The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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HIS FRIENDS
OLD AND YOUNG |
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139
VI HIS FRIENDS OLD AND YOUNG
141
Clevedon Church
In Memoriam H. B.
Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales,
The low sky silver gray,
The turbid Channel with the wandering sails
Moans through the winter day.
There is no colour but one ashen light
On tower and lonely tree,
The little church upon the windy height
Is gray as sky or sea.
But there hath he that woke the sleepless love
Slept through these fifty years,
There is the grave that has been wept above
With more than mortal tears.
And far below I hear the Channel sweep
And all his waves complain,
As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep
Its monotone of pain.
The low sky silver gray,
The turbid Channel with the wandering sails
Moans through the winter day.
There is no colour but one ashen light
On tower and lonely tree,
The little church upon the windy height
Is gray as sky or sea.
But there hath he that woke the sleepless love
Slept through these fifty years,
There is the grave that has been wept above
With more than mortal tears.
And far below I hear the Channel sweep
And all his waves complain,
As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep
Its monotone of pain.
142
Gray sky—brown waters—as a bird that flies,
My heart flits forth from these
Back to the winter rose of northern skies,
Back to the northern seas.
And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat
Below the minster gray,
Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet,
And knees of them that pray.
And I remember me how twain were one
Beside that ocean dim,
I count the years passed over since the sun
That lights me looked on him,
And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep,
Shall greet me not again,
Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep
And all his waves complain.
My heart flits forth from these
Back to the winter rose of northern skies,
Back to the northern seas.
And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat
Below the minster gray,
Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet,
And knees of them that pray.
And I remember me how twain were one
Beside that ocean dim,
I count the years passed over since the sun
That lights me looked on him,
And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep,
Shall greet me not again,
Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep
And all his waves complain.
143
To E. M. S.
‘Prima dicta mihi, summa dicenda Camena.’
The years will pass, and hearts will range,
You conquer time, and care, and change.
Though time doth still delight to shed
The dust on many a younger head;
Though care, oft coming, hath the guile
From younger lips to steal the smile;
Though change makes younger hearts wax cold,
And sells new loves for loves of old,
Time, change, nor care, hath learned the art
To fleck your hair, to chill your heart,
To touch your tresses with the snow,
To mar your mirth of long ago.
Change, care, nor time, while life endure,
Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure,
The love which flows from sacred springs,
In ‘old unhappy far-off things’,
From sympathies in grief and joy,
Through all the years of man and boy.
144
When even this ‘brindled’ head was young
I bring, and later rhymes I bring
That flit upon as weak a wing
But still for you—for yours—they sing!—
145
Tusitala
R. L. S.
We spoke of a rest in a fairy knowe of the north, but he,
Far from the firths of the east, and the racing tides of the west,
Sleeps in the sight and the sound of the infinite southern sea,
Weary and well content in his grave on the Vaëa crest.
Far from the firths of the east, and the racing tides of the west,
Sleeps in the sight and the sound of the infinite southern sea,
Weary and well content in his grave on the Vaëa crest.
Tusitala, the lover of children, the teller of tales,
Giver of counsel and dreams, a wonder, a world's delight,
Looks o'er the labours of men in the plain and the hill; and the sails
Pass and repass on the sea that he loved, in the day and the night.
Giver of counsel and dreams, a wonder, a world's delight,
Looks o'er the labours of men in the plain and the hill; and the sails
Pass and repass on the sea that he loved, in the day and the night.
Winds of the west and the east in the rainy season blow
Heavy with perfume, and all his fragrant woods are wet,
Winds of the east and west as they wander to and fro,
Bear him the love of the land he loved, and the long regret.
Heavy with perfume, and all his fragrant woods are wet,
Winds of the east and west as they wander to and fro,
Bear him the love of the land he loved, and the long regret.
146
Once we were kindest, he said, when leagues of the limitless sea
Flowed between us, but now that no wash of the wandering tides
Sunders us each from each, yet nearer we seem to be,
Whom only the unbridged stream of the river of death divides.
Flowed between us, but now that no wash of the wandering tides
Sunders us each from each, yet nearer we seem to be,
Whom only the unbridged stream of the river of death divides.
147
To Robert Louis Stevenson
WITH KIRK'S ‘SECRET COMMONWEALTH’
Olouis! you that like them maist,
Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,
And fairy dames, no unco chaste,
And haunted cell.
Among a heathen clan ye're placed,
That kens na hell!
Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,
And fairy dames, no unco chaste,
And haunted cell.
Among a heathen clan ye're placed,
That kens na hell!
Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,
Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks,
There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,
An awfu' place!
Nane kens the Covenant o' Works
Frae that o' Grace!
Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks,
There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,
An awfu' place!
Nane kens the Covenant o' Works
Frae that o' Grace!
But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read
Blads o' the Covenanting creed,
And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed
On halesome parritch;
And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed
O' the Shorter Carritch.
Blads o' the Covenanting creed,
And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed
On halesome parritch;
And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed
O' the Shorter Carritch.
148
Yet thae uncovenanted shavers
Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers
O' gods and etins—auld wives' havers,
But their delight;
The voice o' him that tells them quavers
Just wi' fair fright.
Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers
O' gods and etins—auld wives' havers,
But their delight;
The voice o' him that tells them quavers
Just wi' fair fright.
And ye might tell, ayont the faem,
Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame
To speak the truth, I tak na shame
To half believe them;
And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name,
They'll a' receive them.
Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame
To speak the truth, I tak na shame
To half believe them;
And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name,
They'll a' receive them.
And folk to come ayont the sea
May hear the yowl o' the Banshie,
And frae the water-kelpie flee,
Ere a' things cease,
And island bairns may stolen be
By the folk o' peace.
May hear the yowl o' the Banshie,
And frae the water-kelpie flee,
Ere a' things cease,
And island bairns may stolen be
By the folk o' peace.
149
Once Again
To L.
I linger round the very spot
Where once we heeled the ball,
And wonder if you've quite forgot
Our sessions at the Hall;
How gallantly we missed the globe,
How gaily skelped the green,
And wore the regulation robe
And ran the Magazine.
Where once we heeled the ball,
And wonder if you've quite forgot
Our sessions at the Hall;
How gallantly we missed the globe,
How gaily skelped the green,
And wore the regulation robe
And ran the Magazine.
Forever yet my thoughts incline
To catches in the slips,
Which might have been, but were not, mine;
My frozen finger-tips
Let chances go like water through,
And batsmen ran for three,
And, if you were the bowler, you
Would pitch the stumps at me!
To catches in the slips,
Which might have been, but were not, mine;
My frozen finger-tips
Let chances go like water through,
And batsmen ran for three,
And, if you were the bowler, you
Would pitch the stumps at me!
150
Ballade Dedicatory
To Mrs. Charles Elton, of Whitestaunton
The painted Briton built his mound,
And left his celts and clay,
On yon fair slope of sunlit ground
That fronts your garden gay;
The Roman came, he bore the sway,
He bullied, bought, and sold—
Your fountain sweeps his works away
Beside your manor old!
And left his celts and clay,
On yon fair slope of sunlit ground
That fronts your garden gay;
The Roman came, he bore the sway,
He bullied, bought, and sold—
Your fountain sweeps his works away
Beside your manor old!
But still his crumbling urns are found
Within the window-bay,
Where once he listened to the sound
That lulls you day by day;—
The sound of summer winds at play,
The noise of waters cold
To Yarty wandering on their way,
Beside your manor old!
Within the window-bay,
Where once he listened to the sound
That lulls you day by day;—
The sound of summer winds at play,
The noise of waters cold
To Yarty wandering on their way,
Beside your manor old!
151
The Roman fell: his firm-set bound
Became the Saxon's stay;
The bells made music all around
For monks in cloisters gray;
Till fled the monks in disarray
From their warm chantry's fold;
Old Abbots slumber as they may,
Beside your manor old!
Became the Saxon's stay;
The bells made music all around
For monks in cloisters gray;
Till fled the monks in disarray
From their warm chantry's fold;
Old Abbots slumber as they may,
Beside your manor old!
Envoy
Creeds, empires, peoples, all decay,Down into darkness, rolled;
May life that's fleet be sweet, I pray,
Beside your manor old.
152
E. C. S.
‘Ban and Arrière Ban!’ a host
Broken, beaten, all unled,
They return as doth a ghost
From the dead.
Broken, beaten, all unled,
They return as doth a ghost
From the dead.
Sad or glad, my rallied rhymes,
Sought our dusty papers through,
For the sake of other times
Come to you.
Sought our dusty papers through,
For the sake of other times
Come to you.
Times and places new we know,
Faces fresh and seasons strange;
But the friends of long ago
Do not change.
Faces fresh and seasons strange;
But the friends of long ago
Do not change.
153
L'Envoi
To E. W. G.
Each in the self-same field we gleanThe field of the Samosatene;
Each something takes and something leaves,
And this must choose, and that forgo
In Lucian's visionary sheaves,
To twine a modern posy so;
But all my gleanings, truth to tell,
Are mixed with mournful asphodel,
While yours are wreathed with poppies red,
With flowers that Helen's feet have kissed,
With leaves of vine that garlanded
The Syrian Pantagruelist,
The sage who laughed the world away,
Who mocked at gods, and men, and care,
More sweet of voice than Rabelais,
And lighter-hearted than Voltaire.
154
Desiderium
In Memoriam S. F. A.
The call of homing rooks, the shrill
Song of some bird that watches late,
The cries of children break the still
Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.
Song of some bird that watches late,
The cries of children break the still
Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.
And o'er your far-off tomb the gray
Sad twilight broods, and from the trees
The rooks call on their homeward way,
And are you heedless quite of these?
Sad twilight broods, and from the trees
The rooks call on their homeward way,
And are you heedless quite of these?
The clustered rowan berries red
And autumn's may, the clematis,
They droop above your dreaming head;
And these, and all things must you miss?
And autumn's may, the clematis,
They droop above your dreaming head;
And these, and all things must you miss?
Ah, you that loved the twilight air,
The dim lit hour of quiet best,
At last, at last you have your share
Of what life gave so seldom, rest!
The dim lit hour of quiet best,
At last, at last you have your share
Of what life gave so seldom, rest!
155
Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep,
Or labour, nearer the Divine,
And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep,
And gentle as thy soul, is thine!
Or labour, nearer the Divine,
And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep,
And gentle as thy soul, is thine!
So let it be! But could I know
That thou in this soft autumn eve,
This hush of earth that pleased thee so,
Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.
That thou in this soft autumn eve,
This hush of earth that pleased thee so,
Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.
156
In Augustinum Dobson
Iam Rude Donatum
Dear poet, now turned out to grass
(Like him who reigned in Babylon),
Forget the seasons overlaid
By business and the Board of Trade:
And sing of old-world lad and lass
As in the summers that are gone.
(Like him who reigned in Babylon),
Forget the seasons overlaid
By business and the Board of Trade:
And sing of old-world lad and lass
As in the summers that are gone.
Back to the golden prime of Anne!
When you ambassador had been,
And brought o'er sea the King again,
Beatrix Esmond in his train.
Ah, happy bard to hold her fan,
And happy land with such a queen!
When you ambassador had been,
And brought o'er sea the King again,
Beatrix Esmond in his train.
Ah, happy bard to hold her fan,
And happy land with such a queen!
We live too early, or too late,
You should have shared the pint of Pope,
And taught, well pleased, the shining shell
To murmur of the fair Lepel,
And changed the stars of St. John's fate
To some more happy horoscope.
You should have shared the pint of Pope,
And taught, well pleased, the shining shell
To murmur of the fair Lepel,
And changed the stars of St. John's fate
To some more happy horoscope.
157
By duchesses with roses crowned,
And fed with chicken and champagne,
Urbane and witty, and too wary
To risk the feud of Lady Mary,
You should have walked the courtly ground
Of times that cannot come again.
And fed with chicken and champagne,
Urbane and witty, and too wary
To risk the feud of Lady Mary,
You should have walked the courtly ground
Of times that cannot come again.
Bring back these years in verse or prose,
(I very much prefer your verse!)
As on some Twenty-Ninth of May
Restore the splendour and the sway,
Forget the sins, the wars, the woes—
The joys alone must you rehearse.
(I very much prefer your verse!)
As on some Twenty-Ninth of May
Restore the splendour and the sway,
Forget the sins, the wars, the woes—
The joys alone must you rehearse.
Forget the dunces (there is none
So stupid as to snarl at you);
So may your years with pen and book
Run pleasant as an English brook
Through meadows floral in the sun,
And shadows fragrant of the dew.
So stupid as to snarl at you);
So may your years with pen and book
Run pleasant as an English brook
Through meadows floral in the sun,
And shadows fragrant of the dew.
And thus at ending of your span—
As all must end—the world shall say,
‘His best he gave: he left us not
A line that saints could wish to blot,
For he was blameless, though a man;
And though the poet, he was gay!’
As all must end—the world shall say,
‘His best he gave: he left us not
A line that saints could wish to blot,
For he was blameless, though a man;
And though the poet, he was gay!’
158
Ballade of Summer
To C. H. A.
When strawberry pottles are common and cheap,
Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And far from Fleet Street, far from here,
The summer is queen in the length of the land,
And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And far from Fleet Street, far from here,
The summer is queen in the length of the land,
And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
When clamour that doves in the linden keep
Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And better a crust and a beaker of beer,
With rose-hung hedges on either hand,
Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And better a crust and a beaker of beer,
With rose-hung hedges on either hand,
Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
159
When big trout late in the twilight leap,
When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
Where kine knee deep in the water stand,
On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
Where kine knee deep in the water stand,
On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
Envoy
Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And the summer runs out, like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
160
Ode to Mr. Saintsbury
Come, all ye maidens and young men,Who thump the lute and smack the lyre;
Thy sweetness bring, Le Gallienne,
Watson, thy wing of eager fire!
Impassioned Benson, softly sing,
‘Not yet the Muse's race is run,’
Touch, Thompson, touch the sounding string,
With Johnson, Dobson, Davidson!
Austin and Morris, fill the fife,
Or sound the clarion, as of yore,
Sing, Arnold, of this mortal life,
Which Sakya Muni deemed a bore!
Build, Rhymers' Club, the lofty rhyme,
Great fancies mate with glowing words;
Like Pembroke—in the Doctor's time—
The land's ‘a nest of singing birds’.
Let Tabb renew his modest vein,
Nor let the voice of Tabley fail.
With Blowsabella, once again,
Delight us, Muse of Mr. Gale!
161
The barrel organ will essay,
Once more my penny whistle ply,
Be archly sad, or glumly gay.
Lo, at that threat the man succumbs,
Before my voice the critic flies,
The populace turn down their thumbs,
He pales, he reels, he sinks, he dies!
162
To Louisa Viscountess Wolseley
Madame, it is no modish thing,
The bookman's tribute that I bring;
A talk of antiquaries gray,
Dust unto dust this many a day,
Gossip of texts and bindings old,
Of faded type, and tarnish'd gold!
The bookman's tribute that I bring;
A talk of antiquaries gray,
Dust unto dust this many a day,
Gossip of texts and bindings old,
Of faded type, and tarnish'd gold!
Can ladies care for this to-do
With Payne, Derome, and Padeloup?
Can they resign the rout, the ball,
For lonely joys of shelf and stall?
With Payne, Derome, and Padeloup?
Can they resign the rout, the ball,
For lonely joys of shelf and stall?
The critic thus serenely wise;
But you can read with other eyes,
Whose books and bindings treasured are
'Midst mingled spoils of peace and war;
Shields from the fights the Mahdi lost,
And trinkets from the Golden Coast,
And many a thing divinely done
By Chippendale and Sheraton,
And trophies of Egyptian deeds,
And fans, and plates, and aggrey beads,
Pomander boxes, assegais,
And sword-hilts worn in Marlbro's days.
But you can read with other eyes,
Whose books and bindings treasured are
'Midst mingled spoils of peace and war;
Shields from the fights the Mahdi lost,
And trinkets from the Golden Coast,
And many a thing divinely done
By Chippendale and Sheraton,
163
And fans, and plates, and aggrey beads,
Pomander boxes, assegais,
And sword-hilts worn in Marlbro's days.
In this abode of old and new,
Of war and peace, my essays, too,
For long in serials tempest-tost,
Are landed now, and are not lost:
Nay, on your shelf secure they lie,
As in the amber sleeps the fly.
'Tis true, they are not ‘rich nor rare’;
Enough, for me, that they are—there!
Of war and peace, my essays, too,
For long in serials tempest-tost,
Are landed now, and are not lost:
Nay, on your shelf secure they lie,
As in the amber sleeps the fly.
'Tis true, they are not ‘rich nor rare’;
Enough, for me, that they are—there!
164
Introductory Verses
TO Songs and Rhymes: English and French by Walter Herries Pollock: London, 1882.
Orhymer! skilled on either string,In either tongue, to strike and sing,
Why ask of me an idle thing,
A rhyme before your Rhymes to set?
For good wine needs no bush; nor these
Demand my praise to make them please.
More than the gray anemones
From fragrant April gardens wet
Your singing verse delights my dream;
But, bid me scribble, and I seem
The huckster hoarse that o'er the stream
Of traffic howls, Fresh flowers to-day!
The crowd must praise the flowers, must come
To buy them, but they wish him dumb,
The man who cracks your tympanum
With shouting what he need not say.
The crowd in London's dust and grime
Must crave the buds of summer time,
But he who shouts, and I who rhyme,
Might almost scare the crowd away!
165
His art, he'd let the scented dew,
The country fragrance wafted through
The street, bring custom to his stall:
And I, more wise than he, will let
The blossoms in your garden set,
Pansy, and rue, and violet,
Speak for themselves to one and all.
166
For Mark Twain's Jubilee
To brave Mark Twain, across the sea,
The years have brought his jubilee;
One hears it half with pain,
That fifty years have passed and gone
Since danced the merry star that shone
Above the babe, Mark Twain!
The years have brought his jubilee;
One hears it half with pain,
That fifty years have passed and gone
Since danced the merry star that shone
Above the babe, Mark Twain!
How many and many a weary day,
When sad enough were we, ‘Mark's way’
(Unlike the Laureate's Mark's)
Has made us laugh until we cried,
And sinking back exhausted, sighed,
Like Gargery, Wot larx!
When sad enough were we, ‘Mark's way’
(Unlike the Laureate's Mark's)
Has made us laugh until we cried,
And sinking back exhausted, sighed,
Like Gargery, Wot larx!
We turn his pages, and we see
The Mississippi flowing free;
We turn again and grin
O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned,
With him of the Ensanguined Hand,
With Huckleberry Finn!
The Mississippi flowing free;
We turn again and grin
O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned,
With him of the Ensanguined Hand,
With Huckleberry Finn!
167
Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells
Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells
Across the Atlantic main,
Grant that Mark's laughter never die,
That men, through many a century,
May chuckle o'er Mark Twain!
Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells
Across the Atlantic main,
Grant that Mark's laughter never die,
That men, through many a century,
May chuckle o'er Mark Twain!
168
She
To H. R. H.
Not in the waste beyond the swamps and sand,
The fever-haunted forest and lagoon,
Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand,
Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon,
Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune
Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned,
The world is disenchanted; over soon
Shall Europe send her spies through all the land.
The fever-haunted forest and lagoon,
Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand,
Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon,
Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune
Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned,
The world is disenchanted; over soon
Shall Europe send her spies through all the land.
Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot,
In town or field, or by the insatiate sea,
Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot,
Or break themselves on some divine decree,
Or would o'erleap the limits of their lot,
There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth she!
In town or field, or by the insatiate sea,
Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot,
Or break themselves on some divine decree,
Or would o'erleap the limits of their lot,
There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth she!
169
To R. L. S.
Dear Louis of the awful cheek!Who told you it was right to speak,
Where all the world might hear and stare,
Of other fellows' ‘brindled hair’?
‘Shadows we are’, the Sophist knew—
Shadows—‘and shadows we pursue.’
For this my ghost shall chase your shadow
From Skerryvore to Colorado.
170
With a Fairy Book
To E. A. C.
Too late they come—too late for you,
These old friends that are ever new,
Enchanted in our volume blue;
These old friends that are ever new,
Enchanted in our volume blue;
For you ere now have wandered o'er
A world of tales untold of yore,
And learned the later fairy-lore!
A world of tales untold of yore,
And learned the later fairy-lore!
Nay, as within her briery brake
The Sleeping Beauty did awake,
Old tales may rouse them for your sake,
The Sleeping Beauty did awake,
Old tales may rouse them for your sake,
And you once more may voyage through
The forests that of old we knew,
The fairy forests deep in dew;
The forests that of old we knew,
The fairy forests deep in dew;
Where you, resuming childish things,
Shall listen when the Blue Bird sings,
And sit at feast with fairy kings,
Shall listen when the Blue Bird sings,
And sit at feast with fairy kings,
171
And taste their wine, ere all be done,
And face more welcome shall be none
Among the guests of Oberon.
And face more welcome shall be none
Among the guests of Oberon.
Ay, of that feast shall tales be told,
The marvels of that world of gold,
To children young, when you are old.
The marvels of that world of gold,
To children young, when you are old.
When you are old! Ah, dateless ‘when’,
For youth shall perish among men,
And Spring herself be ancient then!
For youth shall perish among men,
And Spring herself be ancient then!
172
To D. R. T.
Dear Dorothea, I and youBoth write, I'm told, of dwarfs and fays,
And if, O maid with eyes so blue,
They come—as probably they do—
And teach you all about their ways,
I wish you'd give them my address,
Or bid them at the Club look in,
And tell their secrets, and confess
Where lay the fairy palaces.
My utmost gratitude you'll win,
And I, till tolls my parting knell,
Will be your faithful slave
A. L.
173
To Master Frederick Longman
Herlies, 1914.
This year our book for Christmas varies,
Deals not with history nor fairies,
(I can't help thinking, children, you
Prefer a book which is not true)
We leave these intellectual feasts,
To talk of fishes, birds, and beasts.
These—though his aim is scarcely steady—
These are, I think, a theme for Freddy!
Trout, though he is not up to fly,
He soon will catch—as well as I!
So Freddy, take this artless rhyme
And be a sportsman in your time!
174
To Francis McCunn
Loos, 1915
You like the things I used to like,
The things I'm fond of still,
The sound of fairy wands that strike
Men into beasts at will.
The things I'm fond of still,
The sound of fairy wands that strike
Men into beasts at will.
The cruel step-mother, the fair
Step-daughter, kind and leal,
The bull and bear so debonair,
The trenchant fairy steel.
Step-daughter, kind and leal,
The bull and bear so debonair,
The trenchant fairy steel.
You love the world where brute and fish
Converse with man and bird,
Where dungeons open at a wish,
And seas dry at a word.
Converse with man and bird,
Where dungeons open at a wish,
And seas dry at a word.
That merry world to-day we leave,
We list an o'er-true tale
Of hearts that sore for Charlie grieve,
When handsome princes fail;
We list an o'er-true tale
Of hearts that sore for Charlie grieve,
When handsome princes fail;
175
Of gallant races overthrown,
Of dungeons ill to climb,
There's no such tale of trouble known
In all the fairy time.
Of dungeons ill to climb,
There's no such tale of trouble known
In all the fairy time.
There, Montezuma still were king;
There, Charles would wear the crown;
And there the Highlanders would ding
The Hanoverian down.
There, Charles would wear the crown;
And there the Highlanders would ding
The Hanoverian down.
In Fairyland the Rightful Cause
Is never long a-winning,
In Fairyland the fairy laws
Are prompt to punish sinning:
Is never long a-winning,
In Fairyland the fairy laws
Are prompt to punish sinning:
For Fairyland's the land of joy,
And this the world of pain;
So back to Fairyland, my boy,
We'll journey once again.
And this the world of pain;
So back to Fairyland, my boy,
We'll journey once again.
176
To Joan, Toddles, and Tiny: otherwise Meg and Maisie
Books Yellow, Red, and Green and Blue,
All true, or just as good as true,
And here's the Yellow Book for you!
All true, or just as good as true,
And here's the Yellow Book for you!
Hard is the path from A to Z,
And puzzling to a curly head,
Yet leads to books—Green, Blue and Red.
And puzzling to a curly head,
Yet leads to books—Green, Blue and Red.
For every child should understand
That letters from the first were planned
To guide us into Fairy Land.
That letters from the first were planned
To guide us into Fairy Land.
So labour at your alphabet
For by that learning shall you get
To lands where fairies may be met.
For by that learning shall you get
To lands where fairies may be met.
And going where this pathway goes
You too, at last, may find—who knows?
The garden of the Singing Rose.
You too, at last, may find—who knows?
The garden of the Singing Rose.
177
To Miss Sybil Corbet
Sybil, the Beasts we bring to you
Are not so friendly, not so odd,
As those that all amazed we view,
The brutes created by your nod—
The Wuss, the Azorkon, and the Pod;
But then, our tales are true!
Are not so friendly, not so odd,
As those that all amazed we view,
The brutes created by your nod—
The Wuss, the Azorkon, and the Pod;
But then, our tales are true!
Fauna of fancy, one and all
Obey your happy voice, we know;
A garden zoological
Is all around where'er you go;
Mellys and Kanks walk to and fro,
And Didds attend your call.
Obey your happy voice, we know;
A garden zoological
Is all around where'er you go;
Mellys and Kanks walk to and fro,
And Didds attend your call.
We have but common wolves and bears,
Lion and leopard, hawk and hind,
Tigers and crocodiles and hares:
But yet they hope you will be kind,
And mark with sympathetic mind
These moving tales of theirs.
Lion and leopard, hawk and hind,
Tigers and crocodiles and hares:
But yet they hope you will be kind,
And mark with sympathetic mind
These moving tales of theirs.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |