Collected poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who can dwell with greatness! Greatness is too high;
Flowers are for the meadow, suns are for the sky;—
Ah! but there is greatness in this land of ours,
High as is the sunlight, humble as the flowers!

Queen, of thee the fable! Lady, thine the fate!
Royal, and yet lowly, lowly, and yet great;—
Great in far dominion, great in bannered years,
Greater still as woman, greatest in thy tears!

510

RANK AND FILE

(SOUTH AFRICA, 1900–1)

O undistinguished Dead!
Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep
Shows to the stars, for you I mourn,—I weep,
O undistinguished Dead!

None knows your name.
Blacken'd and blurr'd in the wild battle's brunt,
Hotly you fell . . . with all your wounds in front:
This is your fame!

511

FOR A COPY OF “THE COMPLEAT ANGLER”

“Le rêve de la vie champêtre a été de tout temps l'idéal des villes.” —George Sand.

I care not much how folks prefer
To dress your Chubb or Chavender;
I care no whit for line or hook,
But still I love old Izaak's book,
Wherein a man may read at ease
Of “gandergrass” and “culverkeys,”
Or with half-pitying wonder, note
What Topsell, what Du Bartas wrote,
Or list the song, by Maudlin sung,
That Marlowe made when he was young:—
These things, in truth, delight me more
Than all old Izaak's angling lore.

These were his Secret. What care I
How men concoct the Hawthorn-fly,
Who could as soon “stroke Syllabub”
As catch your Chavender or Chubb;
And might not, in ten years, arrive
At baiting hooks with frogs, alive!—
But still I love old Izaak's page,
Old Izaak's simple Golden Age,

512

Where blackbirds flute from ev'ry bough,
Where lasses “milk the sand-red cow,”
Where lads are “sturdy foot-ball swains,”
And nought but soft “May-butter” rains;
Where you may breathe untainted air
Either at Hodsden or at Ware;
And sing, or slumber, or look wise
Till Phœbus sink adown the skies;
Then, laying rod and tackle by,
Choose out some “cleanly Alehouse” nigh,
With ballads “stuck about the wall,”
Of Joan of France or English Mall—
With sheets that smell of lavender—
There eat your Chubb (or Chavender).
And keep old Izaak's honest laws
For “mirth that no repenting draws”—
To wit, a friendly stave or so,
That goes to Heigh-trolollie-loe,
Or more to make the ale-can pass,
A hunting song of William Basse—
Then talk of fish and fishy diet,
And dream you—“Study to be quiet.”

513

VERSES READ AT THE DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB

MARCH 25, 1897

“—Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit Omari aliquid.”
—Lucretius (adapted).

While we the Feast by Fruit and Wine prolong,
A Bard bobs up, and bores us with a Song.
—The Apiciad.

'Twas Swift who said that people “view
In Homer more than Homer knew.”
I can't pretend to claim the gift
Of playing Bentley upon Swift;
But I suspect the reading true
Is “Omar more than Omar knew,”—
Or why this large assembly met
Lest we this Omar should forget?
(In a parenthesis I note
Our Rustum here, without red coat;

Field-Marshal Viscount Wolseley.

Where Sohrab sits I'm not aware,
But that's Firdausi in the Chair!)—

Mr. Edmund Gosse, whose Firdausi in Exile and other Poems was published in 1885.

I say then that we now are met
Lest we this Omar should forget,
Who, ages back, remote, obscure,
Wrote verses once at Naishápúr,—
Verses which, as I understand,
Were merely copied out by hand,

514

And now, without etched plates, or aid
Of India paper, or hand-made,
Bid fair Parnassus' top to climb,
And knock the Classics out of time.

Persicos odi—Horace said,
And therefore is no longer read.
Time, who could simply not endure
Slight to the Bard of Naishápúr,
(Time, by the way, was rather late
For one so often up-to-date!)
Went swiftly to the Roll of Fame
And blotted Q. H. F. his name,
Since when, for every Youth or Miss
That knows Quis multa gracilis,
There are a hundred who can tell
What Omar thought of Heav'n and Hell;
Who Bahrám was; and where (at need)
Lies hid the Beaker of Jamshyd;—
In short, without a break can quote
Most of what Omar ever wrote.

Well, Omar Khayyám wrote of Wine,
And all of us, sometimes, must dine;
And Omar Khayyám wrote of Roses,
And all of us, no doubt, have noses;
And Omar Khayyám wrote of Love,
Which some of us are not above.
Also, he charms to this extent,
We don't know, always, what he meant.
Lastly, the man's so plainly dead
We can heap honours on his head.

515

Then, too, he scores in other wise
By his “deplorable demise.”
There is so much that we could say
Were he a Bard of yesterday!
We should discuss his draughts and pills,
His baker's and his vintner's bills;
Rake up—perhaps 'tis well we can't—
Gossip about his maiden aunt;
And all that marketable matter
Which Freeman nicknamed “Harriet-chatter!”
But here not even Persian candles
Can light us to the smallest scandals;—
Thus far your Omar gains at least
By having been so long deceased.

Failing of this, we needs must fall
Back on his opus after all:—
Those quatrains so compact, complete,
So suited to FitzGerald's feet,
(And, let us add, so subtly planned
To tempt the imitative band!)—
Those censers of Omari ware
That breathe into the perfumed air
His doubt, his unrest, his despair;—
Those jewels-four-lines-long that show,
Eight hundred years and more ago,
An old thing underneath the sun
In Babylonish Babylon:—
A Body and a Soul at strife
To solve the Mystery of Life!

So then all hail to Omar K.!
(To take our more familiar way)

516

Though much of what he wrote and did
In darkest mystery is hid;
And though (unlike our bards) his task
Was less to answer than to ask;
For all his endless Why and Whether,
He brings us here to-night together;
And therefore (as I said before),
Hail! Omar Khayyám, hail! once more!

517

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB

MAY 17, 1901

Salaam to Omar! We that meet to-night

“It does not appear that there was any danger in holding and singing Súfi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his Salaam to Mohammed at the beginning and end of his Song” (FitzGerald, Prefaces to Rubaiyat, 1872). The last stanza here printed was an afterthought, and was not included in the version on the menu. A third piece, written for the Omar Khayyám dinner of March 1903, and kindly read for the author in his absence by Mr. Henry Newbolt, is subjoined:—

“Under which King?” “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak, or die.” —2 Henry IV. Act v., Scene 3.

“Under which king?” you ask, my friend.
“The Hermit of the Suffolk shore?—
The Tent-maker of Naishapúr?—
Omar, FitzGerald—which?” Perpend.

The great Corneille, when pressed of yore,
To judge two sonnets, answered thus:—
“One, in its way, is marvellous;
And yet—I like the other more.”

This is my case betwixt your twain.
But if you further question why
I sit in this brave company,
I will—with your good leave—explain.

Life is a toilsome thing at best:
We all too-heavy burdens bear,
And groaning 'neath our load of care,
Run to and fro in search of rest.

We find it where this board is set:
Kind looks across the napery gleam;
The Past, the Future, grow a dream;
And—for the moment—we forget.

Omar, FitzGerald—these are all
But phantasies. We snuff the air;
The green spot in the desert bare;
The Opiate of the Interval!

Have bid Black Care be banished, and invite
The Rose, the Cup, the not-too-ancient Jest
To help, and cheer us,—but beyond the Rest,
Peaceful Digestion with its blissful Calm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!

Salaam to Omar! Life in truth is short,
And mortal Man of many Ills the Sport;
Yet still th' Oasis of the Board commends
Its Vantage-Ground for cheerful Talk of Friends,
And brings Oblivion, like an Eastern Balm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!

Salaam to Omar! Many Things must go
Down the dim Way that leads to Weal or Woe;
But kindly Hearts and kindly Thoughts will last
Till Time himself—the Arch-Iconoclast—
Drops the last Coin in Charon's withered Palm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!

518

FOR “AN APPENDIX TO THE ROWFANT LIBRARY”

(F. L. L.: IN MEMORIAM)

“His Books.” Oh yes, his Books I know,—
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,

The courtly Owner, glass in eye,
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,—
Some master-stroke of punning.

Where shall we meet his like again?
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,—
Such store of recollection;

Or where discern a verse so neat,
So well-bred and so witty,—
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?

519

Pope taught him rhythm, Prior ease,
Praed buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!

The old régime departs,—departs;
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no Frederick Locker.

520

FOR A CHARITY ANNUAL

In Angel-Court the sunless air
Grows faint and sick; to left and right
The cowering houses shrink from sight,
Huddled and hopeless, eyeless, bare.

Misnamed, you say? For surely rare
Must be the angel-shapes that light
In Angel-Court!

Nay! the Eternities are there.
Death at the doorway stands to smite;
Life in its garrets leaps to light;
And Love has climbed that crumbling stair
In Angel-Court.

521

FOR A COPY OF “THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD”

By Goldsmith's tomb the City's cry
Grows faint and distant; now no more,
From that famed street he trod of yore,
Men turn where those old Templars lie!

Only some dreamer such as I
Pauses awhile from dust and roar
By Goldsmith's tomb!

And then—ah, then!—when none is nigh,
What shadowy shapes, unseen before,
Troop back again from Lethe's shore!—
How the ghosts gather then, and sigh
By Goldsmith's tomb!

522

AFTER A HOLIDAY

Three little ducks by a door,
Snuggling aside in the sun;
The sweep of a threshing-floor,
A flail with its One-two, One;

A shaggy-haired, loose-limbed mare,
Grave as a master at class;
A foal with its heels in the air,
Rolling, for joy, in the grass;

A sunny-eyed, golden-haired lad,
Laughing, astride on a wall;
A collie-dog, lazily glad . . .
Why do I think of it all?

Why? From my window I see,
Once more through the dust-dry pane,
The sky like a great Dead Sea,
And the lash of the London rain;

And I read—here in London town,
Of a murder done at my gate,
And a goodly ship gone down,
And of homes made desolate;

523

And I know, with the old sick heart,
That but for a moment's space,
We may shut our sense, and part
From the pain of this tarrying place.

524

THE BALLAD OF THE BORE

[_]

[For Alma Mater's Mirror, 1887]

“Garrulus hunc quando consumet cunque.” —Hor. Sat. ix. lii.

I see him come from far,
And, sick with hopelessness,
Invoke some kindly star,—
I see him come, not less.
Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye Gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,—
Defend us from The Bard!

He knows nor let nor bar:
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,
I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,
He stands—as one on guard,
And reads—how volubly!—
Defend us from The Bard!

525

He reads—of Fates that mar,
Of Woes beyond redress,
Of all the Moons that are,
Of Maids that never bless
(As one, indeed, might guess);
Of Vows, of Hopes too high,
Of Dolours by the yard
That none believe (nor buy),—
Defend us from The Bard!

Envoy.

Prince Phœbus, all must die,
Or well- or evil-starred,
Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way—why?
Defend us from The Bard!

526

TO THE LADY DOROTHY NEVILL

[_]

[With a Memoir of Horace Walpole]

Here is Horace his Life. I have ventured to draw him
As the Berrys, the Conways, the Montagus saw him:
Very kind to his friends, to the rest only so-so;
A Talker, Fine Gentleman, Wit, Virtuoso;
With—running through all his sham-Gothic gim-crackery—
A dash of Sévigné, Saint-Simon and Thackeray.
For errors of ignorance, haste, execution,
From You, his descendant, I ask absolution.

527

TO EDMUND GOSSE

[_]

[With a First Edition of Atalanta in Calydon]

At your pleasure here I hold
“Atalanta snowy-souled:”
Rather smudgy tho',—the gold
Not so brilliant as of old;
First Edition,—that is plain;
Monogram of J. B. Payne . . .
Dogg'rel this, but it was reckoned
Metre under George the Second.
Then a man was thought a Bard
If by striving very hard
He could write—say once a quarter,
Something just as long, or shorter.
Straight they crowned his head with bay,
Nobles took him home to “tay”;
Maids of honour for his muse
Quite forgot their “P's” and “Q's.”
See his name on all the posts;
People rush to buy in hosts
Tonson's last impression with
Author's portrait, done by Smith;
All his little words are quoted;
All his little airs are noted;
And, if he goes trickling on
From his paltry Helicon,
He is made Court-Footman or,
Possibly, Ambassador!

528

TO THE SAME

[When Churchill wrote, th' Aonian maid]

[_]

[With Churchill's Poems (1763)]

When Churchill wrote, th' Aonian maid
He served was scarce of speech afraid;
She used no phrase to circumvent
The homely article she meant,
But plainly called a spade a spade.

Nor was the public much dismayed.
He but his age's law obeyed;—
They liked to see the bludgeon's dent
When Churchill wrote.

'Tis not so now. To-day the trade
Demands the finest Sheffield blade;
We use a subtler instrument;
We cut for depth and not extent . . .
But would 'twere ours—the Mark they made—
When Churchill wrote.

529

TO THE SAME

[Grub-street is Milton Street to-day]

[_]

[With Goldsmith's Selected Poems]

Grub-street is Milton Street to-day;
And that antiqua Mater
Whom Goldsmith served has passed away;
But is our lot the greater?

Ah no! as some lean rascal hides
His misery from his betters,
We wrap our trash in parchment sides,
And call our task-work “Letters.”

530

TO THE SAME

[Had I but Walpole's wit, I'd write]

[_]

[With a Memoir of Horace Walpole]

Had I but Walpole's wit, I'd write
A quatrain here to-day
Should turn the wig of Prior white,
And make e'en Horace gray;

Or had I Stanhope's pen (the same
That once he lent to Young),

The allusion is to the admirable epigram attributed to Young, and written with a pencil borrowed from Lord Chesterfield:—

“Accept a miracle instead of wit,—
See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.”

I would as neat a couplet frame
As e'er was said or sung;

But since I've not, I can't, you know;
The page must go without it;
This is my latest gift; and so . . .
And so, that's all about it!

531

TO THE SAME

[“Book against book.” “Agreed,” I said]

[_]

[With At the Sign of the Lyre]

“Book against book.” “Agreed,” I said:
But 'twas the truck of Diomed!

—And yet, in Fairy-land, I'm told
Dead leaves—as these—will turn to gold.
Take them, Sir Alchemist, and see!
Nothing transmutes like sympathy.

532

TO THE SAME

[Gossip, may we live as now]

[_]

[With Vincent Bourne's Poetical Works]

Gossip, may we live as now,
Brothers ever, I and thou;
Us may never Envy's mesh hold,
Anger never cross our threshold;
Let our modest Lares be
Friendship and Urbanity.

533

TO THE SAME

[Eight volumes!—all well-polished prose]

[_]

[With Eight Volumes of the Author's Works]

“Exegi monumentum.”

Eight volumes!—all well-polished prose
Or better verse (as some suppose);
In style more playful than severe;
Moral in tone (pour qui sait lire);
All written by my single pen,
And praised by some distinguished men,
But else not widely read, I fear:—

Crown me, Melpomene, my Dear!

534

FOR LOCKER'S “LONDON LYRICS”

1881

Apollo made, one April day,
A new thing in the rhyming way;
Its turn was neat, its wit was clear,
It wavered 'twixt a smile and tear,
Then Momus gave a touch satiric,
And it became a “London Lyric.”

535

TO BRANDER MATTHEWS

[_]

[With a Volume of Verses]

In vain to-day I scrape and blot:
The nimble words, the phrases neat,
Decline to mingle or to meet;
My skill is all foregone—forgot.

He will not canter, walk nor trot,
My Pegasus. I spur, I beat,
In vain to-day!

And yet 'twere sure the saddest lot
That I should fail to leave complete
One poor . . . the rhyme suggests “conceit!”
Alas! 'Tis all too clear I'm not
In vein to-day.

536

TO THE LATE H. C. BUNNER

[_]

[With a Volume of Verses]

Witness my hand (and seal thereto):
All ye who wrong by word or sign,
This unprotected Muse of mine,
I wish you . . . Something else to do!

May all your bills at once fall due!
May She, whose grace you seek, decline!
Witness my hand!

But you, acute, accomplished, true
And candid, who in every line
Discern a spark (or sparks) divine,
Be blessed! There's good in store for You,—
Witness my hand!

537

TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER

[_]

[With a Volume of Verses]

Old friends are best! And so to you
Again I send, in closer throng,
No unfamiliar shapes of song,
But those that once you liked and knew.

You surely will not do them wrong;
For are you not an old friend, too?—
Old friends are best.

Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue;—
All things, in short, to which belong
The charm, the grace that Time makes strong,—
All these I prize, but (entre nous)
Old friends are best!

538

“GOOD LUCK TO YOUR FISHING!”

[_]

[For a Picture by Mr. G. F. Watts, R.A.]

Good luck to your fishing!
And what have you caught?
Ah, would that my wishing
Were more than a thought!
Ah, would you had caught her,
Young Chloe, for me,—
Young Chloe, the daughter
Of Proteus, the sea!

She irks me, she irks me,
With blue of her eyes;
She irks me, she irks me,
With little drawn sighs;
She lures me with laughter,
She tempts me with tears;
And hope follows after,—
Hope only,—and fears!

Good luck to your fishing!
But would you had caught
That maid beyond wishing,
That maid beyond thought!
O cast the line deeper,
Deep—deep in the sea;
And catch her, and keep her,
Dan Cupid, for me!

539

A BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES

This and the succeeding ballade (p. 541) were prologues to The Antiquary for 1880 and 1881.

The days decay as flowers of grass,
The years as silent waters flow;
All things that are depart, alas!
As leaves the winnowing breezes strow;
And still while yet, full-orbed and slow,
New suns the old horizon climb,
Old Time must reap, as others sow:
We are the gleaners after Time!

We garner all the things that pass,
We harbour all the winds may blow;
As misers we up-store, amass
All gifts the hurrying Fates bestow;
Old chronicles of feast and show,
Old waifs of by-gone rune and rhyme,
Old jests that made old banquets glow:—
We are the gleaners after Time!

We hoard old lore of lad and lass,
Old flowers that in old gardens grow,
Old records writ on tomb and brass,
Old spoils of arrow-head and bow,
Old wrecks of old worlds' overthrow,
Old relics of Earth's primal slime,
All drift that wanders to and fro:—
We are the gleaners after Time!

540

Envoy.

Friends, that we know not and we know!
We pray you, by this Christmas chime,
Help us to save the things that go:
We are the gleaners after Time.

541

A SECOND BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES

“Friends that we know not,”—late we said.
We know you now, true friends, who still,
Where'er Time's tireless scythe has led,
Have wrought with us through good and ill—
Have toiled the weary sheaves to fill.
Hail then, O known and tried!—and you,
Who know us not to-day, but will—
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!

With no scant store our barns are fed:
The full sacks bulge by door and sill,
With grain the threshing-floors are spread,
The piled grist feeds the humming mill;
And—but for you—all this were nil,
A harvest of lean ears and few,
But for your service, friends, and skill;
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!

But hark!—Is that the Reaper's tread?
Come, let us glean once more until
Here, where the snowdrop lifts its head,
The days bring round the daffodil;

542

Till winds the last June roses kill,
And Autumn fades; till, 'neath the yew,
Once more we cry, with Winter chill,
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!

Envoy.

Come! Unto all a horn we spill,
Brimmed with a foaming Yule-tide brew,
Hail to you all, by vale and hill!—
Hail to you all, Old Friends and New!

University of Virginia Library

CARMINA VOTIVA

AND OTHER OCCASIONAL VERSES

A MADRIGAL

[Who can dwell with greatness! Greatness is too high]

RANK AND FILE

(SOUTH AFRICA, 1900–1)

FOR A COPY OF “THE COMPLEAT ANGLER”

VERSES READ AT THE DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB

MARCH 25, 1897

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB

MAY 17, 1901

FOR “AN APPENDIX TO THE ROWFANT LIBRARY”

(F. L. L.: IN MEMORIAM)

FOR A CHARITY ANNUAL

FOR A COPY OF “THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD”

AFTER A HOLIDAY

THE BALLAD OF THE BORE

Envoy.

TO THE LADY DOROTHY NEVILL

TO EDMUND GOSSE

TO THE SAME

[When Churchill wrote, th' Aonian maid]

TO THE SAME

[Grub-street is Milton Street to-day]

TO THE SAME

[Had I but Walpole's wit, I'd write]

TO THE SAME

[“Book against book.” “Agreed,” I said]

TO THE SAME

[Gossip, may we live as now]

TO THE SAME

[Eight volumes!—all well-polished prose]

FOR LOCKER'S “LONDON LYRICS”

1881

TO BRANDER MATTHEWS

TO THE LATE H. C. BUNNER

TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER

“GOOD LUCK TO YOUR FISHING!”

A BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES This and the succeeding ballade (p. 541) were prologues to The Antiquary for 1880 and 1881.

Envoy.

A SECOND BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES

Envoy.

A BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES

This and the succeeding ballade (p. 541) were prologues to The Antiquary for 1880 and 1881.