 | Collected poems |  |
623
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH
The author of Dorothy, a Country Story, and the friend
of R. D. Blackmore, Arthur Joseph Munby, to whom
these verses were inscribed, died at Buttercup Farm,
Pyrford, near Ripley, in Surrey, on Saturday, January 29,
1910, aged 81. He lies in the quiet little churchyard of
Pyrford Church, of which there is a picture (by Mr. Hugh
Thomson) in Mr. Eric Parker's Highways and Byways
in Surrey, 1908, p. 232. “Ah! molliter ossa quiescant!”
The author of Dorothy, a Country Story, and the friend of R. D. Blackmore, Arthur Joseph Munby, to whom these verses were inscribed, died at Buttercup Farm, Pyrford, near Ripley, in Surrey, on Saturday, January 29, 1910, aged 81. He lies in the quiet little churchyard of Pyrford Church, of which there is a picture (by Mr. Hugh Thomson) in Mr. Eric Parker's Highways and Byways in Surrey, 1908, p. 232. “Ah! molliter ossa quiescant!”
BY A SUMMER-DAY STOIC
(To ARTHUR MUNBY)
“Cultivons notre jardin.”
—Voltaire
Across my Neighbour's waste of whins
For roods the rabbit burrows;
You scarce can see where first begins
His range of steaming furrows;
I am not sad that he is great,
He does not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
For roods the rabbit burrows;
You scarce can see where first begins
His range of steaming furrows;
I am not sad that he is great,
He does not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
I envy not my Neighbour's trees;
To me it nowise matters
Whether in east or western breeze
His “dry-tongued laurel patters.”
Me too the bays become; but still,
I sleep without narcotics,
Though he should bind his brows at will
With odorous exotics.
To me it nowise matters
Whether in east or western breeze
His “dry-tongued laurel patters.”
Me too the bays become; but still,
I sleep without narcotics,
Though he should bind his brows at will
With odorous exotics.
Let Goodman Greenfat, glad to dine,
With true bon-vivant's benison,
Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine—
His virtue and his venison:
I care not! Still for me the gorse
Will blaze about the thicket;
The Common's purblind pauper horse
Will peer across my wicket;
With true bon-vivant's benison,
Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine—
His virtue and his venison:
624
Will blaze about the thicket;
The Common's purblind pauper horse
Will peer across my wicket;
For me the geese will thread the furze,
In hissing file, to follow
The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs
Across the breezy hollow;
And look, where smoke of gipsy huts
Curls blue against the bushes—
That little copse is famed for nuts,
For nightingales and thrushes!
In hissing file, to follow
The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs
Across the breezy hollow;
And look, where smoke of gipsy huts
Curls blue against the bushes—
That little copse is famed for nuts,
For nightingales and thrushes!
But hark! I hear my Neighbour's drums!
Some dreary deputation
Of Malice or of Wonder comes
In guise of Adulation.
Poor Neighbour! Though you “call the tune,”
One little pinch of care is
Enough to clog a whole balloon
Of aura popularis;
Some dreary deputation
Of Malice or of Wonder comes
In guise of Adulation.
Poor Neighbour! Though you “call the tune,”
One little pinch of care is
Enough to clog a whole balloon
Of aura popularis;
Not amulets, nor epiderm
As tough as armadillo's,
Can shield you if Suspicion worm
Between your poppied pillows;
And though on ortolans you sup,
Beside you shadowy sitters
Can pour in your ungenial cup
Unstimulating bitters.
As tough as armadillo's,
Can shield you if Suspicion worm
Between your poppied pillows;
And though on ortolans you sup,
Beside you shadowy sitters
Can pour in your ungenial cup
Unstimulating bitters.
625
Let Envy crave, and Avarice save;
Let Folly ride her circuit;
I hold that—on this side the grave—
To find one's vein and work it,
To keeps one's wants both fit and few,
To cringe to no condition,
To count a truthful friend or two—
May bound a man's ambition.
Let Folly ride her circuit;
I hold that—on this side the grave—
To find one's vein and work it,
To keeps one's wants both fit and few,
To cringe to no condition,
To count a truthful friend or two—
May bound a man's ambition.
Swell, South-wind, swell my Neighbour's sails;
Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers;
If Fate has made his rôle the whale's,
And me the minnow's offers,
I am not sad that he is great;
He need not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers;
If Fate has made his rôle the whale's,
And me the minnow's offers,
I am not sad that he is great;
He need not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.
1887.
| Collected poems | |