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73
VIGNETTES IN RHYME
“leviore plectro.”
75
THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW
IN THREE ACTS, WITH A PROLOGUE
“A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus,
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.”
—Midsummer-Night's Dream.
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.”
—Midsummer-Night's Dream.
Prologue
“Well, I must wait!” The Doctor's room,
Where I used this expression,
Wore the severe official gloom
Attached to that profession;
Rendered severer by a bald
And skinless Gladiator,
Whose raw robustness first appalled
The entering spectator.
Where I used this expression,
Wore the severe official gloom
Attached to that profession;
Rendered severer by a bald
And skinless Gladiator,
Whose raw robustness first appalled
The entering spectator.
No one would call “The Lancet” gay,—
Few could avoid confessing
That Jones, “On Muscular Decay,”
Is—as a rule—depressing:
So, leaving both, to change the scene,
I turned toward the shutter,
And peered out vacantly between
A water-butt and gutter.
Few could avoid confessing
That Jones, “On Muscular Decay,”
Is—as a rule—depressing:
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I turned toward the shutter,
And peered out vacantly between
A water-butt and gutter.
Below, the Doctor's garden lay,
If thus imagination
May dignify a square of clay
Unused to vegetation,
Filled with a dismal-looking swing—
That brought to mind a gallows—
An empty kennel, mouldering,
And two dyspeptic aloes.
If thus imagination
May dignify a square of clay
Unused to vegetation,
Filled with a dismal-looking swing—
That brought to mind a gallows—
An empty kennel, mouldering,
And two dyspeptic aloes.
No sparrow chirped, no daisy sprung,
About the place deserted;
Only across the swing-board hung
A battered doll, inverted,
Which sadly seemed to disconcert
The vagrant cat that scanned it,
Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt,
But failed to understand it.
About the place deserted;
Only across the swing-board hung
A battered doll, inverted,
Which sadly seemed to disconcert
The vagrant cat that scanned it,
Sniffed doubtfully around the skirt,
But failed to understand it.
A dreary spot! And yet, I own,
Half hoping that, perchance, it
Might, in some unknown way, atone
For Jones and for “The Lancet,”
I watched; and by especial grace,
Within this stage contracted,
Saw presently before my face
A classic story acted.
Half hoping that, perchance, it
Might, in some unknown way, atone
For Jones and for “The Lancet,”
I watched; and by especial grace,
Within this stage contracted,
Saw presently before my face
A classic story acted.
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Ah, World of ours, are you so gray
And weary, World, of spinning,
That you repeat the tales to-day
You told at the beginning?
For lo! the same old myths that made
The early “stage successes,”
Still “hold the boards,” and still are played,
“With new effects and dresses.”
And weary, World, of spinning,
That you repeat the tales to-day
You told at the beginning?
For lo! the same old myths that made
The early “stage successes,”
Still “hold the boards,” and still are played,
“With new effects and dresses.”
Small, lonely “three-pair-backs” behold,
To-day, Alcestis dying;
To-day, in farthest Polar cold,
Ulysses' bones are lying;
Still in one's morning “Times” one reads
How fell an Indian Hector;
Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds,
Briseis' next protector;—
To-day, Alcestis dying;
To-day, in farthest Polar cold,
Ulysses' bones are lying;
Still in one's morning “Times” one reads
How fell an Indian Hector;
Still clubs discuss Achilles' steeds,
Briseis' next protector;—
Still Menelaus brings, we see,
His oft-remanded case on;
Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle
Bewails a faithless Jason;
And here, the Doctor's sill beside,
Do I not now discover
A Thisbe, whom the walls divide
From Pyramus, her lover?
His oft-remanded case on;
Still somewhere sad Hypsipyle
Bewails a faithless Jason;
And here, the Doctor's sill beside,
Do I not now discover
A Thisbe, whom the walls divide
From Pyramus, her lover?
Act the First.
Act I. began. Some noise had scared
The cat, that like an arrow
Shot up the wall and disappeared;
And then, across the narrow,
Unweeded path, a small dark thing,
Hid by a garden-bonnet,
Passed wearily towards the swing,
Paused, turned, and climbed upon it
The cat, that like an arrow
Shot up the wall and disappeared;
And then, across the narrow,
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Hid by a garden-bonnet,
Passed wearily towards the swing,
Paused, turned, and climbed upon it
A child of five, with eyes that were
At least a decade older,
A mournful mouth, and tangled hair
Flung careless round her shoulder,
Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock,
Whose black, uncomely rigour
Sardonically seemed to mock
The plaintive, slender figure.
At least a decade older,
A mournful mouth, and tangled hair
Flung careless round her shoulder,
Dressed in a stiff ill-fitting frock,
Whose black, uncomely rigour
Sardonically seemed to mock
The plaintive, slender figure.
What was it? Something in the dress
That told the girl unmothered;
Or was it that the merciless
Black garb of mourning smothered
Life and all light:—but rocking so,
In the dull garden-corner,
The lonely swinger seemed to grow
More piteous and forlorner.
That told the girl unmothered;
Or was it that the merciless
Black garb of mourning smothered
Life and all light:—but rocking so,
In the dull garden-corner,
The lonely swinger seemed to grow
More piteous and forlorner.
Then, as I looked, across the wall
Of “next-door's” garden, that is—
To speak correctly—through its tall
Surmounting fence of lattice,
Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair,
Ripe lips, half drawn asunder,
And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare
Of frankest childish wonder.
Of “next-door's” garden, that is—
To speak correctly—through its tall
Surmounting fence of lattice,
Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair,
Ripe lips, half drawn asunder,
And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare
Of frankest childish wonder.
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Rounder they grew by slow degrees,
Until the swinger, swerving,
Made, all at once, alive to these
Intentest orbs observing,
Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry,
And,—as with gathered kirtle,
Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly
Thrust through the budding myrtle,—
Until the swinger, swerving,
Made, all at once, alive to these
Intentest orbs observing,
Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry,
And,—as with gathered kirtle,
Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly
Thrust through the budding myrtle,—
Fled in dismay. A moment's space,
The eyes looked almost tragic;
Then, when they caught my watching face,
Vanished as if by magic;
And, like some sombre thing beguiled
To strange, unwonted laughter,
The gloomy garden, having smiled,
Became the gloomier after.
The eyes looked almost tragic;
Then, when they caught my watching face,
Vanished as if by magic;
And, like some sombre thing beguiled
To strange, unwonted laughter,
The gloomy garden, having smiled,
Became the gloomier after.
Act the Second.
Yes: they were gone, the stage was bare,—
Blank as before; and therefore,
Sinking within the patient's chair,
Half vexed, I knew not wherefore,
I dozed; till, startled by some call,
A glance sufficed to show me,
The boy again above the wall,
The girl erect below me.
Blank as before; and therefore,
Sinking within the patient's chair,
Half vexed, I knew not wherefore,
I dozed; till, startled by some call,
A glance sufficed to show me,
The boy again above the wall,
The girl erect below me.
The boy, it seemed, to add a force
To words found unavailing,
Had pushed a striped and spotted horse
Half through the blistered paling,
Where now it stuck, stiff-legged and straight,
While he, in exultation,
Chattered some half-articulate
Excited explanation.
To words found unavailing,
Had pushed a striped and spotted horse
Half through the blistered paling,
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While he, in exultation,
Chattered some half-articulate
Excited explanation.
Meanwhile, the girl, with upturned face,
Stood motionless, and listened;
The ill-cut frock had gained a grace,
The pale hair almost glistened;
The figure looked alert and bright,
Buoyant as though some power
Had lifted it, as rain at night
Uplifts a drooping flower.
Stood motionless, and listened;
The ill-cut frock had gained a grace,
The pale hair almost glistened;
The figure looked alert and bright,
Buoyant as though some power
Had lifted it, as rain at night
Uplifts a drooping flower.
The eyes had lost their listless way,—
The old life, tired and faded,
Had slipped down with the doll that lay
Before her feet, degraded;
She only, yearning upward, found
In those bright eyes above her
The ghost of some enchanted ground
Where even Nurse would love her.
The old life, tired and faded,
Had slipped down with the doll that lay
Before her feet, degraded;
She only, yearning upward, found
In those bright eyes above her
The ghost of some enchanted ground
Where even Nurse would love her.
Ah, tyrant Time! you hold the book,
We, sick and sad, begin it;
You close it fast, if we but look
Pleased for a meagre minute;
You closed it now, for, out of sight,
Some warning finger beckoned;
Exeunt both to left and right;—
Thus ended Act the Second.
We, sick and sad, begin it;
You close it fast, if we but look
Pleased for a meagre minute;
You closed it now, for, out of sight,
Some warning finger beckoned;
Exeunt both to left and right;—
Thus ended Act the Second.
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Act the Third.
Or so it proved. For while I still
Believed them gone for ever,
Half raised above the window sill,
I saw the lattice quiver;
And lo, once more appeared the head,
Flushed, while the round mouth pouted;
“Give Tom a kiss,” the red lips said,
In style the most undoubted.
Believed them gone for ever,
Half raised above the window sill,
I saw the lattice quiver;
And lo, once more appeared the head,
Flushed, while the round mouth pouted;
“Give Tom a kiss,” the red lips said,
In style the most undoubted.
The girl came back without a thought;
Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon,
If more restraint had not been taught
In this neglected garden;
For these your code was all too stiff,
So, seeing none dissented,
Their unfeigned faces met as if
Manners were not invented.
Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon,
If more restraint had not been taught
In this neglected garden;
For these your code was all too stiff,
So, seeing none dissented,
Their unfeigned faces met as if
Manners were not invented.
Then on the scene,—by happy fate,
When lip from lip had parted,
And, therefore, just two seconds late,—
A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted;
Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite
Upon a rover chicken,
And bore him sourly off, despite
His well-directed kicking.
When lip from lip had parted,
And, therefore, just two seconds late,—
A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted;
Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite
Upon a rover chicken,
And bore him sourly off, despite
His well-directed kicking.
The girl stood silent, with a look
Too subtle to unravel,
Then, with a sudden gesture took
The torn doll from the gravel;
Hid the whole face, with one caress,
Under the garden-bonnet,
And, passing in, I saw her press
Kiss after kiss upon it.
Too subtle to unravel,
Then, with a sudden gesture took
The torn doll from the gravel;
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Under the garden-bonnet,
And, passing in, I saw her press
Kiss after kiss upon it.
Exeunt omnes. End of play.
It made the dull room brighter,
The Gladiator almost gay,
And e'en “The Lancet” lighter.
It made the dull room brighter,
The Gladiator almost gay,
And e'en “The Lancet” lighter.
83
AN AUTUMN IDYLL
“Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.”
—Spenser.
Lawrence. Frank. Jack.
Lawrence.
Here, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses,
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore.
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses;
Here let us sit. We landed here before.
Frank.
Jack's undecided. Say, formose puer,
Bent in a dream above the “water wan,”
Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer,
There by the pollards, where you see the swan?
Jack.
Hist! That's a pike. Look—nose against the river
Gaunt as a wolf,—the sly old privateer!
Enter a gudgeon. Snap,—a gulp, a shiver;—
Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here.
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(in the grass).
Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun;
Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper,
Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun!
Lawrence.
Sing to us then. Damœtas in a choker,
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.
Frank.
Sing you again. So musical a croaker
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.
Jack.
Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old.
Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis;—
Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told.
Frank.
Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper,
Say—by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing?
Lawrence.
Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper,
Let him declare the prize he has to bring.
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Here then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted
First in the song, a Pipe I will impart;—
This, my Belovèd, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam,—a miracle of art.
Lawrence.
Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song!
Frank.
Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers,
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.
Lawrence.
Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders,
Not where the brook traditionally “purls,”—
No, in the Row, supreme among the riders,
Seek I the gem,—the paragon of girls.
Frank.
Not in the waste of column and of coping,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square,—
No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping,
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.
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Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid,
Holding the roof that covers in a world.
Frank.
Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,
Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn.
Lawrence.
Best is the song with the music interwoven:
Mine's a musician,—musical at heart,—
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven,
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart.
Frank.
Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad,
Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees,
Not too divine to toss you up a salad,
Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees.
Lawrence.
Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches,
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm,
Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,
Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm.
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Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,—
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.
Lawrence.
All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her
Round with so delicate divinity, that men
Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger,
Bend to the goddess, manifest again.
Frank.
None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,—
Cynics to boot. I know the children run,
Seeing her come, for naught that I discover,
Save that she brings the summer and the sun.
Lawrence.
Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly,
Crowned with a sweet, continual control,
Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely
E'en to her own nobility of soul.
Frank.
Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure,
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame:
Simply devoted to other people's pleasure,—
Jack's sister Florence,—now you know her name.
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“Jack's sister Florence!” Never, Francis, never
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant.
She like the country! Ah, she's far too clever—
Frank.
There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent.
Lawrence.
You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare.
Sorry to differ. Jack,—the word's with you
Frank.
How is it, Umpire? Though the motto's thread bare,
“Cœlum, non animum”—is, I take it, true.
Jack.
“Souvent femme varie,” as a rule, is truer;
Flattered, I'm sure,—but both of you romance.
Happy to further suit of either wooer,
Merely observing—you haven't got a chance.
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Yes. But the Pipe—
Frank.
The Pipe is what we care for,—
Jack.
Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain,
Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore,—
Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain.
90
A GARDEN IDYLL
A Lady. A Poet.The Lady.
Sir Poet, ere you crossed the lawn
(If it was wrong to watch you, pardon),
Behind this weeping birch withdrawn,
I watched you saunter round the garden.
I saw you bend beside the phlox,
Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle,
Review my well-ranged hollyhocks,
Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle;
(If it was wrong to watch you, pardon),
Behind this weeping birch withdrawn,
I watched you saunter round the garden.
I saw you bend beside the phlox,
Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle,
Review my well-ranged hollyhocks,
Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle;
You paused beneath the cherry-tree,
Where my marauder thrush was singing,
Peered at the bee-hives curiously,
And narrowly escaped a stinging;
And then—you see I watched—you passed
Down the espalier walk that reaches
Out to the western wall, and last
Dropped on the seat before the peaches.
Where my marauder thrush was singing,
Peered at the bee-hives curiously,
And narrowly escaped a stinging;
And then—you see I watched—you passed
Down the espalier walk that reaches
Out to the western wall, and last
Dropped on the seat before the peaches.
What was your thought? You waited long.
Sublime or graceful,—grave,—satiric?
A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song?
A tender Tennysonian lyric?
Tell me. That garden-seat shall be,
So long as speech renown disperses,
Illustrious as the spot where he—
The gifted Blank—composed his verses.
Sublime or graceful,—grave,—satiric?
A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song?
A tender Tennysonian lyric?
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So long as speech renown disperses,
Illustrious as the spot where he—
The gifted Blank—composed his verses.
The Poet.
Madam,—whose uncensorious eye
Grows gracious over certain pages,
Wherein the Jester's maxims lie,
It may be, thicker than the Sage's—
I hear but to obey, and could
Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you,
Some verse as whimsical as Hood,—
As gay as Praed,—should answer to you.
Grows gracious over certain pages,
Wherein the Jester's maxims lie,
It may be, thicker than the Sage's—
I hear but to obey, and could
Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you,
Some verse as whimsical as Hood,—
As gay as Praed,—should answer to you.
But, though the common voice proclaims
Our only serious vocation
Confined to giving nothings names
And dreams a “local habitation”;
Believe me there are tuneless days,
When neither marble, brass, nor vellum,
Would profit much by any lays
That haunt the poet's cerebellum.
Our only serious vocation
Confined to giving nothings names
And dreams a “local habitation”;
Believe me there are tuneless days,
When neither marble, brass, nor vellum,
Would profit much by any lays
That haunt the poet's cerebellum.
More empty things, I fear, than rhymes,
More idle things than songs, absorb it;
The “finely-frenzied” eye, at times,
Reposes mildly in its orbit;
And—painful truth—at times, to him,
Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive,
“A primrose by a river's brim”
Is absolutely unsuggestive.
More idle things than songs, absorb it;
The “finely-frenzied” eye, at times,
Reposes mildly in its orbit;
And—painful truth—at times, to him,
Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive,
“A primrose by a river's brim”
Is absolutely unsuggestive.
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The fickle Muse! As ladies will,
She sometimes wearies of her wooer;
A goddess, yet a woman still,
She flies the more that we pursue her;
In short, with worst as well as best,
Five months in six, your hapless poet
Is just as prosy as the rest,
But cannot comfortably show it.
She sometimes wearies of her wooer;
A goddess, yet a woman still,
She flies the more that we pursue her;
In short, with worst as well as best,
Five months in six, your hapless poet
Is just as prosy as the rest,
But cannot comfortably show it.
You thought, no doubt, the garden scent
Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation
Of love that came and love that went,—
Some fragrance of a lost flirtation,
Born when the cuckoo changes song,
Dead ere the apple's red is on it,
That should have been an epic long,
Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet.
Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation
Of love that came and love that went,—
Some fragrance of a lost flirtation,
Born when the cuckoo changes song,
Dead ere the apple's red is on it,
That should have been an epic long,
Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet.
Or else you thought,—the murmuring noon
He turns it to a lyric sweeter,
With birds that gossip in the tune,
And windy bough-swing in the metre;
Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms
Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms,
Round singing mouths, and chanted charms,
And mediæval orchard blossoms,—
He turns it to a lyric sweeter,
With birds that gossip in the tune,
And windy bough-swing in the metre;
Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms
Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms,
Round singing mouths, and chanted charms,
And mediæval orchard blossoms,—
Quite à la mode. Alas for prose!—
My vagrant fancies only rambled
Back to the red-walled Rectory close,
Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled,
Climbed on the dial, teased the fish,
And chased the kitten round the beeches,
Till widening instincts made me wish
For certain slowly-ripening peaches.
My vagrant fancies only rambled
Back to the red-walled Rectory close,
Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled,
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And chased the kitten round the beeches,
Till widening instincts made me wish
For certain slowly-ripening peaches.
Three peaches. Not the Graces three
Had more equality of beauty:
I would not look, yet went to see;
I wrestled with Desire and Duty;
I felt the pangs of those who feel
The Laws of Property beset them;
The conflict made my reason reel,
And, half-abstractedly, I ate them;—
Had more equality of beauty:
I would not look, yet went to see;
I wrestled with Desire and Duty;
I felt the pangs of those who feel
The Laws of Property beset them;
The conflict made my reason reel,
And, half-abstractedly, I ate them;—
Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair—
More keen that one of these was rotten—
Moved me to seek some forest lair
Where I might hide and dwell forgotten,
Attired in skins, by berries stained,
Absolved from brushes and ablution;—
But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained,
Fate gave me up to execution.
More keen that one of these was rotten—
Moved me to seek some forest lair
Where I might hide and dwell forgotten,
Attired in skins, by berries stained,
Absolved from brushes and ablution;—
But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained,
Fate gave me up to execution.
I saw it all but now. The grin
That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features;
My father, scholar-like and thin,
Unroused, the tenderest of creatures;
I saw—ah me—I saw again
My dear and deprecating mother;
And then, remembering the cane,
Regretted—that I'd left the Other.
That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features;
My father, scholar-like and thin,
Unroused, the tenderest of creatures;
I saw—ah me—I saw again
My dear and deprecating mother;
And then, remembering the cane,
Regretted—that I'd left the Other.
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TU QUOQUE
AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY
“------romprons-nous,
Ou ne romprons-nous pas?”
Le Dépit Amoureux.
Ou ne romprons-nous pas?”
Le Dépit Amoureux.
Nellie.
If I were you, when ladies at the play, sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir,
If I were you!
Frank.
If I were you, when persons I affected,
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would, at least, pretend I recollected,
If I were you!
Nellie.
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish,
If I were you!
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If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
Whiff of the best,—the mildest “honey-dew,”
I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
If I were you!
Nellie.
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter,
Even to write the “Cynical Review”;—
Frank.
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,
If I were you!
Nellie.
Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,—
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,
If I were you!
Frank.
“It is the cause.” I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!
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Go, if you will. At once! And by express, sir
Where shall it be? To China—or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir,
If I were you!
Frank.
No,—I remain. To stay and fight a duel
Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do;—
Ah, you are strong,—I would not then be cruel,
If I were you!
Nellie.
One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,—
Frank.
One does not like one's friends to misconstrue.—
Nellie.
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?—
Frank.
I should admit that I was piqué, too.
Nellie.
Ask me to dance! I'd say no more about it,
If I were you!
[Waltz—Exeunt
97
A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO
“Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu'on perd.”
—Claude Tillier.
I'd “read” three hours. Both notes and text
Were fast a mist becoming;
In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,
And filled the room with humming,
Were fast a mist becoming;
In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,
And filled the room with humming,
Then out. The casement's leafage sways,
And, parted light, discloses
Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze
Of muslin mixed with roses.
And, parted light, discloses
Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze
Of muslin mixed with roses.
“You're reading Greek?” “I am—and you?”
“O, mine's a mere romancer!”
‘So Plato is.” “Then read him—do;
And I'll read mine in answer.”
“O, mine's a mere romancer!”
‘So Plato is.” “Then read him—do;
And I'll read mine in answer.”
I read. “My Plato (Plato, too,—
That wisdom thus should harden!)
Declares ‘blue eyes look doubly blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden.’”
That wisdom thus should harden!)
Declares ‘blue eyes look doubly blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden.’”
She smiled. “My book in turn avers
(No author's name is stated)
That sometimes those Philosophers
Are sadly mis-translated.”
(No author's name is stated)
That sometimes those Philosophers
Are sadly mis-translated.”
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“But hear,—the next's in stronger style:
The Cynic School asserted
That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted!”
The Cynic School asserted
That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted!”
She smiled once more—“My book, I find,
Observes some modern doctors
Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors.”
Observes some modern doctors
Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors.”
Then I—“Why not? ‘Ephesian law,
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
Diana's apparition.’”
No less than time's tradition,
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
Diana's apparition.’”
She blushed—this time. “If Plato's page
No wiser precept teaches,
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,
And walk to Burnham-beeches.”
No wiser precept teaches,
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,
And walk to Burnham-beeches.”
“Agreed,” I said. “For Socrates
(I find he too is talking)
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease
While Beauty goes a-walking.”
(I find he too is talking)
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease
While Beauty goes a-walking.”
She read no more. I leapt the sill:
The sequel's scarce essential—
Nay, more than this, I hold it still
Profoundly confidential.
The sequel's scarce essential—
Nay, more than this, I hold it still
Profoundly confidential.
99
THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE
Poor Rose! I lift you from the street—
Far better I should own you,
Than you should lie for random feet,
Where careless hands have thrown you!
Far better I should own you,
Than you should lie for random feet,
Where careless hands have thrown you!
Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn!
Did heartless Mayfair use you,
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn,
For chariot wheels to bruise you?
Did heartless Mayfair use you,
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn,
For chariot wheels to bruise you?
I saw you last in Edith's hair.
Rose, you would scarce discover
That I she passed upon the stair
Was Edith's favoured lover,
Rose, you would scarce discover
That I she passed upon the stair
Was Edith's favoured lover,
A month—“a little month”—ago—
O theme for moral writer!—
'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,
She might have been politer;
O theme for moral writer!—
'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,
She might have been politer;
But let that pass. She gave you then—
Behind the oleander—
To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Who best could understand her,—
Behind the oleander—
To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Who best could understand her,—
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Cyril that, duly flattered, took,
As only Cyril's able,
With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;
As only Cyril's able,
With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;
Then, having waltzed till every star
Had paled away in morning,
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
Had paled away in morning,
Lit up his cynical cigar,
And tossed you downward, scorning.
Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,—
She made my heart-strings quiver;
And yet—you sha'n't lie in the street
I'll drop you in the River.
She made my heart-strings quiver;
And yet—you sha'n't lie in the street
I'll drop you in the River.
101
LOVE IN WINTER
Between the berried holly-bush
The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush:
“Which way did bright-eyed Bella go?
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,—
Are those her dainty tracks I see,
That wind beside the shrubbery?”
The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush:
“Which way did bright-eyed Bella go?
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,—
Are those her dainty tracks I see,
That wind beside the shrubbery?”
The Throstle pecked the berries still.
“No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,—
'Tchuck,—'tis a merry pairing-time!”
“No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,—
'Tchuck,—'tis a merry pairing-time!”
“What would you?” twittered in the Wren;
“These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of Spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency.”
“These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of Spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency.”
“Nay, Gossip,” chirped the Robin, “nay;
I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow:—
‘Why wait,’ he said, ‘why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?’”
I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow:—
‘Why wait,’ he said, ‘why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?’”
102
POT-POURRI
“Si jeunesse savait?—”
I plunge my hand among the leaves:
(An alien touch but dust perceives,
Nought else supposes;)
For me those fragrant ruins raise
Clear memory of the vanished days
When they were roses.
(An alien touch but dust perceives,
Nought else supposes;)
For me those fragrant ruins raise
Clear memory of the vanished days
When they were roses.
“If youth but knew!” Ah, “if,” in truth?—
I can recall with what gay youth,
To what light chorus,
Unsobered yet by time or change,
We roamed the many-gabled Grange,
All life before us;
I can recall with what gay youth,
To what light chorus,
Unsobered yet by time or change,
We roamed the many-gabled Grange,
All life before us;
Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp,
To catch the dim Arthurian camp
In misty distance;
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors
Of feigned existence.
To catch the dim Arthurian camp
In misty distance;
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors
Of feigned existence.
What need had we for thoughts or cares!
The hot sun parched the old parterres
And “flowerful closes”;
We roused the rooks with rounds and glees,
Played hide-and-seek behind the trees,—
Then plucked these roses.
The hot sun parched the old parterres
And “flowerful closes”;
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Played hide-and-seek behind the trees,—
Then plucked these roses.
Louise was one—light, glib Louise,
So freshly freed from school decrees
You scarce could stop her;
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalised
Our dear “Miss Proper”;—
So freshly freed from school decrees
You scarce could stop her;
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalised
Our dear “Miss Proper”;—
Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
Who wept—like Chaucer's Prioress,
When Dash was smitten;
Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when
You teased her kitten.
Who wept—like Chaucer's Prioress,
When Dash was smitten;
Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when
You teased her kitten.
I loved them all. Bell first and best;
Louise the next—for days of jest
Or madcap masking;
And Ruth, I thought,—why, failing these,
When my High-Mightiness should please,
She'd come for asking.
Louise the next—for days of jest
Or madcap masking;
And Ruth, I thought,—why, failing these,
When my High-Mightiness should please,
She'd come for asking.
Louise was grave when last we met;
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set;
And Ruth, Heaven bless her,
Ruth that I wooed,—and wooed in vain,—
Has gone where neither grief nor pain
Can now distress her.
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set;
And Ruth, Heaven bless her,
Ruth that I wooed,—and wooed in vain,—
Has gone where neither grief nor pain
Can now distress her.
104
DOROTHY
A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE
She then must once have looked, as I
Look now, across the level rye,—
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river—she
Whose old-world name was “Dorothy.”
Look now, across the level rye,—
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river—she
Whose old-world name was “Dorothy.”
The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,—
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,—
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.
What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper;—
Soft,—pensive,—far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
Whose crude perception could but see
“Ma'am Fine-airs” in “Miss Dorothy.”
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper;—
Soft,—pensive,—far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
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“Ma'am Fine-airs” in “Miss Dorothy.”
How not? She loved, maybe, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;—
Perchance too candidly preferred
“Clarissa” to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;—
Perchance too candidly preferred
“Clarissa” to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull—this Dorothy.
Poor child!—with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth;—poor Dorothy!
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth;—poor Dorothy!
Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At “twice-told tales” of foxes killed;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port—and Dorothy!
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At “twice-told tales” of foxes killed;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port—and Dorothy!
'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
106
L'ENVOI.
These last I spoke. Then Florence said,
Below me,—“Dreams? Delusions, Fred!”
Next, with a pause,—she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile—
“But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.’”
Below me,—“Dreams? Delusions, Fred!”
Next, with a pause,—she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile—
“But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that ‘Dorothy.’”
107
AVICE
“On serait tenté de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Berge-ronnette.”
—Victor Hugo.
Though the voice of modern schools
Has demurred,
By the dreamy Asian creed
'Tis averred,
That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,—
Or a bird.
Has demurred,
By the dreamy Asian creed
'Tis averred,
That the souls of men, released
From their bodies when deceased,
Sometimes enter in a beast,—
Or a bird.
I have watched you long, Avice,—
Watched you so,
I have found your secret out;
And I know
That the restless ribboned things,
Where your slope of shoulder springs,
Are but undeveloped wings
That will grow.
Watched you so,
I have found your secret out;
And I know
That the restless ribboned things,
Where your slope of shoulder springs,
Are but undeveloped wings
That will grow.
When you enter in a room,
It is stirred
With the wayward, flashing flight
Of a bird;
And you speak—and bring with you
Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,
And the wind-breath and the dew,
At a word.
It is stirred
With the wayward, flashing flight
Of a bird;
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Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,
And the wind-breath and the dew,
At a word.
When you called to me my name,
Then again
When I heard your single cry
In the lane,
All the sound was as the “sweet”
Which the birds to birds repeat
In their thank-song to the heat
After rain.
Then again
When I heard your single cry
In the lane,
All the sound was as the “sweet”
Which the birds to birds repeat
In their thank-song to the heat
After rain.
When you sang the Schwalbenlied,
'Twas absurd,—
But it seemed no human note
That I heard;
For your strain had all the trills.
All the little shakes and stills,
Of the over-song that rills
From a bird.
'Twas absurd,—
But it seemed no human note
That I heard;
For your strain had all the trills.
All the little shakes and stills,
Of the over-song that rills
From a bird.
You have just their eager, quick
“Airs de tête,”
All their flush and fever-heat
When elate;
Every bird-like nod and beck,
And a bird's own curve of neck
When she gives a little peck
To her mate.
“Airs de tête,”
All their flush and fever-heat
When elate;
Every bird-like nod and beck,
And a bird's own curve of neck
When she gives a little peck
To her mate.
109
When you left me, only now,
In that furred,
Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,
I was spurred
Just to catch you, O my Sweet,
By the bodice trim and neat,—
Just to feel your heart a-beat,
Like a bird.
In that furred,
Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,
I was spurred
Just to catch you, O my Sweet,
By the bodice trim and neat,—
Just to feel your heart a-beat,
Like a bird.
Yet, alas! Love's light you deign
But to wear
As the dew upon your plumes,
And you care
Not a whit for rest or hush;
But the leaves, the lyric gush,
And the wing-power, and the rush
Of the air.
But to wear
As the dew upon your plumes,
And you care
Not a whit for rest or hush;
But the leaves, the lyric gush,
And the wing-power, and the rush
Of the air.
So I dare not woo you, Sweet,
For a day,
Lest I lose you in a flash,
As I may;
Did I tell you tender things,
You would shake your sudden wings;—
You would start from him who sings,
And away.
For a day,
Lest I lose you in a flash,
As I may;
Did I tell you tender things,
You would shake your sudden wings;—
You would start from him who sings,
And away.
110
THE LOVE-LETTER
‘J'ai vu les mœurs de mon tems, et j'ai publié cette lettre.”
—La Nouvelle Héloïse.
If this should fail, why then I scarcely know
What could succeed. Here's brilliancy (and banter),
Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau;—
If this should fail, then tempora mutantur;
Style's out of date, and love, as a profession,
Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.
What could succeed. Here's brilliancy (and banter),
Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau;—
If this should fail, then tempora mutantur;
Style's out of date, and love, as a profession,
Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.
“The men who think as I, I fear, are few,”
(Cynics would say twere well if they were fewer);
“I am not what I seem,”—(indeed, 'tis true;
Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);
“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie
More deep than words”—(as these exemplify).
(Cynics would say twere well if they were fewer);
“I am not what I seem,”—(indeed, 'tis true;
Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);
“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie
More deep than words”—(as these exemplify).
“I will not say when first your beauty's sun
Illumed my life,”—(it needs imagination);
“For me to see you and to love were one,”—
(This will account for some precipitation);
“Let it suffice that worship more devoted
Ne'er throbbed,” et cætera. The rest is quoted.
Illumed my life,”—(it needs imagination);
“For me to see you and to love were one,”—
(This will account for some precipitation);
“Let it suffice that worship more devoted
Ne'er throbbed,” et cætera. The rest is quoted.
111
“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye,”—
(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)
“If truly spirit unto spirit cry,”—
(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)
“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”
This next, I think, is more than commonplace.
(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)
“If truly spirit unto spirit cry,”—
(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)
“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”
This next, I think, is more than commonplace.
“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting,
Forestall the speech with favour found before:
Why should we plead?—it were an idle thing,
If Love himself be Love's ambassador!”
Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;—
'Twill show we write currente calamo.
Forestall the speech with favour found before:
Why should we plead?—it were an idle thing,
If Love himself be Love's ambassador!”
Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;—
'Twill show we write currente calamo.
“My fate,—my fortune, I commit to you,”—
(In point of fact, the latter's not extensive);
“Without you I am poor indeed,”—(strike through,
'Tis true but crude—'twould make her apprehensive);
“My life is yours—I lay it at your feet,”
(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).
(In point of fact, the latter's not extensive);
“Without you I am poor indeed,”—(strike through,
'Tis true but crude—'twould make her apprehensive);
“My life is yours—I lay it at your feet,”
(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).
‘Give me the right to stand within the shrine,
Where never yet my faltering feet intruded;
Give me the right to call you wholly mine,”—
(That is, Consols and Three-per-Cents included);
“To guard your rest from every care that cankers,—
To keep your life,—(and balance at your banker's).
Where never yet my faltering feet intruded;
Give me the right to call you wholly mine,”—
(That is, Consols and Three-per-Cents included);
“To guard your rest from every care that cankers,—
To keep your life,—(and balance at your banker's).
112
“Compel me not to long for your reply;
Suspense makes havoc with the mind—(and muscles);
“Winged Hope takes flight,”—(which means that I must fly,
Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);
“I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla!
Write by return.” And now for a Manilla!
Suspense makes havoc with the mind—(and muscles);
“Winged Hope takes flight,”—(which means that I must fly,
Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);
“I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla!
Write by return.” And now for a Manilla!
“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go;
And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter”;
Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—
'Twill serve again. There's but the name to alter;
And Love,—that starves,—must knock at every portal,
In formâ pauperis. We are but mortal!
And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter”;
Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—
'Twill serve again. There's but the name to alter;
And Love,—that starves,—must knock at every portal,
In formâ pauperis. We are but mortal!
113
THE MISOGYNIST
“Il était un jeune homme d'un bien beau passé.”
When first he sought our haunts, he wore
His locks in Hamlet-style;
His brow with thought was “sicklied o'er,”—
We rarely saw him smile;
And, e'en when none was looking on,
His air was always woe-begone.
His locks in Hamlet-style;
His brow with thought was “sicklied o'er,”—
We rarely saw him smile;
And, e'en when none was looking on,
His air was always woe-begone.
He kept, I think, his bosom bare
To imitate Jean Paul;
His solitary topics were
Æsthetics, Fate, and Soul;—
Although at times, but not for long,
He bowed his Intellect to song.
To imitate Jean Paul;
His solitary topics were
Æsthetics, Fate, and Soul;—
Although at times, but not for long,
He bowed his Intellect to song.
He served, he said, a Muse of Tears:
I know his verses breathed
A fine funereal air of biers,
And objects cypress-wreathed;—
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled
An ode he named “The Sheeted Dead.’
I know his verses breathed
A fine funereal air of biers,
And objects cypress-wreathed;—
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled
An ode he named “The Sheeted Dead.’
114
In these light moods, I call to mind,
He darkly would allude
To some dread sorrow undefined,—
Some passion unsubdued;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.
He darkly would allude
To some dread sorrow undefined,—
Some passion unsubdued;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.
He railed at women's faith as Cant;
We thought him grandest when
He named them Siren-shapes that “chant
On blanching bones of Men”;—
Alas, not e'en the great go free
From that insidious minstrelsy!
We thought him grandest when
He named them Siren-shapes that “chant
On blanching bones of Men”;—
Alas, not e'en the great go free
From that insidious minstrelsy!
His lot, he oft would gravely urge,
Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge
The Billows of Despair.
We dreamed it true. We never knew
What gentler ears he told it to.
Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge
The Billows of Despair.
We dreamed it true. We never knew
What gentler ears he told it to.
We, bound with him in common care,
One-minded, celibate,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
Our lives to dedicate;—
We, truly, in no common sense,
Deserved his closest confidence!
One-minded, celibate,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
Our lives to dedicate;—
We, truly, in no common sense,
Deserved his closest confidence!
But soon, and yet, though soon, too late,
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
A gradual softness enervate
That all superior mind,
Until,—in full assembly met,
He dared to speak of Etiquette.
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
A gradual softness enervate
That all superior mind,
115
He dared to speak of Etiquette.
The verse that we severe had known,
Assumed a wanton air,—
A fond effeminate monotone
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Not ηθος stirred him now or νους,
He read “The Angel in the House”!
Assumed a wanton air,—
A fond effeminate monotone
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Not ηθος stirred him now or νους,
He read “The Angel in the House”!
Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff,
Grew ludicrously sore
If we but named a photograph
We found him simpering o'er;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.
Grew ludicrously sore
If we but named a photograph
We found him simpering o'er;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.
Then worse again. He tried to dress;
He trimmed his tragic mane;
Announced at length (to our distress)
He had not “lived in vain”;—
Thenceforth his one prevailing mood
Became a base beatitude.
He trimmed his tragic mane;
Announced at length (to our distress)
He had not “lived in vain”;—
Thenceforth his one prevailing mood
Became a base beatitude.
And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul!
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
“All wool,” enwound about;
His very hat had changed its brim;—
Our course was clear,—we banished him!
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
“All wool,” enwound about;
His very hat had changed its brim;—
Our course was clear,—we banished him!
116
A VIRTUOSO
Be seated, pray. “A grave appeal”?
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,—
This monstrous mélodrame of Force!
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,
Museums turned to hospitals!
The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,—
This monstrous mélodrame of Force!
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,
Museums turned to hospitals!
“And worse,” you say; “the wide distress!”
Alas, 'tis true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colourists;
Speaking of colour, next your seat
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand;
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned;
Alas, 'tis true distress exists,
Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colourists;
Speaking of colour, next your seat
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand;
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned;
Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap;—
But, as regards the present war,—
Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes—may I say it?—somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap;—
117
Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes—may I say it?—somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?
You hesitate. For my part, I—
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Æsthetically—still reply
That “Charity begins at Home.”
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named “Hunt”? The girl's a gem;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Æsthetically—still reply
That “Charity begins at Home.”
The words remind me. Did you catch
My so-named “Hunt”? The girl's a gem;
And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!
“But your appeal's for home,”—you say,—
For home, and English poor! Indeed!
I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic need—
However sore—Yet though one grants
That home should have the foremost claims,
At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names;
For home, and English poor! Indeed!
I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic need—
However sore—Yet though one grants
That home should have the foremost claims,
At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names;
While here with us—Ah! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities!
Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.
To verify the varied pleas,
Or from his private means to cope
With all our shrill necessities!
Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell
With these half-dozen Indian beads.
118
Moreover, add that every one
So well exalts his pet distress,
'Tis—Give to all, or give to none,
If you'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,
The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;
So well exalts his pet distress,
'Tis—Give to all, or give to none,
If you'd avoid invidiousness.
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,
The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;
By my selection I should raise
An alphabet of rivalries;
And life is short,—I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it;—
And life is short, you understand;
So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,
Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it;—
And life is short, you understand;
So, if I only hold you out
An open though an empty hand,
Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.
Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, Sir!
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,—
Believe me, on these very grounds.
Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity!
That cost me quite three hundred pounds,—
That Dürer figure,—“Charity.”
One can but be consistent, Sir!
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,—
Believe me, on these very grounds.
Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity!
That cost me quite three hundred pounds,—
That Dürer figure,—“Charity.”
119
LAISSEZ FAIRE
“Prophete rechts, Prophete links,
Das Weltkind in der Mitten.”
—Goethe's Diné zu Coblenz
Das Weltkind in der Mitten.”
—Goethe's Diné zu Coblenz
To left, here's B., half-Communist,
Who talks a chastened treason,
And C., a something-else in “ist,”
Harangues, to right, on Reason.
Who talks a chastened treason,
And C., a something-else in “ist,”
Harangues, to right, on Reason.
B., from his “tribune,” fulminates
At Throne and Constitution,
Nay—with the walnuts—advocates
Reform by revolution;
At Throne and Constitution,
Nay—with the walnuts—advocates
Reform by revolution;
While C.'s peculiar coterie
Have now in full rehearsal
Some patent new Philosophy
To make doubt universal.
Have now in full rehearsal
Some patent new Philosophy
To make doubt universal.
And yet—why not? If zealots burn,
Their zeal has not affected
My taste for salmon and Sauterne,
Or I might have objected:—
Their zeal has not affected
My taste for salmon and Sauterne,
Or I might have objected:—
120
Friend B., the argument you choose
Has been by France refuted;
And C., mon cher, your novel views
Are just Tom Paine, diluted;
Has been by France refuted;
And C., mon cher, your novel views
Are just Tom Paine, diluted;
There's but one creed,—that's Laissez faire,
Behold its mild apostle!
My dear, declamatory pair,
Although you shout and jostle,
Behold its mild apostle!
My dear, declamatory pair,
Although you shout and jostle,
Not your ephemeral hands, nor mine,
Time's Gordian knots shall sunder,—
Will laid three casks of this old wine:
Who'll drink the last, I wonder?
Time's Gordian knots shall sunder,—
Will laid three casks of this old wine:
Who'll drink the last, I wonder?
121
TO Q. H. F.
SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE MARTIN'S “HORACE” (“ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS”)
“Horatius flaccus, B.C. 8,”
There's not a doubt about the date,—
You're dead and buried:
As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,
Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.
There's not a doubt about the date,—
You're dead and buried:
As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,
Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.
And that was centuries ago!
You'd think we'd learned enough, I know
To help refine us,
Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus;
Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.
You'd think we'd learned enough, I know
To help refine us,
Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus;
Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.
122
Ours is so far-advanced an age!
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!
We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!
We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!
We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!
We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.
And yet, how strange! Our “world,” to-day,
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh
Your Roman cronies;
Walk in the Park—you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail
By Lydia's ponies,
Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh
Your Roman cronies;
Walk in the Park—you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail
By Lydia's ponies,
Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.
The great Gargilius, then, behold!
His “long-bow” hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;
Fair Neobule too! Is not
One Hebrus here—from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!
Be wise. There old Canidia sits;
No doubt she's tearing you to bits.
His “long-bow” hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;
Fair Neobule too! Is not
One Hebrus here—from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!
Be wise. There old Canidia sits;
No doubt she's tearing you to bits.
And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind
Terentia's skirting;
Here's Pyrrha, “golden-haired” at will;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;
Asterie flirting,—
Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,—
Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind
Terentia's skirting;
123
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;
Asterie flirting,—
Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,—
Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.
So with the rest. Who will may trace
Behind the new each elder face
Defined as clearly;
Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our “world” to-day's as good or ill,—
As cultured (nearly),—
As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.
Behind the new each elder face
Defined as clearly;
Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our “world” to-day's as good or ill,—
As cultured (nearly),—
As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.
124
TO “LYDIA LANGUISH”
“Il me faut des émotions.”
—Blanche Amory
You ask me, Lydia, “whether I,
If you refuse my suit, shall die.”
(Now pray don't let this hurt you!)
Although the time be out of joint,
I should not think a bodkin's point
The sole resource of virtue;
Nor shall I, though your mood endure,
Attempt a final Water-cure
Except against my wishes;
For I respectfully decline
To dignify the Serpentine,
And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes;
But if you ask me whether I
Composedly can go,
Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer—No.
If you refuse my suit, shall die.”
(Now pray don't let this hurt you!)
Although the time be out of joint,
I should not think a bodkin's point
The sole resource of virtue;
Nor shall I, though your mood endure,
Attempt a final Water-cure
Except against my wishes;
For I respectfully decline
To dignify the Serpentine,
And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes;
But if you ask me whether I
Composedly can go,
Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer—No.
“You are assured,” you sadly say
(If in this most considerate way
To treat my suit your will is),
That I shall “quickly find as fair
Some new Neæra's tangled hair—
Some easier Amaryllis.”
I cannot promise to be cold
If smiles are kind as yours of old
On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I, if I would, forget
The homage that is Nature's debt,
While man has social duties;
But if you ask shall I prefer
To you I honour so,
A somewhat visionary Her,
I answer truly—No.
(If in this most considerate way
To treat my suit your will is),
That I shall “quickly find as fair
Some new Neæra's tangled hair—
Some easier Amaryllis.”
125
If smiles are kind as yours of old
On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I, if I would, forget
The homage that is Nature's debt,
While man has social duties;
But if you ask shall I prefer
To you I honour so,
A somewhat visionary Her,
I answer truly—No.
You fear, you frankly add, “to find
In me too late the altered mind
That altering Time estranges.”
To this I make response that we
(As physiologists agree)
Must have septennial changes;
This is a thing beyond control,
And it were best upon the whole
To try and find out whether
We could not, by some means, arrange
This not-to-be-avoided change
So as to change together:
But, had you asked me to allow
That you could ever grow
Less amiable than you are now,—
Emphatically—No.
In me too late the altered mind
That altering Time estranges.”
To this I make response that we
(As physiologists agree)
Must have septennial changes;
This is a thing beyond control,
And it were best upon the whole
To try and find out whether
We could not, by some means, arrange
This not-to-be-avoided change
So as to change together:
But, had you asked me to allow
That you could ever grow
Less amiable than you are now,—
Emphatically—No.
But—to be serious—if you care
To know how I shall really bear
This much-discussed rejection,
I answer you. As feeling men
Behave, in best romances, when
You outrage their affection;—
With that gesticulatory woe,
By which, as melodramas show,
Despair is indicated;
Enforced by all the liquid grief
Which hugest pocket-handkerchief
Has ever simulated;
And when, arrived so far, you say
In tragic accents “Go,”
Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay,
And firmly answer—No
To know how I shall really bear
This much-discussed rejection,
126
Behave, in best romances, when
You outrage their affection;—
With that gesticulatory woe,
By which, as melodramas show,
Despair is indicated;
Enforced by all the liquid grief
Which hugest pocket-handkerchief
Has ever simulated;
And when, arrived so far, you say
In tragic accents “Go,”
Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay,
And firmly answer—No
127
A GAGE D'AMOUR
“Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis
------ miraris?”
------ miraris?”
Charles,—for it seems you wish to know,—
You wonder what could scare me so,
And why, in this long-locked bureau,
With trembling fingers,—
With tragic air, I now replace
This ancient web of yellow lace,
Among whose faded folds the trace
Of perfume lingers.
You wonder what could scare me so,
And why, in this long-locked bureau,
With trembling fingers,—
With tragic air, I now replace
This ancient web of yellow lace,
Among whose faded folds the trace
Of perfume lingers.
Friend of my youth, severe as true,
I guess the train your thoughts pursue;
But this my state is nowise due
To indigestion;
I had forgotten it was there,
A scarf that Some-one used to wear.
Hinc illæ lacrimæ,—so spare
Your cynic question.
I guess the train your thoughts pursue;
But this my state is nowise due
To indigestion;
I had forgotten it was there,
A scarf that Some-one used to wear.
Hinc illæ lacrimæ,—so spare
Your cynic question.
128
Some-one who is not girlish now,
And wed long since. We meet and bow;
I don't suppose our broken vow
Affects us keenly;
Yet, trifling though my act appears,
Your Sternes would make it ground for tears;—
One can't disturb the dust of years,
And smile serenely.
And wed long since. We meet and bow;
I don't suppose our broken vow
Affects us keenly;
Yet, trifling though my act appears,
Your Sternes would make it ground for tears;—
One can't disturb the dust of years,
And smile serenely.
“My golden locks” are gray and chill,
For hers,—let them be sacred still;
But yet, I own, a boyish thrill
Went dancing through me,
Charles, when I held yon yellow lace;
For, from its dusty hiding-place,
Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face
That beckoned to me.
For hers,—let them be sacred still;
But yet, I own, a boyish thrill
Went dancing through me,
Charles, when I held yon yellow lace;
For, from its dusty hiding-place,
Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face
That beckoned to me.
We shut our heart up, nowadays,
Like some old music-box that plays
Unfashionable airs that raise
Derisive pity;
Alas,—a nothing starts the spring;
And lo, the sentimental thing
At once commences quavering
Its lover's ditty.
Like some old music-box that plays
Unfashionable airs that raise
Derisive pity;
Alas,—a nothing starts the spring;
And lo, the sentimental thing
At once commences quavering
Its lover's ditty.
Laugh, if you like. The boy in me,—
The boy that was,—revived to see
The fresh young smile that shone when she,
Of old, was tender.
Once more we trod the Golden Way,—
That mother you saw yesterday,—
And I, whom none can well portray,
As young, or slender.
The boy that was,—revived to see
The fresh young smile that shone when she,
Of old, was tender.
129
That mother you saw yesterday,—
And I, whom none can well portray,
As young, or slender.
She twirled the flimsy scarf about
Her pretty head, and stepping out
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout
Of childish pleasure.
Where we were bound no mortal knows,
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes,
And brought me blankly back to prose
And Gladstone's measure.
Her pretty head, and stepping out
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout
Of childish pleasure.
Where we were bound no mortal knows,
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes,
And brought me blankly back to prose
And Gladstone's measure.
Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate.
My brown old books around me wait,
My pipe still holds, unconfiscate,
Its wonted station.
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep
The bachelor's secluded sleep
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep,
I pour libation!
My brown old books around me wait,
My pipe still holds, unconfiscate,
Its wonted station.
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep
The bachelor's secluded sleep
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep,
I pour libation!
130
CUPID'S ALLEY
A MORALITY
O, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
See the couples advance,—
O, Love's but a dance!
A whisper, a glance,—
“Shall we twirl down the middle?”
O, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
Where Time plays the fiddle!
See the couples advance,—
O, Love's but a dance!
A whisper, a glance,—
“Shall we twirl down the middle?”
O, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
It runs (so saith my Chronicler)
Across a smoky City;—
A Babel filled with buzz and whirr,
Huge, gloomy, black and gritty;
Dark-louring looks the hill-side near,
Dark-yawning looks the valley,—
But here 'tis always fresh and clear,
For here—is “Cupid's Alley.”
Across a smoky City;—
A Babel filled with buzz and whirr,
Huge, gloomy, black and gritty;
Dark-louring looks the hill-side near,
Dark-yawning looks the valley,—
But here 'tis always fresh and clear,
For here—is “Cupid's Alley.”
And, from an Arbour cool and green
With aspect down the middle,
An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean,
Scrapes on an ancient fiddle;
Alert he seems, but aged enow
To punt the Stygian galley;—
With wisp of forelock on his brow,
He plays—in “Cupid's Alley.”
With aspect down the middle,
An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean,
Scrapes on an ancient fiddle;
Alert he seems, but aged enow
To punt the Stygian galley;—
With wisp of forelock on his brow,
He plays—in “Cupid's Alley.”
131
All day he plays,—a single tune!—
But, by the oddest chances,
Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon,
It suits all kinds of dances;
My Lord may walk a pas de Cour
To Jenny's pas de Chalet;—
The folks who ne'er have danced before,
Can dance—in “Cupid's Alley.”
But, by the oddest chances,
Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon,
It suits all kinds of dances;
My Lord may walk a pas de Cour
To Jenny's pas de Chalet;—
The folks who ne'er have danced before,
Can dance—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And here, for ages yet untold,
Long, long before my ditty,
Came high and low, and young and old,
From out the crowded City;
And still to-day they come, they go,
And just as fancies tally,
They foot it quick, they foot it slow,
All day—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Long, long before my ditty,
Came high and low, and young and old,
From out the crowded City;
And still to-day they come, they go,
And just as fancies tally,
They foot it quick, they foot it slow,
All day—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Strange Dance! 'Tis free to Rank and Rags;
Here no distinction flatters,
Here Riches shakes its money-bags,
And Poverty its tatters;
Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law;—
Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet;
Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a',—
They bob—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Here no distinction flatters,
Here Riches shakes its money-bags,
And Poverty its tatters;
Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law;—
Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet;
Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a',—
They bob—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Strange pairs! To laughing, light Fifteen
Here capers Prudence thrifty;
Here Prodigal leads down the green
A blushing Maid of fifty;
Some treat it as a serious thing,
And some but shilly-shally;
And some have danced without the ring
(Ah me!)—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Here capers Prudence thrifty;
Here Prodigal leads down the green
A blushing Maid of fifty;
132
And some but shilly-shally;
And some have danced without the ring
(Ah me!)—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And sometimes one to one will dance,
And think of one behind her;
And one by one will stand, perchance,
Yet look all ways to find her;
Some seek a partner with a sigh,
Some win him with a sally;
And some, they know not how nor why,
Strange fate!—of “Cupid's Alley.”
And think of one behind her;
And one by one will stand, perchance,
Yet look all ways to find her;
Some seek a partner with a sigh,
Some win him with a sally;
And some, they know not how nor why,
Strange fate!—of “Cupid's Alley.”
And some will dance an age or so
Who came for half a minute;
And some, who like the game, will go
Before they well begin it;
And some will vow they're “danced to death,”
Who (somehow) always rally;
Strange cures are wrought (mine Author saith),
Strange cures!—in “Cupid's Alley.”
Who came for half a minute;
And some, who like the game, will go
Before they well begin it;
And some will vow they're “danced to death,”
Who (somehow) always rally;
Strange cures are wrought (mine Author saith),
Strange cures!—in “Cupid's Alley.”
It may be one will dance to-day,
And dance no more to-morrow;
It may be one will steal away
And nurse a life-long sorrow;
What then? The rest advance evade,
Unite, dispart, and dally,
Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,
Not less—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And dance no more to-morrow;
It may be one will steal away
And nurse a life-long sorrow;
What then? The rest advance evade,
Unite, dispart, and dally,
Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,
Not less—in “Cupid's Alley.”
133
For till that City's wheel-work vast
And shuddering beams shall crumble;—
And till that Fiddler lean at last
From off his seat shall tumble;—
Till then (the Civic records say),
This quaint, fantastic ballet
Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay,
Must last—in “Cupid's Alley.”
And shuddering beams shall crumble;—
And till that Fiddler lean at last
From off his seat shall tumble;—
Till then (the Civic records say),
This quaint, fantastic ballet
Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay,
Must last—in “Cupid's Alley.”
134
THE IDYLL OF THE CARP
(The Scene is in a garden,—where you please,
So that it lie in France, and have withal
Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees,
And Triton huge, with moss for coronal.
A Princess,—feeding fish. To her Denise.)
The Princess.
So that it lie in France, and have withal
Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees,
And Triton huge, with moss for coronal.
A Princess,—feeding fish. To her Denise.)
These, Denise, are my Suitors!
Denise.
Where?
The Princess.
These fish
I feed them daily here at morn and night
With crumbs of favour,—scraps of graciousness,
Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish,
But serving just to edge an appetite. (Throwing bread.)
Make haste, Messieurs! Make haste, then! Hurry. See,—
See how they swim! Would you not say, confess,
Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall,
When the King comes?
Denise.
You're jesting!
135
Not at all.
Watch but the great one yonder! There's the Duke;—
Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke;
Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings.
Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings;
Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air,
Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair?
You surely have, Denise.
Denise.
I think I have.
But there's another, older and more grave,—
The one that wears the round patch on the throat,
And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note?
The Princess.
Why that's my good chambellan—with his seal.
A kind old man!—he carves me orange-peel
In quaint devices at refection-hours,
Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers,
Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words,
Such as men loved when people wooed like birds
And spoke the true note first. No suitor he,
Yet loves me too,—though in a graybeard's key.
136
Look, Madam, look!—a fish without a stain!
O speckless, fleckless fish! Who is it, pray,
That bears him so discreetly?
The Princess.
Fontenay.
You know him not? My prince of shining locks!
My pearl!—My Phœnix!—my pomander-box!
He loves not Me, alas! The man's too vain!
He loves his doublet better than my suit,—
His graces than my favours. Still his sash
Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute
Not wholly out of tune—
Denise.
Ai! what a splash!
Who is it comes with such a sudden dash
Plump i' the midst, and leaps the others clear?
The Princess.
Ho! for a trumpet! Let the bells be rung!
Baron of Sans-terre, Lord of Prés-en-Cieux,
Vidame of Vol-au-Vent—“et aultres lieux!”
Bah! How I hate his Gasconading tongue!
Why, that's my bragging Bravo-Musketeer—
My carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar
Got in a brawl that stands for Spanish war:—
His very life's a splash!
137
I'd rather wear
E'en such a patched and melancholy air,
As his,—that motley one,—who keeps the wall,
And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival.
The Princess.
My frankest wooer! Thus his love he tells
To mournful moving of his cap and bells.
He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free,—
As Cowards War,—as young Maids Constancy.
Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove;
He loves me as the Inquisition Thought;—
Denise.
“He loves?—he loves?” Why all this loving's naught!
The Princess.
And “Naught (quoth Jacquot) makes the sum of Love!”
Denise.
The cynic knave! How call you this one here?—
This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near,
And circles, like a cat around a cage,
To snatch the surplus.
138
Chérubin, the page.
Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile,
And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache
Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile,
He lives to plague the swans upon the lake,
To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake.
Denise.
And these—that swim aside—who may these be?
The Princess.
Those—are two gentlemen of Picardy.
Equal in blood,—of equal bravery:—
Moreuil and Montcornet. They hunt in pair;
I mete them morsels with an equal care,
Lest they should eat each other,—or eat Me.
Denise.
And that—and that—and that?
The Princess.
I name them not
Those are the crowd who merely think their lot
The lighter by my land.
139
And is there none
More prized than most? There surely must be one,—
A Carp of carps!
The Princess.
Ah me!—he will not come!
He swims at large,—looks shyly on,—is dumb.
Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble,
But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble,
Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble,
Slips smartly in,—and gets the proffered crumb.
He should have all my crumbs—if he'd but ask;
Nay, an he would, it were no hopeless task
To gain a something more. But though he's brave,
He's far too proud to be a dangling slave;
And then—he's modest! So . . . he will not come!
140
THE SUNDIAL
'Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;
In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,
Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,
And white in winter like a marble tomb;
And round about its gray, time-eaten brow
Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row:
I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?
Lean letters speak—a worn and shattered row:
I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou:
I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?
Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head;
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.
And here the snail a silver course would run,
Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread
His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.
The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.
Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,—
Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.
141
O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed;
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone;
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.
About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone;
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,
Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.
She leaned upon the slab a little while,
Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone,
Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.
Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone,
Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,
Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.
The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;
There came a second lady to the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale—
An inner beauty shining from her face.
There came a second lady to the place,
Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale—
An inner beauty shining from her face.
She, as if listless with a lonely love,
Straying among the alleys with a book,—
Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.
Straying among the alleys with a book,—
Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove,
And spied the tiny letter in the nook.
Then, like to one who confirmation found
Of some dread secret half-accounted true,—
Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,—
Of some dread secret half-accounted true,—
Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound,
And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,—
She bent her fair young forehead on the stone;
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;
And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.
The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;
And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone
The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.
142
The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom;
There came a soldier gallant in her stead,
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;
There came a soldier gallant in her stead,
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,
A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;
Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow,
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;
So kindly fronted that you marvel how
The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;
So kindly fronted that you marvel how
The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;
Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun;
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge
And standing somewhat widely, like to one
More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe
Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge
And standing somewhat widely, like to one
More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe
As courtiers do, but gentleman withal,
Took out the note; held it as one who feared
The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;
Took out the note; held it as one who feared
The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;
Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast;
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way,
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way,
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.
The shade crept forward through the dying glow;
There came no more nor dame nor cavalier;
But for a little time the brass will show
A small gray spot—the record of a tear.
There came no more nor dame nor cavalier;
But for a little time the brass will show
A small gray spot—the record of a tear.
143
AN UNFINISHED SONG
“Cantat Deo qui vivit Deo.”
Yes, he was well-nigh gone and near his rest,
The year could not renew him; nor the cry
Of building nightingales about the nest;
Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh
The year could not renew him; nor the cry
Of building nightingales about the nest;
Nor that soft freshness of the May-wind's sigh
That fell before the garden scents, and died
Between the ampler leafage of the trees:
All these he knew not, lying open-eyed,
Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease,
Between the ampler leafage of the trees:
All these he knew not, lying open-eyed,
Deep in a dream that was not pain nor ease,
But death not yet. Outside a woman talked—
His wife she was—whose clicking needles sped
To faded phrases of complaint that balked
My rising words of comfort. Overhead,
His wife she was—whose clicking needles sped
To faded phrases of complaint that balked
My rising words of comfort. Overhead,
A cage that hung amid the jasmine stars
Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped.
Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars,
Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped.
Trembled a little, and a blossom dropped.
Then notes came pouring through the wicker bars,
Climbed half a rapid arc of song, and stopped.
144
“Is it a thrush?” I asked. “A thrush,” she said.
“That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before
He left the doorway settle for his bed,
Sick as you see, and couldn't teach him more.
“That was Will's tune. Will taught him that before
He left the doorway settle for his bed,
Sick as you see, and couldn't teach him more.
“He'd bring his Bible here o' nights, would Will,
Following the light, and whiles when it was dark
And days were warm, he'd sit there whistling still,
Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark.”
Following the light, and whiles when it was dark
And days were warm, he'd sit there whistling still,
Teaching the bird. He whistled like a lark.”
“Jack! Jack!” A joyous flutter stirred the cage,
Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began;
The woman turned again to want and wage,
And in the inner chamber sighed the man.
Shaking the blossoms down. The bird began;
The woman turned again to want and wage,
And in the inner chamber sighed the man.
How clear the song was! Musing as I heard,
My fancies wandered from the droning wife
To sad comparison of man and bird,—
The broken song, the uncompleted life,
My fancies wandered from the droning wife
To sad comparison of man and bird,—
The broken song, the uncompleted life,
That seemed a broken song; and of the two,
My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest,
That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew,
Without desire or knowledge of the rest.
My thought a moment deemed the bird more blest,
That, when the sun shone, sang the notes it knew,
Without desire or knowledge of the rest.
Nay, happier man. For him futurity
Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise
Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He,
Solver of all, above his Flower of Days,
Still hides a hope that this his earthly praise
Finds heavenly end, for surely will not He,
Solver of all, above his Flower of Days,
145
Teach him the song that no one living knows?
Let the man die, with that half-chant of his,—
What Now discovers not Hereafter shows,
And God will surely teach him more than this.
Let the man die, with that half-chant of his,—
What Now discovers not Hereafter shows,
And God will surely teach him more than this.
Again the Bird. I turned, and passed along;
But Time and Death, Eternity and Change,
Talked with me ever, and the climbing song
Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange.
But Time and Death, Eternity and Change,
Talked with me ever, and the climbing song
Rose in my hearing, beautiful and strange.
146
THE CHILD-MUSICIAN
These verses originated in an “American story” told me
orally by a friend who had found it copied into some English
paper. I “romanced” it after my own fashion. After it
was published, by the courtesy of one of the most graceful
and finished of Trans-Atlantic poets, I was furnished with a
more accurate version of the facts. Those who wish to read
the true and authentic story of poor little James Speaight
must do so in the pathetic prose setting of Mr. Thomas
Bailey Aldrich.
These verses originated in an “American story” told me orally by a friend who had found it copied into some English paper. I “romanced” it after my own fashion. After it was published, by the courtesy of one of the most graceful and finished of Trans-Atlantic poets, I was furnished with a more accurate version of the facts. Those who wish to read the true and authentic story of poor little James Speaight must do so in the pathetic prose setting of Mr. Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
He had played for his lordship's levee,
He had played for her ladyship's whim,
Till the poor little head was heavy,
And the poor little brain would swim.
He had played for her ladyship's whim,
Till the poor little head was heavy,
And the poor little brain would swim.
And the face grew peaked and eerie,
And the large eyes strange and bright,
And they said—too late—“He is weary!
He shall rest for, at least, To-night!”
And the large eyes strange and bright,
And they said—too late—“He is weary!
He shall rest for, at least, To-night!”
But at dawn, when the birds were waking,
As they watched in the silent room,
With the sound of a strained cord breaking,
A something snapped in the gloom.
As they watched in the silent room,
With the sound of a strained cord breaking,
A something snapped in the gloom.
'Twas a string of his violoncello,
And they heard him stir in his bed:—
“Make room for a tired little fellow,
Kind God!—” was the last that he said.
And they heard him stir in his bed:—
“Make room for a tired little fellow,
Kind God!—” was the last that he said.
147
THE CRADLE
How steadfastly she'd worked at it!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!
How longingly she'd hung on it!—
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
He came at last, the tiny guest,
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest . . .
Her coffin was his bed.
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest . . .
Her coffin was his bed.
148
BEFORE SEDAN
“The dead hand clasped a letter.”
—Special Correspondence.
Here in this leafy place
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies
'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies
'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.
Carry his body hence,—
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim;—
Throw the earth over him.
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim;—
Throw the earth over him.
What was the white you touched,
There, at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died;—
Message or wish, may be;—
Smooth the folds out and see.
There, at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died;—
Message or wish, may be;—
Smooth the folds out and see.
149
Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled!—
Only the tremulous
Words of a child;—
Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.
Here could have smiled!—
Only the tremulous
Words of a child;—
Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.
Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
His—her dead father's—kiss;
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. “Marguerite.”
Morning and night,
His—her dead father's—kiss;
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet.
That is all. “Marguerite.”
Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!
Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
If the grief died;—But no;—
Death will not have it so.
Slumbered the pain!
Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
If the grief died;—But no;—
Death will not have it so.
150
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY
Out from the City's dust and roar,
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's “love or pride,”
And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,—
You came upon it—suddenly.
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's “love or pride,”
And so,—beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,—
You came upon it—suddenly.
How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”
Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven”
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read—O Irony austere!—
“Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.’
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”
Part of “affliction” and of “Heaven”
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read—O Irony austere!—
“Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.’
151
MY LANDLADY
A small brisk woman, capped with many a bow;
“Yes,” so she says, “and younger, too, than some,”
Who bids me, bustling, “God speed,” when I go,
And gives me, rustling, “Welcome,” when I come.
“Yes,” so she says, “and younger, too, than some,”
Who bids me, bustling, “God speed,” when I go,
And gives me, rustling, “Welcome,” when I come.
“Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,—they say;
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit—
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.”
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit—
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.”
A musky haunt of lavender and shells,
Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays—
A life's collection—where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—
Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays—
A life's collection—where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—
A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;
152
A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set,
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,
With yellow writing faded underneath.
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,
With yellow writing faded underneath.
Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired. “Yes, 'tis my son!”
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired. “Yes, 'tis my son!”
“Where is he?” “Ah, sir, he is dead—my boy!
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head—my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head—my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.
“There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly;—he was left.
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly;—he was left.
“He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know,
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,—though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,—though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.
153
“'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,—
Or would have brought—my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent—they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.
Or would have brought—my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent—they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.
“Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more:
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.
“Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you;—
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, who have much work to do;—
Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!”
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, who have much work to do;—
Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!”
154
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
“Miss peacock's called.” And who demurs?
Not I who write, for certain;
If praise be due, one sure prefers
That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.
Not I who write, for certain;
If praise be due, one sure prefers
That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.
And yet, most strange to say, I find
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.
The pleased young premier led her on,
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?
Where is “Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart.”?
And where the crafty Cousin?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!
And where the crafty Cousin?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!
155
Where is the cool Detective,—he
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?
The men who worked the cataract?
The plush-clad carpet lifters?—
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The “supers” and the shifters?
The plush-clad carpet lifters?—
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The “supers” and the shifters?
Think what a crowd whom none recall,
Unsung,—unpraised,—unpitied;
Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,
The Great unBenefit-ed!
Unsung,—unpraised,—unpitied;
Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,
The Great unBenefit-ed!
Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page,
I leave you this for Moral:—
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!
I leave you this for Moral:—
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!
156
A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON GARDENS
They paused,—the cripple in the chair,
More bent with pain than age;
The mother with her lines of care;
The many-buttoned page;
More bent with pain than age;
The mother with her lines of care;
The many-buttoned page;
The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid,
With straggling train of three;
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid;—
All, curious, paused to see,
With straggling train of three;
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid;—
All, curious, paused to see,
If possible, the small, dusk bird
That from the almond bough,
Had poured the joyous chant they heard,
So suddenly, but now.
That from the almond bough,
Had poured the joyous chant they heard,
So suddenly, but now.
And one poor Poet stopped and thought—
How many a lonely lay
That bird had sung ere fortune brought
It near the common way,
How many a lonely lay
That bird had sung ere fortune brought
It near the common way,
157
Where the crowd hears the note. And then,—
What birds must sing the song,
To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!
What birds must sing the song,
To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!
But “Art for Art!” the Poet said,
“'Tis still the Nightingale,
That sings where no men's feet will tread
And praise and audience fail.”
“'Tis still the Nightingale,
That sings where no men's feet will tread
And praise and audience fail.”
| Collected poems | |