 | Collected poems |  |
207
AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE
“Autant ici qu'ailleurs”
208
[“At the Sign of the Lyre,”]
“At the Sign of the Lyre,”
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire—
And we hope to content you!
Good Folk, we present you
With the pick of our quire—
And we hope to content you!
Here be Ballad and Song,
The fruits of our leisure,
Some short and some long,—
May they all give you pleasure!
The fruits of our leisure,
Some short and some long,—
May they all give you pleasure!
But if, when you read,
They should fail to restore you,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!
They should fail to restore you,
Farewell, and God-speed—
The world is before you!
209
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN
“Phyllida amo ante alias.”
—Virg.
The ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them,
With a “Stand by! Clear the way!”
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
210
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes,
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.
They're painted to the eyes,
Their white it stays for ever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,—
It wavers to a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you—for seconds;
They frown on you—for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true—and mine.
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you—for seconds;
They frown on you—for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true—and mine.
211
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida—for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!
212
THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR
“What's not destroy'd by Time's devouring Hand?
Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?”
—Bramston's “Art of Politicks.”
Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?”
—Bramston's “Art of Politicks.”
It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!
It is battered and tattered,—it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,
Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!
See,—here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!
213
“Where's Troy?” says the poet! Look,—under the seat,
Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
And yet—Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair!
Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair!
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!
(prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise).
Mascarille.
I. Porteur.
Mascarille.
—Les Précieuses Ridicules, Sc. vii.
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!
A friendly but anonymous critic, whose versatile pen it is, nevertheless, not easy to mistake, recalls, à-propos of the above, the following passage from Molière, which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:—
I. Porteur(prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise).
Çà, payez-nous vitement!
Mascarille.
Quoi?
I. Porteur.
Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout à l'heure.
Mascarille.
Il est raisonnable, celui-là, &c.
—Les Précieuses Ridicules, Sc. vii.
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's “Grand Masquerade”;
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
It has waited by Heidegger's “Grand Masquerade”;
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!
214
“Heu! quantum mutata,” I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—“With Care,”—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—“With Care,”—
To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!
215
TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY
“Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way.”
Five Rules of Buddha
The meanest thing upon its upward way.”
Five Rules of Buddha
I watch you through the garden walks,
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!
I watch you float between
The avenues of dahlia stalks,
And flicker on the green;
You hover round the garden seat,
You mount, you waver. Why,—
Why storm us in our still retreat,
O saffron Butterfly!
Across the room in loops of flight
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of “blind Mæonides”—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!
I watch you wayward go;
Dance down a shaft of glancing light,
Review my books a-row;
Before the bust you flaunt and flit
Of “blind Mæonides”—
Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!
You pause, you poise, you circle up
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
You wind anon, a breathing-while,
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?
Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,
A friend upon a fan;
216
Around Amanda's brow;—
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?
Away! Her thoughts are not as thine.
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One
A sterner purpose fills
Her steadfast soul with deep design
Of baby bows and frills;
What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,
Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One
Away! Tempt not the best of wives;
Let not thy garish wing
Come fluttering our Autumn lives
With truant dreams of Spring!
Away! Reseek thy “Flowery Land”;
Be Buddha's law obeyed;
Lest Betty's undiscerning hand
Should slay . . . a future Praed!
Let not thy garish wing
Come fluttering our Autumn lives
With truant dreams of Spring!
Away! Reseek thy “Flowery Land”;
Be Buddha's law obeyed;
Lest Betty's undiscerning hand
Should slay . . . a future Praed!
217
THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS
Monsieur the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face,—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
Comes with his kind old face,—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little “Grande Place,”
And the tiny “Hôtel-de-Ville”;
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile
And the tiny “Hôtel-de-Ville”;
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile
He turns, as a rule, through the “Marché” cool,
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the “Belle Thérèse,”
As she knits in her dusky stall
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the “Belle Thérèse,”
As she knits in her dusky stall
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a “Ma foi, oui!”
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a “Ma foi, oui!”
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
218
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou.;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a “Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!”
To the furrier's daughter Lou.;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a “Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!”
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock “off-hat” to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:—
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock “off-hat” to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:—
For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair
And his green umbrella-case.
With a smile on his kind old face—
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair
And his green umbrella-case.
219
THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS
(FOR A FRESCO)
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus,
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.
Rough for cold, in drugget clad,
Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—
Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.
Caverned now is old Sylvanus;
Numb and chill are maid and lad.
After thee thy dripping brother,
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.
Dank his weeds around him cling;
Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—
After thee thy dripping brother.
Hearth-set couples hush each other,
Listening for the cry of Spring.
Hark! for March thereto doth follow,
Blithe,—a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.
Blithe,—a herald tabarded;
O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—
Hark! for March thereto doth follow.
Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,
Wakes the flowers in winter dead.
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter,
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—
Thou then, April, Iris' daughter.
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.
Born between the storm and sun;
Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—
220
Now are light, and rustling water;
Now are mirth, and nests begun.
May the jocund cometh after,
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.
Month of all the Loves (and mine);
Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—
May the jocund cometh after.
Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;
Luckless lovers peak and pine.
June the next, with roses scented,
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;—
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.
Languid from a slumber-spell;
June in shade of leafage tented;—
June the next, with roses scented.
Now her Itys, still lamented,
Sings the mournful Philomel.
Hot July thereafter rages,
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—
Hot July thereafter rages.
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.
August next, with cider mellow,
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.
Laughs from out the poppied corn;
Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—
August next, with cider mellow.
Now in wains the sheafage yellow
'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.
221
Laden deep with fruity cluster,
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,—
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.
Then September, ripe and hale;
Bees about his basket fluster,—
Laden deep with fruity cluster.
Skies have now a softer lustre;
Barns resound to flap of flail.
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover,
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,—
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.
Dusk October, berry-stained;
Wailed about of parting plover,—
Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.
Fading now are copse and cover;
Forests now are sere and waned.
Next November, limping, battered,
Blinded in a whirl of leaf,
Worn of want and travel-tattered,—
Next November, limping, battered.
Now the goodly ships are shattered,
Far at sea, on rock and reef.
Blinded in a whirl of leaf,
Worn of want and travel-tattered,—
Next November, limping, battered.
Now the goodly ships are shattered,
Far at sea, on rock and reef.
Last of all the shrunk December
Cowled for age, in ashen gray;
Fading like a fading ember,—
Last of all the shrunk December.
Him regarding, men remember
Life and joy must pass away.
Cowled for age, in ashen gray;
Fading like a fading ember,—
Last of all the shrunk December.
Him regarding, men remember
Life and joy must pass away.
222
TWO SERMONS
Between the rail of woven brass,
That hides the “Strangers'’ Pew,”
I hear the gray-haired Vicar pass
From Section One to Two.
That hides the “Strangers'’ Pew,”
I hear the gray-haired Vicar pass
From Section One to Two.
And somewhere on my left I see—
Whene'er I chance to look—
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them—in a book.
Whene'er I chance to look—
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them—in a book.
Ah, worthy Goodman,—sound divine!
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray—to her?
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray—to her?
I know your theme, and I revere;
I hear your precepts tried;
Must I confess I also hear
A sermon at my side?
I hear your precepts tried;
Must I confess I also hear
A sermon at my side?
Or how explain this need I feel,—
This impulse prompting me
Within my secret self to kneel
To Faith,—to Purity!
This impulse prompting me
Within my secret self to kneel
To Faith,—to Purity!
223
“AU REVOIR”
A Dramatic Vignette
Scene.—The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded by Promenaders.Monsieur Jolicœur. A Lady (unknown).
M. Jolicœur.
'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,—and tall:
A charming figure, above all!
This promises.—Ahem!
The Lady.
Monsieur?
Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name
Is Jolicœur? . . .
M. Jolicœur.
Madame, the same.
224
And Monsieur's goodness has to say? . . .
Your note? . . .
M. Jolicœur.
Your note.
The Lady.
Forgive me.—Nay. (Reads)
“If Madame [I omit] will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Madame—possibly—may hear
News of her Spaniel. Jolicœur.”
Monsieur denies his note?
M. Jolicœur.
I do.
Now let me read the one from you.
“If Monsieur Jolicœur will be
Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,
Then Monsieur—possibly—may meet
An old Acquaintance. ‘ Indiscreet .”
The Lady
(scandalized).
Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true.
I never met Monsieur. And you?
225
(with gallantry).
Have lived in vain till now. But see:
We are observed.
The Lady
(looking round).
I comprehend . . . (After a pause.)
Monsieur, malicious brains combine
For your discomfiture, and mine.
Let us defeat that ill design.
If Monsieur but . . .
(hesitating).
M. Jolicœur
(bowing).
Rely on me.
The Lady
(still hesitating).
Monsieur, I know, will understand.
M. Jolicœur.
Madame, I wait but your command.
The Lady.
You are too good. Then condescend
At once to be a new-found Friend!
226
(entering upon the part forthwith)
How? I am charmed,—enchanted. Ah!
What ages since we met . . . at Spa?
The Lady
(a little disconcerted).
At Ems, I think. Monsieur, maybe,
Will recollect the Orangery?
M. Jolicœur.
At Ems, of course. But Madame's face
Might make one well forget a place.
The Lady.
It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls
The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?
M. Jolicœur.
Assuredly. Though there again
'Tis Madame's image I retain.
The Lady.
Monsieur is skilled in . . . repartee.
(How do they take it?—Can you see?)
M. Jolicœur.
Nay,—Madame furnishes the wit.
(They don't know what to make of it!)
227
And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came? . .
That clever . . . I forget the name.
M. Jolicœur.
The Baron? . . . It escapes me, too.
'Twas doubtless he that Madame knew?
The Lady
(archly).
Precisely. But, my carriage waits.
Monsieur will see me to the gates?
M. Jolicœur
(offering his arm).
I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem
Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.) (Aside)
(Who is she? I must find that out.)
—And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?
The Lady
(off her guard).
Monsieur de Beau—? . . . He died at Dôle!
M. Jolicœur.
Truly. How sad!
(Aside.)
(Yet, on the whole,
How fortunate! Beau-pré?—Beau-vau?
Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)
—Madame, your enemies retreat
With all the honours of . . . defeat.
How fortunate! Beau-pré?—Beau-vau?
Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)
—Madame, your enemies retreat
With all the honours of . . . defeat.
228
Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown
A skill Préville could not disown.
M. Jolicœur.
You flatter me. We need no skill
To act so nearly what we will.
Nay,—what may come to pass, if Fate
And Madame bid me cultivate . . .
The Lady
(anticipating).
Alas!—no farther than the gate.
Monsieur, besides, is too polite
To profit by a jest so slight.
M. Jolicœur.
Distinctly. Still, I did but glance
At possibilities . . . of Chance.
The Lady.
Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear,
Beyond the little grating here.
M. Jolicœur
(aside).
(She's perfect. One may push too far,
Piano, sano.)
(They reach the gates.)
Piano, sano.)
Here we are.
229
Permit me, then . . .
(Placing her in the carriage.)
And Madame goes? . .
You coachman? . . . Can I? . . .
You coachman? . . . Can I? . . .
The Lady
(smiling).
Thanks! he knows.
Thanks! Thanks!
M. Jolicœur
(insidiously).
And shall we not renew
Our . . . “Ems acquaintanceship”?
The Lady
(still smiling).
Adieu!
My thanks instead!
M. Jolicœur
(with pathos).
It is too hard! (Laying his hand on the grating.)
To find one's Paradise is barred!!
The Lady.
Nay.—“Virtue is her own Reward!”
[Exit.
M. Jolicœur
(solus).
Beau-vau?—Beau-vallon?—Beau-manoir?—
But that's a detail!
(Waving his hand after the carriage.)
But that's a detail!
Au Revoir!
230
THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH
(
We
lay our story in the East.
Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least
We place it there because we fear
To bring its parable too near,
And seem to touch with impious hand
Our dear, confiding native land.)
Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least
We place it there because we fear
To bring its parable too near,
And seem to touch with impious hand
Our dear, confiding native land.)
Haroun Alraschid, in the days
He went about his vagrant ways,
And prowled at eve for good or bad
In lanes and alleys of Bagdad,
Once found, at edge of the bazaar,
E'en where the poorest workers are,
A Carver.
He went about his vagrant ways,
And prowled at eve for good or bad
In lanes and alleys of Bagdad,
Once found, at edge of the bazaar,
E'en where the poorest workers are,
A Carver.
Fair his work and fine
With mysteries of inlaced design,
And shapes of shut significance
To aught but an anointed glance,—
The dreams and visions that grow plain
In darkened chambers of the brain.
And all day busily he wrought
From dawn to eve, but no one bought;—
Save when some Jew with look askant,
Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant,
Would pause awhile,—depreciate,—
Then buy a month's work by the weight,
Bearing it swiftly over seas
To garnish rich men's treasuries.
With mysteries of inlaced design,
And shapes of shut significance
To aught but an anointed glance,—
The dreams and visions that grow plain
In darkened chambers of the brain.
And all day busily he wrought
From dawn to eve, but no one bought;—
231
Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant,
Would pause awhile,—depreciate,—
Then buy a month's work by the weight,
Bearing it swiftly over seas
To garnish rich men's treasuries.
And now for long none bought at all,
So lay he sullen in his stall.
Him thus withdrawn the Caliph found,
And smote his staff upon the ground—
“Ho, there, within? Hast wares to sell?
Or slumber'st, having dined too well?”
“‘Dined,’” quoth the man, with angry eyes,
“How should I dine when no one buys?”
“Nay,” said the other, answering low,—
“Nay, I but jested. Is it so?
Take then this coin, . . . but take beside
A counsel, friend, thou hast not tried.
This craft of thine, the mart to suit,
Is too refined,—remote,—minute;
These small conceptions can but fail;
'Twere best to work on larger scale,
And rather choose such themes as wear
More of the earth and less of air:
The fisherman that hauls his net,—
The merchants in the market set,—
The couriers posting in the street,—
The gossips as they pass and greet,—
These—these are clear to all men's eyes,
Therefore with these they sympathize.
Further (neglect not this advice!)
Be sure to ask three times the price.”
The Carver sadly shook his head;
He knew 'twas truth the Caliph said.
From that day forth his work was planned
So that the world might understand.
He carved it deeper, and more plain;
He carved it thrice as large again;
He sold it, too, for thrice the cost;
—Ah, but the Artist that was lost!
So lay he sullen in his stall.
Him thus withdrawn the Caliph found,
And smote his staff upon the ground—
“Ho, there, within? Hast wares to sell?
Or slumber'st, having dined too well?”
“‘Dined,’” quoth the man, with angry eyes,
“How should I dine when no one buys?”
“Nay,” said the other, answering low,—
“Nay, I but jested. Is it so?
Take then this coin, . . . but take beside
A counsel, friend, thou hast not tried.
This craft of thine, the mart to suit,
Is too refined,—remote,—minute;
These small conceptions can but fail;
'Twere best to work on larger scale,
And rather choose such themes as wear
More of the earth and less of air:
The fisherman that hauls his net,—
The merchants in the market set,—
The couriers posting in the street,—
The gossips as they pass and greet,—
These—these are clear to all men's eyes,
Therefore with these they sympathize.
Further (neglect not this advice!)
Be sure to ask three times the price.”
232
He knew 'twas truth the Caliph said.
From that day forth his work was planned
So that the world might understand.
He carved it deeper, and more plain;
He carved it thrice as large again;
He sold it, too, for thrice the cost;
—Ah, but the Artist that was lost!
233
TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM
“Sermons in stones.”
Who were you once? Could we but guess,
We might perchance more boldly
Define the patient weariness
That sets your lips so coldly;
You “lived,” we know, for blame and fame;
But sure, to friend or foeman,
You bore some more distinctive name
Than mere “B. C.,”—and “Roman”?
We might perchance more boldly
Define the patient weariness
That sets your lips so coldly;
You “lived,” we know, for blame and fame;
But sure, to friend or foeman,
You bore some more distinctive name
Than mere “B. C.,”—and “Roman”?
Your pedestal should help us much.
Thereon your acts, your title,
(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)
Had doubtless due recital;
Vain hope!—not even deeds can last!
That stone, of which you're minus,
Maybe with all your virtues past
Endows . . . a Tigellinus!
Thereon your acts, your title,
(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)
Had doubtless due recital;
Vain hope!—not even deeds can last!
That stone, of which you're minus,
Maybe with all your virtues past
Endows . . . a Tigellinus!
We seek it not; we should not find.
But still, it needs no magic
To tell you wore, like most mankind,
Your comic mask and tragic;
And held that things were false and true,
Felt angry or forgiving,
As step by step you stumbled through
This life-long task . . . of living!
But still, it needs no magic
To tell you wore, like most mankind,
Your comic mask and tragic;
234
Felt angry or forgiving,
As step by step you stumbled through
This life-long task . . . of living!
You tried the cul-de-sac of Thought;
The montagne Russe of Pleasure;
You found the best Ambition brought
Was strangely short of measure;
You watched, at last, the fleet days fly,
Till—drowsier and colder—
You felt Mercurius loitering by
To touch you on the shoulder.
The montagne Russe of Pleasure;
You found the best Ambition brought
Was strangely short of measure;
You watched, at last, the fleet days fly,
Till—drowsier and colder—
You felt Mercurius loitering by
To touch you on the shoulder.
'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come
That howso Time should garble
Those deeds of yours when you were dumb,
At least you'd live—in Marble;
You smiled to think that after days,
At least, in Bust or Statue,
(We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze,
Not quite incurious, at you.
That howso Time should garble
Those deeds of yours when you were dumb,
At least you'd live—in Marble;
You smiled to think that after days,
At least, in Bust or Statue,
(We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze,
Not quite incurious, at you.
We gaze; we pity you, be sure!
In truth, Death's worst inaction
Must be less tedious to endure
Than nameless petrifaction;
Far better, in some nook unknown,
To sleep for once—and soundly—
Than still survive in wistful stone,
Forgotten more profoundly!
In truth, Death's worst inaction
Must be less tedious to endure
Than nameless petrifaction;
Far better, in some nook unknown,
To sleep for once—and soundly—
Than still survive in wistful stone,
Forgotten more profoundly!
235
MOLLY TREFUSIS
The epigram here quoted from an “old magazine” is to
be found in Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, The
Greek Anthology (Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English
Readers). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature
will recognise in the succeeding verses but another echo of
those lively stanzas of John Gay to “Molly Mog” of the
Rose Inn at Wokingham, which, in their own day, found so
many imitators.
The epigram here quoted from an “old magazine” is to be found in Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, The Greek Anthology (Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English Readers). Those familiar with eighteenth-century literature will recognise in the succeeding verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to “Molly Mog” of the Rose Inn at Wokingham, which, in their own day, found so many imitators.
“Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,
And ten is the number of Muses;
For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
My dear little Molly Trefusis!”
And ten is the number of Muses;
For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
My dear little Molly Trefusis!”
So he wrote, the old bard of an “old Magazine”:
As a study it not without use is,
If we wonder a moment who she may have been,
This same “little Molly Trefusis!”
As a study it not without use is,
If we wonder a moment who she may have been,
This same “little Molly Trefusis!”
She was Cornish. We know that at once by the “Tre”;
Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is
If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea
Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.
Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is
If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea
Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.
And she lived in the era of patches and bows,
Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is;
For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose,
The lilies of Molly Trefusis.
Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is;
For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose,
The lilies of Molly Trefusis.
And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit
That the evidence hard to produce is)
With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,—
This dangerous Molly Trefusis.
That the evidence hard to produce is)
With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,—
This dangerous Molly Trefusis.
236
I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot,
(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!)
All blooming in laces, fal-lals, and what not,
At the Pump Room,—Miss Molly Trefusis.
(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!)
All blooming in laces, fal-lals, and what not,
At the Pump Room,—Miss Molly Trefusis.
I fancy her reigning,—a Beauty,—a Toast,—
Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is;
And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,—
The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.
Where Bladud's medicinal cruse is;
And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,—
The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.
He says she was “Venus.” I doubt it. Beside,
(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!)
His “little” could scarce be to Venus applied,
If fitly to Molly Trefusis.
(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!)
His “little” could scarce be to Venus applied,
If fitly to Molly Trefusis.
No, no. It was Hebe he had in his mind;
And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,
And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled—you'll find—
Was certainly Molly Trefusis!
And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,
And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled—you'll find—
Was certainly Molly Trefusis!
Then he calls her “a Muse.” To the charge I reply
That we all of us know what a Muse is;
It is something too awful,—too acid,—too dry,—
For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.
That we all of us know what a Muse is;
It is something too awful,—too acid,—too dry,—
For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.
But “a Grace.” There I grant he was probably right;
(The rest but a verse-making ruse is)
It was all that was graceful,—intangible,—light,—
The beauty of Molly Trefusis!
(The rest but a verse-making ruse is)
It was all that was graceful,—intangible,—light,—
The beauty of Molly Trefusis!
237
Was she wooed? Who can hesitate much about that
Assuredly more than obtuse is;
For how could the poet have written so pat
“My dear little Molly Trefusis!”
Assuredly more than obtuse is;
For how could the poet have written so pat
“My dear little Molly Trefusis!”
And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer,
Since of suitors the common excuse is
To take to them Wives. So it happened to her,
Of course,—“little Molly Trefusis!”
Since of suitors the common excuse is
To take to them Wives. So it happened to her,
Of course,—“little Molly Trefusis!”
To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see,
In practical matters a goose is;—
'Twas a Knight of the Shire, and a hunting J.P.,
Who carried off Molly Trefusis!
In practical matters a goose is;—
'Twas a Knight of the Shire, and a hunting J.P.,
Who carried off Molly Trefusis!
And you'll find, I conclude, in the “Gentleman's Mag.,”
At the end, where the pick of the news is,
“On the (blank), at ‘the Bath,’ to Sir Hilary Bragg,
With a Fortune, Miss Molly Trefusis.”
At the end, where the pick of the news is,
“On the (blank), at ‘the Bath,’ to Sir Hilary Bragg,
With a Fortune, Miss Molly Trefusis.”
Thereupon . . . But no farther the student may pry
Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;
So here, at the threshold we part, you and I,
From “dear little Molly Trefusis.”
Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;
So here, at the threshold we part, you and I,
From “dear little Molly Trefusis.”
238
AT THE CONVENT GATE
Wistaria blossoms trail and fall
Above the length of barrier wall
And softly, now and then,
The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit
From roof to gateway-top, and sit
And watch the ways of men.
Above the length of barrier wall
And softly, now and then,
The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit
From roof to gateway-top, and sit
And watch the ways of men.
The gate's ajar. If one might peep!
Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep
The shadowy garden seems!
And note how dimly to and fro
The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,
Like figures seen in dreams.
Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep
The shadowy garden seems!
And note how dimly to and fro
The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,
Like figures seen in dreams.
Look, there is one that tells her beads
And yonder one apart that reads
A tiny missal's page;
And see, beside the well, the two
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew
The magpie to its cage!
And yonder one apart that reads
A tiny missal's page;
And see, beside the well, the two
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew
The magpie to its cage!
Not beautiful—not all! But each
With that mild grace, outlying speech,
Which comes of even mood;—
The Veil unseen that women wear
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,
And hope of higher good.
With that mild grace, outlying speech,
Which comes of even mood;—
239
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,
And hope of higher good.
“A placid life—a peaceful life!
What need to these the name of Wife?
What gentler task (I said)—
What worthier—e'en your arts among—
Than tend the sick, and teach the young,
And give the hungry bread?”
What need to these the name of Wife?
What gentler task (I said)—
What worthier—e'en your arts among—
Than tend the sick, and teach the young,
And give the hungry bread?”
“No worthier task!” re-echoes She,
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me
To face the road again:
—And yet, in that warm heart of hers,
She means the doves', for she prefers
To “watch the ways of men.”
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me
To face the road again:
—And yet, in that warm heart of hers,
She means the doves', for she prefers
To “watch the ways of men.”
240
THE MILKMAID
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE
Across the grass I see her pass;
She comes with tripping pace,—
A maid I know,—and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
She comes with tripping pace,—
A maid I know,—and March winds blow
Her hair across her face;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
The March winds blow. I watch her go
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,
(To those who see it near!)—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
Her eye is brown and clear;
Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,
(To those who see it near!)—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
What has she not that those have got,—
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
The dames that walk in silk!
If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.
241
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
Let those who will be proud and chill!
For me, from June to June,
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds—
Her laugh is like a tune;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
For me, from June to June,
My Dolly's words are sweet as curds—
Her laugh is like a tune;—
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!
O tall Lent-lilies flame!
There'll be a bride at Easter-tide,
And Dolly is her name.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
O tall Lent-lilies flame!
There'll be a bride at Easter-tide,
And Dolly is her name.
With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,
Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.
242
AN OLD FISH POND
Green growths of mosses drop and bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
Slow efts about the edges sleep;
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.
Look down. What groves that scarcely sway!
What “wood obscure,” profound!
What jungle!—where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!
What “wood obscure,” profound!
What jungle!—where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!
Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?—
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those “antres vast” and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;—
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those “antres vast” and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;—
Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed,
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;—
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;—
243
Hard ruler there by right of might;
An ageless Autocrat,
Whose “good old rule” is “Appetite,
And subjects fresh and fat;”—
An ageless Autocrat,
Whose “good old rule” is “Appetite,
And subjects fresh and fat;”—
While they—poor souls!—in wan despair
Still watch for signs in him;
And dying, hand from heir to heir
The day undawned and dim,
Still watch for signs in him;
And dying, hand from heir to heir
The day undawned and dim,
When the pond's terror too must go;
Or creeping in by stealth,
Some bolder brood, with common blow,
Shall found a Commonwealth.
Or creeping in by stealth,
Some bolder brood, with common blow,
Shall found a Commonwealth.
Or say,—perchance the liker this!—
That these themselves are gone;
That Amurath in minimis,—
Still hungry,—lingers on,
That these themselves are gone;
That Amurath in minimis,—
Still hungry,—lingers on,
With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw
Revolving sullen things,
But most the blind unequal law
That rules the food of Kings;—
Revolving sullen things,
But most the blind unequal law
That rules the food of Kings;—
The blot that makes the cosmic All
A mere time-honoured cheat;—
That bids the Great to eat the Small,
Yet lack the Small to eat!
A mere time-honoured cheat;—
That bids the Great to eat the Small,
Yet lack the Small to eat!
244
Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.
245
AN EASTERN APOLOGUE
The initials “E. H. P.” are those of the eminent (and ill-fated)
Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely
owed their origin to his translations from Zoheir, I sent them
to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly.
It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said that these
would cause no serious disturbance to orthodox Persians, I
concluded I had succeeded in my little pastiche, and, with
his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had
been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and
versatile scholars this age has seen.
The initials “E. H. P.” are those of the eminent (and ill-fated) Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely owed their origin to his translations from Zoheir, I sent them to him. He was indulgent enough to praise them warmly. It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said that these would cause no serious disturbance to orthodox Persians, I concluded I had succeeded in my little pastiche, and, with his permission, inscribed it to him. I wish now that it had been a more worthy tribute to one of the most erudite and versatile scholars this age has seen.
(TO E. H. P.)
Melik the Sultán, tired and wan,
Nodded at noon on his diván.
Nodded at noon on his diván.
Beside the fountain lingered near
Jamíl the bard, and the vizier—
Jamíl the bard, and the vizier—
Old Yúsuf, sour and hard to please;
Then Jamíl sang, in words like these.
Then Jamíl sang, in words like these.
Slim is Butheina—slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!
As boughs of the Aráka tree!
“Nay,” quoth the other, teeth between,
“Lean, if you will,—I call her lean.”
“Lean, if you will,—I call her lean.”
Sweet is Butheina—sweet as wine,
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!
With smiles that like red bubbles shine!
“True,—by the Prophet!” Yúsuf said.
“She makes men wander in the head!”
“She makes men wander in the head!”
246
Dear is Butheina—ah! more dear
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!
Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!
“Dear,” came the answer, quick as thought,
“Dear . . and yet always to be bought.”
“Dear . . and yet always to be bought.”
So Jamíl ceased. But still Life's page
Shows diverse unto Youth and Age:
Shows diverse unto Youth and Age:
And—be the song of ghouls or gods—
Time, like the Sultán, sits . . and nods.
Time, like the Sultán, sits . . and nods.
247
TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY
Missal of the Gothic age,
Missal with the blazoned page,
Whence, O Missal, hither come,
From what dim scriptorium?
Missal with the blazoned page,
Whence, O Missal, hither come,
From what dim scriptorium?
Whose the name that wrought thee thus,
Ambrose or Theophilus,
Bending, through the waning light,
O'er thy vellum scraped and white;
Ambrose or Theophilus,
Bending, through the waning light,
O'er thy vellum scraped and white;
Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines
Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?
Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?
Ah!—a wondering brotherhood,
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;
Glad when his deft hand would paint
Strife of Sathanas and Saint,
Or in secret coign entwist
Jest of cloister humourist.
Strife of Sathanas and Saint,
Or in secret coign entwist
Jest of cloister humourist.
248
Well the worker earned his wage,
Bending o'er the blazoned page!
Tired the hand and tired the wit
Ere the final Explicit!
Bending o'er the blazoned page!
Tired the hand and tired the wit
Ere the final Explicit!
Not as ours the books of old—
Things that steam can stamp and fold,
Not as ours the books of yore—
Rows of type, and nothing more.
Things that steam can stamp and fold,
Not as ours the books of yore—
Rows of type, and nothing more.
Then a book was still a Book,
Where a wistful man might look,
Finding something through the whole,
Beating,—like a human soul.
Where a wistful man might look,
Finding something through the whole,
Beating,—like a human soul.
In that growth of day by day,
When to labour was to pray,
Surely something vital passed
To the patient page at last;
When to labour was to pray,
Surely something vital passed
To the patient page at last;
Something that one still perceives
Vaguely present in the leaves;
Something from the worker lent;
Something mute—but eloquent!
Vaguely present in the leaves;
Something from the worker lent;
Something mute—but eloquent!
249
A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC
“373. St. Pierre (Bernardin de), Paul et Virginie, 12mo,
old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by
a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers, the words:
‘à Lucile St. A. . . . chez M. Batemans, à Edmonds-Bury,
en Angleterre,’ very faintly written in pencil.” (Extract from Catalogue.)
“373. St. Pierre (Bernardin de), Paul et Virginie, 12mo, old calf. Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by a bullet-hole, and bears on one of the covers, the words: ‘à Lucile St. A. . . . chez M. Batemans, à Edmonds-Bury, en Angleterre,’ very faintly written in pencil.” (Extract from Catalogue.)
Old it is, and worn and battered,
As I lift it from the stall;
And the leaves are frayed and tattered,
And the pendent sides are shattered,
Pierced and blackened by a ball.
As I lift it from the stall;
And the leaves are frayed and tattered,
And the pendent sides are shattered,
Pierced and blackened by a ball.
'Tis the tale of grief and gladness
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,
That in front of France's madness
Hangs a strange seductive sadness,
Grown pathetic evermore.
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,
That in front of France's madness
Hangs a strange seductive sadness,
Grown pathetic evermore.
And a perfume round it hovers,
Which the pages half reveal,
For a folded corner covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,—
A “Savignac” and “Lucile.”
Which the pages half reveal,
For a folded corner covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,—
A “Savignac” and “Lucile.”
As I read I marvel whether,
In some pleasant old château,
Once they read this book together,
In the scented summer weather,
With the shining Loire below?
In some pleasant old château,
Once they read this book together,
In the scented summer weather,
With the shining Loire below?
250
Nooked—secluded from espial,
Did Love slip and snare them so,
While the hours danced round the dial
To the sound of flute and viol,
In that pleasant old château?
Did Love slip and snare them so,
While the hours danced round the dial
To the sound of flute and viol,
In that pleasant old château?
Did it happen that no single
Word of mouth could either speak?
Did the brown and gold hair mingle,
Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle
To the shock of cheek and cheek?
Word of mouth could either speak?
Did the brown and gold hair mingle,
Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle
To the shock of cheek and cheek?
Did they feel with that first flushing
Some new sudden power to feel,
Some new inner spring set gushing
At the names together rushing
Of “Savignac” and “Lucile”?
Some new sudden power to feel,
Some new inner spring set gushing
At the names together rushing
Of “Savignac” and “Lucile”?
Did he drop on knee before her—
“Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine”—
In his high-flown way adore her,
Urgent, eloquent implore her,
Plead his pleasure and his pain?
“Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine”—
In his high-flown way adore her,
Urgent, eloquent implore her,
Plead his pleasure and his pain?
Did she turn with sight swift-dimming,
And the quivering lip we know,
With the full, slow eyelid brimming,
With the languorous pupil swimming,
Like the love of Mirabeau?
And the quivering lip we know,
With the full, slow eyelid brimming,
With the languorous pupil swimming,
Like the love of Mirabeau?
251
Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling,
For his eager lips to press;
In a flash all fate fulfilling
Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling—
Crushing life to one caress?
For his eager lips to press;
In a flash all fate fulfilling
Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling—
Crushing life to one caress?
Did they sit in that dim sweetness
Of attained love's after-calm,
Marking not the world—its meetness,
Marking Time not—nor his fleetness,
Only happy, palm to palm?
Of attained love's after-calm,
Marking not the world—its meetness,
Marking Time not—nor his fleetness,
Only happy, palm to palm?
Till at last she,—sunlight smiting
Red on wrist and cheek and hair,—
Sought the page where love first lighting,
Fixed their fate, and, in this writing,
Fixed the record of it there.
Red on wrist and cheek and hair,—
Sought the page where love first lighting,
Fixed their fate, and, in this writing,
Fixed the record of it there.
Did they marry midst the smother,
Shame and slaughter of it all?
Did she wander like that other
Woful, wistful, wife and mother,
Round and round his prison wall;—
Shame and slaughter of it all?
Did she wander like that other
Woful, wistful, wife and mother,
Round and round his prison wall;—
Wander wailing, as the plover
Waileth, wheeleth, desolate,
Heedless of the hawk above her,
While as yet the rushes cover,
Waning fast, her wounded mate;—
Waileth, wheeleth, desolate,
Heedless of the hawk above her,
While as yet the rushes cover,
Waning fast, her wounded mate;—
252
Wander, till his love's eyes met hers,
Fixed and wide in their despair?
Did he burst his prison fetters,
Did he write sweet, yearning letters
“À Lucile,—en Angleterre”?
Fixed and wide in their despair?
Did he burst his prison fetters,
Did he write sweet, yearning letters
“À Lucile,—en Angleterre”?
Letters where the reader, reading,
Halts him with a sudden stop,
For he feels a man's heart bleeding,
Draining out its pain's exceeding—
Half a life, at every drop:
Halts him with a sudden stop,
For he feels a man's heart bleeding,
Draining out its pain's exceeding—
Half a life, at every drop:
Letters where Love's iteration
Seems to warble and to rave;
Letters where the pent sensation
Leaps to lyric exultation,
Like a song-bird from a grave.
Seems to warble and to rave;
Letters where the pent sensation
Leaps to lyric exultation,
Like a song-bird from a grave.
Where, through Passion's wild repeating,
Peep the Pagan and the Gaul,
Politics and love competing,
Abelard and Cato greeting,
Rousseau ramping over all.
Peep the Pagan and the Gaul,
Politics and love competing,
Abelard and Cato greeting,
Rousseau ramping over all.
Yet your critic's right—you waive it,
Whirled along the fever-flood;
And its touch of truth shall save it,
And its tender rain shall lave it,
For at least you read Amavit,
Written there in tears of blood.
Whirled along the fever-flood;
And its touch of truth shall save it,
And its tender rain shall lave it,
For at least you read Amavit,
Written there in tears of blood.
253
Did they hunt him to his hiding,
Tracking traces in the snow?
Did they tempt him out, confiding,
Shoot him ruthless down, deriding,
By the ruined old château?
Tracking traces in the snow?
Did they tempt him out, confiding,
Shoot him ruthless down, deriding,
By the ruined old château?
Left to lie, with thin lips resting
Frozen to a smile of scorn,
Just the bitter thought's suggesting,
At this excellent new jesting
Of the rabble Devil-born.
Frozen to a smile of scorn,
Just the bitter thought's suggesting,
At this excellent new jesting
Of the rabble Devil-born.
Till some “tiger-monkey,” finding
These few words the covers bear,
Some swift rush of pity blinding,
Sent them in the shot-pierced binding
“À Lucile, en Angleterre.”
These few words the covers bear,
Some swift rush of pity blinding,
Sent them in the shot-pierced binding
“À Lucile, en Angleterre.”
Fancies only! Nought the covers,
Nothing more the leaves reveal,
Yet I love it for its lovers,
For the dream that round it hovers
Of “Savignac” and “Lucile.”
Nothing more the leaves reveal,
Yet I love it for its lovers,
For the dream that round it hovers
Of “Savignac” and “Lucile.”
254
A MADRIGAL
Before me, careless lying,
Young Love his ware comes crying:
Full soon the elf untreasures
His pack of pains and pleasures,—
With roguish eye,
He bids me buy
From out his pack of treasures.
Young Love his ware comes crying:
Full soon the elf untreasures
His pack of pains and pleasures,—
With roguish eye,
He bids me buy
From out his pack of treasures.
His wallet's stuffed with blisses,
With true-love-knots and kisses,
With rings and rosy fetters,
And sugared vows and letters;—
He holds them out
With boyish flout,
And bids me try the fetters.
With true-love-knots and kisses,
With rings and rosy fetters,
And sugared vows and letters;—
He holds them out
With boyish flout,
And bids me try the fetters.
Nay, Child (I cry), I know them;
There's little need to show them!
Too well for new believing
I know their past deceiving,—
I am too old
(I say), and cold,
To-day, for new believing!
There's little need to show them!
Too well for new believing
I know their past deceiving,—
I am too old
(I say), and cold,
To-day, for new believing!
255
But still the wanton presses,
With honey-sweet caresses,
And still, to my undoing,
He wins me, with his wooing,
To buy his ware
With all its care,
Its sorrow and undoing.
With honey-sweet caresses,
And still, to my undoing,
He wins me, with his wooing,
To buy his ware
With all its care,
Its sorrow and undoing.
256
A SONG TO THE LUTE
When first I came to Court,
Fa la!
When first I came to Court,
I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy,
And Love an idle sport,
A sport whereat a man might toy
With little hurt and mickle joy—
When first I came to Court!
Fa la!
When first I came to Court,
I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy,
And Love an idle sport,
A sport whereat a man might toy
With little hurt and mickle joy—
When first I came to Court!
Too soon I found my fault,
Fa la!
Too soon I found my fault;
The fairest of the fair brigade
Advanced to mine assault.
Alas! against an adverse maid
Nor fosse can serve nor palisade—
Too soon I found my fault!
Fa la!
Too soon I found my fault;
The fairest of the fair brigade
Advanced to mine assault.
Alas! against an adverse maid
Nor fosse can serve nor palisade—
Too soon I found my fault!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
Fa la!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
No feint the arts of war can show,
No counterstroke avail;
Naught skills but arms away to throw,
And kneel before that lovely foe,
When Silvia's eyes assail!
Fa la!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
No feint the arts of war can show,
No counterstroke avail;
Naught skills but arms away to throw,
And kneel before that lovely foe,
When Silvia's eyes assail!
257
Yet is all truce in vain,
Fa la!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;
And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain!
Fa la!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;
And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain!
258
A GARDEN SONG
(TO W. E. H.)
Here, in this sequestered close,
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
259
Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!
260
A CHAPTER OF FROISSART
(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR)
You don't know Froissart now, young folks,
This age, I think, prefers recitals
Of high-spiced crime, with “slang” for jokes,
And startling titles;
This age, I think, prefers recitals
Of high-spiced crime, with “slang” for jokes,
And startling titles;
But, in my time, when still some few
Loved “old Montaigne,” and praised Pope's Homer
(Nay, thought to style him “poet” too,
Were scarce misnomer),
Loved “old Montaigne,” and praised Pope's Homer
(Nay, thought to style him “poet” too,
Were scarce misnomer),
Sir John was less ignored. Indeed,
I can recall how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read,
And find him pleasant;
I can recall how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read,
And find him pleasant;
For,—by this copy,—hangs a Tale.
Long since, in an old house in Surrey,
Where men knew more of “morning ale’
Than “Lindley Murray,”
Long since, in an old house in Surrey,
Where men knew more of “morning ale’
Than “Lindley Murray,”
261
In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall,
'Neath Hogarth's “Midnight Conversation,”
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,
With fond elation,
'Neath Hogarth's “Midnight Conversation,”
It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,
With fond elation,
I turned the brown old leaves. For there
All through one hopeful happy summer,
At such a page (I well knew where),
Some secret comer,
All through one hopeful happy summer,
At such a page (I well knew where),
Some secret comer,
Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you
(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),
Would sometimes place for private view
A certain token;—
(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),
Would sometimes place for private view
A certain token;—
A rose-leaf, meaning “Garden Wall,”
An ivy-leaf for “Orchard corner,”
A thorn to say “Don't come at all,”—
Unwelcome warner!—
An ivy-leaf for “Orchard corner,”
A thorn to say “Don't come at all,”—
Unwelcome warner!—
Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid;
But then Romance required dissembling,
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred
Some genuine trembling;
But then Romance required dissembling,
(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred
Some genuine trembling;
Though, as a rule, all used to end
In such kind confidential parley
As may to you kind Fortune send,
You long-legged Charlie,
In such kind confidential parley
As may to you kind Fortune send,
You long-legged Charlie,
262
When your time comes. How years slip on!
We had our crosses like our betters;
Fate sometimes looked askance upon
Those floral letters;
We had our crosses like our betters;
Fate sometimes looked askance upon
Those floral letters;
And once, for three long days disdained,
The dust upon the folio settled;
For some-one, in the right, was pained,
And some-one nettled,
The dust upon the folio settled;
For some-one, in the right, was pained,
And some-one nettled,
That sure was in the wrong, but spake
Of fixed intent and purpose stony
To serve King George, enlist and make
Minced-meat of “Boney,”
Of fixed intent and purpose stony
To serve King George, enlist and make
Minced-meat of “Boney,”
Who yet survived—ten years at least.
And so, when she I mean came hither,
One day that need for letters ceased,
She brought this with her!
And so, when she I mean came hither,
One day that need for letters ceased,
She brought this with her!
Here is the leaf-stained Chapter:—How
The English King laid siege to Calais;
I think Gran. knows it even now,—
Go ask her, Alice.
The English King laid siege to Calais;
I think Gran. knows it even now,—
Go ask her, Alice.
263
TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE
OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS
“Tuque, Testudo, resonare septem
Callida nervis.”
—Hor. iii. II
Callida nervis.”
—Hor. iii. II
Monster Chelonian, you suggest
To some, no doubt, the calm,—
The torpid ease of islets drest
In fan-like fern and palm;
To some, no doubt, the calm,—
The torpid ease of islets drest
In fan-like fern and palm;
To some your cumbrous ways, perchance,
Darwinian dreams recall;
And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance,
And ancient youth appal;
Darwinian dreams recall;
And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance,
And ancient youth appal;
So widely varied views dispose:
But not so mine,—for me
Your vasty vault but simply shows
A Lyre immense, per se,
But not so mine,—for me
Your vasty vault but simply shows
A Lyre immense, per se,
A Lyre to which the Muse might chant
A truly “Orphic tale,”
Could she but find that public want,
A Bard—of equal scale!
A truly “Orphic tale,”
Could she but find that public want,
A Bard—of equal scale!
264
Oh, for a Bard of awful words,
And lungs serenely strong,
To sweep from your sonorous chords
Niagaras of song,
And lungs serenely strong,
To sweep from your sonorous chords
Niagaras of song,
Till, dinned by that tremendous strain,
The grovelling world aghast,
Should leave its paltry greed of gain,
And mend its ways . . . at last!
The grovelling world aghast,
Should leave its paltry greed of gain,
And mend its ways . . . at last!
265
A ROMAN ROUND-ROBIN
(“HIS FRIENDS” TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS)
“Hæc decies repetita [non] placebit.”
—Ars Poetica.
Flaccus, you write us charming songs;
No bard we know possesses
In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;
No bard we know possesses
In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;
No man cay say that Life is short
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;
Or touch, with more serene distress,
On Fortune's ways erratic;
And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic:
On Fortune's ways erratic;
And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic:
All this is well, no doubt, and tends
Barbarian minds to soften;
But, Horace—we, we are your friends—
Why tell us this so often?
Barbarian minds to soften;
But, Horace—we, we are your friends—
Why tell us this so often?
266
Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places?
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places?
Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:
Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—
Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—
O, spare to sing, what none deny,
That things we love decay;
That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—
That all must Fate obey!
That things we love decay;
That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—
That all must Fate obey!
Or bid us dine—on this day week—
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost Cæcuban;—
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost Cæcuban;—
Of that we fear not overplus;
But your didactic ‘tap’—
Forgive us!—grows monotonous;
Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
But your didactic ‘tap’—
Forgive us!—grows monotonous;
Nunc vale! Verbum sap.
267
VERSES TO ORDER
(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY)
How weary 'twas to wait! The year
Went dragging slowly on;
The red leaf to the running brook
Dropped sadly, and was gone;
December came, and locked in ice
The plashing of the mill;
The white snow filled the orchard up;
But she was waiting still.
Went dragging slowly on;
The red leaf to the running brook
Dropped sadly, and was gone;
December came, and locked in ice
The plashing of the mill;
The white snow filled the orchard up;
But she was waiting still.
Spring stirred and broke. The rooks once more
'Gan cawing in the loft;
The young lambs' new-awakened cries
Came trembling from the croft;
The clumps of primrose filled again
The hollows by the way;
The pale wind-flowers blew; but she
Grew paler still than they.
'Gan cawing in the loft;
The young lambs' new-awakened cries
Came trembling from the croft;
The clumps of primrose filled again
The hollows by the way;
The pale wind-flowers blew; but she
Grew paler still than they.
How weary 'twas to wait! With June,
Through all the drowsy street,
Came distant murmurs of the war,
And rumours of the fleet;
The gossips, from the market-stalls,
Cried news of Joe and Tim;
But June shed all her leaves, and still
There came no news of him.
Through all the drowsy street,
Came distant murmurs of the war,
And rumours of the fleet;
268
Cried news of Joe and Tim;
But June shed all her leaves, and still
There came no news of him.
And then, at last, at last, at last,
One blessèd August morn,
Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,
Pang-panging came to horn;
The swift coach paused a creaking-space,
Then flashed away, and passed;
But she stood trembling yet, and dazed
The news had come—at last!
One blessèd August morn,
Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,
Pang-panging came to horn;
The swift coach paused a creaking-space,
Then flashed away, and passed;
But she stood trembling yet, and dazed
The news had come—at last!
And thus the artist saw her stand,
While all around her seems
As vague and shadowy as the shapes
That flit from us in dreams;
And naught in all the world is true,
Save those few words which tell
That be she lost is found again—
Is found again—and well!
While all around her seems
As vague and shadowy as the shapes
That flit from us in dreams;
And naught in all the world is true,
Save those few words which tell
That be she lost is found again—
Is found again—and well!
269
A LEGACY
Ah, Postumus, we all must go:
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;
My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;
My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;
I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend—
My Muse's friend and not my purse's!
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,—
My Muse's friend and not my purse's!
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,—
How will you live—of these deprived?
I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;
I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;
But you—Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit;—
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit;—
Not gold,—that hearts like yours despise;
Not “spacious dirt” (your own expression),
No; but the rarer, dearer prize—
The Life's Confession!
Not “spacious dirt” (your own expression),
No; but the rarer, dearer prize—
The Life's Confession!
270
You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?
You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—
I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus!
You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—
I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus!
271
“LITTLE BLUE-RIBBONS”
“Little Blue-Ribbons!” We call her that
From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;
For many not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—
As a matter of face, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or bow,
When “little Blue-Ribbons” prefers it so.
From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;
For many not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—
As a matter of face, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or bow,
When “little Blue-Ribbons” prefers it so.
“Little Blue-Ribbons” has eyes of blue,
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word “behave”;
Though not and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And “litle Blue-Ribbons” regards it so.
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word “behave”;
Though not and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And “litle Blue-Ribbons” regards it so.
She's a staid little woman! And so as well
Is her ladyship's doll, “Miss Bonnibelle”;
But I think what at present the most takes up
The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;
For the object thereon,—be it understood,—
Is the “Robin that buried the ‘Babes in Wood’”—
It is not in the least like a robin, though,
But “little Blue-Ribbons” declares it so.
Is her ladyship's doll, “Miss Bonnibelle”;
But I think what at present the most takes up
The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;
272
Is the “Robin that buried the ‘Babes in Wood’”—
It is not in the least like a robin, though,
But “little Blue-Ribbons” declares it so.
“Little Blue-Ribbons” believes, I think,
That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;
Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get
To the spot where the suns of yesterday set;
And I know that she fully expects to meet
With a lion or wolf in Regent Street!
We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no;
For “little Blue-Ribbons” still dreams it so.
That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;
Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get
To the spot where the suns of yesterday set;
And I know that she fully expects to meet
With a lion or wolf in Regent Street!
We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no;
For “little Blue-Ribbons” still dreams it so.
Dear “little Blue-Ribbons”! She tells us all
That she never intends to be “great” and “tall”;
(For how could she ever contrive to sit
In her “own, own, chair,” if she grew one bit!)
And, further, she says, she intends to stay
In her “darling home” till she gets “quite gray”;
Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,
But “little Blue-Ribbons” will have it so!
That she never intends to be “great” and “tall”;
(For how could she ever contrive to sit
In her “own, own, chair,” if she grew one bit!)
And, further, she says, she intends to stay
In her “darling home” till she gets “quite gray”;
Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,
But “little Blue-Ribbons” will have it so!
273
LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE
“------the music of the moon
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.”
—Aylmer's Field.
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.”
—Aylmer's Field.
Five geese,—a landscape damp and wild,—
A stunted, not too pretty, child,
Beneath a battered gingham;
Such things, to say the least, require
A Muse of more-than-average Fire
Effectively to sing 'em.
A stunted, not too pretty, child,
Beneath a battered gingham;
Such things, to say the least, require
A Muse of more-than-average Fire
Effectively to sing 'em.
And yet—Why should they? Souls of mark
Have sprung from such;—e'en Joan of Arc
Had scarce a grander duty;
Not always ('tis a maxim trite)
From rigtheous sources comes the right,—
From beautiful, the beauty.
Have sprung from such;—e'en Joan of Arc
Had scarce a grander duty;
Not always ('tis a maxim trite)
From rigtheous sources comes the right,—
From beautiful, the beauty.
Who shall decide where sees is sown?
Maybe some priceless germ was blown
To this unwholesome marish;
(And what must grow will still increase,
Though cackled round by half the geese
And ganders in the parish.)
Maybe some priceless germ was blown
To this unwholesome marish;
(And what must grow will still increase,
Though cackled round by half the geese
And ganders in the parish.)
274
Maybe this homely face may hide
A Staël before whose mannish pride
Our frailer sex shall tremble;
Perchance this audience anserine
May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)—
May hiss—a future Kemble!
A Staël before whose mannish pride
Our frailer sex shall tremble;
Perchance this audience anserine
May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)—
May hiss—a future Kemble!
Or say the gingham shadows o'er
An undeveloped Hannah More!—
A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!
Who shall affirm it?—who deny?—
Since of the truth nor you nor I
Can catch the faintest glimmer?
An undeveloped Hannah More!—
A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!
Who shall affirm it?—who deny?—
Since of the truth nor you nor I
Can catch the faintest glimmer?
So then—Caps off, my Masters all;
Reserve your final word,—recall
Your all-too-hasty strictures;
Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees
Undreamed potentialities
In most unhopeful pictures
Reserve your final word,—recall
Your all-too-hasty strictures;
Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees
Undreamed potentialities
In most unhopeful pictures
275
A FAIRY TALE
“On court, hélas! après la vérité;
Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite.”
—Voltaire.
Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite.”
—Voltaire.
Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks,
I find Miss Mary, ætat six,
Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,
Absorbed in her first fairy book,
From which she scarce can pause to look,
Because it's “so delicious!”
I find Miss Mary, ætat six,
Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,
Absorbed in her first fairy book,
From which she scarce can pause to look,
Because it's “so delicious!”
“Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat,
In which they cross a magic Moat,
That's smooth as glass to row on—
A Cat that brings all kinds of things;
And see, the Queen has angel wings—
Then Ogre comes”—and so on.
In which they cross a magic Moat,
That's smooth as glass to row on—
A Cat that brings all kinds of things;
And see, the Queen has angel wings—
Then Ogre comes”—and so on.
What trash it is! How sad to find
(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,
So active and so pliant,
Rejecting themes in which you mix
Fond truths with pleasing facts, to fix
On tales of Dwarf and Giant!
(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,
So active and so pliant,
Rejecting themes in which you mix
Fond truths with pleasing facts, to fix
On tales of Dwarf and Giant!
276
In merest prudence men should teach
That cats mellifluous in speech
Are painful contradictions;
That science ranks as monstrous things
Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings—
E'en angels' wings!—are fictions;
That cats mellifluous in speech
Are painful contradictions;
That science ranks as monstrous things
Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings—
E'en angels' wings!—are fictions;
That there's no giant now but Steam;
That life, although “an empty dream,”
Is scarce a “land of Fairy.”
“Of course I said all this?” Why, no;
I did a thing far wiser, though,—
I read the tale with Mary.
That life, although “an empty dream,”
Is scarce a “land of Fairy.”
“Of course I said all this?” Why, no;
I did a thing far wiser, though,—
I read the tale with Mary.
277
TO A CHILD
(FROM THE “GARLAND OF RACHEL”)
How shall I sing you, Child, for whom
So many lyres are strung;
Or how the only tone assume
That fits a Maid so young?
So many lyres are strung;
Or how the only tone assume
That fits a Maid so young?
What rocks there are on either hand!
Suppose—'tis on the cards—
You should grow up with quite a grand
Platonic hate for bards!
Suppose—'tis on the cards—
You should grow up with quite a grand
Platonic hate for bards!
How shall I then be shamed, undone,
For ah! with what a scorn
Your eyes must greet that luckless One
Who rhymed you, newly born,—
For ah! with what a scorn
Your eyes must greet that luckless One
Who rhymed you, newly born,—
Who o'er your “helpless cradle” bent,
His idle verse to turn;
And twanged his tiresome instrument
Above your unconcern!
His idle verse to turn;
And twanged his tiresome instrument
Above your unconcern!
278
Nay,—let my words be so discreet,
That, keeping Chance in view,
Whatever after fate you meet
A part may still be true.
That, keeping Chance in view,
Whatever after fate you meet
A part may still be true.
Let others wish you mere good looks,—
Your sex is always fair;
Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—
She's rich who has to spare:
Your sex is always fair;
Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—
She's rich who has to spare:
I wish you but a heart that's kind,
A head that's sound and clear;
(Yet let the heart be not too blind,
The head not too severe!)
A head that's sound and clear;
(Yet let the heart be not too blind,
The head not too severe!)
A joy of life, a frank delight;
A not-too-large desire;
And—if you fail to find a Knight—
At least . . . a trusty Squire.
A not-too-large desire;
And—if you fail to find a Knight—
At least . . . a trusty Squire.
279
HOUSEHOLD ART
“Mine be a cot,” for the hours of play,
Of the kind that is built by Miss Green-away;
Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,
And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;
And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,
Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,
And “play with the pups,” and “reprove the calves,”
And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,
From “Hunt the Slipper” and “Riddle-me-ree”
To watching the cat in the apple-tree.
Of the kind that is built by Miss Green-away;
Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,
And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;
And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,
Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,
And “play with the pups,” and “reprove the calves,”
And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,
From “Hunt the Slipper” and “Riddle-me-ree”
To watching the cat in the apple-tree.
O Art of the Household! Men may prate
Of their ways “intense” and Italianate,—
They may soar on their wings of sense, and float
To the au delà and the dim remote,—
Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,
'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best;
To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,
For the Earth first laughed when the children came!
Of their ways “intense” and Italianate,—
They may soar on their wings of sense, and float
To the au delà and the dim remote,—
Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,
'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best;
To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,
For the Earth first laughed when the children came!
280
THE DISTRESSED POET
A SUGGESTION FROM HOGARTH
One knows the scene so well,—a touch,
A word, brings back again
That room, not garnished overmuch,
In gusty Drury Lane;
A word, brings back again
That room, not garnished overmuch,
In gusty Drury Lane;
The empty safe, the child that cries,
The kittens on the coat,
The good-wife with her patient eyes,
The milkmaid's tuneless throat;
The kittens on the coat,
The good-wife with her patient eyes,
The milkmaid's tuneless throat;
And last, in that mute woe sublime,
The luckless verseman's air:
The “Bysshe,” the foolscap and the rhyme,—
The Rhyme . . that is not there!
The luckless verseman's air:
The “Bysshe,” the foolscap and the rhyme,—
The Rhyme . . that is not there!
Poor Bard! to dream the verse inspired—
With dews Castalian wet—
Is built from cold abstractions squired
By “Bysshe,” his epithet!
With dews Castalian wet—
Is built from cold abstractions squired
By “Bysshe,” his epithet!
281
Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse,
No step upon the stair
Betrays the guest that none refuse,—
She takes us unaware;
No step upon the stair
Betrays the guest that none refuse,—
She takes us unaware;
And tips with fire our lyric lips,
And sets our hearts a-flame,
And then, like Ariel, off she trips,
And none know how she came.
And sets our hearts a-flame,
And then, like Ariel, off she trips,
And none know how she came.
Only, henceforth, for right or wrong,
By some dull sense grown keen,
Some blank hour blossomed into song
We feel that she has been.
By some dull sense grown keen,
Some blank hour blossomed into song
We feel that she has been.
282
JOCOSA LYRA
In our hearts is the Great One of Avon
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.
But at times not the air that is rarest
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.
Then we drop from the heights atmospheric
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;
Or our cosiest nook in the shade is
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.
Oh, the song where not one of the Graces
Tight-laces,—
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,
But archly,—
Tight-laces,—
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,
But archly,—
283
Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,
Comes playing,
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer,
In answer,—
Comes playing,
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer,
In answer,—
It will last till men weary of pleasure
In measure!
It will last till men weary of laughter
And after!
In measure!
It will last till men weary of laughter
And after!
284
MY BOOKS
They dwell in the odour of camphor,
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,
They are “warranted early editions,”
These worshipful tomes of mine;—
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,
They are “warranted early editions,”
These worshipful tomes of mine;—
In their creamiest “Oxford vellum,”
In their redolent “crushed Levant,”
With their delicate watered linings,
They are jewels of price, I grant;—
In their redolent “crushed Levant,”
With their delicate watered linings,
They are jewels of price, I grant;—
Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,
They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress
They are graceful, attenuate, polished,
But they gather the dust, no less;—
They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress
They are graceful, attenuate, polished,
But they gather the dust, no less;—
For the row that I prize is yonder,
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and the bruised octavos,
The dear and the dumpy twelves,—
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and the bruised octavos,
The dear and the dumpy twelves,—
Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,
And Howell the worse for wear,
And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,
And the little old cropped Molière,
And Howell the worse for wear,
And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,
And the little old cropped Molière,
285
And the Burton I bought for a florin,
And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,—
For the others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.
And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,—
For the others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.
286
THE COLLECTOR TO HIS LIBRARY
Brown Books of mine, who never yet
Have caused me anguish or regret,—
Save when some fiend in human shape
Has set your tender sides agape,
Or soiled with some unmanly smear
The candour of your margin clear,
Or writ you with some phrase inane,
The bantling of an idle brain,—
I love you: and because must end
This commerce between friend and friend,
I do implore each kindly Fate—
To each and all I supplicate—
That you, whom I have loved so long,
May not be vended “for a song”;—
That you, my dear desire and care,
May 'scape the common thoroughfare,
The dust, the eating rain, and all
The shame and squalor of the Stall.
Rather I trust your lot may touch
Some Crœsus—if there should be such—
To buy you, and that you may so
From Crœsus unto Crœsus go
Till that inevitable day
When comes your moment of decay.
Have caused me anguish or regret,—
Save when some fiend in human shape
Has set your tender sides agape,
Or soiled with some unmanly smear
The candour of your margin clear,
Or writ you with some phrase inane,
The bantling of an idle brain,—
I love you: and because must end
This commerce between friend and friend,
I do implore each kindly Fate—
To each and all I supplicate—
That you, whom I have loved so long,
May not be vended “for a song”;—
That you, my dear desire and care,
May 'scape the common thoroughfare,
The dust, the eating rain, and all
The shame and squalor of the Stall.
Rather I trust your lot may touch
Some Crœsus—if there should be such—
To buy you, and that you may so
From Crœsus unto Crœsus go
Till that inevitable day
When comes your moment of decay.
This, more than other good, I pray.
287
THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION
BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE
While cynic Charles still trimm'd the vaneTwixt Querouaille and Castlemaine,
In days that shocked John Evelyn,
My First Possessor fixed me in.
In days of Dutchmen and of frost,
The narrow sea with James I cross'd,
Returning when once more began
The Age of Saturn and of Anne.
I am a part of all the past:
I knew the Georges, first and last;
I have been oft where else was none
Save the great wig of Addison;
And seen on shelves beneath me grope
The little eager form of Pope.
I lost the Third that owned me when
French Noailles fled at Dettingen;
The year James Wolfe surprised Quebec
The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;
The day that William Hogarth dy'd,
The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.
This was a Scholar, one of those
Whose Greek is sounder than their hose;
288
So liv'd at Streatham, next to Thrale.
'Twas there this stain of grease I boast
Was made by Dr. Johnson's toast.
(He did it, as I think, for Spite;
My Master call'd him Jacobite!)
And now that I so long to-day
Have rested post discrimina,
Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where
I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,
Must I these travell'd bones inter
In some Collector's sepulchre!
Must I be torn herefrom and thrown
With frontispiece and colophon!
With vagrant E's, and I's, and O's,
The spoil of plunder'd Folios!
With scraps and snippets that to Me
Are naught but kitchen company!
Nay, rather, Friend, this favour grant me:
Tear me at once; but don't transplant me.
Cheltenham, Sept. 31, 1792.
289
THE WATER OF GOLD
“Buy,—who'll buy?” In the market-place,
Out of the market din and clatter,
The quack with his puckered persuasive face
Patters away in the ancient patter.
Out of the market din and clatter,
The quack with his puckered persuasive face
Patters away in the ancient patter.
“Buy,—who'll buy? In this flask I hold—
In this little flask that I tap with my stick, sir—
Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—
The One, Original, True Elixir!
In this little flask that I tap with my stick, sir—
Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—
The One, Original, True Elixir!
“Buy,—who'll buy? There's a maiden there,—
She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—
Here is a draught that will make you fair,
Fit for an Emperor's own caresses!
She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—
Here is a draught that will make you fair,
Fit for an Emperor's own caresses!
“Buy,—who'll buy? Are you old and gray?
Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,
Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,
Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!
Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,
Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,
Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!
“Buy,—who'll buy? Is a baby ill?
Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,
Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,
Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!
Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,
Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,
Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!
290
“Here is wealth for your life,—if you will but ask;
Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;
Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;
And the price is a couple of silver groschen!
Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;
Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;
And the price is a couple of silver groschen!
“Buy,—who'll buy?” So the tale runs on:
And still in the Great World's market-places
The Quack, with his quack catholicon,
Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;
And still in the Great World's market-places
The Quack, with his quack catholicon,
Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;
For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,
On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;
For he sells the thing that never can come,
Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.
On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;
For he sells the thing that never can come,
Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.
291
A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE
“De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier.”
The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by—
“He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!”
And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,
As she thought of the Gardener standing by—
“He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!”
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—
“He is older now! He will soon be dead!”
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—
“He is older now! He will soon be dead!”
But the breeze of the morning blew, and found
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them gently under the mould.
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them gently under the mould.
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
292
DON QUIXOTE
Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,
Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,
And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,
Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack!
To make wiseacredom, both high and low,
Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)
Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track:
Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest!
Yet would to-day when Courtesy grows chill,
And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,
Some fire of thine might burn within us still!
Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,
And charge in earnest . were it but a mill!
293
A BROKEN SWORD
(TO A. L.)
The shopman shambled from the doorway out
And twitched it down—
Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,
At half-a-crown.
And twitched it down—
Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,
At half-a-crown.
Useless enough! And yet can still be seen,
In letters clear,
Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen—
“Povr Paruenyr.”
In letters clear,
Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen—
“Povr Paruenyr.”
Whose was it once?—Who manned it once in hope
His fate to gain?
Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope
To this—in vain?
His fate to gain?
Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope
To this—in vain?
Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailed
The Western Seas;
Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed
For toasting cheese!
The Western Seas;
Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed
For toasting cheese!
294
Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawn
With silken knot,
Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn—
Perchance 'twas not!
With silken knot,
Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn—
Perchance 'twas not!
Who knows—or cares? To-day, 'mid foils and gloves
Its hilt depends,
Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,—
Remembered friends;—
Its hilt depends,
Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,—
Remembered friends;—
And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress,
A word to aid;
Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,
Its broken blade.
A word to aid;
Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,
Its broken blade.
295
THE POET'S SEAT
AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS
“Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes
Angulus Ridet.”
—Hor. ii. 6.
Angulus Ridet.”
—Hor. ii. 6.
It was an elm-tree root of yore,
With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,
And weighty, said those five who bore
Its bulk across the lawn, and dropped it
Not once or twice, before it lay,
With two young pear-trees to protect it,
Safe where the Poet hoped some day
The curious pilgrim would inspect it.
With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,
And weighty, said those five who bore
Its bulk across the lawn, and dropped it
Not once or twice, before it lay,
With two young pear-trees to protect it,
Safe where the Poet hoped some day
The curious pilgrim would inspect it.
He saw him with his Poet's eye,
The stately Maori, turned from etching
The ruin of St. Paul's, to try
Some object better worth the sketching:—
He saw him, and it nerved his strength
What time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,
Until the monster grew at length
The Master-piece to which he shaped it.
The stately Maori, turned from etching
The ruin of St. Paul's, to try
Some object better worth the sketching:—
He saw him, and it nerved his strength
What time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,
Until the monster grew at length
The Master-piece to which he shaped it.
To wit—a goodly garden-seat,
And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,
With shelf for cigarettes complete,
And one, but lower down, for coffee;
He planted pansies 'round its foot,—
“Pansies for thoughts!” and rose and arum;
The Motto (that he meant to put)
Was “Ille angulus terrarum.”
And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,
With shelf for cigarettes complete,
And one, but lower down, for coffee;
296
“Pansies for thoughts!” and rose and arum;
The Motto (that he meant to put)
Was “Ille angulus terrarum.”
But “Oh! the change” (as Milton sings)—
“The heavy change!” When May departed,
When June with its “delightful things”
Had come and gone, the rough bark started,—
Began to lose its sylvan brown,
Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;
And, though the Poet nailed it down,
It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.
“The heavy change!” When May departed,
When June with its “delightful things”
Had come and gone, the rough bark started,—
Began to lose its sylvan brown,
Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;
And, though the Poet nailed it down,
It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.
Nor was this all. 'Twas next the scene
Of vague (and viscous) vegetations;
Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,
And moist, unsavoury exhalations,—
Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,
Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,
Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,
And made it like an oyster grotto.
Of vague (and viscous) vegetations;
Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,
And moist, unsavoury exhalations,—
Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,
Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,
Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,
And made it like an oyster grotto.
Briefly, it grew a seat of scorn,
Bare,—shameless,—till, for fresh disaster,
From end to end, one April morn,
'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,—
Drilled like a vellum of old time;
And musing on this final mystery,
The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,
And took to studying Natural History.
Bare,—shameless,—till, for fresh disaster,
From end to end, one April morn,
'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,—
Drilled like a vellum of old time;
And musing on this final mystery,
The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,
And took to studying Natural History.
297
This was the turning of the tide;
His five-act play is still unwritten;
The dreams that now his soul divide
Are more of Lubbock than of Lytton;
“Ballades” are “verses vain” to him
Whose first ambition is to lecture
(So much is man the sport of whim!)
On “Insects and their Architecture.”
His five-act play is still unwritten;
The dreams that now his soul divide
Are more of Lubbock than of Lytton;
“Ballades” are “verses vain” to him
Whose first ambition is to lecture
(So much is man the sport of whim!)
On “Insects and their Architecture.”
298
THE LOST ELIXIR
“One drop of ruddy human blood puts more life into the veins of a
poem than all the delusive ‘aurum potabile’ that can be distilled out of
the choicest library.”—
Lowell.
Ah, yes, that “drop of human blood!”—
We had it once, may be,
When our young song's impetuous flood
First poured its ecstasy;
But now the shrunk poetic vein
Yields not that priceless drop again.
We had it once, may be,
When our young song's impetuous flood
First poured its ecstasy;
But now the shrunk poetic vein
Yields not that priceless drop again.
We toil,—as toiled we not of old;
Our patient hands distil
The shining spheres of chemic gold
With hard-won, fruitless skill;
But that red drop still seems to be
Beyond our utmost alchemy.
Our patient hands distil
The shining spheres of chemic gold
With hard-won, fruitless skill;
But that red drop still seems to be
Beyond our utmost alchemy.
Perchance, but most in later age,
Time's after-gift, a tear,
Will strike a pathos on the page
Beyond all art sincere;
But that “one drop of human blood”
Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.
Time's after-gift, a tear,
Will strike a pathos on the page
Beyond all art sincere;
But that “one drop of human blood”
Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.
| Collected poems | |