Life and Phantasy :: :: University of Virginia Library

Old Michael of the Mountain, strolling past,
Careless and quiet, now and then would cast
To right or left a penetrating look;
And gather'd waifs and strays up with a hook
Shaped like the sign of query; scrap and rag
In easy reach he clapt into his bag,
Idly assiduous, mocking his own whim
With twinkling eyes, and took all home with him,
Where lazily he sorted them at last.
What skill or magic in his fingers lay,
What subtly added he, 'twere hard to say;
But somehow, this took substance as a Book
That shines where all around hath fallen dim.

138

AN INVITATION.

To the Wits how writeth Crœsus?
“Gracious Heav'n hath freely giv'n
Wealth, and now of Wit we're fain;
Clever Talker,—Thinker,—Poet,—
Come and amuse us, lull us, please us;
Let's each other entertain.
(But never thwart us, never tease us;
If you do, we'd have you know it,
Men of scanty dish and cup,
Not the least bit or sup
Of our feast shall fall your way).
Come, friends, come, talk and dine,
Drink our wine, and let's be gay!
Thought, song, wit, are pretty things;
On nimble wings around they flit,
Tame little birds, and gently sit
With pleasant twitter—wit-wit-twit!
Our world, the solid and the true,
Likes its decorations too,
And we embellish it with you,
When we've nothing else to do.

Food and flattery ready—come!
Eat, drink, make yourselves at home;
Nothing ever do or say
Which might vex us, while you stay;
Ere you bore us, go away;
And come again some other day.”

This is not how Crœsus writeth:
Much more blandly he inviteth.

139

IN A BOOK OF MAXIMS.

“Maxims” of wisdom,—minims fitlier named,
If wise in any sense: the nobler part
Of human nature sneeringly disclaim'd,
The low put forward with malicious art!
Chicane at court and cheating in the mart
All see; but now examine unashamed
The vanities and failings of the famed,
The selfishness of good folk: does your heart
Not feel its cockles tickled? “We pretend
To nothing, you and I, we know too well
How mean we are; but just observe, my friend,
More closely these pretensions to excel,
And with a smile admit that, truth to tell,
You find us all poor creatures in the end!”

140

A MODERN PLEASAUNCE.

Our Garden is full of flowers and bowers;
But the toll of a death-bell haunts the air.
We have tried to drown it with lute and voice,
Love-songs and banquet-songs for choice,
But still it is ever tolling there;
And who can silence that dreadful bell?

Take the grim key-note; modulate well;
Let us keep time and tune with the knell,—
Sing of mad pleasure and fierce despair,
Roses, and blood, and the fire of hell!
With pants and sobs, with shrieks and moans,
Loud laughter mingled with dying groans;
The death-bell knolling pitilessly
Through all, our key-note,—and what care we,
In our Garden full of bowers and flowers?

141

EQUALITY AT HOME.

“Antoine,” cries Mirabeau, returning gay
From the Assembly, “on and from to-day
Nobility's abolish'd—men are men—
No title henceforth used but Citizen.
A new thrice-glorious era dawns for France!
And now, my bath.” “Yes, Citizen.” A glance
Of flame the huge man at his servant shot;
Then, wallowing sea-god like, “Antoine, more hot!”
He growl'd. “Good, Citizen.” A hand of wrath
Gript Antoine's head, and soused it in the bath.
He spluttering, dripping, trembling—“Rascal! know,”
His master thunder'd as he let him go,
“For you I still remain Count Mirabeau!”

142

GRAPES, WINE, AND VINEGAR.

Weary and wasted, nigh worn-out,
You sigh, and shake white hairs, and say
“Ah, you will learn the truth one day
Of Life and Nature, do not doubt!”

Age rhymes to sage, and let us give
The hoary head its honours due:
Grant Youth its privileges too,
And notions how to think and live.

Which has more chance to see aright
The many-colour'd shows of time,
Fresh human eyes in healthy prime
Or custom-dull'd and fading sight?

Gone from the primrose and the rose
Their diversely delicious breath,
Since no fine wafting visiteth
An old, perhaps a snuffy, nose!

Youth has its truth: I'd rather trust,
Of two extremes, the ardent boy,
Excess of life and hope and joy,
Than this dejection and disgust.

Vinegar of Experience—“drink!”
Why so, and set our teeth on edge?
Nay, even grant what you allege,
We'll not anticipate, I think.

Who miss'd, or loses, earlier truth,
Tho' old, we shall not count him sage:
Rich the strong mellow'd Wine of Age
From sunshine-ripen'd Grapes of Youth.

143

THE HONEST FARMER.

Happy I count the Farmer's life,
Its various round of wholesome toil,
An honest man with loving wife,
And offspring native to the soil.

Thrice happy, surely!—in his breast
Plain wisdom and the trust in God;
His path more straight from east to west
Than politician ever trod.

His gain's no loss to other men;
His stalwart blows inflict no wound;
Not busy with his tongue or pen,
He questions truthful sky and ground.

Partner with seasons and the sun,
Nature's co-worker; all his skill
Obedience, ev'n as waters run,
Winds blow, beast, herb their laws fulfil.

An active youthhood, clean and bold;
A vigorous manhood; cheerful age;
His comely children proudly hold
Their parentage best heritage.

Unhealthy work, false mirth, chicane,
Guilt, needless woe, and useless strife,—
O cities, vain, inane, insane!—
How happy is the Farmer's life!

144

THE BLACKSMITH.

I

Let who will be lazy, the Blacksmith is not,
He knows he must strike while the iron is hot;
His anvil makes music from morning till night,
And the swing of his arm keeps it polish'd and bright.
Bing-bang! ting-clang!

Chorus

Success to the Smith in his Forge!
Long life to the Smith in his Forge!
Sing, all you good fellows,
Tongs, hammer, and bellows,
Hurrah for the Smith in his Forge!

II

His hands are besmudged, his features the same,
It's the sign of his trade, and he thinks it no shame,
A varnish of coal needn't cause him to fret,
For an honest day's work never soil'd a man yet.

III

The cinders and embers, now rake them up fast,
The big snoring bellows shall keep a stiff blast,
The flames starting ruddy and golden and blue,
Like flow'rs that in Pluto's grim garden first grew.

IV

Come, thresh the white iron! Bing-bang goes the tune.
Keep time with the hammers, they'll fashion it soon;
The stars leap in show'rs under every shrewd blow;
Then back to the heart of the fire it must go.

145

V

Now view it and turn it and hammer it well,
Leave no crack or flaw, make it sound as a bell;
A dip in the tank its fever will slake,
And the burnt water hiss like a trod-upon snake.

VI

How pleasant the square open window a-glow
In fine evening twilight, or winter and snow,
Where neighbours peep in with a greeting or smile,
Or stand in the doorway to gossip awhile.

VII

With his black hairy arms as he pokes up the fire,
You'd scarce recognise him in decent attire,
Of a holiday morning, so clean and so neat,
In a lily-white shirt as he strolls down the street.

VIII

He's a good-looking fellow, the Blacksmith, when drest,
Can swagger, or talk to the girls with the best;
And “There goes the Blacksmith!” should anyone cry,
They're welcome, his trade he will never deny.
Bing-bang! ting-clang!

Success to the Smith in his Forge!
Long life to the Smith in his Forge!
Sing, all you good fellows,
Tongs, hammer, and bellows,
Hurrah for the Smith in his Forge!
Bing-bang!

146

JOHN CLODD.

John Clodd was greatly troubled in his mind,
But reason for the same could noways find.
Says he, “I'll go to Mary; I've no doubt,
If any mortal can, she'll vind it out.”
“Why, John, what is the matter? where dost ail?
In 'ead or stummick! eh, thou dost look pale.
Can't ait? can't sleep? yet nayther sick nor sore?
Ne'er felt the like in all thy life afore?
Why, lad, I'll tell 'ee what,—thou beest in love.”

John look'd at Mary, gave his hat a shove,
And rubb'd his chin awhile, and mutter'd “There!
Only to think o' that!”—then from a stare
Broke by degrees into a smile, half-witted,
“Dang! Mary, I don't know but what you've hit it!
I thought on no sich thing, but now I see.
'Tis plain as haystack. Yaas, in love I be!
But who be I in love wi', Mary? Come!”
“Why, can't yo' tell that, John? Art blind, or dumb?
Is't Emma White? or Liz? or Dora Peak?
Or pirty little Sue? or Widow Sleek?
Or Tilda Rudlip, now? or Martha's Jane?
Or Squire's new Dairymaid? or old Miss Blaine,
Wi' lots o' money? Don't be angry, John,
I've guess'd all round,—you hates 'em every one?
Still, you loves zumbody . . . Mayhap 'tis me?”
“Why, Mary, what a clever lass you be!
I never once took thought on such a thing;
But you it is, and no one else, by Jing!”
“Well, John, that's settled; so ‘Good-night’ at last.”
“No, Mary, don'tee run away so fast!
What next are we to do?”

“What next? O bother!
Get married, I suppose, sometime or other.”
“Right, lass, again! I niver thought o' that.
How do'ee iver vind out things so pat?
But stop a minute, Mary,—tell me how
Does folk—. . . She's off! I'm fairly puzzled now!”

147

THE MAGIC CAP.

I don this Magic Cap of mine,
Whereon the sun's forbid to shine,
Which takes a hundred shapes, more swift
Than an air-tost cloud can shift.
It shoots to point, or spreads to brim,
Cocks itself to courtly trim,
Jockey roundness can assume,
Or sprout a nodding knightly plume,
Roughen up like cat in a passion,
Arctic smooth to Paris fashion,
Nipt below and flatten'd square
Turn to grave Collegiate wear,
Rise with added touch of brightness
Into Lancer's toyish lightness,
Then relapsed to colours sadder,
Flap down, like toy Jacob's Ladder,
As on broad Coalheaver's nape,
Spin wide round to Quaker shape,
By heat o' the brain curl'd up as soon
To Helmet, fit for bold Dragoon.
It splits, a Mitre it appears,
Then opens into Ass's Ears,
Droops, and, lo! a Learned Wig,
Shrinks to a Cue, again looks big,
When three long Tails from one unfold,
Twist like snakes and lie uproll'd
A Turban huge. It fades to air,
And saintly Rays are shooting there
Around my head—not rays at all,
But Quills that mark a Cannibal!

148

They bristle up, they strangely wax
To Three Hats in St. Mary Axe,—
No, no, I see it plainer now,
St. Peter's, and upon my brow
The tall Tiara presses tight:
To bear and balance it aright
Asks clever poising. Snatch it off!
I start: my Magic Cap I doff.

Therewith was presented to me
Freedom of a City, gloomy,
Gorgeous, populous, silent, vast,
Built on a River of the Past,
Where long-set suns and wanèd moons
Make the mystic nights and noons,
And people lost from life one meets
Walking up and down the streets.
Strange as the City of Enchanters
Wandering King at nightfall enters,
In those regions dim and dread
Beyond the Sea of Darkness spread.

149

THE LION AND THE WAVE.

A haughty Lion, from his burning sand
And palmtree-shaded wells, found ocean-strand,
And glared upon the limitless blue plain.
A huge Wave rose, rush'd on with flying mane,
Plunged at him, crashing down with furious roar:
Whereat, with broken growl of terror and wrath
He bounded back, and fled; the milky froth
Filling his footprints on the lone sea-shore.

No peer in his wild kingdom did he brook,
All living creatures quail'd beneath his look,
And at his thunderous voice the desert shook:
But now his heart knew fear; the matchless pride
And courage wither'd; Serpent, Elephant,
Gorilla, Crocodile, had power to daunt.
Restless he roamed and dwindled, and the Wave
Disturb'd his dreams. At last into his cave
This Lion cowering crept, lay down, and died.

150

TO PLUTUS.

Plutus, God of Riches, at thy shrine
Floated never incense-wreath of mine,
Word of supplication, song of praise;
I despised thee in my early days,
Thee and all thy worshippers. Behold,
Youthful joy and courage waxing cold,
I am punish'd by thy powerful hand,
Proving well its manifold command.

All earth-hidden treasures are thy dower,
On the earth great mastery and power;
Park and palace thy goodwill assigns,
Dainty victuals and flow'r-fragrant wines;
Horses, chariots, pleasure-ships that go
Where the world is sweetest, to and fro;
Various joy of music, pictures, books,
Soft perpetual service, smiling looks;
Almost all the Gods I find thy friends;
Wise is he who at thine altar bends!
Cupid, Hymen, are thy sworn allies,
Scarcely doth Apollo thee despise.
Nay, 'twould seem as if the Powers at large
Gave this earth completely to thy charge.

I am now too old to change my ways;
Still do I refuse thee prayer or praise;
Change I will not, I'm too old a week,
Nor thine all-desirèd favour seek.
To thy vengeance, Earth-God!—power thou hast,
Not my adoration, first or last.