 | Blackberries |  |
107
[Dear Poet! is thy free light step the same]
Dear Poet! is thy free light step the same,Clad in those heavy pompous robes of fame?
Canst play at leap-frog, climb a tree, or go
Blackberrying as of old?—I fear me, no!
[Tho' out of fashion, still to me]
Tho' out of fashion, still to meA verse of sweet simplicity
Doth chiefly charm; and still I long
From poet's mouth to hear—a song.
[With wrappings and knottings your meaning you hide]
With wrappings and knottings your meaning you hide;Good sooth, is there always a meaning inside?
108
[A song or a riddle? I best like a song.]
A song or a riddle? I best like a song.But if it's a riddle don't make it too long.
And if it's a riddle one hopes there's an answer,—
Which we perhaps can't give, but you of course can, Sir.
[For Heaven's sake, Mighty Poet! leave thy tricks]
For Heaven's sake, Mighty Poet! leave thy tricks,Confuse us not the more, but clear and fix.
[Accurst, O Poet! be thy song]
Accurst, O Poet! be thy songThat blurs the bounds of right and wrong.
[“Love's but a kind of itch”]
“Love's but a kind of itch”He sings: reward him how?
A laurel for his brow?
—A nettle for his breech!
Epitaph (between the Lines).
Behold me at the zenith of fame's sky;The feeblest who hath ever climb'd so high.
109
[“Why murmur at this foolish crown of bays?”]
“Why murmur at this foolish crown of bays?”Because a cheapen'd praise makes cheap all praise.
[A new Thing's rare indeed! The Poets play]
A new Thing's rare indeed! The Poets playBut variations mostly,—even they.
[Good Sense and Poetry, old friends, are now not seen together]
Good Sense and Poetry, old friends, are now not seen together;Alas, 'tis said they've even turn'd their backs on one another.
[The Poet launched a stately fleet: it sank.]
The Poet launched a stately fleet: it sank.His fame was rescued on a single plank.
Advice to a Young Poet.
You're a true Poet: but, my dear,
If you would hold the public ear,
Remember to be not too clear.
Be strange, be verbally intense;
Words matter ten times more than sense;
In clear streams, under sunny skies,
The fish you angle for won't rise;
In turbid water, cloudy weather,
They'll rush to you by shoals together.
“Ignotum pro magnifico;”
The least part of your meaning show;
Your readers must not understand
Too well; the mist-wrapt hill looks grand,
The placid noonday mountain small.
Speak plainly, folk say—“Is that all?”
Speak riddles—“What is here?”—They read
And re-read, many times indeed;
“How fine! how strange! how deep! how new!
Here's my opinion; what say you?
It may be this; it might be that;
Who can be certain what he's at
This necromancer?” While they talk,
You swing your solemn cloak and stalk;
Or else look on with smile urbane,
“Well done, my children,—guess again!”
If you would hold the public ear,
Remember to be not too clear.
Be strange, be verbally intense;
Words matter ten times more than sense;
110
The fish you angle for won't rise;
In turbid water, cloudy weather,
They'll rush to you by shoals together.
“Ignotum pro magnifico;”
The least part of your meaning show;
Your readers must not understand
Too well; the mist-wrapt hill looks grand,
The placid noonday mountain small.
Speak plainly, folk say—“Is that all?”
Speak riddles—“What is here?”—They read
And re-read, many times indeed;
“How fine! how strange! how deep! how new!
Here's my opinion; what say you?
It may be this; it might be that;
Who can be certain what he's at
This necromancer?” While they talk,
You swing your solemn cloak and stalk;
Or else look on with smile urbane,
“Well done, my children,—guess again!”
Oh, let me not advise in vain,
Be what you will, but don't be plain!
Be what you will, but don't be plain!
111
Self-Criticism.
J. R. saith S. T. C. is but a muff.At writing verse. J. R. hath said enough.
A Public Monument.
No human being since my life began
Have I disparaged wilfully; but Man
Collective hath his rights; and those who claim
To build for ever, in the nation's name,
Have I disparaged wilfully; but Man
Collective hath his rights; and those who claim
To build for ever, in the nation's name,
A shrine for hero-worship, seek to do
No light thing, lightly as it may be done.
So let a voice declare, if only one,
No light thing, lightly as it may be done.
So let a voice declare, if only one,
What, doubtless, many silent hearts hold true.
Who lift Lord Byron to a worshipt place,
Thereby, as far as in their power, disgrace
Our Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, and the rest
Whose writings are what England hath of best
For wisdom, healthy joy, and love, and faith.
“Go to! thou priggish fool,” the critic saith,
“This man could blow his trumpet with such force
That all fame's echoes answer'd. Grant it coarse,
That music. Grant him vicious, insolent,
Untruthful, shallow, vain; self-discontent
His highest moral reach; yet”—
Who lift Lord Byron to a worshipt place,
Thereby, as far as in their power, disgrace
Our Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, and the rest
Whose writings are what England hath of best
For wisdom, healthy joy, and love, and faith.
“Go to! thou priggish fool,” the critic saith,
“This man could blow his trumpet with such force
That all fame's echoes answer'd. Grant it coarse,
That music. Grant him vicious, insolent,
Untruthful, shallow, vain; self-discontent
112
Hold you there!
Grant also his reverberated blare
Louder than fifty Alpine thunder-storms;
His fame the Muses' holy hill deforms,
Whereto, while passing impulse had the sway,
He forced his careless arbitrary way.
Muses, Heav'n keep your State republican!
Your one lord is your one vulgarian.
Louder than fifty Alpine thunder-storms;
His fame the Muses' holy hill deforms,
Whereto, while passing impulse had the sway,
He forced his careless arbitrary way.
Muses, Heav'n keep your State republican!
Your one lord is your one vulgarian.
[Apollo smiles on bards of every sort]
Apollo smiles on bards of every sort,Save sneerers; they're unwelcome at his court.
Inscription omitted on a Public Monument.
Look, and receive admonishment from me:Such as I was, take good care not to be!
Statua Infelix.
“Erected by B. D., and carved by lord knows who,If I look doubly sulky, no wonder that I do,
This endless penal servitude condemn'd to undergo,
In Wellington's back garden to sit watching Rotten Row.”
113
To a Modern Poet.
“Songs of despair, O Poet, only songs of despair?True, we have trouble enough, fear and sorrow and care.
And this is the courage, the help, the consolation thou'rt bringing,—
All that's evil in life and man persistently singing?
Love, joy, wisdom, and goodness, are shams, by you detected;
Beauty's a poisonous growth, root, fruit, and flow'r infected,
Passing fair and sweet, a savour of death unto Death;
Life being a painted bubble, the chance of an idle breath.
If Will there be, 'tis a Cacodæmon's, half-mocking, half-loathing,
Who plays with his puppets, tortures them, touches them into nothing!
Songs such as these, O brother, how will they help us along?
We have a journey to make, would fain be cheerful and strong;
The deepest thing we know is that right does differ from wrong.
Evils there are in the world. Shall we add to them evil song?
114
By your leave, that looks not to me the wisest plan on the whole.”
Modern Poet answers
“But supposing I, the Poet, . . .[A brilliant literature, no doubt, have we.]
A brilliant literature, no doubt, have we.Gay poison-toadstools on the rotting stem,
Prismatic bubbles on the putrid pond,—
Such Books this age produces: far beyond
All flow'rs, the critics tell us,—trust to them!
Or sunset's glory mirror'd in the sea.
| Blackberries | |