University of Virginia Library

“DOG'S EARS.”

Here fell his hand. and for a moment trifled
With the reluctant page,
Objecting to be rifled
Thus of its glory in the virgin stage
Of new first freshness; by the strain and struggle,
When rude young vigour tried to snuggle
Too closely, madam, with its unwashed Adam,
And the protesting page upcurled in rage.
A boy's brown hand,
Which fitted better to the bat or ball,
And yet was beautiful in all,
Shaped for command.
Tall Harold! Now the earth upon him lies,
And he has read the ancient mysteries
Veiled from the mortal glances
Of these lame deathward dances,
And in the calm eternities
He knows the secret of romances.
Alas, that I, now shunted on the shelf
With faded goods and hardihoods,
Then did not go myself!
And here—it is the same old story book
With the same injured look,
She toyed with baby fingers
Most delicate and fair,
But with a reverent awestruck air
And timid touch that moved me much
Almost to tears—and lingers;
She tried to turn one stubborn leaf
And got entangled in a sheaf,
Then laughed and blushed in pink and white deliciousness
At her poor awkward aims and baffled claims,
And then had nearly cried
In sheer capriciousness
When she again and vainly tried.
Bright Ethel!
And she is likewise gone, who travelled far
To sleep, no more a wayward child
Though ever wild,
Under the Southern Cross and alien star,
And in no homely Bethel.
But this?
A dreadful combat here was hotly waged,
Which ended in the usual kiss
When sunk the storm that for five minutes raged
And broke two tea cups and one golden head;
Mab wanted pictures,
Rob something to be read,
And both had loving pats and strictures.
But thus, you see, the shocking deed was done,
And such a “dog's ear” (rather say a “hog's ear”)
Was surely seen by none.
Mab married—
Well? A big house in Belgrave Square
And half a million too, which with them carried
A drunken bully and a world of care;
She dressed divinely and was good
At waltzing, pious acts and tracts,
And early services and patent facts—
Yes, everything but motherhood.
Some artist fellow
Who could when sober write
And did (himself a dirty green and yellow)
In “Black and White,”
Made capital of her and took her off, in
A season's tale,
Which reeked of stale cigars and ale
And ran through ten editions with the sale—
But Mab was happiest in her coffin.
Rob could not qualify for scarlet,
And with one great mouth-filling d—n
Swearing he would not be a lazy varlet
Renounced the ordeal of exam;
But then, born soldier, he—
Yes, teste patre, sir, a game son—
Went over sea
To do his little share
Of duty and a glorious care
And rode and fought and died with Jameson.
Look at this pucker!
'Twas here my parson boy, the placid Fred
So fond of books he always jibbed at bed
Like some Malay went suddenly a mucker;
Because a visitor,
One of the cousins whom he had by dozens,
Called him a “baby”!
Fred's fist soon turned inquisitor
And one eye black and may be,
The pretty pair—
I can't remember now.
His cooing voice and girlish hair
And white unruffled brow,
Took in his playmates till they felt
His angry knuckles;
His Bishop knows, if any Rector truckles
To lord or layman, then his name is spelt
With different letters.
He is a book in trousers
Unto this day, and it requires some rousers
To tear him from his gilded fetters.
One more!
This is my Dolly's private mark,
Pet and particular,
Whose dainty fingers were not slack to score;
She used to cuddle up to me at dark,
With some auricular
Confession of commandments chipped,
When she had stolen sugar lumps or slipped
On stony paths of virtue;
With looks half-pleased, half-shy,
As if I said, “No punishment shall hurt you!”
With frocks and words awry,
My precious Dolly!
So exquisite, and wiser
In all the riches of her radiant folly
And pure defence of innocence,
Than any miser
With his tremendous balance at the bank
And in his joyless soul a blank.
It seemed not right that she should suffer,
That fragile form of gossamer and dew
And light be wrung with cruel pains
Of many a throe and sounds of woe,
And hear a sentence grim and gruffer
Than torture's footfall cursed anew
Or groans of prison chains;
And lie for years of tears upon her back,
As on a martyr's rack
Or at a fiery stake to burn and quake
In ceaseless pangs to lie,
As she does yet
With every pulse of agony beset—
But not to die.
And lo!
I would you should consider next
This turned-up text,
The one reserved and ready show
Meant for the infant of the cradle,
A spectacle of most amazing art,
With fearful hues of reds and blues
And every colour too in part—
Somebody feeding something with a ladle,
And four and twenty blackbirds in a tart!
Here golden Cicely,
The baby romp then regnant
Set her sweet rosebud lips,
With mirth and mischief pregnant—
Though all her sins were done so nicely—
And took ecstatic sips
With coral gums and greedy thumbs,
Which left eclipse.
Where is she now, I often weep and wonder?
I question night and day
The birds and breezes at their play,
The flowers and thorns along my way,
And thought and thunder;
I ask myself, I beg of all,
But nothing answers to my call.
By many winsome naughty wiles
And dazzling smiles
To me and every one endeared,
She sprang up as a splendid poppy
Proud and despising shams and what was shoppy
Or smelled of soil and honest toil—
And disappeared.
She left no single trace,
A glance, a glove, a tiny thread of love,
But in the boundless awful ocean
Of life and strife without commotion
Went down, and left an empty place
In heart and home which never can be filled—
Untamed, self-willed.
Ah, death were fuel
For an abiding sorrow and a shade
Which could not fade,
But this is worse and the most cruel
Last mad refinement of all malice
Which brims the chalice
Above full measure with its flow—
Never to know.
One other rumpled
Dear corner, and I then will cease.
It is no common crease,
Believe me, but is neatly wrought and rumpled
By a fond mother's hand,
Which here and there has left a pleasant sign
Of ministries and care benign
For ever yielding to some young demand
Unsated; yes, the whole wide book
Is blurred and blotted
With her great tender love, which saw
In each new whim's imperious law,
Just the one task allotted.
But at this tumbled page,
I note a special stage
And every wrinkle seems to twinkle
With some sad heritage.
O here
There is a sacred scent,
A solemn atmosphere
Of things departed,
Which dimly went out of our great content
To leave me lone and broken-hearted.
But at this very spot—I see her now
Divinely bow,
With not unconscious grace and queenly pose—
Her elbow rested,
As to my face she turned full-breasted
And laid on mine her mouth's dear crimson rose;
To tell me of her secret trouble,
Hardly, at length,
The gnawing curse which sapped her strength
By silence long made double.
And then she met the horror, fought
Up to the citadel,
As at his post a hero sentinel
Unshaken stands and never flinches,
Though deeply in her blood the poison wrought—
And died by inches.
You see, I find a sanctity and spell
In this old picture-book so torn and tattered,
And every “dog's ear” is a tomb
Of hopes all shed and shattered.
But yet, at times of evening chimes,
It is a wondrous womb
Of old and new creations and beginnings;
And then my darlings do come back to me
Bright without sear or sinnings,
And falls another light on land and sea.