English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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| III. |
BUFO ANTIQUUS LOQUITUR. |
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 | English Roses |  |
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
325
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
326
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.
| English Roses | |