 | Collected poems |  |
595
LATER POEMS
597
VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
APRIL 22, 1910
Roses and Wine your Omar brings,
Yet o'er the Cup, a Moment-Space,
Peers into Naught with wistful Face,
As One who views but bygone Things.
Yet o'er the Cup, a Moment-Space,
Peers into Naught with wistful Face,
As One who views but bygone Things.
Not so with Us. Our larger Scope
Looks backward through the Past to see
Not what has been, but what may be—
We drink, not Memory, but Hope.
Looks backward through the Past to see
Not what has been, but what may be—
We drink, not Memory, but Hope.
1910.
598
LA BONNE COMÉDIE
“Les ‘Précieuses Ridicules’ allèrent aux nues dès le premier jour. Un vieillard s'écria du milieu du parterre: ‘Courage, Molière!’ voilà de la bonne comédie!” (Notice sur Molière.)
True Comedy circum praecordia ludit—
It warms the heart's cockles. 'Twas thus that he viewed it,
That simple old Critic, who smote on his knee,
And named it no more than he knew it to be.
It warms the heart's cockles. 'Twas thus that he viewed it,
That simple old Critic, who smote on his knee,
And named it no more than he knew it to be.
“True Comedy!” Ah! there is this thing about it,
If it makes the House merry, you never need doubt it:
It lashes the vicious; it laughs at the fool;
And it brings all the prigs and pretenders to school.
If it makes the House merry, you never need doubt it:
It lashes the vicious; it laughs at the fool;
And it brings all the prigs and pretenders to school.
To the poor it is kind; to the plain it is gentle;
It is neither too tragic nor too sentimental;
Its thrust, like a rapier's, though cutting, is clean,
And it pricks Affectation all over the scene.
It is neither too tragic nor too sentimental;
Its thrust, like a rapier's, though cutting, is clean,
And it pricks Affectation all over the scene.
599
Its rules are the rules Aristotle has taught us;
Its ways have not altered since Terence and Plautus;
Its mission is neither to praise nor to blame;
Its weapon is Ridicule; Folly, its game.
Its ways have not altered since Terence and Plautus;
Its mission is neither to praise nor to blame;
Its weapon is Ridicule; Folly, its game.
“True Comedy!”—such as our Poquelin made it!
“True Comedy!”—such as our Coquelin played it!
It clears out the cobwebs; it freshens the air;
And it treads in the steps of its Master, Molière!
“True Comedy!”—such as our Coquelin played it!
It clears out the cobwebs; it freshens the air;
And it treads in the steps of its Master, Molière!
1910.
600
IN MEMORIAM
(FRIDAY, MAY 20, 1910)
“Extinctus amabitur idem.”
Hor. Epist., 11. i. 14.
He that was King an hour ago
Is King no more; and we that bend
Beside the bier, too surely know
We lose a Friend.
Is King no more; and we that bend
Beside the bier, too surely know
We lose a Friend.
His was no “blood-and-iron” blend
To write in tears a ruthless reign;
Rather he strove to make an end
Of strife and pain.
To write in tears a ruthless reign;
Rather he strove to make an end
Of strife and pain.
Rather he strove to heal again
The half-healed wound, to hide the scar,
To purge away the lingering stain
Of racial war.
The half-healed wound, to hide the scar,
To purge away the lingering stain
Of racial war.
Thus, though no trophies deck his car
Of captured guns or banners torn,
Men hailed him as they hail a star
That comes with morn:
Of captured guns or banners torn,
Men hailed him as they hail a star
That comes with morn:
A star of brotherhood, not scorn,
A morn of loosing and release—
A fruitful time of oil and corn—
An Age of Peace!
A morn of loosing and release—
A fruitful time of oil and corn—
An Age of Peace!
601
Sleep then, O Dead beloved! and sleep
As one who, when his course is run,
May yet, in slumber, memory keep
Of duty done;
As one who, when his course is run,
May yet, in slumber, memory keep
Of duty done;
Sleep then, our England's King, as one
Who knows the lofty aim and pure,
Beyond all din of battles won,
Must still endure.
Who knows the lofty aim and pure,
Beyond all din of battles won,
Must still endure.
1910.
602
THREESCORE AND TEN
“Age never droops into decrepitude while
Fancy stands at his side.”
Fancy stands at his side.”
So Landor wrote, and so I quote,
And wonder if he knew;
There is so much to doubt about—
So much but partly true!
And wonder if he knew;
There is so much to doubt about—
So much but partly true!
Can one make points with stiffened joints?
Or songs that breathe and burn?
Will not the jaded Muse refuse
An acrobatic turn?
Or songs that breathe and burn?
Will not the jaded Muse refuse
An acrobatic turn?
There was a time when dancing rhyme
Ran readily to cantos;
But now it seems too late a date
For galliards and corantos.
Ran readily to cantos;
But now it seems too late a date
For galliards and corantos.
One must beware, too, lest one's pace
Disgrace one's Roxalane,
For e'en Decrepitude, my Friend,
Must bend—in a pavane.
Disgrace one's Roxalane,
For e'en Decrepitude, my Friend,
Must bend—in a pavane.
No! on the whole the fittest rôle
For Age is the spectator's,
In roomy stall reclined behind
The “paters” and the “maters,”
For Age is the spectator's,
In roomy stall reclined behind
The “paters” and the “maters,”
603
That fondly watch the pose of those
Whose thought is still creative—
Whose point of view is fresh and new,
Not feebly imitative.
Whose thought is still creative—
Whose point of view is fresh and new,
Not feebly imitative.
Time can no more lost Youth restore
Or rectify defect;
But it can clear a failing sight
With light of retrospect.
Or rectify defect;
But it can clear a failing sight
With light of retrospect.
1911.
604
AN HORATIAN ODE TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY
(22ND JUNE, 1911)
Not with high-vaulting phrase, or rush
Of weak-winged epithets that tire
With their own weight, or formal gush,
We greet thee, Sire!
Of weak-winged epithets that tire
With their own weight, or formal gush,
We greet thee, Sire!
To flights less lofty we aspire.
We pray, in speech unskilled to feign,
That all good things good men desire
May crown Thy reign;
We pray, in speech unskilled to feign,
That all good things good men desire
May crown Thy reign;
That our State “Dreadnought” once again
May leave in broken seas to veer,
And shape her course direct and plain,
With Thee to steer,
May leave in broken seas to veer,
And shape her course direct and plain,
With Thee to steer,
Into blue sky and water clear,
Where she on even keel shall ride,
Secure from reef and shoal, or fear
Of wind and tide.
Where she on even keel shall ride,
Secure from reef and shoal, or fear
Of wind and tide.
605
So may it be, Sire!—so abide!
Till, by God's grace, this Empire shine
More great in power than great in pride,
Through Thee and Thine;
Till, by God's grace, this Empire shine
More great in power than great in pride,
Through Thee and Thine;
Nor from her honoured past resign
One least bequest; or vail her claim
To aught that dowers an ancient line—
An ancient fame!
One least bequest; or vail her claim
To aught that dowers an ancient line—
An ancient fame!
1911.
606
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
(“JULY 18, THACKERAY B. 1811”)
Ah! what a world the words bring back—
Those bald words in the Almanac!
Those bald words in the Almanac!
Once more they come—from days long fled—
The towering form, the grand white head;
The upturned look that seems to scent
The paltry and the fraudulent;
The kind eyes that too soon confess
Their sympathy with wretchedness;
Nor only these, but all the train
That issued from that teeming brain.
The towering form, the grand white head;
The upturned look that seems to scent
The paltry and the fraudulent;
The kind eyes that too soon confess
Their sympathy with wretchedness;
Nor only these, but all the train
That issued from that teeming brain.
Trooping they enter, one by one,
Distinct and vivid, strangers none;
Nay—if that can be—better known
Than mortal kinsfolk of our own:
‘Becky,’ ‘Amelia,’ ‘Dobbin,’ ‘Jos,’
‘Pendennis,’ ‘Warrington,’ and ‘Cos’—
‘Cos’ with his ‘oi’—Pen's uncle too!
‘Florac,’ the Colonel, ‘Ethel,’ ‘Kew,’
‘'Trix’ and her mother, and not less
That later ‘'Trix’—the Baroness.
‘Esmond’ of course, and ‘George,’ and ‘Harry,’
The rogues and rascals—‘Deuceace,’ ‘Barry,’
Evil or good, none immature,
From ‘Yellowplush’ to ‘Barbazure’;
None dimly seen or half-achieved,
Or drawn too vague to be believed;
But each, however small the rôle,
A thing complete, a finished whole.
Distinct and vivid, strangers none;
Nay—if that can be—better known
Than mortal kinsfolk of our own:
‘Becky,’ ‘Amelia,’ ‘Dobbin,’ ‘Jos,’
‘Pendennis,’ ‘Warrington,’ and ‘Cos’—
‘Cos’ with his ‘oi’—Pen's uncle too!
‘Florac,’ the Colonel, ‘Ethel,’ ‘Kew,’
‘'Trix’ and her mother, and not less
That later ‘'Trix’—the Baroness.
‘Esmond’ of course, and ‘George,’ and ‘Harry,’
The rogues and rascals—‘Deuceace,’ ‘Barry,’
Evil or good, none immature,
From ‘Yellowplush’ to ‘Barbazure’;
607
Or drawn too vague to be believed;
But each, however small the rôle,
A thing complete, a finished whole.
These are no puppets, smartly drest,
But jerked by strings too manifest;
No dummies wearing surface skin
Without organic frame within;
Nor do they deal in words and looks
Found only in the story-books.
No!—for these beings use their brains,
Have pulse and vigour in their veins,
They move, they act; they take and give
E'en as the master wills; they live—
Live to the limit of their scope,
Their anger, pleasure, terror, hope!
But jerked by strings too manifest;
No dummies wearing surface skin
Without organic frame within;
Nor do they deal in words and looks
Found only in the story-books.
No!—for these beings use their brains,
Have pulse and vigour in their veins,
They move, they act; they take and give
E'en as the master wills; they live—
Live to the limit of their scope,
Their anger, pleasure, terror, hope!
Because he touched the flaw in all,
There were who called him ‘cynical’;
Because his mood to pity leant,
They styled it ‘mawkish sentiment’;
Because—disdaining to make light
Of wrong by treating it as right—
He probed the wound he saw exist,
They dubbed him ‘heartless satirist’!
There were who called him ‘cynical’;
Because his mood to pity leant,
They styled it ‘mawkish sentiment’;
Because—disdaining to make light
Of wrong by treating it as right—
He probed the wound he saw exist,
They dubbed him ‘heartless satirist’!
We have reversed all that to-day:
We know him better—or we may.
We know he strove by ridicule
To shame the hypocrite and fool;
We know—alike in age and youth—
He sought unshrinkingly for truth;
Made of no smallest virtue sport;
Loved honesty and good report;
Went manfully his destined way,
Doing, as far as in him lay,
His daily task without pretence—
With dignity and reticence.
We know him better—or we may.
We know he strove by ridicule
To shame the hypocrite and fool;
608
He sought unshrinkingly for truth;
Made of no smallest virtue sport;
Loved honesty and good report;
Went manfully his destined way,
Doing, as far as in him lay,
His daily task without pretence—
With dignity and reticence.
Peace to his memory—and his type!
Too rare, in times grown over-ripe!
Peace to his memory! Let him rest
Among our bravest and our best;
Secure, that through the years to come,
His voice shall speak, though he be dumb,
Since men unborn, or glad or vext,
Must need his Sermon and his Text.
Too rare, in times grown over-ripe!
Peace to his memory! Let him rest
Among our bravest and our best;
Secure, that through the years to come,
His voice shall speak, though he be dumb,
Since men unborn, or glad or vext,
Must need his Sermon and his Text.
See the verses headed “Vanitas Vanitatum” in the Cornhill Magazine for July, 1860, and particularly—
Pray choose us out another text,
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page—I read the next,
And then the next, and still I find it.
O man morose and narrow-minded!
Come turn the page—I read the next,
And then the next, and still I find it.
Methinks the text is never stale,
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old, old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
And life is every day renewing
Fresh comments on the old, old tale
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin.
He painted Life—the life he knew:
The roundabout of false and true,
The ups-and-downs of good and bad,
The strange vicissitudes and sad,
The things unsolved, the seeming-chance
Complexities of Circumstance,
Yet failed not, humbly, to recall
The Power above, controlling all.
The roundabout of false and true,
The ups-and-downs of good and bad,
The strange vicissitudes and sad,
The things unsolved, the seeming-chance
Complexities of Circumstance,
Yet failed not, humbly, to recall
The Power above, controlling all.
1911.
609
TO HUGH THOMSON
(WITH A COPY OF SIR JOHN GILBERT'S SHAKESPEARE)
In Fifty-six, when Gilbert drew
These brave conceptions, people knew
Little that we to-day repeat
(Quoting the prophet in the street)
Of Value, Tone, and Point of View!
These brave conceptions, people knew
Little that we to-day repeat
(Quoting the prophet in the street)
Of Value, Tone, and Point of View!
Their tastes were plain; their wants were few;
They liked red suns and skies of blue . . .
They were so frankly incomplete
In Fifty-six!
They liked red suns and skies of blue . . .
They were so frankly incomplete
In Fifty-six!
And yet they prized their Gilbert too—
His Knights and Dames, his ruffling crew,
Where banners fly, and drums are beat,
And cloth-of-gold and drugget meet . . .
I was a lad then! Where were you
In Fifty-six?
His Knights and Dames, his ruffling crew,
Where banners fly, and drums are beat,
And cloth-of-gold and drugget meet . . .
I was a lad then! Where were you
In Fifty-six?
1911.
610
TO TIME, THE TYRANT
Ave, Imperator, senectus te salutat
Time, in whose kingship is Song,
What shall I bring to thee now,
Weary of heart and of brow—
Now, that the shadows are long!
What shall I bring to thee now,
Weary of heart and of brow—
Now, that the shadows are long!
Not with the young and the strong
Numbered am I. And I bow,
Time!
Numbered am I. And I bow,
Time!
Yet—let me stand in the throng;
Yet—let me hail and allow
Youth, that no Combat can cow,
Strength, that is stronger than Wrong,
Time!
Yet—let me hail and allow
Youth, that no Combat can cow,
Strength, that is stronger than Wrong,
Time!
1911.
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