Both looked through clouds that darkened both dominions.
In spacious terms that might have covered all
The widest truths or simply nothing,
The Statesman with the webs that flocked at call
Strove now for triumph, now a splendid fall,
And buried facts in gorgeous clothing;
The Poet proudly travelled through the air,
Which at his touch unravelled columns fair
And classic courts of sudden light,
With purple bloom that shadowed every room
Insufferable to the sight;
But each, though miles and miles apart, was certain
Each meant the same thing from his dusky curtain.
The widest truths or simply nothing,
The Statesman with the webs that flocked at call
Strove now for triumph, now a splendid fall,
And buried facts in gorgeous clothing;
The Poet proudly travelled through the air,
Which at his touch unravelled columns fair
And classic courts of sudden light,
With purple bloom that shadowed every room
Insufferable to the sight;
But each, though miles and miles apart, was certain
Each meant the same thing from his dusky curtain.
And thus they babbled on in courteous lines,
Ambiguous words and empty phrases,
And laid in chaos grand foundation stones
For worlds of wind and insubstantial thrones,
And mingled precedents and daisies;
Till at the hour they parted blindly friends,
Who never met and started diverse ends,
Yet satisfied that both had won;
And then were fain to fight out yet again,
What still were fruitless and undone.
They went, one thought, to join in sweet transgression
That night—the other deemed, at sad Confession.
Ambiguous words and empty phrases,
And laid in chaos grand foundation stones
For worlds of wind and insubstantial thrones,
And mingled precedents and daisies;
Till at the hour they parted blindly friends,
Who never met and started diverse ends,
Yet satisfied that both had won;
And then were fain to fight out yet again,
What still were fruitless and undone.
They went, one thought, to join in sweet transgression
That night—the other deemed, at sad Confession.
THE MORAL MINIMUM.
Passing from the Living Wage and by some queer transition,
We have reached a further stage right onward to Perdition;
With a growing grandeur in our paper theories and din
Cursing ways refined and slower,
With the aid of fife and drum towards the Moral Minimum
Dropping every day yet lower.
Dying Capital may perish with its golden eggs and goose,
Now the precious things we cherish all are played with fast and loose
Or go dangling in the strangling of the fatal cord and noose;
We are falling downward deeper,
Sentinel alike and sleeper,
With a sombre funeral hum towards the Moral Minimum.
We have reached a further stage right onward to Perdition;
291
Cursing ways refined and slower,
With the aid of fife and drum towards the Moral Minimum
Dropping every day yet lower.
Dying Capital may perish with its golden eggs and goose,
Now the precious things we cherish all are played with fast and loose
Or go dangling in the strangling of the fatal cord and noose;
We are falling downward deeper,
Sentinel alike and sleeper,
With a sombre funeral hum towards the Moral Minimum.
What the final goal of rest is, what the gleam remaining
For our property opprest and idly still complaining,
No one knows and no one cares if forward still the current fares
To its undetermined haven;
While they clip our treasures' sum to speed the Moral Minimum,
Till we are at last clean shaven.
Only pile away the taxes on the sick and suffering land,
To the sullen sound of axes sharpening in the hungry hand,
Till the People on the steeple and the tower in triumph stand;
Fatten more and more the ogress
Or the veilèd death called Progress,
For the feasting of the slum on the Moral Minimum.
For our property opprest and idly still complaining,
No one knows and no one cares if forward still the current fares
To its undetermined haven;
While they clip our treasures' sum to speed the Moral Minimum,
Till we are at last clean shaven.
Only pile away the taxes on the sick and suffering land,
To the sullen sound of axes sharpening in the hungry hand,
Till the People on the steeple and the tower in triumph stand;
Fatten more and more the ogress
Or the veilèd death called Progress,
For the feasting of the slum on the Moral Minimum.
I have but a little lot and troubles often dim it,
And would like a broader plot and can perceive no limit
But my own sweet appetite, which now is almost infinite
In the great and growing scramble.
Why should I not thrust my thumb within the Moral Minimum,
And have vines instead of bramble?
Why not help myself from labours of the fools who heap and toil,
And wax rich upon my neighbour's private hoard and fruitful soil,
With a measure of his pleasure and abounding corn and oil?
Why need I go tamely trudging
And along my millround drudging,
Or look desolate and glum when there's a Moral Minimum?
And would like a broader plot and can perceive no limit
But my own sweet appetite, which now is almost infinite
292
Why should I not thrust my thumb within the Moral Minimum,
And have vines instead of bramble?
Why not help myself from labours of the fools who heap and toil,
And wax rich upon my neighbour's private hoard and fruitful soil,
With a measure of his pleasure and abounding corn and oil?
Why need I go tamely trudging
And along my millround drudging,
Or look desolate and glum when there's a Moral Minimum?
When the tiger once set free of human blood has tasted
And the blinded Masses see, the spoiling will be hasted
Fast and faster to the point at which the State is out of joint
And at sixes and at sevens;
Each will want a goodly crumb to be his Moral Minimum,
With new earth and (hell called) heavens.
Ploughs will rust within the furrow and the landlords even lack
Bread and cheese and meanly burrow, with no wealth but on the back
And scarce pottage, in some cottage the one poor surviving wrack:
Trade will spread its splendid pinions
Far to more secure dominions,
And the workshop will be dumb with this Immoral Minimum.
And the blinded Masses see, the spoiling will be hasted
Fast and faster to the point at which the State is out of joint
And at sixes and at sevens;
Each will want a goodly crumb to be his Moral Minimum,
With new earth and (hell called) heavens.
Ploughs will rust within the furrow and the landlords even lack
Bread and cheese and meanly burrow, with no wealth but on the back
And scarce pottage, in some cottage the one poor surviving wrack:
Trade will spread its splendid pinions
Far to more secure dominions,
And the workshop will be dumb with this Immoral Minimum.
THE GREAT QUACK.
I am the great god Quack and I carry the world on my back,
With my potions and pills for your ailments and ills,
As I tread on my merciful track.
To me ye must come, to me ye must come
To the gentle physician's call;
Here are drugs for some, here are drops for some,
And a panacea for all.
I have drenches for wenches, that stop with their stenches
The very worse sickness at once,
I have balm for the miser and meat for the wiser
And drams for the silliest dunce.
Won't you buy of me, try of me
Out of your wealth vigour and health?
Ah, you need not he shy of me,
Seeking my favours and flavours and savours
In darkness by stealth.
I am ready and steady your friend for each time
And each trouble and clime, and as sure as the chime
Of the clock which the sinner awakes to his dinner—
I heal for a dime.
293
As I tread on my merciful track.
To me ye must come, to me ye must come
To the gentle physician's call;
Here are drugs for some, here are drops for some,
And a panacea for all.
I have drenches for wenches, that stop with their stenches
The very worse sickness at once,
I have balm for the miser and meat for the wiser
And drams for the silliest dunce.
Won't you buy of me, try of me
Out of your wealth vigour and health?
Ah, you need not he shy of me,
Seeking my favours and flavours and savours
In darkness by stealth.
I am ready and steady your friend for each time
And each trouble and clime, and as sure as the chime
Of the clock which the sinner awakes to his dinner—
I heal for a dime.
I am the great god Quack and I carry your cures in my pack,
With my ointments and salves that do nothing by halves
And will never for maladies lack.
To me ye must come, to me ye must come
From your factory mills and the mines;
Here is life for all, here is love for some
And the best of anodynes.
For the masses and classes and lads and the lasses,
I keep the most bountiful stores;
See my boxes of Science, and bags of reliance
For healing your sins and your sores!
Won't you take of me, make of me
Father and friend true to the end,
While you purchase for sake of me
Help for your blindness, unkindness, behindness,
And quickly amend?
I am handy for dandy and sloven, with quill
For the author at will, for the Member a Bill;
And my marvellous Tonic has something Byronic
For the bard and new skill.
With my ointments and salves that do nothing by halves
And will never for maladies lack.
To me ye must come, to me ye must come
From your factory mills and the mines;
Here is life for all, here is love for some
And the best of anodynes.
For the masses and classes and lads and the lasses,
I keep the most bountiful stores;
See my boxes of Science, and bags of reliance
For healing your sins and your sores!
Won't you take of me, make of me
Father and friend true to the end,
While you purchase for sake of me
Help for your blindness, unkindness, behindness,
And quickly amend?
I am handy for dandy and sloven, with quill
294
And my marvellous Tonic has something Byronic
For the bard and new skill.
THE LOST ART OF SUCKING EGGS.
My dear Grannie, the art that you cherished—
Namely, sucking your eggs the best way,
Seems at length now almost to have perished,
And poor folks hardly know how to play;
We are serious O and mysterious
In our pleasures and business and all,
And we carry our cares when we marry
Through the honeymoon back to the Hall;
We are merry and mad out of season
At the fast and the funeral bell,
While our laughter and tears have no reason
And we choose the wrong partners for treason—
Romping into the Courts and their smell.
Namely, sucking your eggs the best way,
Seems at length now almost to have perished,
And poor folks hardly know how to play;
We are serious O and mysterious
In our pleasures and business and all,
And we carry our cares when we marry
Through the honeymoon back to the Hall;
We are merry and mad out of season
At the fast and the funeral bell,
While our laughter and tears have no reason
And we choose the wrong partners for treason—
Romping into the Courts and their smell.
We have lost the true manner of living
And rejoice in a furious march,
Our New Woman (the Devil's own giving)
Shuffles out of her stays and the starch;
To run better at least without fetter,
Moulting troublesome morals and modes,
And (like traces and tenderer graces)
Inconvenient collars and codes;
Till our period misses the brightness
Which adorned the pursuits of the past,
And the touch of a delicate lightness
That made absolute order and rightness
Is exchanged for the foolish and fast.
And rejoice in a furious march,
Our New Woman (the Devil's own giving)
Shuffles out of her stays and the starch;
To run better at least without fetter,
Moulting troublesome morals and modes,
And (like traces and tenderer graces)
Inconvenient collars and codes;
Till our period misses the brightness
Which adorned the pursuits of the past,
And the touch of a delicate lightness
That made absolute order and rightness
Is exchanged for the foolish and fast.
All the dignity now has departed
With the colour and sweetness and glow,
Our delights in their depths heavy-hearted
Seem to surge from abysses below;
For perspective we have the Objective
And no more the blue distance and space,
While distortion upsets the proportion
Which for every dear trifle found place;
And, alas! for the fragrance of roses
Shovelled off by more practical tools,
The refinements and dainty reposes,
When our gray Education uncloses
The grim Edens of Boards and their schools.
With the colour and sweetness and glow,
Our delights in their depths heavy-hearted
Seem to surge from abysses below;
For perspective we have the Objective
And no more the blue distance and space,
295
Which for every dear trifle found place;
And, alas! for the fragrance of roses
Shovelled off by more practical tools,
The refinements and dainty reposes,
When our gray Education uncloses
The grim Edens of Boards and their schools.
The new fashions but fetter and skimp us
In honour of cotton and gloom,
And for Heaven we have an Olympus
Swept each day by Society's broom;
God was clearer to you and far dearer
Than he can be to gammon and greed,
When good horses and dirty divorces
Are the points in the popular creed;
Then He was not a form or a fable
And inspired the chief poems and Art,
With the principal seat at the table
Not dethroned for the stye and the stable,
And the flowers grew out of His heart.
In honour of cotton and gloom,
And for Heaven we have an Olympus
Swept each day by Society's broom;
God was clearer to you and far dearer
Than he can be to gammon and greed,
When good horses and dirty divorces
Are the points in the popular creed;
Then He was not a form or a fable
And inspired the chief poems and Art,
With the principal seat at the table
Not dethroned for the stye and the stable,
And the flowers grew out of His heart.
My dear Grannie, it's no use protesting,
We must follow the times as they spin—
If they come to the worst, and divesting
Our decent old rags to the skin;
They mean motion in fun and devotion
And parade of fresh fronds and tall shoots,
With the savour of sour fruits in favour—
Though the worn may be gnawing the roots;
It is pace and the boom of sensation
And queer readings of Peter and Paul,
Wild virginity, sexy relation—
And a version revised of the Fall.
We must follow the times as they spin—
If they come to the worst, and divesting
Our decent old rags to the skin;
They mean motion in fun and devotion
And parade of fresh fronds and tall shoots,
With the savour of sour fruits in favour—
Though the worn may be gnawing the roots;
It is pace and the boom of sensation
And queer readings of Peter and Paul,
Wild virginity, sexy relation—
And a version revised of the Fall.
That white wonder of exquisite glamour,
The fair woman God fashioned to shine,
Is all drowned in the drum and its clamour
With her human attraction divine;
Ah, the cincture is sold for a tincture
Of a vice to make profligates blush,
And nude actions that flout the least fractions
Of fig leaves in their masculine flush;
And a thing that is saucy and sated
With unmaidenly raptures and reels,
Goes a path that is filthy and fated
And in antics that can't be narrated
Shows a pair of unbeautiful heels.
The fair woman God fashioned to shine,
Is all drowned in the drum and its clamour
With her human attraction divine;
Ah, the cincture is sold for a tincture
Of a vice to make profligates blush,
296
Of fig leaves in their masculine flush;
And a thing that is saucy and sated
With unmaidenly raptures and reels,
Goes a path that is filthy and fated
And in antics that can't be narrated
Shows a pair of unbeautiful heels.
You have told me before you wore mittens
Or had glasses and halted in tread,
And old pussies did not ape their kittens
Nor the young discard butter and bread;
When the glory of earth was a story
That the fool could with reverence read,
And the trouble of life not made double
By the guides whom the gutterlings lead;
You have told me, if now you are cappy
And can walk but on crutches with pain,
People once were true people and happy
And not dull and discursive and flappy
With such feathers and fantasies vain.
Or had glasses and halted in tread,
And old pussies did not ape their kittens
Nor the young discard butter and bread;
When the glory of earth was a story
That the fool could with reverence read,
And the trouble of life not made double
By the guides whom the gutterlings lead;
You have told me, if now you are cappy
And can walk but on crutches with pain,
People once were true people and happy
And not dull and discursive and flappy
With such feathers and fantasies vain.
And I heard you with interest often
Say that manners were statelier then,
While the women had hearts that would soften
And the world showed magnificent men;
For a quorum was still for decorum
In the wildest excess or abuse,
And propriety kept your society
From the passions that have no excuse;
And they knew the right method of sucking
Any eggs that might fall to their share
Without starving the layers or plucking,
And did not kill the hens for mere clucking
In delight at the blessings they bare.
Say that manners were statelier then,
While the women had hearts that would soften
And the world showed magnificent men;
For a quorum was still for decorum
In the wildest excess or abuse,
And propriety kept your society
From the passions that have no excuse;
And they knew the right method of sucking
Any eggs that might fall to their share
Without starving the layers or plucking,
And did not kill the hens for mere clucking
In delight at the blessings they bare.
My dear Grannie, the customs are altered,
For we slay the producers of food
And our makers to market go haltered
At the stupid majority's mood;
In the present we live and it's pleasant
While the capital lasts to be gay,
And for verity or our posterity
No one harvests an hour in the day;
So we eat and we drink and we borrow
From the future and mock at the past,
We decline to see danger and sorrow
And the reckoning meant for the morrow—
When the judge adds the figures at last.
For we slay the producers of food
And our makers to market go haltered
At the stupid majority's mood;
In the present we live and it's pleasant
297
And for verity or our posterity
No one harvests an hour in the day;
So we eat and we drink and we borrow
From the future and mock at the past,
We decline to see danger and sorrow
And the reckoning meant for the morrow—
When the judge adds the figures at last.
And our eggs, which lie all in one basket,
Are now broken of course at both ends—
It's the practice, and few persons mask it—
And no others remain and no friends;
We are greedy and mind not the needy,
Or the stores and the granaries piled
By the toiling of sires in the broiling
At noon, and our wells are defiled.
Who takes thought of the children that follow,
Who provides us the ghost of a plan
To refill the great barns that they hollow,
In their gluttonous fury to swallow
Any loaves, any fishes they can?
Are now broken of course at both ends—
It's the practice, and few persons mask it—
And no others remain and no friends;
We are greedy and mind not the needy,
Or the stores and the granaries piled
By the toiling of sires in the broiling
At noon, and our wells are defiled.
Who takes thought of the children that follow,
Who provides us the ghost of a plan
To refill the great barns that they hollow,
In their gluttonous fury to swallow
Any loaves, any fishes they can?
You had statesmen and henwives, and plenty
Of the goose that laid nothing but gold;
We have leaders, some but sweet and twenty—
And divided, without a true hold.
It is talking for ever and walking
Up and down with nought usefully done,
And cold merriment from each experiment
By which only worse losses are won.
We have garrulous council and meeting
And the latest impossible board,
But the mistress at home is but fleeting
With perpetual gossip and greeting,
And the master is also abroad.
Of the goose that laid nothing but gold;
We have leaders, some but sweet and twenty—
And divided, without a true hold.
It is talking for ever and walking
Up and down with nought usefully done,
And cold merriment from each experiment
By which only worse losses are won.
We have garrulous council and meeting
And the latest impossible board,
But the mistress at home is but fleeting
With perpetual gossip and greeting,
And the master is also abroad.
In your days they were close to our mother
The old earth in their pleasure and toil,
And fine feelings they cared not to smother
Had the healthy sweet scent of the soil;
Now it's hurry ungraceful and worry
From the morning and through the whole night
For the capture of some recent rapture
With no ray from distinction or light;
They are sounding the cesspit and gutter
For fresh fancies to jewel their throne,
And while hearing the hiccough and stutter
I could think in the emptiness utter
We were sucking the eggshells alone.
The old earth in their pleasure and toil,
And fine feelings they cared not to smother
Had the healthy sweet scent of the soil;
298
From the morning and through the whole night
For the capture of some recent rapture
With no ray from distinction or light;
They are sounding the cesspit and gutter
For fresh fancies to jewel their throne,
And while hearing the hiccough and stutter
I could think in the emptiness utter
We were sucking the eggshells alone.
My dear Grannie, to be like the smartest
And the class that most handsomely spends
Soul and body, and still as an artist,
You must eat every egg at both ends;
If you fiddle as well on the middle
And all round you can hardly do wrong,
The more cracking of hearts the less lacking
Of amusements for sinning or song;
So good bye, with best love, my dear Grannie.
Though we soon shall have little but dregs
Of delights, be we ever so canny;
I remain your affectionate Annie,—
With a taste for the sucking of eggs.
And the class that most handsomely spends
Soul and body, and still as an artist,
You must eat every egg at both ends;
If you fiddle as well on the middle
And all round you can hardly do wrong,
The more cracking of hearts the less lacking
Of amusements for sinning or song;
So good bye, with best love, my dear Grannie.
Though we soon shall have little but dregs
Of delights, be we ever so canny;
I remain your affectionate Annie,—
With a taste for the sucking of eggs.
PIOUS OPINIONS.
I have plenty of notebooks and pious opinions
Which cost nothing to you or to me,
About all men and things in our country's dominions—
Pray, accept them for what they may be!
Here they are, as they are! Valeant quantum valent!
Just my personal views of the taste and the talent
And the sinners and saints of our time,
With too many a poet but merely one Jowett,
And complacency worse than a crime!
I pretend not, like critics, to know
Quite de omnibus rebus—Diana and Phœbus—
For I live very much down below.
Which cost nothing to you or to me,
About all men and things in our country's dominions—
Pray, accept them for what they may be!
Here they are, as they are! Valeant quantum valent!
Just my personal views of the taste and the talent
And the sinners and saints of our time,
With too many a poet but merely one Jowett,
And complacency worse than a crime!
I pretend not, like critics, to know
Quite de omnibus rebus—Diana and Phœbus—
For I live very much down below.
Well, the fact that first strikes an impartial spectator
Who is ready to listen and looks,
Is a sight that might puzzle the very Creator
With its million of papers and books.
Every day, every hour, they are spawned by our presses
And come forth with most marvellous doctrines and dresses,
To regenerate Nature and earth;
But in spite of their poses and myths upon Moses,
In their husks is a pitiful dearth.
We have prating from morning to night,
And a terrible clatter though it settles no matter—
But what ray of the glorious Light?
299
Is a sight that might puzzle the very Creator
With its million of papers and books.
Every day, every hour, they are spawned by our presses
And come forth with most marvellous doctrines and dresses,
To regenerate Nature and earth;
But in spite of their poses and myths upon Moses,
In their husks is a pitiful dearth.
We have prating from morning to night,
And a terrible clatter though it settles no matter—
But what ray of the glorious Light?
And each emptiest babbler has still his own journal
To protect him and puff all he writes,
And to call his last rapture and rubbish eternal—
Though he crawls as the meanest of mites.
Not a Milton or Shakspeare receives half the praises
Or the monuments which any moment upraises,
To the poorest ephemeral now;
For the crowns of our greatest are nought to the latest,
And the Laurels they pile on his brow.
Ah, in lexicons vainly men seek,
While they ransack their portals to deck the immortals
Of at utmost a day or a week.
To protect him and puff all he writes,
And to call his last rapture and rubbish eternal—
Though he crawls as the meanest of mites.
Not a Milton or Shakspeare receives half the praises
Or the monuments which any moment upraises,
To the poorest ephemeral now;
For the crowns of our greatest are nought to the latest,
And the Laurels they pile on his brow.
Ah, in lexicons vainly men seek,
While they ransack their portals to deck the immortals
Of at utmost a day or a week.
O we have a young school with a yellow complexion
Of the pert Bumble-Puppy fresh kind,
But devoted to writing before the reflexion,
Which goes in for a manner not mind.
It upsets the old models, and gay and elastic
Shuts the door upon splendid ideals monastic
In its picturesque jargon and gowns,
And with swashbuckler swagger and pasteboard-made dagger
Gives the harlot and highwayman crowns;
While it damns the great classical codes,
It takes morals and fables from stews and the stables
And from gutters its methods and modes.
Of the pert Bumble-Puppy fresh kind,
But devoted to writing before the reflexion,
Which goes in for a manner not mind.
It upsets the old models, and gay and elastic
Shuts the door upon splendid ideals monastic
In its picturesque jargon and gowns,
And with swashbuckler swagger and pasteboard-made dagger
Gives the harlot and highwayman crowns;
While it damns the great classical codes,
It takes morals and fables from stews and the stables
And from gutters its methods and modes.
300
And our day has discovered a wonderful merit,
A new virtue that used to be vice,
In unchastity which the next age will inherit
With our shoes at a terrible price;
It's all sexiness now, with the fig leaves discarded
For a prurient wisdom, and woman unguarded
In a riotous privilege romps,
While the maidens are boldest in licence and oldest
At their lewd Saturnalian pomps;
And the modesty once as a glass
For most delicate graces is gone with no traces,
And the gold has been bartered for brass.
A new virtue that used to be vice,
In unchastity which the next age will inherit
With our shoes at a terrible price;
It's all sexiness now, with the fig leaves discarded
For a prurient wisdom, and woman unguarded
In a riotous privilege romps,
While the maidens are boldest in licence and oldest
At their lewd Saturnalian pomps;
And the modesty once as a glass
For most delicate graces is gone with no traces,
And the gold has been bartered for brass.
But from morning to night it's a pestilent hurry
From this horrible orgy to that,
And we live in a purposeless fever and worry
Quite in ignorance what we are at;
And the leper is whitewashed and scrubbed till be pleases
The fastidious nostril, and plagues and diseases
Offer play for unnatural parts,
And the vilest dissections that claim the affections
Now are practised as beautiful arts;
We have cancerous cases and skill
Is more ardently lavished on innocence ravished,
While we leave poor descendants the bill.
From this horrible orgy to that,
And we live in a purposeless fever and worry
Quite in ignorance what we are at;
And the leper is whitewashed and scrubbed till be pleases
The fastidious nostril, and plagues and diseases
Offer play for unnatural parts,
And the vilest dissections that claim the affections
Now are practised as beautiful arts;
We have cancerous cases and skill
Is more ardently lavished on innocence ravished,
While we leave poor descendants the bill.
If our prophets could see half as well as they chatter,
They would find overfact a pure curse,
Out of season as dirt (though a truth) is but matter
Out of place in the trencher or purse.
It's not facts but the fictions that clothe with a sweetness
And a bliss beyond words our lean starved incompleteness,
While they hide what is ugly and hard;
And it makes no lot better to gloat on its fetter
Or show where it is cruelly scarred.
As the members we decently drape
Were not meant for disclosing, we sin by exposing
All the lusts of the tiger and ape.
They would find overfact a pure curse,
Out of season as dirt (though a truth) is but matter
Out of place in the trencher or purse.
It's not facts but the fictions that clothe with a sweetness
And a bliss beyond words our lean starved incompleteness,
While they hide what is ugly and hard;
And it makes no lot better to gloat on its fetter
Or show where it is cruelly scarred.
As the members we decently drape
Were not meant for disclosing, we sin by exposing
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I for one will complain of the dignity dying
If not dead and quite buried in shame,
And the gods of our glory departed and crying
For the honour that knows not their name.
O the quiet and ease are dethroned by a scramble
For the pleasure or gain, and we helplessly shamble
Through our duties as quick as we may;
For the sake of just doing without the old wooing,
All we can in a businesslike day.
Not a margin for beauty or thought,
But a rush and a wriggling and hatred and higgling
Of the souls as mere merchandise bought.
If not dead and quite buried in shame,
And the gods of our glory departed and crying
For the honour that knows not their name.
O the quiet and ease are dethroned by a scramble
For the pleasure or gain, and we helplessly shamble
Through our duties as quick as we may;
For the sake of just doing without the old wooing,
All we can in a businesslike day.
Not a margin for beauty or thought,
But a rush and a wriggling and hatred and higgling
Of the souls as mere merchandise bought.
THE PROBLEM AND THE PROFESSOR.
I never will believe, that our ProfessorWho burrows so profoundly in Greek Roots
And wears a model coat and patent boots
Can have become so sudden a transgressor,
As he is widely said to be at last;
I stand aghast.
No man thrice twenty,
Nemo repente
Would ever be, could ever be turpissimus;
And he ipsissimus!
Why, it is quite a proper man, stipendiary,
And pious too and of the Church a pillar—
At least, from the outside—a tried fulfiller
Of each grave decent duty, no incendiary
Or ravisher of creeds and cults; a quiet
Old-fashioned and respectable
Good solid person, most delectable
To curates and the spinsters and the rest,
And careful in his diet.
He never bore a firebrand in his breast,
Or launched one flaming phrase
And scorched his fingers
With burning questions and some boiling phase
302
Over his wine and walnuts and conventions
Which social use has made its own, and sweet
With centuried wont; he has no crude intentions,
Or doctrine which might savour of the street
And gutter.
O no!
He takes his tea at five, thin bread and butter,
And goes just whither gentlemen should go
In regulation ruts; he's safe and sound,
Both wind and limb, in all the ancient articles
And all decorum's particles,
Do be convinced, and treads the common round
Of commonplace and common sense society,
And has no kick in him of impropriety.
But he to drop unseemly terms as oaths!
He were as likely, sir, without his clothes
To dance a drunken measure
And at some Moenad's pleasure
Cut capers in gymnosophy—
He who is quite three parts at least philosophy!
His character is good, and then his learning
Above suspicion;
He has no yearning
For primrose paths, that lead men to perdition
And penury and shame
With broken knees and name—
Not he! we pay him to be strait and steadfast,
And nice and dull with dignity;
He keeps his balanced head fast
Amid the storms of error and malignity
Or ponderous German jokes—the Higher Criticism,
Too vague for tears, too vast for witticism
And mouldy ere the book—he prays by proxy,
No doubt, and sends his wife to early Matins
For him and knows but nought of pyx and patins—
But who can doubt his orthodoxy?
And then there is the honour of the Chair,
So far-descended, wide-extended
And venerable and most fair,
303
With its historic air;
That has a whiff of Bentley's gown,
And was the chosen stair
By which the grand old scholars won renown
And climbed, by no venality,
To their Pantheon and their immortality!
This stands at stake, in peril,
If our Professor's
Sobriety has failed and flesh prevailed
To turn his studies sterile
And all unworthy of his predecessors.
O when he speaks of just the merest platitude,
He has a pretty ex cathedra attitude
And makes his minnows talk like whales;
When he regales
Our appetites with hoary jests, they catch
A reflex glory from the Chair,
A solemn and a sapient air,
And hatch
Into a new and true and monstrous miracle
Of wit, as though it were the spiracle
For awful wisdom from above. The mint,
Which is his mighty brain
Evolves without a strain
Each sentence crisp and clean and ripe for print;
He has capacity,
I can assure you, and will turn you out
Great thumping propositions by the dozen,
To glut the worst voracity,
Or solve you the enigma or the doubt
And cozen
The clearest mind into a hopeless fog.
Yet he is loyal to the Decalogue,
And never broke a law or even cracked
The lightest of the ten; he has not lacked
In reputation aught for life,
And covets not his neighbour's wife.
If he had sworn in Greek or good round Latin,
Which he is pat in,
304
And Porson swore
In pure and perfect Attic,
All know, though he was more erratic
And mingled with his verses
Such polished classic curses,
They sounded just like blessings and could shock
Nor Quaker nor a Miss in Sunday frock;
O yes, he swore so sweetly,
As ladies ply the fan
And like a gentleman—
Not indiscreetly;
The habit fitted him, a graceful vesture,
As any little private turn or gesture.
And Madame Dacier,
Correct and cool and blue as is a glacier,
Yet sometimes lilted into oaths
Which our refinement loathes,
But sanctified when decked in learned dresses
And coming out as harmless as caresses
Or innocence itself. And, what is odder,
Casaubon used to dodder
(Unless it's slanderous fiction's
Tale) into maledictions,
That would not hurt a fly or Puritan
And were but milk-sop to an artisan
Of the full-blown and healthy modern type,
Roaring all hell betwixt his glass and pipe.
Nor is there much, I warn you to prefer
In Joseph Scaliger,
Who drew a daily round of hearty rations
From bumper imprecations,
And in a decent veil of neat obscurity—
Ni fallor—left a witness for futurity.
But these were scholars,
They wore a fitting mask
And mouthed through classic collars,
Which our conventions ask,
Their dear damnations and abominations.
If the Professor too had sworn in German
305
Who cannot say a sentence without crutches
Of awful words and ways, and seems to sputter all
His viscera up in groans and every guttural,
And what he treats on smutches
With smear-like hand; or if in French he fiddled
A naughty tune or two,
And played the sapeur or what is most torrid
Or to our hearing horrid;
The burden had been left unriddled,
And without more ado.
But now I should remember,
He told me something—O what was this! Hang it!
Which asks from me for no apology,
And got none from old “Hang-theology”—
He told me last December,
When he had ended lecture—how he did harangue it!
He was engaged on some tremendous toil,
Another Heraklean task,
On some lost letter,
Which promised him a splendid spoil
And even a Falernian cask
Or something better.
What was it? Ah, I am no scholar
With classic idioms pigeon-holed
And almost as it were religion-holed,
Each with a shrine and halo; but I'd bet a dollar,
Here is the secret or its right solution
Which would dispel at once the cloud
And give his credit handsome restitution—
If I remembered what he spoke aloud.
Ha, now I have it! Hear me, Porson's ghost,
To whom this night I vow a generous toast!
He never could have said, “I d—n her”—
He, so polite, who has been known to bow
Unto a cow—
But what he did say was, “Digamma.”
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THE BLUE HOURS
When the midnight now is over, and the shy excursive mouse
Deems it safe to be a rover in the silence of the house,
With the pitter and the patter of uneducated matter
Not afraid of pussy's grip,
And the usual merry cricket from the dim and dusty thicket
Of the ashes tunes his pipe;
And the heavy chair and table seem to move to secret song
Or the sofa grows unstable as if darkly drawn along,
With a creaking and a squeaking at the touch of viewless hands
And a rustling and a bustling of invisible commands;
When a host of crooked creatures with their surreptitious features,
From the hearth behind the stone
Come with furtive speech and sprawling and a creeping and a crawling—
Then I love to be alone.
Deems it safe to be a rover in the silence of the house,
With the pitter and the patter of uneducated matter
Not afraid of pussy's grip,
And the usual merry cricket from the dim and dusty thicket
Of the ashes tunes his pipe;
And the heavy chair and table seem to move to secret song
Or the sofa grows unstable as if darkly drawn along,
With a creaking and a squeaking at the touch of viewless hands
And a rustling and a bustling of invisible commands;
When a host of crooked creatures with their surreptitious features,
From the hearth behind the stone
Come with furtive speech and sprawling and a creeping and a crawling—
Then I love to be alone.
When the wall's familiar staining takes a sad and serious hue,
Or the shadows want explaining and the gas lights all burn blue;
While the depths within the doorway look as far and strange as Norway,
And the pictures seem to point
At the shapes as shy as mourners huddled in the distant corners,
And the room is out of joint;
When the solidest of timber fidgets as if fain to dance,
And the very tongs unlimber with a noise unknown to chance;
While a hopping and a flopping from the passages and stairs,
Rise like chidden and forbidden sounds, and from the blackest lairs;
When the turning keys and handles seem unlocking hushed-up scandals
For which nothing can atone,
And the lamp begins to sputter and the wind to moan and mutter—
Then I love to be alone.
Or the shadows want explaining and the gas lights all burn blue;
While the depths within the doorway look as far and strange as Norway,
And the pictures seem to point
At the shapes as shy as mourners huddled in the distant corners,
And the room is out of joint;
When the solidest of timber fidgets as if fain to dance,
And the very tongs unlimber with a noise unknown to chance;
While a hopping and a flopping from the passages and stairs,
Rise like chidden and forbidden sounds, and from the blackest lairs;
307
For which nothing can atone,
And the lamp begins to sputter and the wind to moan and mutter—
Then I love to be alone.
When the sense that I am haunted by a Thing I cannot see
Comes, and courage widely vaunted is no longer calm and free;
And a horror not unpleasant that a mystery is present,
Stepping more and still more near,
With a sort of icy shudder shakes the will from off its rudder
In a grim delightful fear;
As the swaying swelling curtain has a queer suggestive look,
And the outlines are uncertain of the most decided nook;
While a knocking and a rocking which I really cannot place,
Vie with sweeping of unsleeping robes that walk through empty space;
When a movement growing crisper to an universal whisper,
That no draughts may quite condone,
Wakes with trailing as of shackles and a foot of fire that crackles—
Then I love to be alone.
Comes, and courage widely vaunted is no longer calm and free;
And a horror not unpleasant that a mystery is present,
Stepping more and still more near,
With a sort of icy shudder shakes the will from off its rudder
In a grim delightful fear;
As the swaying swelling curtain has a queer suggestive look,
And the outlines are uncertain of the most decided nook;
While a knocking and a rocking which I really cannot place,
Vie with sweeping of unsleeping robes that walk through empty space;
When a movement growing crisper to an universal whisper,
That no draughts may quite condone,
Wakes with trailing as of shackles and a foot of fire that crackles—
Then I love to be alone.
When the keen and quickened pulses tell me by an instinct true
Awful knowledge that convulses, and the air itself turns blue;
And the ghosts of buried vices by a glamour that entices
Memory from solemn caves,
With a gaunt accusing gesture, veiled in cerements as vesture,
Start from their forgotten graves;
When the sins and all the errors of the never-dying past,
Clothed in dumb delicious terrors, serpent-wise round me are cast;
And the nameless thoughts and shameless which seem proper to the hour,
With a quiver and a shiver clutch me in their ghastly power;
And the reason now relenting with a criminal consenting
Bears me to the Astral Zone,
And each fancy out of fable mixes Bedlam up with Babel—
Then I love to be alone.
Awful knowledge that convulses, and the air itself turns blue;
And the ghosts of buried vices by a glamour that entices
Memory from solemn caves,
With a gaunt accusing gesture, veiled in cerements as vesture,
308
When the sins and all the errors of the never-dying past,
Clothed in dumb delicious terrors, serpent-wise round me are cast;
And the nameless thoughts and shameless which seem proper to the hour,
With a quiver and a shiver clutch me in their ghastly power;
And the reason now relenting with a criminal consenting
Bears me to the Astral Zone,
And each fancy out of fable mixes Bedlam up with Babel—
Then I love to be alone.
ERGA—PARERGA.
“Bring thy erga,” said the Judge,
Calm and lone upon the throne;
And I trembled like an aspen, nor dissembled
What I felt—and I with nothing to atone.
But good Peter gave a nudge,
And encouraged me to hearken
Though the heaven appeared to darken,
And I hardly dared to budge.
For the angels and archangels by the chiliad
Ranged around us, as expectant of an Iliad;
While my record looked so mean,
And before those eyes unclean.
Calm and lone upon the throne;
And I trembled like an aspen, nor dissembled
What I felt—and I with nothing to atone.
But good Peter gave a nudge,
And encouraged me to hearken
Though the heaven appeared to darken,
And I hardly dared to budge.
For the angels and archangels by the chiliad
Ranged around us, as expectant of an Iliad;
While my record looked so mean,
And before those eyes unclean.
“Bring thy erga,” said the Voice
From the white deep infinite
Of the Glory past imagining and story,
Gleaming, burning, with a glamour exquisite.
And my weakness had no choice
But to make the last dread moving
For the Audit's solemn proving,
And had little to rejoice.
Ah, and Cherubim and Seraphim like throstles
Sang at intervals, and all the twelve Apostles
Stood about in shining dress,
And I seemed but filthiness.
From the white deep infinite
Of the Glory past imagining and story,
Gleaming, burning, with a glamour exquisite.
And my weakness had no choice
But to make the last dread moving
For the Audit's solemn proving,
And had little to rejoice.
Ah, and Cherubim and Seraphim like throstles
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Stood about in shining dress,
And I seemed but filthiness.
“Bring thy erga.” So I came
With no friend who could attend
On my trouble, and partake of it and double
Any confidence that laboured to ascend.
I had gathered in my shame
Gold, a goodly pile and portion,
Fruits—if garnered with extortion
And a crown of dubious fame.
These in bags-full groaningly I hugged and carried
Through the phalanxes of splendour, though I tarried
Often and bent dumbly down—
For all heaven became one frown.
With no friend who could attend
On my trouble, and partake of it and double
Any confidence that laboured to ascend.
I had gathered in my shame
Gold, a goodly pile and portion,
Fruits—if garnered with extortion
And a crown of dubious fame.
These in bags-full groaningly I hugged and carried
Through the phalanxes of splendour, though I tarried
Often and bent dumbly down—
For all heaven became one frown.
“Bring thy erga”—And I laid
Low my bags like dirty rags,
As I drivelled in the Light and shrank and shrivelled,
Though to me before they flaunted gay as flags,
And my heart was sore afraid.
While to James Paul rudely stammered,
“Have I then but vainly hammered
On men, works are useless aid?”
And poor James retreated as if met by bristles,
At the thought of those long-winded dear epistles;
And I wondered, who would next
Make me his appropriate text.
Low my bags like dirty rags,
As I drivelled in the Light and shrank and shrivelled,
Though to me before they flaunted gay as flags,
And my heart was sore afraid.
While to James Paul rudely stammered,
“Have I then but vainly hammered
On men, works are useless aid?”
And poor James retreated as if met by bristles,
At the thought of those long-winded dear epistles;
And I wondered, who would next
Make me his appropriate text.
“Bring thy erga!” And I saw
No more sheaves but withered leaves,
Husks and losses and a treasury like drosses,
Wreck and rubbish as if stuff from ragged eaves
Blown by tempests' ruthless law;
All my ransom and its rightness
With the excellence and brightness,
Turned to squalid trash and straw!
And I sadly noticed how my patron Peter
Edged away from me, when I proved incompleter
Than he thought, not now assuaged—
As if otherwise engaged.
No more sheaves but withered leaves,
Husks and losses and a treasury like drosses,
Wreck and rubbish as if stuff from ragged eaves
Blown by tempests' ruthless law;
All my ransom and its rightness
With the excellence and brightness,
Turned to squalid trash and straw!
And I sadly noticed how my patron Peter
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Than he thought, not now assuaged—
As if otherwise engaged.
“Bring thy erga!” And I cried,
“I have none but tasks undone,
Deeds neglected and my duties' claims rejected
For the profit ever wooed and vilely won;
And the Master was denied.
Never did I dream of brothers,
Save what I could squeeze from others—
And the Cross I still defied.”
Then sweet John whose face was one glad revelation
Stept to me with speech that was an inspiration,
And he said, “Thy scanty store,
Little lover, must have more.”
“I have none but tasks undone,
Deeds neglected and my duties' claims rejected
For the profit ever wooed and vilely won;
And the Master was denied.
Never did I dream of brothers,
Save what I could squeeze from others—
And the Cross I still defied.”
Then sweet John whose face was one glad revelation
Stept to me with speech that was an inspiration,
And he said, “Thy scanty store,
Little lover, must have more.”
“Hast thou no parerga here?”
Murmured John, when hope seemed gone.
And my blindness felt a sudden ray of kindness
Touch me, which for just a moment bravely shone;
Though my greatest gifts were sere,
And my life an empty bubble
Tost as idly as the stubble,
In that holy atmosphere.
But when thus the tide was turning in my favour,
And the question had a friendly sound and savour;
Peter seemed to have a shock,
Or to hear some crowing cock.
Murmured John, when hope seemed gone.
And my blindness felt a sudden ray of kindness
Touch me, which for just a moment bravely shone;
Though my greatest gifts were sere,
And my life an empty bubble
Tost as idly as the stubble,
In that holy atmosphere.
But when thus the tide was turning in my favour,
And the question had a friendly sound and savour;
Peter seemed to have a shock,
Or to hear some crowing cock.
“No parerga?” And I gazed,
As he spoke, within my poke,
Just inquiring and with pallid brow perspiring
When a vestige of his meaning on me broke,
Half desponding and half dazed;
And I marked, amid the bitter
Dust and dregs the hopeful glitter
Of a gem or two—amazed.
While I nearer looked and caught their coruscation,
Mark and Matthew who had held confabulation,
Whispered, “Take each precious stone,
Lay them down before the Throne.”
As he spoke, within my poke,
Just inquiring and with pallid brow perspiring
When a vestige of his meaning on me broke,
Half desponding and half dazed;
And I marked, amid the bitter
Dust and dregs the hopeful glitter
Of a gem or two—amazed.
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Mark and Matthew who had held confabulation,
Whispered, “Take each precious stone,
Lay them down before the Throne.”
“No parerga?” And I saw,
As I stept and humbly wept
With my meagre gifts among a thousand eager
Eyes and faces, what I had unconscious kept;
Gentle words without the flaw
Of a grudging said, and nameless
Deeds considered not but blameless—
Done for neighbours and no law.
Tiny were they, and o'ershadowed by the rotten
Heaps of hoarded rubbish there and quite forgotten;
Yet they glimmered from the dark,
In their little glow-worm spark.
As I stept and humbly wept
With my meagre gifts among a thousand eager
Eyes and faces, what I had unconscious kept;
Gentle words without the flaw
Of a grudging said, and nameless
Deeds considered not but blameless—
Done for neighbours and no law.
Tiny were they, and o'ershadowed by the rotten
Heaps of hoarded rubbish there and quite forgotten;
Yet they glimmered from the dark,
In their little glow-worm spark.
“These parerga,” cried the Judge
From the night of dazzling Light,
“Not the seeming of great acts are thy redeeming!”
And, from his arrested and prudential flight,
Peter then renewed his nudge;
While the hierarchies chanted
And on small deserts descanted,
When I did not downward trudge.
And they brought a harp, a halo, a white garment
For my nakedness and sores and every scar meant;
Till I sang like birds in June,
If a trifle out of tune.
From the night of dazzling Light,
“Not the seeming of great acts are thy redeeming!”
And, from his arrested and prudential flight,
Peter then renewed his nudge;
While the hierarchies chanted
And on small deserts descanted,
When I did not downward trudge.
And they brought a harp, a halo, a white garment
For my nakedness and sores and every scar meant;
Till I sang like birds in June,
If a trifle out of tune.
PIMPLE AND PATCH.
Jonathan Brown
Thought he had gotten a heavenly crown,
Only because of the wonderful Patch
Stuck to his life without any proportion,
Darned on his conduct with funny distortion,
Just as his roof with its yellower thatch.
O and he cried to his cronies, the two,
Robert the Radical, Dickson the Tory,
“Here is the thing for you sinners to do—
I'm going up in a carriage of glory.”
Jonathan Brown
Thought he had gotten
Although he was rotten,
Something uncommonly like to a crown.
Thought he had gotten a heavenly crown,
Only because of the wonderful Patch
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Darned on his conduct with funny distortion,
Just as his roof with its yellower thatch.
O and he cried to his cronies, the two,
Robert the Radical, Dickson the Tory,
“Here is the thing for you sinners to do—
I'm going up in a carriage of glory.”
Jonathan Brown
Thought he had gotten
Although he was rotten,
Something uncommonly like to a crown.
Jonathan Brown
Thought that the heaven itself had come down,
Only because of his wonderful wart;
Aye, and his neighbours the sage and the simple,
Sat in the shadow of his pretty Pimple—
As if the ocean were clapt in a quart!
Cheering themselves on its marvellous length,
Colour and bulk and unheard of pomposity;
Fain to renew their opinions and strength,
Under its shameless and vulgar monstrosity.
Jonathan Brown
Thought that the heaven
Itself was the leaven,
Raising him up when he really was down.
Thought that the heaven itself had come down,
Only because of his wonderful wart;
Aye, and his neighbours the sage and the simple,
Sat in the shadow of his pretty Pimple—
As if the ocean were clapt in a quart!
Cheering themselves on its marvellous length,
Colour and bulk and unheard of pomposity;
Fain to renew their opinions and strength,
Under its shameless and vulgar monstrosity.
Jonathan Brown
Thought that the heaven
Itself was the leaven,
Raising him up when he really was down.
Jonathan Brown
Thought that a deluge was coming to drown
All but himself with his Pimple and Patch,
Cottager, King, from the pug to the pigeon—
Every one not of his own pet religion,
Scorning with him on his dung-heap to scratch.
Therefore his tongue was as sharp as a sword
Whetted by faith on the Patch and the Pimple,
Cursing the people and praising the Lord,
Sparing no saint nor the child with its dimple.
Jonathan Brown
Thought that the Devil
Would soon have a revel,
While he alone was the sinner to drown.
Thought that a deluge was coming to drown
All but himself with his Pimple and Patch,
Cottager, King, from the pug to the pigeon—
Every one not of his own pet religion,
Scorning with him on his dung-heap to scratch.
Therefore his tongue was as sharp as a sword
Whetted by faith on the Patch and the Pimple,
Cursing the people and praising the Lord,
Sparing no saint nor the child with its dimple.
Jonathan Brown
Thought that the Devil
Would soon have a revel,
While he alone was the sinner to drown.
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SPORTING POLITICS.
He takes politics, sir, in a sportsmanlike way,
As one should take his fences without weak pretences
In a good working day;
He will rise at his gate or big measure of State
With the surest of seats and the lightest of hands,
And the grip that commands.
Ah, his fox-hunting knowledge of Church and of College
Is a marvel of pride,
While he gallops full go to a faint “Tally-ho,”
As he covers each question and ditch without fall
In his masterly stride;
Like a king in his saddle, and monarch of all.
As one should take his fences without weak pretences
In a good working day;
He will rise at his gate or big measure of State
With the surest of seats and the lightest of hands,
And the grip that commands.
Ah, his fox-hunting knowledge of Church and of College
Is a marvel of pride,
While he gallops full go to a faint “Tally-ho,”
As he covers each question and ditch without fall
In his masterly stride;
Like a king in his saddle, and monarch of all.
Others funk at a Censure and look for a gap
In the thornier hedges and cases with edges,
But he faces them slap;
Not a symptom of nerves in the stiffest preserves,
Where the quarry lies closer and stiles are too bad—
Never sick, never sad.
With the truest of touches (he is there like his Duchess)
And strong arms lying low,
He will ride to the death leaving far out of breath
Other jockeys behind and not in it with Jack,
Just to bluster and blow;
For, as straight as a bird might, he follows the track.
In the thornier hedges and cases with edges,
But he faces them slap;
Not a symptom of nerves in the stiffest preserves,
Where the quarry lies closer and stiles are too bad—
Never sick, never sad.
With the truest of touches (he is there like his Duchess)
And strong arms lying low,
He will ride to the death leaving far out of breath
Other jockeys behind and not in it with Jack,
Just to bluster and blow;
For, as straight as a bird might, he follows the track.
And he pauses not, please, to negotiate walls
Or a problem of figures and famishing niggers,
And most desperate calls;
He is equal, be sure, and as quick as secure,
To the hardiest leap with the bridle and bit
When he's mounted and fit.
The Armenian Question hurts not his digestion,
And he tackles it well;
For he knows every lane, every bar and its bane,
And each turning and corner as smart as the Russ—
With his gunpowder smell,
And he clears the worst rail or retort and no fuss.
Or a problem of figures and famishing niggers,
And most desperate calls;
He is equal, be sure, and as quick as secure,
To the hardiest leap with the bridle and bit
When he's mounted and fit.
The Armenian Question hurts not his digestion,
And he tackles it well;
For he knows every lane, every bar and its bane,
And each turning and corner as smart as the Russ—
With his gunpowder smell,
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In the covert and open for ever the same,
With no jobbing or jibbing or delicate fibbing
He is honest and game;
O he sticks to the trail without fumbling and fail,
And right on like a sportsman of England unbent
When he once finds the scent;
Over bullfinch and timber like Home Rule as limber
As the merriest Pat,
When his hobby is spread out full length and the head
Running free from red tape and conventional bounds,
And he's clever at that;
He will romp into heaven, as riding to hounds.
With no jobbing or jibbing or delicate fibbing
He is honest and game;
O he sticks to the trail without fumbling and fail,
And right on like a sportsman of England unbent
When he once finds the scent;
Over bullfinch and timber like Home Rule as limber
As the merriest Pat,
When his hobby is spread out full length and the head
Running free from red tape and conventional bounds,
And he's clever at that;
He will romp into heaven, as riding to hounds.
FIN-DE-SIECLE BABY.
Bring no more bottles,
Nurse, they trouble me;
I thirst for higher food like Aristotle's,
And vaster thoughts of that great world to be;
I weary too of bibs and cushioned cribs;
The inheritance I ask, I would be free.
No foolish rhymes, but Noble's last new sonnet,
And then the “Times”—not mother's Paris bonnet.
Let's speak of politics, I am on fire
For some good burning question;
I brook no baubles here, I do aspire
To more than mere digestion.
Nurse, they trouble me;
I thirst for higher food like Aristotle's,
And vaster thoughts of that great world to be;
I weary too of bibs and cushioned cribs;
The inheritance I ask, I would be free.
No foolish rhymes, but Noble's last new sonnet,
And then the “Times”—not mother's Paris bonnet.
Let's speak of politics, I am on fire
For some good burning question;
I brook no baubles here, I do aspire
To more than mere digestion.
Long clothes and chrism,
Powder, all are vain,
Out-grown by us—a pure anachronism;
I'm centuries old (not weeks) and bear the pain;
Born to the people's woe, and endless throe,
To suffer for the world and not complain.
No empty talk, I have no silly season,
And I could walk too if there were a reason;
But it's undignified to romp and run
Just as the vulgar rabble,
I choose to lie and ponder in the sun
And let the others babble.
Powder, all are vain,
Out-grown by us—a pure anachronism;
I'm centuries old (not weeks) and bear the pain;
Born to the people's woe, and endless throe,
To suffer for the world and not complain.
No empty talk, I have no silly season,
And I could walk too if there were a reason;
But it's undignified to romp and run
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I choose to lie and ponder in the sun
And let the others babble.
Problems of ages,
Nurse, devolve at last
On me, and I must step on broader stages
Than those before me who have played and past;
Yes, grand solutions now do pale my brow,
And with the care my life is overcast.
I heed no ill; away with pap and ladle!
For I must fill a throne, and not a cradle.
And what is Truth? That seems the vital point
For souls like mine to settle,
When all the earth is sadly out of joint—
Not how to boil a kettle.
Nurse, devolve at last
On me, and I must step on broader stages
Than those before me who have played and past;
Yes, grand solutions now do pale my brow,
And with the care my life is overcast.
I heed no ill; away with pap and ladle!
For I must fill a throne, and not a cradle.
And what is Truth? That seems the vital point
For souls like mine to settle,
When all the earth is sadly out of joint—
Not how to boil a kettle.
Look at our leaders,
Waiting to be led
By luck or chance, at most but special pleaders
Of any cause that gives them power or bread!
When here is one who can evolve a plan,
And guide them into port and has a head.
O give me space, I'll move this ancient order
Cramped by its place and find an ample border;
You and my parents understand me not
And tease with toys and feigning,
To starve my genius in a stupid cot—
I want a sphere for reigning.
Waiting to be led
By luck or chance, at most but special pleaders
Of any cause that gives them power or bread!
When here is one who can evolve a plan,
And guide them into port and has a head.
O give me space, I'll move this ancient order
Cramped by its place and find an ample border;
You and my parents understand me not
And tease with toys and feigning,
To starve my genius in a stupid cot—
I want a sphere for reigning.
THE SCIENTIST.
He poked among his beetles as they crept
And catalogued their dark and devious ways,
Or counted motes that flickered in the rays
But saw no sunshine, as a true Adept;
He qualified and quantified the dust
In every mortal matter,
And nibbled round the superficial crust
Of planets or a platter;
He wondered why things were so very small
And classified his nearest kith and kin,
Took notes of hairs or wens upon the skin
Or grubbed at lichens on the mouldering wall.
And catalogued their dark and devious ways,
Or counted motes that flickered in the rays
But saw no sunshine, as a true Adept;
He qualified and quantified the dust
In every mortal matter,
And nibbled round the superficial crust
Of planets or a platter;
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And classified his nearest kith and kin,
Took notes of hairs or wens upon the skin
Or grubbed at lichens on the mouldering wall.
He marked the curious colours or the shape
Of vegetable forms and weighed their powers,
But never glimpsed the living laughing flowers
And let the magic mystery escape;
He labelled and he libelled this and that,
The genus and the order,
And wiped his feet on Nature's temple mat
But did not pass the border;
With book and scale and speculum and probe
He burrowed, measured, minimized, and crawled
From patch to patch by details yet enthralled,
And but beheld the shadows of the globe.
Of vegetable forms and weighed their powers,
But never glimpsed the living laughing flowers
And let the magic mystery escape;
He labelled and he libelled this and that,
The genus and the order,
And wiped his feet on Nature's temple mat
But did not pass the border;
With book and scale and speculum and probe
He burrowed, measured, minimized, and crawled
From patch to patch by details yet enthralled,
And but beheld the shadows of the globe.
He felt no rapture in the rising moon,
And showed the blueness of the sky was dirt
Where sunbeams fell—by which its grace was girt,
And in no beauty read the heavenly boon;
He knew not that the earth was wondrous fair
And could not touch its essence,
The glories of the ocean and the air
Were each a mere excrescence;
He cared not for the poetries of things
Nor once descried the picture in the land,
And only heard the pricing higgler's hand
But not the waving of sweet angel wings.
And showed the blueness of the sky was dirt
Where sunbeams fell—by which its grace was girt,
And in no beauty read the heavenly boon;
He knew not that the earth was wondrous fair
And could not touch its essence,
The glories of the ocean and the air
Were each a mere excrescence;
He cared not for the poetries of things
Nor once descried the picture in the land,
And only heard the pricing higgler's hand
But not the waving of sweet angel wings.
All treasures were just ticketed or not
To him, who had no vision for their spell
Nor ear for music save his dinner bell,
And overlooked the splendour in the spot;
For mind and matter were to him but one
And bundles of sensation,
Or states of feeling vanishing, and none
Had any true foundation;
He missed the rounded orb, but mapt the blight
That lay upon the molecule's dim face,
And with his glass that ranged through mighty Space
He could not see the Heaven itself for light.
To him, who had no vision for their spell
Nor ear for music save his dinner bell,
And overlooked the splendour in the spot;
For mind and matter were to him but one
And bundles of sensation,
Or states of feeling vanishing, and none
Had any true foundation;
He missed the rounded orb, but mapt the blight
That lay upon the molecule's dim face,
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He could not see the Heaven itself for light.
IN SUSPENSE.
“Who are you?” the Almighty exclaimed, as He sat
At the portal where Peter should be,
When a gentleman came and uplifted his hat
Or what would be—if earthly were he.
“Here are welcome and favour for folks of each savour,
The highest and lowest and broad;
Even statesmen and drinkers and honest free-thinkers,
Sometimes get a chair at My board;
But I see not a label or docket or mark
Of the proper distinguishing hoods,
Nor a catalogue, sir, to explain—it's all dark,
And I don't pass unticketed goods.”
At the portal where Peter should be,
When a gentleman came and uplifted his hat
Or what would be—if earthly were he.
“Here are welcome and favour for folks of each savour,
The highest and lowest and broad;
Even statesmen and drinkers and honest free-thinkers,
Sometimes get a chair at My board;
But I see not a label or docket or mark
Of the proper distinguishing hoods,
Nor a catalogue, sir, to explain—it's all dark,
And I don't pass unticketed goods.”
“I'm a simple Agnostic, O Lord, and I swear
To my light I was always quite true;
I had many a cross and a burden to bear,
But I gave every detail its due.
I was foe to the fancies of foolish romances
And feelings distorting the gaze,
Though in circumspect Science I put every reliance
And waged war with the crotchet or craze;
I reduced my convictions to substance and shape
And was careful with dogma and cult,
I discovered that man was evolved from the ape
And his soul an organic result.”
To my light I was always quite true;
I had many a cross and a burden to bear,
But I gave every detail its due.
I was foe to the fancies of foolish romances
And feelings distorting the gaze,
Though in circumspect Science I put every reliance
And waged war with the crotchet or craze;
I reduced my convictions to substance and shape
And was careful with dogma and cult,
I discovered that man was evolved from the ape
And his soul an organic result.”
“I remember,” said God, “you threw doubts on My Life,
Dark'ning counsel with words of despair,
And dissected the pineal gland with your knife
But destroyed what you could not repair;
You alleged that all being was bounded by seeing,
And nothing that quickened or moved
In your view low and narrow (not space for a sparrow),
Existed unless it was proved;
I have seats for your victims and hope for the fool
Who at least does the utmost he can,
But no nook for the knave who belongs to no school
And the shadow at best of a man.”
Dark'ning counsel with words of despair,
And dissected the pineal gland with your knife
But destroyed what you could not repair;
You alleged that all being was bounded by seeing,
And nothing that quickened or moved
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Existed unless it was proved;
I have seats for your victims and hope for the fool
Who at least does the utmost he can,
But no nook for the knave who belongs to no school
And the shadow at best of a man.”
“Ah, a hundred times now I have prayed I might cease
From misgivings that bother me still,
But I'm blest if I ever can find a release
From the habit that palsies my will.
And to God have I spoken? Can Silence be broken,
Where none may be perfectly sure?
Were those words or rebounding, and echoes confounding
Of qualms not in fact or secure?
Am I, I? Is there aught? Is it only a dream,
Out of which I shall waken too well
But to guess I'm a straw on some cosmical stream,
Which deludes me with Heaven and Hell?”
From misgivings that bother me still,
But I'm blest if I ever can find a release
From the habit that palsies my will.
And to God have I spoken? Can Silence be broken,
Where none may be perfectly sure?
Were those words or rebounding, and echoes confounding
Of qualms not in fact or secure?
Am I, I? Is there aught? Is it only a dream,
Out of which I shall waken too well
But to guess I'm a straw on some cosmical stream,
Which deludes me with Heaven and Hell?”
“Who is this?” cried the Devil and looked rather blue
With an eye to an orderly sphere,
And no room for a skeptic to alter its hue—
“Who is this that would trouble me here?
Here's a place for the scoffers and slaves of their coffers
Who heap up the dollar or gem,
A retreat for the artist in vice and the Chartist
And the warmest reception for them;
I can make a snug corner for sinner and saint
In the pit of my sulphurous Show,
For they differ but little except for their paint
And that soon passes off down below.”
With an eye to an orderly sphere,
And no room for a skeptic to alter its hue—
“Who is this that would trouble me here?
Here's a place for the scoffers and slaves of their coffers
Who heap up the dollar or gem,
A retreat for the artist in vice and the Chartist
And the warmest reception for them;
I can make a snug corner for sinner and saint
In the pit of my sulphurous Show,
For they differ but little except for their paint
And that soon passes off down below.”
“I am just an Agnostic, your Majesty, please,
And kept always my judgment in hand,
Never daring as others who lied at their ease,
To be rude about you and your land;
I was prudent and sober as suns in October
And did not commit myself once,
I avoided decisions that led to derisions
And parts both of prophet and dunce;
I believed in my senses and reason and such
But avoided conjecture and all
That I could not establish by testing or touch,
Like a beetle and bones or a wall.”
And kept always my judgment in hand,
Never daring as others who lied at their ease,
To be rude about you and your land;
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And did not commit myself once,
I avoided decisions that led to derisions
And parts both of prophet and dunce;
I believed in my senses and reason and such
But avoided conjecture and all
That I could not establish by testing or touch,
Like a beetle and bones or a wall.”
“You are no friend of mine,” said the Devil in dread;
“And, pray, why are you certain and how
You have ended your mortal career and are dead,
When you may be but mocking me now?
I object to acrostics of idle Agnostics,
Who treat me with tentative thought;
If you wish to be famous be still Ignoramus,
Abide in the fogs you have wrought.
Yes, be damned, if you like, and as much as you wish,
But I won't have your dark little games;
You must fry in your own dear elaborate dish,
And not enter to damp out my flames.”
“And, pray, why are you certain and how
You have ended your mortal career and are dead,
When you may be but mocking me now?
I object to acrostics of idle Agnostics,
Who treat me with tentative thought;
If you wish to be famous be still Ignoramus,
Abide in the fogs you have wrought.
Yes, be damned, if you like, and as much as you wish,
But I won't have your dark little games;
You must fry in your own dear elaborate dish,
And not enter to damp out my flames.”
“It's alas and alas for the line of my choice,
And alas for the doom I have made;
Neither God nor the Devil will hark to my voice,
In their kingdoms of light and the shade.
I've for ages been plying between them and trying
In vain for some refuge or rest,
Like a pendulum fated and ever unmated
In hell or on Abraham's breast.
Even yet I am haunted by terrible fears,
Which is God, which the Devil? And O
What am I? And are these simulacra or tears?
And I know that I never shall know.”
And alas for the doom I have made;
Neither God nor the Devil will hark to my voice,
In their kingdoms of light and the shade.
I've for ages been plying between them and trying
In vain for some refuge or rest,
Like a pendulum fated and ever unmated
In hell or on Abraham's breast.
Even yet I am haunted by terrible fears,
Which is God, which the Devil? And O
What am I? And are these simulacra or tears?
And I know that I never shall know.”
MINIMUM AND MAXIMUM. (Old style).
He is only a poor man, a beggar, a boor man,
With an animal trust;
A machine for the using that has no refusing,
And content with a crust.
He's a sheep for the slaughter, at times with a daughter
Who may humour our lust.
He has feet for rough roads and a back bearing loads,
With a stomach for words that are sharper than goads;
And in suitable places, the pigwash, the traces,
He is helpful—be just!
Stiff as steeling, no feeling, though kingdoms are reeling,
With a passion for ale and a story if stale,
He's a match for the firiest sun or the gale
With the iciest gust.
Let us grind him and bind him and closer enwind him
With our burdens and fetters, and show him his betters—
Lest he ever should rust.
Do not talk of a guinea, Mum,
Keep his wages a minimum
In the bondage of dust;
With the labour a maximum,
Let us bully and tax him, Mum;
It's pure prudence, we must.
With an animal trust;
A machine for the using that has no refusing,
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He's a sheep for the slaughter, at times with a daughter
Who may humour our lust.
He has feet for rough roads and a back bearing loads,
With a stomach for words that are sharper than goads;
And in suitable places, the pigwash, the traces,
He is helpful—be just!
Stiff as steeling, no feeling, though kingdoms are reeling,
With a passion for ale and a story if stale,
He's a match for the firiest sun or the gale
With the iciest gust.
Let us grind him and bind him and closer enwind him
With our burdens and fetters, and show him his betters—
Lest he ever should rust.
Do not talk of a guinea, Mum,
Keep his wages a minimum
In the bondage of dust;
With the labour a maximum,
Let us bully and tax him, Mum;
It's pure prudence, we must.
He has sinew and muscle for market, to tussle
With his mother the soil;
And the dungheap's his brother, the smell and the smother
Are his honey and oil;
And the things of our loathing, make dinners and clothing—
Refuse, rags and old coil.
Do not pity in haste his bad living or taste,
He is happy with little and feasts on our waste;
Though, if weather be cruel, there's tea and the fuel
For his kettle to boil.
And his station's mean rations, his sole expectations;
He's but fitted to squeeze, should he famish or wheeze,
And for frost and the snow with their rigours to freeze
Or the summer to broil.
We can bleed him who need him, and carefully feed him
With a measured-out pittance and lowest remittance
That will safeguard his toil.
And no bother is in him Mum,
With his wages a minimum
And the mucking and moil.
While we sweat him the maximum,
Give the shovel and axe him, Mum,
And impress as the wax him, Mum,
We will collar the spoil.
With his mother the soil;
And the dungheap's his brother, the smell and the smother
Are his honey and oil;
And the things of our loathing, make dinners and clothing—
Refuse, rags and old coil.
Do not pity in haste his bad living or taste,
He is happy with little and feasts on our waste;
Though, if weather be cruel, there's tea and the fuel
For his kettle to boil.
And his station's mean rations, his sole expectations;
He's but fitted to squeeze, should he famish or wheeze,
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Or the summer to broil.
We can bleed him who need him, and carefully feed him
With a measured-out pittance and lowest remittance
That will safeguard his toil.
And no bother is in him Mum,
With his wages a minimum
And the mucking and moil.
While we sweat him the maximum,
Give the shovel and axe him, Mum,
And impress as the wax him, Mum,
We will collar the spoil.
THE DEVIL AND THE SERMON.
I preached. And lo, the Devil said
He'd spoil my pretty matter
With mocking and its merry aid
And friends that did not flatter.
So then he strode into my church
And broke an eyeglass (Bella's),
He left the sexton in the lurch
And upset six umbrellas.
He tumbled down a dozen books
And set two babies squalling,
While casting round such dreadful looks
They feared the roof was falling.
He'd spoil my pretty matter
With mocking and its merry aid
And friends that did not flatter.
So then he strode into my church
And broke an eyeglass (Bella's),
He left the sexton in the lurch
And upset six umbrellas.
He tumbled down a dozen books
And set two babies squalling,
While casting round such dreadful looks
They feared the roof was falling.
He trod upon the tenderest feet
And raised a big commotion,
They heard it outside in the street—
Half drowning our devotion.
But then he chose the finest hat
To use it just like scrapers,
And made a Bible next the mat
For sacrilegious capers.
And plumping full with all his might
On helpless Granny Headlam,
He put her pious thoughts to flight
And turned the pew to Bedlam.
And raised a big commotion,
They heard it outside in the street—
Half drowning our devotion.
But then he chose the finest hat
To use it just like scrapers,
And made a Bible next the mat
For sacrilegious capers.
And plumping full with all his might
On helpless Granny Headlam,
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And turned the pew to Bedlam.
And through her choking bonnet strings,
She sighed with sore vexation—
“This is the end of mortal things,
Or the great Tribulation!”
For now the people looked at him
Or guessed what would come after,
And eyes that just before were dim
With feeling danced with laughter.
For no one yet had ever seen
Or heard such pranks in fable,
Or chapters out of Verdant Green—
God's house turned into Babel.
She sighed with sore vexation—
“This is the end of mortal things,
Or the great Tribulation!”
For now the people looked at him
Or guessed what would come after,
And eyes that just before were dim
With feeling danced with laughter.
For no one yet had ever seen
Or heard such pranks in fable,
Or chapters out of Verdant Green—
God's house turned into Babel.
And, ah no labour had been spared
To speed my ardent sermon,
With blessings asked and points prepared
And tears like dews of Hermon.
But now I felt my savoury dish
Could hardly even be tasted,
And while the Devil got his wish
My efforts must be wasted.
Till after forty faithless years,
I found my words were suited
To one poor sinner's darksome fears,
And in his life had fruited.
To speed my ardent sermon,
With blessings asked and points prepared
And tears like dews of Hermon.
But now I felt my savoury dish
Could hardly even be tasted,
And while the Devil got his wish
My efforts must be wasted.
Till after forty faithless years,
I found my words were suited
To one poor sinner's darksome fears,
And in his life had fruited.
IN THE COUNTRY.
My dear Dolly, I sigh for the season
And the joys that I fully have proved;
But Papa, without semblance of reason,
Has got gout and so cannot be moved.
So I'm doing a budget of letters
To my cronies and cousins in Town,
Though I long for their glorious fetters—
You should see my last lovely tea-gown!
Here's the post! And that limp Lady Frances
(You know wedded to Timothy White),
At the length of three-volume romances,
Has just written to say she can't write.
And the joys that I fully have proved;
But Papa, without semblance of reason,
Has got gout and so cannot be moved.
So I'm doing a budget of letters
To my cronies and cousins in Town,
Though I long for their glorious fetters—
You should see my last lovely tea-gown!
Here's the post! And that limp Lady Frances
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At the length of three-volume romances,
Has just written to say she can't write.
And no news! Though a scatter-brain artist
Has come down with his Socialist lies,
Whom they once would have ducked as a Chartist
Though he now has episcopal ties,
And some Canons—for instance, old Sammy,
With the Toynbee delights for all needs,
And his lips that are rather too jammy
With impossible sugar plum creeds.
For their gospel is mere commissariat
Rounded off by the larder and shelves,
And to please the unwashed proletariat,
They say Jesus was one of themselves!
Has come down with his Socialist lies,
Whom they once would have ducked as a Chartist
Though he now has episcopal ties,
And some Canons—for instance, old Sammy,
With the Toynbee delights for all needs,
And his lips that are rather too jammy
With impossible sugar plum creeds.
For their gospel is mere commissariat
Rounded off by the larder and shelves,
And to please the unwashed proletariat,
They say Jesus was one of themselves!
All is fun in the country, they fable,
Who rejoice in the pleasures of Town;
Yet there's little but styes and the stable,
And the gossip they bring from the “Crown.”
While the farmers, who, if it were raining
Gold in showers would grumble for more,
At the drought on the hills are complaining,
As they calmly heap higher their store.
There's the annual scare about rab-i-es,
And the Councils are busy at play;
But far better go mad than have bab-i-es,
Like poor Lil, and with nothing to pay.
Who rejoice in the pleasures of Town;
Yet there's little but styes and the stable,
And the gossip they bring from the “Crown.”
While the farmers, who, if it were raining
Gold in showers would grumble for more,
At the drought on the hills are complaining,
As they calmly heap higher their store.
There's the annual scare about rab-i-es,
And the Councils are busy at play;
But far better go mad than have bab-i-es,
Like poor Lil, and with nothing to pay.
While you flutter in silks and in satins,
Scorning earth with fastidious toe,
I'm addicted to worship and matins
And a handsome new curate called “Joe.”
Yes, my heart (if I have one) is fractured,
With the feelings that fret under paint;
Though my piety is manufactured,
For the moment, to humour the saint.
And the Doctor pronounces my ilium
Has been damaged by tennis and strains,
And his caution's severe peristylium
Shuts me in to Tartarean pains.
Scorning earth with fastidious toe,
I'm addicted to worship and matins
And a handsome new curate called “Joe.”
Yes, my heart (if I have one) is fractured,
With the feelings that fret under paint;
Though my piety is manufactured,
For the moment, to humour the saint.
And the Doctor pronounces my ilium
Has been damaged by tennis and strains,
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Shuts me in to Tartarean pains.
THE SHADDER OF GAWD.
There's a Big Boss (but not pal) at Constantinopal,As I doant like to menshun who pays no attenshun
To the truth, an jest wallers in fraud—
An they stiles 'e the “Shadder of Gawd!”
'E as wives by the duzzins an unkills an cuzzins,
An most illigant eunicks in bowstrings an tunicks,
But delights in the beastliest bawd—
An they stiles 'e the “Shadder of Gawd!”
In orl as is nasty an d—d paderasty
An with shebooks an pizen is bloomin orizen,
Iz az sick az iz stummick with lawd—
An they stiles 'e the “Shadder of Gawd!”
Ah, 'e brekfusts on babbies an un-faithful cabbies
An 'e sits at iz lunchin their marryboans crunchin,
While good Christians fur dinner iz chaw'd—
An they stiles 'e the “Shadder of Gawd!”
But he aint got no 'atter an 'e doant get no fatter
Fur iz pipes an iz coffee an sherbut an toffee,
Though with brains iz fine progress be straw'd—
An they stiles 'e the “Shadder of Gawd!”
Not to justiss 'e arkins an iz jallussy darkins
Earth an sky, an it follers the chappies with dollars
Till their teeth an the money be draw'd—
An they stiles e' the “Shadder of Gawd!”
BUFO ANTIQUUS LOQUITUR.
Here I embedded
In the eternal rock
Of I forget which d——d formation,
Have seen the shredded
Lands with earthquake shock,
Pass for my private delectation.
Palœolithic climes were chimes
And moments in this gray existence,
That surf-like on my bulwarks broke
And iron resistence;
The glacial ages were but pages,
And part of one gigantic joke.
Though systems fall,
My thunderous laughter throbs through all.
In the eternal rock
Of I forget which d——d formation,
Have seen the shredded
Lands with earthquake shock,
Pass for my private delectation.
Palœolithic climes were chimes
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That surf-like on my bulwarks broke
And iron resistence;
The glacial ages were but pages,
And part of one gigantic joke.
Though systems fall,
My thunderous laughter throbs through all.
The air is diet
And enough for me,
In this convenient classic stratum;
I love the quiet
And a corner free,
To muse on the last ultimatum—
I count but idle tears and fears
And waste of precious time and tissue,
For philosophic souls whose zest
Lives in the issue;
And countries making ground or breaking
Are different sides of the same jest,
Each period brings
Its humour in the heart of things.
And enough for me,
In this convenient classic stratum;
I love the quiet
And a corner free,
To muse on the last ultimatum—
I count but idle tears and fears
And waste of precious time and tissue,
For philosophic souls whose zest
Lives in the issue;
And countries making ground or breaking
Are different sides of the same jest,
Each period brings
Its humour in the heart of things.
Man is a bubble
To my periods pale,
And whirled by every whim or motion,
Like empty stubble
Tost before the gale—
He sinks the deeper from devotion.
A serious view of life and strife,
Just begs at once the total question—
A charge that thoughtful minds would shun,
And spoils digestion;
For, in the splashes and the crashes
Of worlds or puddles, there is fun.
In murder's wiles,
Behind her curtain Nature smiles.
To my periods pale,
And whirled by every whim or motion,
Like empty stubble
Tost before the gale—
He sinks the deeper from devotion.
A serious view of life and strife,
Just begs at once the total question—
A charge that thoughtful minds would shun,
And spoils digestion;
For, in the splashes and the crashes
Of worlds or puddles, there is fun.
In murder's wiles,
Behind her curtain Nature smiles.
I sit unheeded
And a power unknown,
Who pull the puppet-strings of nations
In ever-needed
Change for weeds o'ergrown—
The earthquakes are my cachinnations,
The eclipse is but my frown and crown;
And tempest voices are my talking,
When I to pageants passing speak
And set them walking—
I love to shatter proudest matter,
Or upon strength exalt the weak.
I ply my task,
The comedy beneath the mask.
And a power unknown,
Who pull the puppet-strings of nations
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Change for weeds o'ergrown—
The earthquakes are my cachinnations,
The eclipse is but my frown and crown;
And tempest voices are my talking,
When I to pageants passing speak
And set them walking—
I love to shatter proudest matter,
Or upon strength exalt the weak.
I ply my task,
The comedy beneath the mask.
Men are but maggots
To my endless years,
And for their minute creep and burrow
Or pile-up faggots
Towards the fire that clears
The rubbish in the final furrow.
Œonian stars that glance and dance
Or in their measured spaces twinkle,
Are nothing to my hoary Eld
Nor raise a wrinkle;
Corruption's biting leaves no writing,
On one whom bondage never held.
Within my port
Anchored, I make the world my sport.
To my endless years,
And for their minute creep and burrow
Or pile-up faggots
Towards the fire that clears
The rubbish in the final furrow.
Œonian stars that glance and dance
Or in their measured spaces twinkle,
Are nothing to my hoary Eld
Nor raise a wrinkle;
Corruption's biting leaves no writing,
On one whom bondage never held.
Within my port
Anchored, I make the world my sport.
Down in earth's oven
I preserve the flame
Which keeps the great globe warm and living,
And let no sloven
Or idle wheel disturb my game—
Each must be fuel if not giving.
I hold the mighty reins and skeins
Which seem to foolish fingers tangled,
But are to me most lucid knots;
Though noise is strangled
By them, and tallness proved but smallness;
I wind and unwind playful plots.
The whole's intent,
To thinkers is mere merriment.
I preserve the flame
Which keeps the great globe warm and living,
And let no sloven
Or idle wheel disturb my game—
Each must be fuel if not giving.
I hold the mighty reins and skeins
Which seem to foolish fingers tangled,
But are to me most lucid knots;
Though noise is strangled
By them, and tallness proved but smallness;
I wind and unwind playful plots.
The whole's intent,
To thinkers is mere merriment.
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THE DEVIL IN PARLIAMENT.
Ho, the Devil rose up, like Lord Coningtower's cupTo his lips, with as graceful an attitude;
And he dropped in to dine with Sir William at nine,
In the midst of his prettiest platitude.
He was modernised quite, and fresh painted all white,
With an orchid of cost in his buttonhole,
He had manners of mark, good enough for the park,
And looked cool as the frigidest mutton-hole—
From New Zealand, you guess—with an easy address,
And a way that you could but call affable.
In Church matters and State not a bit out of date,
And with anecdotes pointed and laughable.
Then the two (a sweet pair) with an innocent air,
To the House toddled in for some oratory;
There was Joseph in power with his eyeglass and flower,
And the Premier from his Laboratory.
Then the famous “First Whig,” half a Blue-book, half prig,
Took his place with the others in Parliament;
Though the brewers looked black, for he was on their track,
And he knew all that d——d foreign barley meant.
But he called himself now, with a Radical brow,
A pure Socialist plunging in politics;
For he followed that card of conceits by the yard,
And the timepiece of party's new folly ticks.
Ah, the Devil was apt with his reasons, and tapt
Sweet quotations and took just the quiddity;
He was gallant and good to Tim Healy, who stood
On the “right of his private stupidity.”
He had precedents ripe, and as pat as a stripe,
For his service and all who were entering;
Ready-made little saws, and most wonderful laws,
Far ahead of the wildest Dissentering.
He gave many a hint, not yet published in print,
To the pets of his latest Democracy;
And a sinister heat, for each ill-gotten seat
Of his partners in gambling and Stock-cracy.
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Just to show himself still the old gentleman;
With the tiniest whiff of the brimstone to sniff,
Which encouraged his peaflour-and-lentil man.
Till he started at last from a vision aghast,
And upset dear Sir William's own suavity,
While he tumbled down flat upon Morley's best hat—
Hiding him in its awful concavity.
Then he bolted apace from Lord Rupert's red face
(Which he thought was the judgment fire beckoning),
And his terrible nose like the trump of doom's close,
But left William to pay for the reckoning.
THE CONCERT OF EUROPE.
The Frenchman tootles on his horn;The Kaiser beats the drum of scorn;
The Tsar (who would annex the moon)
Plays in the distance his bassoon;
The Briton on a trumpet blares,
And shudders at his Foreign Shares;
The Austrian Emperor won't be mute,
With variations on the flute;
And Italy in sorrow sends
With organ (but no dividends)
A monkey and her Nicolo;
While Turkey in the Concert strives
And fiddles on her subjects' lives,
Though Hellas pipes the piccolo.
For all (remembering sweet per cents)
Are playing different instruments
To different tunes, in sharps and flats,
Like thirty thousand squalling cats,
With thirty thousand kettles tied
Upon their tails—and thus allied.
But from this harmony of fears
And doubts that darken with the years,
Which with hot shrapnel soon may shiver us,
May God in mercy now deliver us.
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