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diff --git a/24334.txt b/24334.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec7960d --- /dev/null +++ b/24334.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6685 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Collected Poems, by Austin Dobson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Collected Poems + In Two Volumes, Vol. II + +Author: Austin Dobson + +Release Date: January 17, 2008 [EBook #24334] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Leonard Johnson and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +COLLECTED POEMS + + +BY +AUSTIN DOBSON + + +IN TWO VOLUMES +VOL. II. + + +_Majores majora sonent_ + + +NEW YORK +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY +PUBLISHERS + + + + +_Copyright, 1895,_ +BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY + + * * * * * + +_All rights reserved._ + + +University Press: +JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. + + + + + _"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose_ + _Words fitter for an old-world Muse_ + _Than these, that in their cadence bring_ + _Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,_ + _And charms that rustic lovers use._ + + _The long day lengthens, and we lose_ + _The first pale flush, the morning hues,--_ + _Ah! but the back-look, lingering,_ + _For old sake's sake!_ + + That _we retain. Though Time refuse_ + _To lift the veil on forward views,_ + _Despot in most, he is not King_ + _Of those kind memories that cling_ + _Around his travelled avenues_ + _For old sake's sake!_ + + + + + "_Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son age_ + _De son age a tout le malheur._" + Voltaire. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + Page +AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE:-- + The Ladies of St. James's 3 + The Old Sedan Chair 6 + To an Intrusive Butterfly 9 + The Cure's Progress 11 + The Masque of the Months 13 + Two Sermons 17 + "Au Revoir" 19 + The Carver and the Caliph 26 + To an Unknown Bust in the British Museum 29 + Molly Trefusis 32 + At the Convent Gate 36 + The Milkmaid 38 + An Old Fish-Pond 40 + An Eastern Apologue 43 + To a Missal of the Thirteenth Century 45 + A Revolutionary Relic 48 + A Madrigal 54 + A Song to the Lute 56 + A Garden Song 58 + A Chapter of Froissart 60 + To the Mammoth Tortoise 64 + A Roman "Round-Robin" 66 + Verses to Order 68 + A Legacy 70 + "Little Blue Ribbons" 72 + Lines to a Stupid Picture 74 + A Fairy Tale 76 + To a Child 78 + Household Art 80 + The Distressed Poet 81 + Jocosa Lyra 83 + My Books 85 + The Book-Plate's Petition 87 + Palomydes 89 + Andre le Chapelain 91 + The Water of Gold 95 + A Fancy from Fontenelle 97 + Don Quixote 98 + A Broken Sword 99 + The Poet's Seat 101 + The Lost Elixir 104 + +MEMORIAL VERSES:-- + A Dialogue (Alexander Pope) 107 + A Familiar Epistle (William Hogarth) 112 + Henry Fielding 115 + Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 119 + Charles George Gordon 120 + Victor Hugo 121 + Alfred, Lord Tennyson 122 + +FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART:-- + The Poet and the Critics 127 + The Toyman 130 + The Successful Author 133 + The Dilettant 136 + The Two Painters 138 + The Claims of the Muse 140 + The 'Squire at Vauxhall 144 + The Climacteric 149 + +TALES IN RHYME:-- + The Virgin with the Bells 155 + A Tale of Polypheme 159 + A Story from a Dictionary 170 + The Water Cure 178 + The Noble Patron 184 + +VERS DE SOCIETE:-- + Incognita 193 + Dora _versus_ Rose 197 + Ad Rosam 200 + Outward Bound 205 + In the Royal Academy 208 + The Last Despatch 213 + "Premiers Amours" 216 + The Screen in the Lumber Room 219 + Daisy's Valentines 221 + In Town 224 + A Sonnet in Dialogue 227 + Growing Gray 229 + +VARIA:-- + The Maltworm's Madrigal 233 + An April Pastoral 236 + A New Song of the Spring Gardens 237 + A Love Song, 1700 239 + Of his Mistress 240 + The Nameless Charm 242 + To Phidyle 243 + To his Book 244 + For a Copy of Herrick 246 + With a Volume of Verse 247 + For the Avery "Knickerbocker" 248 + To a Pastoral Poet 250 + "Sat est Scripsisse" 251 + +PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES:-- + Prologue and Envoi to Abbey's Edition of + "She Stoops to Conquer" 257 + Prologue and Epilogue to Abbey's "Quiet Life" 264 + +NOTES 271 + + + + +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!_ + + _Here be Ballad and Song,_ + _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!_ + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + + + +THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR. + + "_What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?_ + _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! + + 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! + + 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! + + "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! + + 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? + + 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? + + 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! + + 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! + + 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 Fete-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair! + + "_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! + + + + +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. + + + 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! + + 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 Maeonides"-- + 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? + + 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, _aetat_ One! + + Away! Tempt not the best of wives; + Let not thy garish wing + Come fluttering our Autumn lives + With truant dreams of Spring! + Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;" + Be Buddha's law obeyed; + Lest Betty's undiscerning hand + Should slay ... a future PRAED! + + + + +THE CURE'S PROGRESS. + + + Monsieur the Cure down the street + 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 "_Hotel-de-Ville_"; + He smiles, as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose, + And the _pompier_ Theophile. + + He turns, as a rule, through the "_Marche_" cool, + Where the noisy fish-wives call; + And his compliment pays to the "_Belle Therese_," + 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 Cure gropes + In his tails for a _pain d'epice_. + + 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 Cure's box. + + 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!_" + + But a grander way for the _Sous-Prefet_, + 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 Cure goes + With a smile on his kind old face-- + With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, + And his green umbrella-case. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + Ah, worthy GOODMAN,--sound divine! + 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? + + Or how explain this need I feel,-- + This impulse prompting me + Within my secret self to kneel + To Faith,--to Purity! + + + + +"AU REVOIR." + +A DRAMATIC VIGNETTE. + + +SCENE.--_The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded +by Promenaders._ + + MONSIEUR JOLICOEUR. + A LADY (_unknown_). + + +M. JOLICOEUR. + '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 JOLICOEUR?... + +M. JOLICOEUR. + Madame, the same. + +THE LADY. + And Monsieur's goodness has to say?... + Your note?... + +M. JOLICOEUR. + _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._ JOLICOEUR." + Monsieur denies his note? + +M. JOLICOEUR. + I do. + Now let me read the one from you. + "_If Monsieur Jolicoeur 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? + +M. JOLICOEUR (_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. JOLICOEUR (_bowing_). + Rely on me. + +THE LADY (_still hesitating_). + Monsieur, I know, will understand ... + +M. JOLICOEUR. + Madame, I wait but your command. + +THE LADY. + You are too good. Then condescend + At once to be a new-found Friend! + +M. JOLICOEUR (_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. JOLICOEUR. + At _Ems_, of course. But Madame's face + Might make one well forget a place. + +THE LADY. + It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls + The Kuerhaus, and the concert-balls? + +M. JOLICOEUR. + 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. JOLICOEUR. + Nay,--Madame furnishes the wit. + (They don't know what to make of it!) + +THE LADY. + And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came?... + That clever ... I forget the name. + +M. JOLICOEUR. + 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. JOLICOEUR (_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 _Dole_! + +M. JOLICOEUR. + Truly. How sad! + (_Aside_) + (Yet, on the whole, + How fortunate! BEAU-_pre_?--BEAU-_vau_? + Which can it be? Ah, there they go!) + --Madame, your enemies retreat + With all the honours of ... defeat. + +THE LADY. + Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown + A skill PREVILLE could not disown. + +M. JOLICOEUR. + 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. JOLICOEUR. + 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. JOLICOEUR (_aside_). + (She's perfect. One may push too far, + _Piano, sano_.) + (_They reach the gates._) + Here we are. + Permit me, then ... + (_Placing her in the carriage._) + And Madame goes?... + Your coachman?... Can I?... + +THE LADY (_smiling_). + Thanks! he knows. + Thanks! Thanks! + +M. JOLICOEUR (_insidiously_). + And shall we not renew + Our ... "_Ems_ acquaintanceship?" + +THE LADY (_still smiling_). + Adieu! + My thanks instead! + +M. JOLICOEUR (_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. JOLICOEUR (_solus_). + BEAU-_vau_?--BEAU-_vallon_?--BEAU-_manoir_?-- + But that's a detail! + (_Waving his hand after the carriage._) + AU REVOIR! + + + + +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._) + + + 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. + + 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. + + 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 eye + 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! + + + + +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"? + + 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! + + 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! + + 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. + + '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. + + _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! + + + + +MOLLY TREFUSIS. + + + _"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!"_ + + + 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!" + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + 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! + + 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!" + + 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!" + + 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! + + 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." + + 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." + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + "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?" + + "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." + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +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. + + Slow efts about the edges sleep; + 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! + + * * * * * + + Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?-- + 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;-- + + Hard ruler there by right of might; + 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, + + When the pond's terror too must go; + 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, + + With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw + 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! + + * * * * * + + Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead + Around the granite brink; + And 'twixt the isles of water-weed + The wood-birds dip and drink. + + + + +AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. + +(To E. H. P.) + + + Melik the Sultan, tired and wan, + Nodded at noon on his divan. + + Beside the fountain lingered near + JAMIL the bard, and the vizier-- + + Old YUSUF, sour and hard to please; + Then JAMIL sang, in words like these. + + _Slim is Butheina--slim is she + As boughs of the Araka tree!_ + + "Nay," quoth the other, teeth between, + "Lean, if you will,--I call her lean." + + _Sweet is Butheina--sweet as wine, + With smiles that like red bubbles shine!_ + + "True,--by the Prophet!" YUSUF said, + "She makes men wander in the head!" + + _Dear is Butheina--ah! more dear + Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!_ + + "Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, + "Dear ... and yet always to be bought." + + So JAMIL ceased. But still Life's page + Shows diverse unto YOUTH and AGE: + + And,--be the song of Ghouls or Gods,-- + TIME, like the Sultan, sits ... and nods. + + + + +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? + + Whose the name that wrought thee thus, + 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? + + Ah!--a wondering brotherhood, + 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. + + Well the worker earned his wage, + 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. + + Then a book was still a Book, + 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; + Something that one still perceives + Vaguely present in the leaves; + Something from the worker lent; + Something mute--but eloquent! + + + + +A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC. + + + 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. + + '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. + + 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." + + As I read I marvel whether, + In some pleasant old chateau, + Once they read this book together, + In the scented summer weather, + With the shining Loire below? + + 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 chateau? + + 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? + + 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"? + + Did he drop on knee before her-- + "_Son Amour, son Coeur, 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? + + 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? + + 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? + + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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;-- + + 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,-- + + 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, + "_A 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: + + 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. + + Where, through Passion's wild repeating, + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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 chateau? + + 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. + + Till some "tiger-monkey," finding + These few words the covers bear, + Some swift rush of pity blinding, + Sent them in the shot-pierced binding + "_A 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." + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + + + +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! + + 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! + + 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! + + + + +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. + + 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 Alcinoues! + + 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. + + 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! + + + + +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; + + 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), + + Sir John was less ignored. Indeed, + I can re-call 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," + + In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall, + '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, + + Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you + (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!-- + + Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid; + 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, + + When your time comes. How years slip on! + 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, + + 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," + + 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! + + 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. + + + + +TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE + +OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS. + + "_Tuque, Testudo, resonare septem_ + _Callida nervis._" + Hor. iii. 11. + + + Monster Chelonian, you suggest + 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; + + So widely varied views dispose: + 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! + + Oh, for a Bard of awful words, + 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! + + + + +A ROMAN "ROUND-ROBIN." + +("HIS FRIENDS" TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS.) + +"_Haec 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 man can say that Life is short + 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: + + 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? + + Why feign to spread a cheerful feast, + And then thrust in our faces + These barren scraps (to say the least) + Of Stoic common-places? + + Recount, and welcome, your pursuits: + Sing Lyde'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! + + Or bid us dine--on this day week-- + And pour us, if you can, + As soft and sleek as girlish cheek, + Your inmost Caecuban;-- + + Of that we fear not overplus; + But your didactic 'tap'-- + Forgive us!--grows monotonous; + _Nunc vale! Verbum sap._ + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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. + + And then, at last, at last, at last, + One blessed August morn, + Beneath the yellowing autumn elms, + Pang-panging came the 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 he she lost is found again-- + Is found again--and well! + + + + +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; + + 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, + + 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; + + 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;-- + + Not gold,--that hearts like yours despise; + Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression), + No; but the rarer, dearer prize-- + The Life's Confession! + + 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! + + + + +"LITTLE BLUE-RIBBONS." + + + "Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her that + From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat; + For may not a person be only five, + And yet have the neatest of taste alive?-- + As a matter of fact, 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 now and again she may condescend + To a radiant smile for a private friend; + But to smile for ever is weak, you know, + And "little 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 the 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. + + 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! + + + + +LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE. + + "_--the music of the moon + 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. + + 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 righteous sources comes the right,-- + From beautiful, the beauty. + + Who shall decide where seed 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 this homely face may hide + A Stael 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 + Discern 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. + + + + +A FAIRY TALE. + + "_On court, helas! apres la verite; + Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son merite._" + Voltaire. + + + Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks, + I find Miss Mary, _aetat_ 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. + + 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 and pleasing facts, to fix + On tales of Dwarf and Giant! + + 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 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_. + + + + +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? + + What rocks there are on either hand! + 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,-- + + Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent + His idle verse to turn; + And twanged his tiresome instrument + Above your unconcern! + + Nay,--let my words be so discreet, + 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: + + 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 joy of life, a frank delight; + A not-too-large desire; + And--if you fail to find a Knight-- + At least ... a trusty Squire. + + + + +HOUSEHOLD ART. + + + "Mine be a cot," for the hours of play, + Of the kind that is built by MISS GREENAWAY; + 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 dela_ 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! + + + + +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; + + The empty safe, the child that cries, + 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! + + Poor Bard! to dream the verse inspired-- + With dews Castalian wet-- + Is built from cold abstractions squired + By "Bysshe," his epithet! + + Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse, + 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. + + Only, henceforth, for right or wrong, + By some dull sense grown keen, + Some blank hour blossomed into song, + We feel that she has been. + + + + +JOCOSA LYRA. + + + In our hearts is the Great One of Avon + 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. + + Then we drop from the heights atmospheric + 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. + + Oh, the song where not one of the Graces + Tight-laces,-- + Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly, + But archly,-- + + Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying, + 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! + + + + +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;-- + + In their creamiest "Oxford vellum," + 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;-- + + 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,-- + + Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered, + And Howell the worse for wear, + And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace, + And the little old cropped Moliere, + + 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. + + + + +THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION. + +BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE. + + + While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane + 'Twixt _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 surpris'd 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_; + He lov'd old Books and nappy ale, + 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._ + + + + +PALOMYDES. + + + Him best in all the dim Arthuriad, + Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,-- + The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad + Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes, + Nor joy he had. + + But, unloved ever, still must love the same, + And riding ever through a lonely world, + Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came, + Against the danger desperately hurled, + Crying her name. + + So I, who strove to You I may not earn, + Methinks, am come unto so high a place, + That though from hence I can but vainly yearn + For that averted favour of your face, + I shall not turn. + + No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide, + To find the doubtful thing that fights with me, + Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride, + And cry your name in my extremity, + As Palomyde, + Until the issue come. Will it disclose + No gift of grace, no pity made complete, + After much labour done,--much war with woes? + Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;-- + Ah, Death--who knows? + + + + +ANDRE LE CHAPELAIN. + +(_Clerk of Love, 1170._) + +HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS. + + "_Plus ne suis ce que j'ay este_ + _Et ne le scaurois jamais estre;_ + _Mon beau printemps et mon este_ + _Ont fait le saut par la fenestre._" + + + Queen Venus, round whose feet, + To tend thy sacred fire, + With service bitter-sweet + Nor youths nor maidens tire;-- + Goddess, whose bounties be + Large as the un-oared sea;-- + + Mother, whose eldest born + First stirred his stammering tongue, + In the world's youngest morn, + When the first daisies sprung:-- + Whose last, when Time shall die, + In the same grave shall lie:-- + + Hear thou one suppliant more! + Must I, thy Bard, grow old, + Bent, with the temples frore, + Not jocund be nor bold, + To tune for folk in May + Ballad and virelay? + + Shall the youths jeer and jape, + "Behold his verse doth dote,-- + Leave thou Love's lute to scrape, + And tune thy wrinkled throat + To songs of 'Flesh is Grass,'"-- + Shall they cry thus and pass? + + And the sweet girls go by? + "Beshrew the grey-beard's tune!-- + What ails his minstrelsy + To sing us snow in June!" + Shall they too laugh, and fleet + Far in the sun-warmed street? + + But Thou, whose beauty bright, + Upon thy wooded hill, + With ineffectual light + The wan sun seeketh still;-- + Woman, whose tears are dried, + Hardly, for Adon's side,-- + + Have pity, Erycine! + Withhold not all thy sweets; + Must I thy gifts resign + For Love's mere broken meats; + And suit for alms prefer + That was thine Almoner? + + Must I, as bondsman, kneel + That, in full many a cause, + Have scrolled thy just appeal? + Have I not writ thy Laws? + _That none from Love shall take + Save but for Love's sweet sake;_-- + + _That none shall aught refuse + To Love of Love's fair dues;-- + That none dear Love shall scoff + Or deem foul shame thereof;-- + That none shall traitor be + To Love's own secrecy;_-- + + Avert,--avert it, Queen! + Debarred thy listed sports, + Let me at least be seen + An usher in thy courts, + Outworn, but still indued + With badge of servitude. + + When I no more may go, + As one who treads on air, + To string-notes soft and slow, + By maids found sweet and fair-- + When I no more may be + Of Love's blithe company;-- + + When I no more may sit + Within thine own pleasance, + To weave, in sentence fit, + Thy golden dalliance; + When other hands than these + Record thy soft decrees;-- + + Leave me at least to sing + About thine outer wall, + To tell thy pleasuring, + Thy mirth, thy festival; + Yea, let my swan-song be + Thy grace, thy sanctity. + + [_Here ended Andre's words:_ + _But One that writeth, saith--_ + _Betwixt his stricken chords_ + _He heard the Wheels of Death;_ + _And knew the fruits Love bare_ + _But Dead-Sea apples were._] + + + + +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. + + "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! + + "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! + + "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! + + "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! + + "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! + + "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; + + 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. + + + + +A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE. + +"_De memoires 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!" + + 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!" + + 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. + + _And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, + For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time._ + + + + +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! + + + + +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. + + Useless enough! And yet can still be seen, + 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? + + Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailed + The Western Seas; + Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed + For toasting cheese! + + Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawn + 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;-- + + And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress, + A word to aid; + Or like a warning comes, in puffed success, + Its broken blade. + + + + +THE POET'S SEAT. + +AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS. + + "_Ille terrarum mihi praeter omnes + 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. + + 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. + + 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._" + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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." + + + + +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 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. + + 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. + + + + +MEMORIAL VERSES. + + + + +A DIALOGUE + +TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE. + + "_Non injussa cano._" + Virg. + + + POET. I sing of POPE-- + + FRIEND. What, POPE, the _Twitnam_ Bard, + Whom _Dennis_, _Cibber_, _Tibbald_ push'd so hard! + POPE of the _Dunciad_! POPE who dar'd to woo, + And then to libel, _Wortley-Montagu_! + POPE of the _Ham-walks_ story-- + + P. Scandals all! + Scandals that now I care not to recall. + Surely a little, in two hundred Years, + One may neglect Contemporary Sneers:-- + Surely Allowance for the Man may make + That had all _Grub-street_ yelping in his Wake! + And who (I ask you) has been never Mean, + When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen? + No: I prefer to look on POPE as one + Not rightly happy till his Life was done; + Whose whole Career, romance it as you please, + Was (what he call'd it) but a "long Disease:" + Think of his Lot,--his Pilgrimage of Pain, + His "crazy Carcass" and his restless Brain; + Think of his Night-Hours with their Feet of Lead, + His dreary Vigil and his aching Head; + Think of all this, and marvel then to find + The "crooked Body with a crooked Mind!" + Nay rather, marvel that, in Fate's Despite, + You find so much to solace and delight,-- + So much of Courage, and of Purpose high + In that unequal Struggle _not_ to die. + I grant you freely that POPE played his Part + Sometimes ignobly--but he lov'd his Art; + I grant you freely that he sought his Ends + Not always wisely--but he lov'd his Friends; + And who of Friends a nobler Roll could show-- + _Swift_, _St. John_, _Bathurst_, _Marchmont_, _Peterb'ro'_, + _Arbuthnot_-- + + FR. ATTICUS? + + P. Well (_entre nous_), + Most that he said of _Addison_ was _true_. + Plain Truth, you know-- + + FR. Is often not polite + (So _Hamlet_ thought)-- + + P. And _Hamlet_ (Sir) was right. + But leave POPE'S Life. To-day, methinks, we touch + The Work too little and the Man too much. + Take up the _Lock_, the _Satires_, _Eloise_-- + What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease! + How keen the Irony, the Wit how bright, + The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light! + Then read once more, and you shall wonder yet + At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet. + "True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd"-- + Was ever Thought so pithily express'd? + "And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line"-- + Ah, what a Homily on Yours ... and Mine! + Or take--to choose at Random--take but This-- + "Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss." + + FR. Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those + Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose, + Was he a POET? + + P. Yes: if that be what + _Byron_ was certainly and _Bowles_ was not; + Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date, + What _Dryden_ had, that was denied to _Tate_-- + + FR. Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine, + Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line-- + + P. True, there are Classes. POPE was most of all + Akin to _Horace_, _Persius_, _Juvenal_; + POPE was, like them, the Censor of his Age, + An Age more suited to Repose than Rage; + When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools, + And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules; + When _Phoebus_ touch'd the Poet's trembling Ear + With one supreme Commandment _Be thou Clear_; + When Thought meant less to reason than compile, + And the _Muse_ labour'd ... chiefly with the File. + Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath + As in the Days of great ELIZABETH; + And to the Bards of ANNA was denied + The Note that _Wordsworth_ heard on _Duddon_-side. + But POPE took up his Parable, and knit + The Woof of Wisdom with the Warp of Wit; + He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet, + And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat; + He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall; + He taught the Epigram to come at Call; + He wrote---- + + FR. His _Iliad_! + + P. Well, suppose you own + You like your _Iliad_ in the Prose of _Bohn_,-- + Tho' if you'd learn in Prose how _Homer_ sang, + 'Twere best to learn of _Butcher_ and of _Lang_,-- + Suppose you say your Worst of POPE, declare + His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre, + His Art but Artifice--I ask once more + Where have you seen such Artifice before? + Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd, + Or gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste? + Where can you show, among your Names of Note, + So much to copy and so much to quote? + And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse, + A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse? + + So I, that love the old _Augustan_ Days + Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase; + That like along the finish'd Line to feel + The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel; + That like my Couplet as compact as clear; + That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe, + Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope, + I fling my Cap for Polish--and for POPE! + + + + +A FAMILIAR EPISTLE + +_To * * Esq. of * * with a Life of the late Ingenious M^r. W^m. +Hogarth._ + + + Dear Cosmopolitan,--I know + I should address you a _Rondeau_, + Or else announce what I've to say + At least _en Ballade fratrisee_; + But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks, + And take to simple _Hudibrasticks_; + Why should I choose another Way, + When this was good enough for GAY? + + You love, my FRIEND, with me, I think, + That Age of Lustre and of Link; + Of _Chelsea_ China and long "s"es, + Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses; + That Age of Folly and of Cards, + Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards; + --No H--LTS, no K--G--N P--LS were then + Dispensing Competence to Men; + The gentle Trade was left to Churls, + Your frowsy TONSONS and your CURLLS; + Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack + The AUTHOR in a Sheep-skin Back; + Then SAVAGE and his Brother-Sinners + In _Porridge-Island_ div'd for Dinners; + Or doz'd on _Covent Garden_ Bulks, + And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;-- + You know that by-gone Time, I say, + That aimless easy-moral'd Day, + When rosy Morn found MADAM still + Wrangling at _Ombre_ or _Quadrille_, + When good Sir JOHN reel'd Home to Bed, + From _Pontack's_ or the _Shakespear's Head_; + When TRIP _convey'd_ his Master's Cloaths, + And took his Titles and his Oaths; + While BETTY, in a cast _Brocade_, + Ogled MY LORD at Masquerade; + When GARRICK play'd the guilty _Richard_, + Or mouth'd _Macbeth_ with Mrs. PRITCHARD; + When FOOTE grimac'd his snarling Wit; + When CHURCHILL bullied in the Pit; + When the CUZZONI sang-- + But there! + The further Catalogue I spare, + Having no Purpose to eclipse + That tedious Tale of HOMER'S Ships;-- + This is the MAN that drew it all + From _Pannier Alley_ to the _Mall_, + Then turn'd and drew it once again + From _Bird-Cage Walk_ to _Lewknor's Lane_;-- + Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots; + Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots; + Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters, + Its HENLEYS, LOVATS, MALCOLMS, CHARTRES; + Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease; + Its _quicquid agunt Homines_;-- + Nor yet omitted to pourtray + _Furens quid possit Foemina_;-- + In short, held up to ev'ry Class + NATURE'S unflatt'ring looking-Glass; + And, from his Canvass, spoke to All + The Message of a JUVENAL. + + Take Him. His Merits most aver: + His weak Point is--his Chronicler! + +Nov^r. 1, 1879. + + + + +HENRY FIELDING. + +(To James Russell Lowell.) + + + Not from the ranks of those we call + Philosopher or Admiral,-- + Neither as LOCKE was, nor as BLAKE, + Is that Great Genius for whose sake + We keep this Autumn festival. + + And yet in one sense, too, was he + A soldier--of humanity; + And, surely, philosophic mind + Belonged to him whose brain designed + That teeming COMIC EPOS where, + As in CERVANTES and MOLIERE, + Jostles the medley of Mankind. + + Our ENGLISH NOVEL'S pioneer! + His was the eye that first saw clear + How, not in natures half-effaced + By cant of Fashion and of Taste,-- + Not in the circles of the Great, + Faint-blooded and exanimate,-- + Lay the true field of Jest and Whim, + Which we to-day reap after him. + No:--he stepped lower down and took + The piebald PEOPLE for his Book! + + Ah, what a wealth of Life there is + In that large-laughing page of his! + What store and stock of Common-Sense, + Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience! + How his keen Satire flashes through, + And cuts a sophistry in two! + How his ironic lightning plays + Around a rogue and all his ways! + Ah, how he knots his lash to see + That ancient cloak, Hypocrisy! + + Whose are the characters that give + Such round reality?--that live + With such full pulse? Fair SOPHY yet + Sings _Bobbing Joan_ at the spinet; + We see AMELIA cooking still + That supper for the recreant WILL; + We hear Squire WESTERN'S headlong tones + Bawling "Wut ha?--wut ha?" to JONES. + Are they not present now to us,-- + The Parson with his _AEschylus_? + SLIPSLOP the frail, and NORTHERTON, + PARTRIDGE, and BATH, and HARRISON?-- + Are they not breathing, moving,--all + The motley, merry carnival + That FIELDING kept, in days agone? + + He was the first who dared to draw + Mankind the mixture that he saw; + Not wholly good nor ill, but both, + With fine intricacies of growth. + He pulled the wraps of flesh apart, + And showed the working human heart; + He scorned to drape the truthful nude + With smooth, decorous platitude! + + He was too frank, may be; and dared + Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared, + Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought + Into the light their secret thought. + Therefore the TARTUFFE-throng who say + "_Couvrez ce sein_," and look that way,-- + Therefore the Priests of Sentiment + Rose on him with their garments rent. + Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting + Plies ever round some generous thing, + Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores, + Old "might-have-beens" and "heretofores";-- + Then, from that garbled record-list, + Made him his own Apologist. + + And was he? Nay,--let who has known + Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone! + If to have sense of Joy and Pain + Too keen,--to rise, to fall again, + To live too much,--be sin, why then, + This was no pattern among men. + But those who turn that later page, + The Journal of his middle-age, + Watch him serene in either fate,-- + Philanthropist and Magistrate; + Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend, + Faithful, and patient to the end; + Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve, + But for the loved ones he must leave: + These will admit--if any can-- + That 'neath the green Estrella trees, + No Artist merely, but a MAN, + Wrought on our noblest island-plan, + Sleeps with the alien Portuguese. + + + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + "_Nec turpem senectam + Degere, nec cithara carentem._" + --Hor. i. 31. + + + "Not to be tuneless in old age!" + Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage, + Who, in his Winter's snow, + Still sings with note as sweet and clear + As in the morning of the year + When the first violets blow! + + Blest!--but more blest, whom Summer's heat, + Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat, + Have taught no feverish lure; + Whose Muse, benignant and serene, + Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green + Because his verse is pure! + + Lie calm, O white and laureate head! + Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead, + Since from the voiceless grave, + Thy voice shall speak to old and young + While song yet speaks an English tongue + By Charles' or Thamis' wave! + + + + +CHARLES GEORGE GORDON. + + + "Rather be dead than praised," he said, + That hero, like a hero dead, + In this slack-sinewed age endued + With more than antique fortitude! + + "Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we, + Who loved thee, now that Death sets free + Thine eager soul, with word and line + Profane that empty house of thine? + + Nay,--let us hold, be mute. Our pain + Will not be less that we refrain; + And this our silence shall but be + A larger monument to thee. + + + + +VICTOR HUGO. + + + He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo! + The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow, + The strife and stress of Nature's warring things, + Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings. + + He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo! + The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow, + And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings + Laughed in the music, like a child that sings. + + Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still + Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill + Look upward lonely--lonely to the height + Where thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight! + + + + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + +EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII. + + + Grief there will be, and may, + When King Apollo's bay + Is cut midwise; + Grief that a song is stilled, + Grief for the unfulfilled + Singer that dies. + + Not so we mourn thee now, + Not so we grieve that thou, + MASTER, art passed, + Since thou thy song didst raise, + Through the full round of days, + E'en to the last. + + Grief there may be, and will, + When that the Singer still + Sinks in the song; + When that the winged rhyme + Fails of the promised prime, + Ruined and wrong. + + Not thus we mourn thee--we-- + Not thus we grieve for thee, + MASTER and Friend; + Since, like a clearing flame, + Clearer thy pure song came + E'en to the end. + + Nay--nor for thee we grieve + E'en as for those that leave + Life without name; + Lost as the stars that set, + Empty of men's regret, + Empty of fame. + + Rather we count thee one + Who, when his race is run, + Layeth him down, + Calm--through all coming days, + Filled with a nation's praise, + Filled with renown. + + + + +FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART. + + + + +THE POET AND THE CRITICS. + + If those who wield the Rod forget, + 'Tis truly--_Quis custodiet?_ + + + A certain Bard (as Bards will do) + Dressed up his Poems for Review. + His Type was plain, his Title clear; + His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER. + Moreover, he had on the Back + A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;-- + A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine, + A neat and "classical" Design. + But the _in_-Side?--Well, good or bad, + The Inside was the best he had: + Much Memory,--more Imitation;-- + Some Accidents of Inspiration;-- + Some Essays in that finer Fashion + Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;-- + And some (of course) more roughly wrought + To catch the Advocates of Thought. + + In the less-crowded Age of ANNE, + Our Bard had been a favoured Man; + Fortune, more chary with the Sickle, + Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;-- + He might have even dared to hope + A Line's Malignity from POPE! + But now, when Folks are hard to please, + And Poets are as thick as--Peas, + The Fates are not so prone to flatter, + Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter. + + The Book, then, had a minor Credit: + The Critics took, and doubtless read it. + Said A.--_These little Songs display + No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,-- + A Promise. They will do no Harm._ + 'Twas kindly, if not _very_ warm. + Said B.--_The Author may, in Time, + Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme: + His Efforts now are scarcely Verse._ + This, certainly, could not be worse. + + Sorely discomfited, our Bard + Worked for another ten Years--hard. + Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on; + New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone; + Before his second Volume came + His Critics had forgot his Name: + + And who, forsooth, is bound to know + Each Laureate _in embryo_! + They tried and tested him, no less,- + The sworn Assayers of the Press. + Said A.--_The Author may, in Time...._ + Or much what B. had said of Rhyme. + Then B.--_These little Songs display...._ + And so forth, in the sense of A. + Over the Bard I throw a Veil. + + There is no MORAL to this Tale. + + + + +THE TOYMAN. + + With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense? + Hereon men waste their Eloquence. + + + "Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course. + How can you lend your Theme its Force? + How can you be direct and clear, + Concise, and (best of all) sincere, + If you must pen your Strain sublime + In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme? + Who ever heard true Grief relate + Its heartfelt Woes in 'six' and 'eight'? + Or felt his manly Bosom swell + Beneath a French-made _Villanelle_? + How can your _Mens divinior_ sing + Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring, + Where she must chant her Orphic Tale + In just so many Lines, or fail?..." + + "Form is the first (the Others bawl); + If not, why write in Verse at all? + Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose + (If verse be such Restraint) in Prose? + For surely if you speak your Soul + Most freely where there's least Control, + It follows you must speak it best + By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest. + Blest Hour! be not delayed too long, + When Britain frees her Slaves of Song; + And barred no more by Lack of Skill, + The Mob may crowd _Parnassus_ Hill!..." + + + Just at this Point--for you must know, + All this was but the To-and-fro + Of MATT and DICK who played with Thought, + And lingered longer than they ought + (So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box + And trifle round a Paradox!)-- + There came--but I forgot to say, + 'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May-- + There came a Fellow where they sat, + His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat, + Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load + He set upon the Ground, and showed + His newest Toy--a Card with Strings. + On this side was a Bird with Wings, + On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo! + The Twain were one. + Said MATT, "E'en so. + Here's the Solution in a Word:-- + Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird. + The Poet twirls them in his Mind, + And wins the Trick with both combined." + + + + +THE SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR. + + + When Fate presents us with the Bays, + We prize the Praiser, not the Praise. + We scarcely think our Fame eternal + If vouched for by the _Farthing Journal_; + But when the _Craftsman's_ self has spoken, + We take it for a certain Token. + This an Example best will show, + Derived from DENNIS DIDEROT. + + A hackney Author, who'd essayed + All Hazards of the scribbling Trade; + And failed to live by every Mode, + From _Persian Tale_ to _Birthday Ode_; + Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation, + In Theologic Speculation. + 'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen + Had been most orthodox till then; + But oft, as SOCRATES has said, + The Stomach's stronger than the Head; + And, for a sudden Change of Creed, + There is no _Jesuit_ like Need. + Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all, + By force of Habit, from the Gaul. + He showed (the Trick is nowise new) + That Nothing we believe is true; + But chiefly that Mistake is rife + Touching the point of _After-Life_; + Here all were wrong from PLATO down: + His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown. + The Thing created quite a Scare:-- + He got a Letter from VOLTAIRE, + Naming him _Ami_ and _Confrere_; + Besides two most attractive Offers + Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers. + He fell forthwith his Head to lift, + To talk of "I and DR. SW--FT;" + And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke, + On equal Terms, with BOLINGBROKE. + But, at the last, a Missive came + That put the Copestone to his Fame. + The Boy who brought it would not wait: + It bore a _Covent-Garden_ Date;-- + A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink. + And Air of _Bridewell_ or the Clink, + It ran in this wise:--_Learned Sir! + We, whose Subscriptions follow here, + Desire to state our Fellow-feeling + In this Religion you're revealing. + You make it plain that if so be_ + _We 'scape on Earth from_ Tyburn Tree, + _There's nothing left for us to fear + In this--or any other Sphere. + We offer you our Thanks; and hope + Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!_ + With that came all the Names beneath, + As BLUESKIN, JERRY CLINCH, MACHEATH, + BET CARELESS, and the Rest--a Score + Of Rogues and _Bona Robas_ more. + + This _Newgate Calendar_ he read: + 'Tis not recorded what he said. + + + + +THE DILETTANT. + + + The most oppressive Form of Cant + Is that of your Art-Dilettant:-- + Or rather "was." The Race, I own, + To-day is, happily, unknown. + + A Painter, now by Fame forgot, + Had painted--'tis no matter what; + Enough that he resolved to try + The Verdict of a critic Eye. + The Friend he sought made no Pretence + To more than candid Common-sense, + Nor held himself from Fault exempt. + He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt. + Then, pausing long, showed here and there + That Parts required a nicer Care,-- + A closer Thought. The Artist heard, + Expostulated, chafed, demurred. + + Just then popped in a passing Beau, + Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;-- + One of those Mushroom Growths that spring + From _Grand Tours_ and from Tailoring;-- + And dealing much in terms of Art + Picked up at Sale and auction Mart. + Straight to the Masterpiece he ran + With lifted Glass, and thus began, + Mumbling as fast as he could speak:-- + "Sublime!--prodigious!--truly Greek! + That 'Air of Head' is just divine; + That contour GUIDO, every line; + That Forearm, too, has quite the _Gusto_ + Of the third Manner of ROBUSTO...." + Then, with a Simper and a Cough, + He skipped a little farther off:-- + "The middle Distance, too, is placed + Quite in the best Italian Taste; + And Nothing could be more effective + Than the _Ordonnance_ and Perspective.... + You've sold it?--No?--Then take my word, + I shall speak of it to MY LORD. + What!--I insist. Don't stir, I beg. + Adieu!" With that he made a Leg, + Offered on either Side his Box,-- + So took his _Virtu_ off to COCK'S. + + The Critic, with a Shrug, once more + Turned to the Canvas as before. + "Nay,"--said the Painter--"I allow + The Worst that you can tell me now. + 'Tis plain my Art must go to School, + To win such Praises--from a FOOL!" + + + + +THE TWO PAINTERS. + + + In Art some hold Themselves content + If they but compass what they meant; + Others prefer, their Purpose gained, + Still to find Something unattained-- + Something whereto they vaguely grope + With no more Aid than that of Hope. + Which are the Wiser? Who shall say! + The prudent Follower of GAY + Declines to speak for either View, + But sets his Fable 'twixt the two. + + Once--'twas in good Queen ANNA'S Time-- + While yet in this benighted Clime + The GENIUS of the ARTS (now known + On mouldy Pediments alone) + Protected all the Men of Mark, + Two Painters met Her in the Park. + Whether She wore the Robe of Air + Portrayed by VERRIO and LAGUERRE; + Or, like BELINDA, trod this Earth, + Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth, + And armed at every Point for Slaughter + With Essences and Orange-water, + I know not: but it seems that then, + After some talk of Brush and Pen,-- + Some chat of Art both High and Low, + Of VAN'S "Goose-Pie" and KNELLER'S "_Mot_,"-- + The Lady, as a Goddess should, + Bade Them ask of Her what They would. + "Then, Madam, my request," says BRISK, + Giving his _Ramillie_ a whisk, + "Is that your Majesty will crown + My humble Efforts with Renown. + Let me, I beg it--Thanks to You-- + Be praised for Everything I do, + Whether I paint a Man of Note, + Or only plan a Petticoat." + "Nay," quoth the other, "I confess" + (This One was plainer in his Dress, + And even poorly clad), "for me, + I scorn Your Popularity. + Why should I care to catch at once + The Point of View of every Dunce? + Let me do well, indeed, but find + The Fancy first, the Work behind; + Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...." + The Goddess both Petitions granted. + + Each in his Way, achieved Success; + But One grew Great. And which One? Guess. + + + + +THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE. + + + Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame + Beneath some simple-sounding Name! + So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride, + Will call Display but _Proper Pride_; + So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose, + Curse not their Folly but the _Jews_; + So _Madam_, when her Roses faint, + Resorts to ... anything but _Paint_. + + An honest Uncle, who had plied + His Trade of Mercer in _Cheapside_, + Until his Name on _'Change_ was found + Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound, + Was burdened with an Heir inclined + To thoughts of quite a different Kind. + His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse + From Morn to Night, and, what was worse, + He quitted all at length to follow + That "sneaking, whey-faced God, APOLLO." + In plainer Words, he ran up Bills + At _Child's_, at _Batson's_ and at _Will's_; + Discussed the Claims of rival Bards + At Midnight,--with a Pack of Cards; + Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle" + Over a point in ARISTOTLE. + This could not last, and like his Betters + He found, too soon, the _Cost_ of Letters. + Back to his Uncle's House he flew, + Confessing that he'd not a _Sou_. + 'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere, + Were more poetical than clear: + "Alas!" he said, "I name no Names: + The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_ has claims." + His Uncle, who, behind his Till, + Knew less of _Pindus_ than _Snow-Hill_, + Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say) + That Youth but once can have its Day, + Equipped anew his _Pride_ and _Hope_ + To frisk it on _Parnassus_ Slope. + In one short Month he sought the Door + More shorn and ragged than before. + This Time he showed but small Contrition, + And gloried in his mean Condition. + "The greatest of our Race," he said, + "Through _Asian_ Cities begged his Bread. + The _Muse_--the _Muse_ delights to see + Not _Broadcloth_ but _Philosophy_! + Who doubts of this her Honour shames, + But (as you know) she has her Claims...." + "Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubt + This scurvy Craft that you're about + Will lead your _philosophic_ Feet + Either to _Bedlam_ or the _Fleet_. + Still, as I would not have you lack, + Go get some _Broadcloth_ to your Back, + And--if it please this precious _Muse_-- + 'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes. + Though harkye, Sir...." The Youth was gone, + Before the good Man could go on. + + And yet ere long again was seen + That Votary of _Hippocrene_. + As along _Cheap_ his Way he took, + His Uncle spied him by a Brook, + Not such as _Nymphs Castalian_ pour,-- + 'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more. + His Plight was plain by every Sign + Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine. + He strove to rise, and wagged his Head-- + "The _Muse_, dear Sir, the _Muse_--" he said. + "_Muse!_" quoth the Other, in a Fury, + "The _Muse_ shan't serve you, I assure ye. + She's just some wanton, idle _Jade_ + That makes young Fools forget their Trade,-- + Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will, + From _Charing Cross_ to _Ludgate Hill_. + She's just...." But he began to stutter, + So left SIR GRACELESS in the Gutter. + + + + +THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL. + + + Nothing so idle as to waste + This Life disputing upon _Taste_; + And most--let that sad Truth be written-- + In this contentious Land of _Britain_, + Where each one holds "it seems to me" + Equivalent to Q. E. D., + And if you dare to doubt his Word + Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd. + And then, too often, the Debate + Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate, + Some narrow Issue, where a Touch + Of more or less can't matter much, + But, and this makes the Case so sad, + Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad. + Nay,--there are some so strangely wrought,-- + So warped and twisted in their Thought,-- + That, if the Fact be but confest, + They like the baser Thing the best. + Take BOTTOM, who for one, 'tis clear, + Possessed a "reasonable Ear;" + He might have had at his Command + The Symphonies of _Fairy-Land_; + Well, our immortal SHAKESPEAR owns + The Oaf preferred the "Tongs and Bones!" + + 'Squire HOMESPUN from _Clod-Hall_ rode down, + As the Phrase is--"to see the Town;" + (The Town, in those Days, mostly lay + Betwixt the _Tavern_ and the _Play_.) + Like all their Worships the J.P.'s, + He put up at the _Hercules_; + Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare, + Rather than jolt it in a Chair,-- + A curst, new-fangled _Little-Ease_, + That knocks your Nose against your Knees. + For the good 'Squire was Country-bred, + And had strange Notions in his Head, + Which made him see in every Cur + The starveling Breed of _Hanover_; + He classed your Kickshaws and _Ragoos_ + With Popery and Wooden Shoes; + Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo, + And sighed o'er _Chaos_ Wine for Stingo. + + Hence, as he wandered to and fro, + Nothing could please him, high or low. + As _Savages_ at _Ships of War_ + He looked unawed on _Temple-Bar_; + Scarce could conceal his Discontent + With _Fish-Street_ and the _Monument_; + And might (except at Feeding-Hour) + Have scorned the Lion in the _Tower_, + But that the Lion's Race was run, + And--for the Moment--there was none. + + At length, blind Fate, that drives us all, + Brought him at Even to _Vauxhall_, + What Time the eager Matron jerks + Her slow Spouse to the _Water-Works_, + And the coy Spinster, half-afraid + Consults the _Hermit_ in the Shade. + Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire + Sank in a Seat before the Choir. + The FAUSTINETTA, fair and showy, + Warbled an Air from _Arsinoe_, + Playing her Bosom and her Eyes + As Swans do when they agonize. + Alas! to some a Mug of Ale + Is better than an _Orphic Tale_! + The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored; + His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored. + Then, straying thro' the "poppied Reign," + He dreamed him at _Clod-Hall_ again; + He heard once more the well-known Sounds, + The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds. + + He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo! + A Change had come upon the Show. + Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow, + Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow, + Was mimicking a Cock that crew. + Then came the Cry of Hounds anew, + _Yoicks! Stole Away!_ and harking back; + Then Ringwood leading up the Pack. + The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee + At this most hugeous Pleasantry. + The sawn Wood followed; last of all + The Man brought something in a Shawl,-- + Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked + As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked. + Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sit + So excellent he thought the Wit. + But when _Sir Wag_ drew off the Sheath + And showed there was no Pig beneath, + His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe, + Exploded in a long Guffaw: + And, to his dying Day, he'd swear + That Naught in Town the Bell could bear + From "Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat + That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!" + + MORAL THE FIRST you may discover: + The 'Squire was like TITANIA'S lover; + He put a squeaking Pig before + The Harmony of CLAYTON'S Score. + + MORAL THE SECOND--not so clear; + But still it shall be added here: + He praised the Thing he understood; + 'Twere well if every Critic would. + + + + +THE CLIMACTERIC. + + + When do the reasoning Powers decline? + The Ancients said at Forty-Nine. + At Forty-Nine behoves it then + To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen, + Since ARISTOTLE so decreed. + Premising thus, we now proceed. + + In that thrice-favoured Northern Land, + Where most the Flowers of Thought expand, + And all things nebulous grow clear, + Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer, + There lived, at _Dumpelsheim_ the Lesser, + A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor. + Than GROTIUS more alert and quick, + More logical than BURGERSDYCK, + His Lectures both so much transcended, + That far and wide his Fame extended, + Proclaiming him to every clime + Within a Mile of _Dumpelsheim_. + But chief he taught, by Day and Night, + The Doctrine of the Stagirite, + Proving it fixed beyond Dispute, + In Ways that none could well refute; + For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men + O'er-stepped the Limit now and then, + He'd show unanswerably still + Either that all they did was "Nil," + Or else 'twas marked by Indication + Of grievous mental Degradation: + Nay--he could even trace, they say, + That Degradation to a Day. + + The Years rolled on, and as they flew, + More famed the Herr Professor grew, + His "_Locus_ of the Pineal Gland" + (A Masterpiece he long had planned) + Had reached the End of Book Eleven, + And he was nearing Forty-Seven. + Admirers had not long to wait; + The last Book came at Forty-Eight, + And should have been the Heart and Soul-- + The Crown and Summit--of the whole. + But now the oddest Thing ensued; + 'Twas so insufferably crude, + So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain + The Writer's Mind was on the wane. + Nothing could possibly be said; + E'en Friendship's self must hang the head, + While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil, + Denounced it openly as "Drivel." + Never was such Collapse. In brief, + The poor Professor died of Grief. + + With fitting mortuary Rhyme + They buried him at _Dumpelsheim_, + And as they sorrowing set about + A "Short Memoir," the Truth came out. + He had been older than he knew. + The Parish Clerk had put a "2" + In place of "Nought," and made his Date + Of Birth a Brace of Years too late. + When he had written Book the Last, + His true Climacteric had past! + + MORAL.--To estimate your Worth, + Be certain as to date of Birth. + + + + +TALES IN RHYME. + + + + +THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS. + + + Much strange is true. And yet so much + Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays + He blurs them both beneath his touch:-- + + In this our tale his part he plays. + At Florence, so the legend tells, + There stood a church that men would praise + + (Even where Art the most excels) + For works of price; but chief for one + They called the "Virgin with the Bells." + + Gracious she was, and featly done, + With crown of gold about the hair, + And robe of blue with stars thereon, + + And sceptre in her hand did bear; + And o'er her, in an almond tree, + Three little golden bells there were, + + Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity. + None knew from whence she came of old, + Nor whose the sculptor's name should be + + Of great or small. But this they told:-- + That once from out the blaze of square, + And bickering folk that bought and sold, + + More moved no doubt of heat than prayer, + Came to the church an Umbrian, + Lord of much gold and champaign fair, + + But, for all this, a hard, haught man. + To whom the priests, in humbleness, + At once to beg for alms began, + + Praying him grant of his excess + Such as for poor men's bread might pay, + Or give their saint a gala-dress. + + Thereat with scorn he answered--"Nay, + Most Reverend! Far too well ye know, + By guile and wile, the fox's way + + "To swell the Church's overflow. + But ere from me the least carline + Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow; + + "Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen + Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft. + By Bacchus! ye are none too lean + + "For fasting folk!" With that he laughed, + And so, across the porphyry floor, + His hand upon his dagger-haft, + + Strode, and of these was seen no more. + Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they + At those his words, since gear and store + + Oft dower shrunk souls. But, on a day, + While yet again throughout the square, + The buyers in their noisy way, + + Chaffered around the basket ware, + It chanced (I but the tale reveal, + Nor true nor false therein declare)-- + + It chanced that when the priest would kneel + Before the taper's flickering flame, + Sudden a little tremulous peal + + From out the Virgin's altar came. + And they that heard must fain recall + The Umbrian, and the words of shame + + Spoke in his pride, and therewithal + Came news how, at that very date + And hour of time was fixed his fall, + + Who, of the Duke, was banned the State, + And all his goods, and lands as well, + To Holy Church were confiscate. + + Such is the tale the Frati tell. + + + + +A TALE OF POLYPHEME. + + + "There's nothing new"--Not that I go so far + As he who also said "There's nothing true," + Since, on the contrary, I hold there are + Surviving still a verity or two; + But, as to novelty, in my conviction, + There's nothing new,--especially in fiction. + + Hence, at the outset, I make no apology, + If this _my_ story is as old as Time, + Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,-- + The Cyclops' love,--which, somewhat varied, I'm + To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting, + In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting. + + "Once on a time"--there's nothing new, I said-- + It may be fifty years ago or more, + Beside a lonely posting-road that led + Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore, + With low-built bar and old bow-window shady, + An ancient Inn, the "Dragon and the Lady." + + Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine, + You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon, + Where beast and man were equal on the sign, + Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon: + The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops, + A road-side break beyond the straggling shops. + + And so directed, thereupon you led + Your halting roadster to a kind of pass, + This you descended with a crumbling tread, + And found the sea beneath you like a glass; + And soon, beside a building partly walled-- + Half hut, half cave--you raised your voice and called. + + Then a dog growled; and straightway there began + Tumult within--for, bleating with affright, + A goat burst out, escaping from the can; + And, following close, rose slowly into sight-- + Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan-- + An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man. + + Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too: + You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail + Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew + An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail, + Bared a red forearm, bringing into view + Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo. + + And then he lit his fire.... But I dispense + Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse, + As being but a colorable pretence + To bring an awkward hero in perforce; + Since this our smith, for reasons never known, + To most society preferred his own. + + Women declared that he'd an "Evil Eye,"-- + This in a sense was true--he had but one; + Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy: + We sometimes say so of the friends we shun; + But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it-- + The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,-- + + Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea, + Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte, + Milking his goat at eve, and it may be, + Spearing the fish along the flats at night, + Until, at last, one April evening mild, + Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child. + + The Lady was a nullity; the Child + One of those bright bewitching little creatures, + Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled, + Would soften out the ruggedest of features; + Fragile and slight,--a very fay for size,-- + With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes." + + Nurses, no doubt, might name her "somewhat wild;" + And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow;" + Or corset-makers add, that for a child, + She needed "cultivation;"--all I know + Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you + Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu. + + The Lady was a nullity--a pale, + Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid, + Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail, + Remained religiously indoors to read; + So that, in wandering at her will, the Child + Did, in reality, run "somewhat wild." + + At first but peering at the sanded floor + And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar; + Then watching idly from the dusky door, + The noisy advent of a coach or car; + Then stealing out to wonder at the fate + Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate,-- + + Some old ship's figure-head--until at last, + Straying with each excursion more and more, + She reached the limits of the road, and passed, + Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore, + And so, as you, respected Reader, showed, + Came to the smith's "desirable abode." + + There by the cave the occupant she found, + Weaving a crate; and, with a gladsome cry, + The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned + With all the terrors of his single eye; + Then from a mound came running, too, the goat, + Uttering her plaintive, desultory note. + + The Child stood wondering at the silent man, + Doubtful to go or stay, when presently + She felt a plucking, for the goat began + To crop the trail of twining briony + She held behind her; so that, laughing, she + Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea. + + But the goat followed her on eager feet, + And therewithal an air so grave and mild, + Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat + Of injured confidence, that soon the Child + Filled the lone shore with louder merriment, + And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent. + + Thus grew acquaintanceship between the pair, + The girl and goat;--for thenceforth, day by day, + The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare + As might be gathered on the downward way:-- + Foxglove, or broom, and "yellow cytisus," + Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus. + + But, for the Cyclops, that misogynist + Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled, + Felt it at least incumbent to resist + Further encroachment, and as one beguiled + By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut, + Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut. + + And yet not less from thence he still must see + That daily coming, and must hear the goat + Bleating her welcome; then, towards the sea, + The happy voices of the playmates float; + Until, at last, enduring it no more, + He took his wonted station by the door. + + Here was, of course, a pitiful surrender; + For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye + Seemed to exert an influence but slender, + Would run to question him, till, by and by, + His moody humor like a cloud dispersing, + He found himself uneasily conversing. + + That was a sow's-ear, that an egg of skate, + And this an agate rounded by the wave. + Then came inquiries still more intimate + About himself, the anvil, and the cave; + And then, at last, the Child, without alarm + Would even spell the letters on his arm. + + "G--A--L--_Galatea_." So there grew + On his part, like some half-remembered tale, + The new-found memory of an ice-bound crew, + And vague garrulities of spouting whale,-- + Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe. + And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo. + + Till, in his heart, which hitherto had been + Locked as those frozen barriers of the North, + There came once more the season of the green,-- + The tender bud-time and the putting forth, + So that the man, before the new sensation, + Felt for the child a kind of adoration;-- + + Rising by night, to search for shell and flower, + To lay in places where she found them first; + Hoarding his cherished goat's milk for the hour + When those young lips might feel the summer's thirst; + Holding himself for all devotion paid + By that clear laughter of the little maid. + + Dwelling, alas! in that fond Paradise + Where no to-morrow quivers in suspense,-- + Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice + To break the soft forgetfulness of sense,-- + Where dreams become realities; and where + I willingly would leave him--did I dare. + + Yet for a little space it still endured, + Until, upon a day when least of all + The softened Cyclops, by his hopes assured, + Dreamed the inevitable blow could fall, + Came the stern moment that should all destroy, + Bringing a pert young cockerel of a Boy. + + Middy, I think,--he'd "_Acis_" on his box:-- + A black-eyed, sun-burnt, mischief-making imp, + Pet of the mess,--a Puck with curling locks, + Who straightway travestied the Cyclops' limp, + And marveled how his cousin so could care + For such a "one-eyed, melancholy Bear." + + Thus there was war at once; not overt yet, + For still the Child, unwilling, would not break + The new acquaintanceship, nor quite forget + The pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake, + The boding smith with clumsy efforts tried + To win the laughing scorner to his side. + + There are some sights pathetic; none I know + More sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mind + Humbling itself, for love, to come and go + Before some petty tyrant of its kind; + Saddest, ah!--saddest far,--when it can do + Naught to advance the end it has in view. + + This was at least the Cyclops' case, until, + Whether the boy beguiled the Child away, + Or whether that limp Matron on the Hill + Woke from her novel-reading trance, one day + He waited long and wearily in vain,-- + But, from that hour, they never came again. + + Yet still he waited, hoping--wondering if + They still might come, or dreaming that he heard + The sound of far-off voices on the cliff, + Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred; + But nothing broke the silence of the shore, + And, from that hour, the Child returned no more. + + Therefore our Cyclops sorrowed,--not as one + Who can command the gamut of despair; + But as a man who feels his days are done, + So dead they seem,--so desolately bare; + For, though he'd lived a hermit, 'twas but only + Now he discovered that his life was lonely. + + The very sea seemed altered, and the shore; + The very voices of the air were dumb; + Time was an emptiness that o'er and o'er + Ticked with the dull pulsation "Will she come?" + So that he sat "consuming in a dream," + Much like his old forerunner, Polypheme. + + Until there came the question, "Is she gone?" + With such sad sick persistence that at last, + Urged by the hungry thought which drove him on, + Along the steep declivity he passed, + And by the summit panting stood, and still, + Just as the horn was sounding on the hill. + + Then, in a dream, beside the "Dragon" door, + The smith saw travellers standing in the sun; + Then came the horn again, and three or four + Looked idly at him from the roof, but One,-- + A Child within,--suffused with sudden shame, + Thrust forth a hand, and called to him by name. + + Thus the coach vanished from his sight, but he + Limped back with bitter pleasure in his pain; + He was not all forgotten--could it be? + And yet the knowledge made the memory vain; + And then--he felt a pressure in his throat, + So, for that night, forgot to milk his goat. + + What then might come of silent misery, + What new resolvings then might intervene, + I know not. Only, with the morning sky, + The goat stood tethered on the "Dragon" green, + And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon, + Found the hut empty,--for the man was gone. + + + + +A STORY FROM A DICTIONARY. + + "Sic visum Veneri: cui placet impares + Formas atque animos sub juga aenea + Saevo mittere cum joco." + --Hor. i. 33. + + + "Love mocks us all"--as Horace said of old: + From sheer perversity, that arch-offender + Still yokes unequally the hot and cold, + The short and tall, the hardened and the tender; + He bids a Socrates espouse a scold, + And makes a Hercules forget his gender:-- + _Sic visum Veneri!_ Lest samples fail, + I add a fresh one from the page of BAYLE. + + It was in Athens that the thing occurred, + In the last days of Alexander's rule, + While yet in Grove or Portico was heard + The studious murmur of its learned school;-- + Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's bird + Who plays therein the hero (or the fool) + With a Megarian, who must then have been + A maid, and beautiful, and just eighteen. + + I shan't describe her. Beauty is the same + In Anno Domini as erst B.C.; + The type is still that witching One who came, + Between the furrows, from the bitter sea; + 'Tis but to shift accessories and frame, + And this our heroine in a trice would be, + Save that she wore a _peplum_ and a _chiton_, + Like any modern on the beach at Brighton. + + Stay, I forget! Of course the sequel shows + She had some qualities of disposition, + To which, in general, her sex are foes,-- + As strange proclivities to erudition, + And lore unfeminine, reserved for those + Who now-a-days descant on "Woman's Mission," + Or tread instead that "primrose path" to knowledge, + That milder Academe--the Girton College. + + The truth is, she admired ... a learned man. + There were no curates in that sunny Greece, + For whom the mind emotional could plan + Fine-art habiliments in gold and fleece; + (This was ere chasuble or cope began + To shake the centres of domestic peace;) + So that "admiring," such as maids give way to, + Turned to the ranks of Zeno and of Plato. + + The "object" here was mildly prepossessing, + At least, regarded in a woman's sense; + His _forte_, it seems, lay chiefly in expressing + Disputed fact in Attic eloquence; + His ways were primitive; and as to dressing, + His toilet was a negative pretence; + He kept, besides, the _regime_ of the Stoic;-- + In short, was not, by any means, "heroic." + + _Sic visum Veneri!_--The thing is clear. + Her friends were furious, her lovers nettled; + 'Twas much as though the Lady Vere de Vere + On some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled. + Unheard! Intolerable!--a lumbering steer + To plod the upland with a mare high-mettled!-- + They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand her + To curled Euphorion or Anaximander. + + And so they used due discipline, of course, + To lead to reason this most erring daughter, + Proceeding even to extremes of force,-- + Confinement (solitary), and bread and water; + Then, having lectured her till they were hoarse, + Finding that this to no submission brought her, + At last, (unwisely[1]) to the man they sent, + That he might combat her by argument. + + Being, they fancied, but a bloodless thing; + Or else too well forewarned of that commotion + Which poets feign inseparable from Spring + To suffer danger from a school-girl notion; + Also they hoped that she might find her king, + On close inspection, clumsy and Boeotian:-- + This was acute enough, and yet, between us, + I think they thought too little about Venus. + + Something, I know, of this sort is related + In Garrick's life. However, the man came, + And taking first his mission's end as stated, + Began at once her sentiments to tame, + Working discreetly to the point debated + By steps rhetorical I spare to name; + In other words,--he broke the matter gently. + Meanwhile, the lady looked at him intently, + + Wistfully, sadly,--and it put him out, + Although he went on steadily, but faster. + There were some maladies he'd read about + Which seemed, at first, most difficult to master; + They looked intractable at times, no doubt, + But all they needed was a little plaster; + This was a thing physicians long had pondered, + Considered, weighed ... and then ... and then he wandered. + + ('Tis so embarrassing to have before you + A silent auditor, with candid eyes; + With lips that speak no sentence to restore you, + And aspect, generally, of pained surprise; + Then, if we add that all these things adore you, + 'Tis really difficult to syllogise:-- + Of course it mattered not to him a feather, + But still he wished ... they'd not been left together.) + + "Of one," he said, continuing, "of these + The young especially should be suspicious; + Seeing no ailment in Hippocrates + Could be at once so tedious and capricious; + No seeming apple of Hesperides + More fatal, deadlier, and more delicious-- + Pernicious,--he should say,--for all its seeming...." + It seemed to him he simply was blaspheming. + + If she had only turned askance, or uttered + Word in reply, or trifled with her brooch, + Or sighed, or cried, grown petulant, or fluttered, + He might (in metaphor) have "called his coach"; + Yet still, while patiently he hemmed and stuttered, + She wore her look of wondering reproach; + (And those who read the "Shakespeare of Romances" + Know of what stuff a girl's "dynamic glance" is.) + + "But there was still a cure, the wise insisted, + In Love,--or rather, in Philosophy. + Philosophy--no, Love--at best existed + But as an ill for that to remedy: + There was no knot so intricately twisted, + There was no riddle but at last should be + By Love--he meant Philosophy--resolved...." + The truth is, he was getting quite involved. + + O sovran Love! how far thy power surpasses + Aught that is taught of Logic or the Schools! + Here was a man, "far seen" in all the classes, + Strengthened of precept, fortified of rules, + Mute as the least articulate of asses; + Nay, at an age when every passion cools, + Conscious of nothing but a sudden yearning + Stronger by far than any force of learning! + + Therefore he changed his tone, flung down his wallet, + Described his lot, how pitiable and poor; + The hut of mud,--the miserable pallet,-- + The alms solicited from door to door; + The scanty fare of bitter bread and sallet,-- + Could she this shame,--this poverty endure? + I scarcely think he knew what he was doing, + But that last line had quite a touch of wooing. + + And so she answered him,--those early Greeks + Took little care to keep concealment preying + At any length upon their damask cheeks,-- + She answered him by very simply saying, + She could and would:--and said it as one speaks + Who takes no course without much careful weighing.... + Was this, perchance, the answer that he hoped? + It might, or might not be. But they eloped. + + Sought the free pine-wood and the larger air,-- + The leafy sanctuaries, remote and inner, + Where the great heart of nature, beating bare, + Receives benignantly both saint and sinner;-- + Leaving propriety to gasp and stare, + And shake its head, like Burleigh, after dinner, + From pure incompetence to mar or mend them: + They fled and wed;--though, mind, I don't defend them. + + I don't defend them. 'Twas a serious act, + No doubt too much determined by the senses; + (Alas! when these affinities attract, + We lose the future in the present tenses!) + Besides, the least establishment's a fact + Involving nice adjustment of expenses; + Moreover, too, reflection should reveal + That not remote contingent--_la famille_. + + Yet these, maybe, were happy in their lot. + Milton has said (and surely Milton knows) + That after all, philosophy is "not,-- + _Not_ harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose;" + And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgot + Much that is needful in this world of prose:-- + Perchance 'twas so with these. But who shall say? + Time has long since swept them and theirs away. + +[1] "Unwisely," surely. But 'tis well to mention + That this particular is _not_ invention. + + + + +THE WATER-CURE. + +A TALE: IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR. + + "--_portentaque Thessala rides?_" + --Hor. + "--_Thessalian portents do you flout?_" + * * + + + CARDENIO'S fortunes ne'er miscarried + Until the day CARDENIO married. + What then? the Nymph no doubt was young? + She was: but yet--she had a tongue! + Most women have, you seem to say. + I grant it--in a different way. + + 'Twas not that organ half-divine, + With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine, + What time we seek our nightly pillows, + Rebukes our easy peccadilloes: + 'Twas not so tuneful, so composing; + 'Twas louder and less often dozing; + At _Ombre_, _Basset_, _Loo_, _Quadrille_, + You heard it resonant and shrill; + You heard it rising, rising yet + Beyond SELINDA'S parroquet; + You heard it rival and outdo + The chair-men and the link-boy too; + In short, wherever lungs perform, + Like MARLBOROUGH, it rode the storm. + + So uncontrolled it came to be, + CARDENIO feared his _chere amie_ + (Like ECHO by _Cephissus_ shore) + Would turn to voice and nothing more. + + That ('tis conceded) must be cured + Which can't by practice be endured. + CARDENIO, though he loved the maid, + Grew daily more and more afraid; + And since advice could not prevail + (Reproof but seemed to fan the gale), + A prudent man, he cast about + To find some fitting nostrum out. + What need to say that priceless drug + Had not in any mine been dug? + What need to say no skilful leech + Could check that plethora of speech? + Suffice it, that one lucky day + CARDENIO tried--another way. + + A Hermit (there were hermits then; + The most accessible of men!) + Near _Vauxhall's_ sacred shade resided; + In him, at length, our friend confided. + (Simples, for show, he used to sell; + But cast _Nativities_ as well.) + Consulted, he looked wondrous wise; + Then undertook the enterprise. + + What that might be, the Muse must spare: + To tell the truth, she was not there. + She scorns to patch what she ignores + With _Similes_ and _Metaphors_; + And so, in short, to change the scene, + She slips a fortnight in between. + + Behold our pair then (quite by chance!) + In _Vauxhall's_ garden of romance,-- + That paradise of nymphs and grottoes, + Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes! + What wonder if, the lamps reviewed, + The song encored, the maze pursued, + No further feat could seem more pat + Than seek the Hermit after that? + Who then more keen her fate to see + Than this, the new LEUCONOE, + On fire to learn the lore forbidden + In Babylonian numbers hidden? + Forthwith they took the darkling road + To ALBUMAZAR his abode. + + Arriving, they beheld the sage + Intent on hieroglyphic page, + In high _Armenian_ cap arrayed + And girt with engines of his trade; + (As _Skeletons_, and _Spheres_, and _Cubes_; + As _Amulets_ and _Optic Tubes_;) + With dusky depths behind revealing + Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling, + While more to palsy the beholder + A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder. + + The Hermit eyed the Lady o'er + As one whose face he'd seen before; + And then, with agitated looks, + He fell to fumbling at his books. + + CARDENIO felt his spouse was frightened, + Her grasp upon his arm had tightened; + Judge then her horror and her dread + When "Vox Stellarum" shook his head; + Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn + Of _Taurus_ and of _Capricorn_; + Of stars averse, and stars ascendant, + And stars entirely independent; + In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens + Were set at sixes and at sevens, + Portending, in her case, some fate + Too fearful to prognosticate. + + Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead. + "But is there naught," CARDENIO said, + "No sign or token, Sage, to show + From whence, or what, this dismal woe?" + + The Sage, with circle and with plane, + Betook him to his charts again. + "It vaguely seems to threaten Speech: + No more (he said) the signs can teach." + + But still CARDENIO tried once more: + "Is there no potion in your store, + No charm by _Chaldee_ mage concerted + By which this doom can be averted?" + + The Sage, with motion doubly mystic, + Resumed his juggling cabalistic. + The aspects here again were various; + But seemed to indicate _Aquarius_. + Thereat portentously he frowned; + Then frowned again, then smiled:--'twas found! + But 'twas too simple to be tried. + "What is it, then?" at once they cried. + + "Whene'er by chance you feel incited + To speak at length, or uninvited; + Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill + (At times, we know, the softest will!), + This word oracular, my daughter, + Bids you to fill your mouth with water: + Further, to hold it firm and fast, + Until the danger be o'erpast." + + The Dame, by this in part relieved + The prospect of escape perceived, + Rebelled a little at the diet. + CARDENIO said discreetly, "Try it, + Try it, my Own. You have no choice, + What if you lose your charming voice!" + She tried, it seems. And whether then + Some god stepped in, benign to men; + Or Modesty, too long outlawed, + Contrived to aid the pious fraud, + I know not:--but from that same day + She talked in quite a different way. + + + + +THE NOBLE PATRON. + + "_Ce sont les amours + Qui font les beaux jours._" + + + What is a _Patron_? JOHNSON knew, + And well that lifelike portrait drew. + _He is a Patron who looks down + With careless eye on men who drown; + But if they chance to reach the land, + Encumbers them with helping hand._ + Ah! happy we whose artless rhyme + No longer now must creep to climb! + Ah! happy we of later days, + Who 'scape those _Caudine Forks_ of praise! + Whose votive page may dare commend + A Brother, or a private Friend! + Not so it fared with scribbling man, + As POPE says, "under my Queen ANNE." + + DICK DOVECOT (this was long, be sure, + Ere he attained his _Wiltshire_ cure, + And settled down, like humbler folks, + To cowslip wine and country jokes) + Once hoped--as who will not?--for fame, + And dreamed of honours and a Name. + + A fresh-cheek'd lad, he came to Town + In homespun hose and russet brown, + But armed at point with every view + Enforced in RAPIN and BOSSU. + Besides a stout portfolio ripe + For LINTOT'S or for TONSON'S type. + He went the rounds, saw all the sights, + Dropped in at _Wills_ and _Tom's_ o' nights; + Heard BURNET preach, saw BICKNELL dance, + E'en gained from ADDISON a glance; + Nay, once, to make his bliss complete, + He supp'd with STEELE in _Bury Street_. + ('Tis true the feast was half by stealth: + PRUE was in bed: they drank her health.) + + By this his purse was running low, + And he must either print or go. + He went to TONSON. TONSON said-- + Well! TONSON hummed and shook his head; + Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town; + But thought--at length--it might go down; + With aid, of course, of _Elzevir_, + And _Prologue_ to a Prince, or Peer. + Dick winced at this, for adulation + Was scarce that candid youth's vocation: + Nor did he deem his rustic lays + Required a _Coronet_ for _Bays_. + + But there--the choice was that, or none. + The Lord was found; the thing was done. + With HORACE and with TOOKE'S _Pantheon_, + He penn'd his tributary paean; + Despatched his gift, nor waited long + The meed of his ingenuous song. + + Ere two days pass'd, a hackney chair + Brought a pert spark with languid air, + A lace cravat about his throat,-- + Brocaded gown,--en _papillotes_. + ("My Lord himself," quoth DICK, "at least!" + But no, 'twas that "inferior priest," + His Lordship's man.) He held a card: + My Lord (it said) would see the Bard. + + The day arrived; DICK went, was shown + Into an anteroom, alone-- + A great gilt room with mirrored door, + Festoons of flowers and marble floor, + Whose lavish splendours made him look + More shabby than a sheepskin book. + (His own book--by the way--he spied + On a far table, toss'd aside.) + + DICK waited, as they only wait + Who haunt the chambers of the Great. + He heard the chairmen come and go; + He heard the Porter yawn below; + Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon, + He heard the silver stroke of noon, + And thought how at this very time + The old church clock at home would chime. + Dear heart, how plain he saw it all! + The lich-gate and the crumbling wall, + The stream, the pathway to the wood, + The bridge where they so oft had stood. + Then, in a trice, both church and clock + Vanish'd before ... a shuttlecock. + + A shuttlecock! And following slow + The zigzag of its to-and-fro, + And so intent upon its flight + She neither look'd to left nor right, + Came a tall girl with floating hair, + Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair. + + _O Dea certe!_--thought poor Dick, + And thereupon his memories quick + Ran back to her who flung the ball + In HOMER'S page, and next to all + The dancing maids that bards have sung; + Lastly to One at home, as young, + As fresh, as light of foot, and glad, + Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad. + _O Dea certe!_ (Still, he stirred + Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.) + + Meanwhile the shuttlecock in air + Went darting gaily here and there; + Now crossed a mirror's face, and next + Shot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'd + Olympus overhead. At last, + Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast, + The striker miss'd it, and it fell + Full on the book DICK knew so well. + + (If he had thought to speak or bow, + Judge if he moved a muscle now!) + + The player paused, bent down to look, + Lifted a cover of the book; + Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er, + Went forward for a page or more + (_Asem and Asa_: DICK could trace + Almost the passage and the place); + Then for a moment with bent head + Rested upon her hand and read. + + (DICK thought once more how cousin CIS + Used when she read to lean like this;-- + "Used when she _read_,"--why, CIS could _say_ + All he had written,--any day!) + + Sudden was heard a hurrying tread; + The great doors creaked. The reader fled. + Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter, + A waft of Bergamot, and after, + His Chaplain smirking at his side, + My Lord himself in all his pride-- + A portly shape in stars and lace, + With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face. + + DICK bowed and smiled. The Great Man stared, + With look half puzzled and half scared; + Then seemed to recollect, turned round, + And mumbled some imperfect sound: + A moment more, his coach of state + Dipped on its springs beneath his weight; + And DICK, who followed at his heels, + Heard but the din of rolling wheels. + + Away, too, all his dreams had rolled; + And yet they left him half consoled: + Fame, after all, he thought might wait. + Would CIS? Suppose he were too late! + Ten months he'd lost in Town--an age! + + Next day he took the _Wiltshire_ Stage. + + + + +VERS DE SOCIETE. + + + + +INCOGNITA. + + + Just for a space that I met her-- + Just for a day in the train! + It began when she feared it would wet her, + That tiniest spurtle of rain: + So we tucked a great rug in the sashes, + And carefully padded the pane; + And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes, + Longing to do it again! + + Then it grew when she begged me to reach her + A dressing-case under the seat; + She was "really so tiny a creature, + That she needed a stool for her feet!" + Which was promptly arranged to her order + With a care that was even minute, + And a glimpse--of an open-work border, + And a glance--of the fairyest boot. + + Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels-- + "Were they houses for men or for pigs?" + Then it shifted to muscular novels, + With a little digression on prigs: + She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;" + "Had I read it?" She knew when I had, + Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;" + And "poor Mrs. Gaskell--how sad!" + + "Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay + Too deep for her frivolous mood. + That preferred your mere metrical _souffle_ + To the stronger poetical food; + Yet at times he was good--"as a tonic:" + Was Tennyson writing just now? + And was this new poet Byronic, + And clever, and naughty, or how? + + Then we trifled with concerts and croquet, + Then she daintily dusted her face; + Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet," + Fished out from the foregoing case; + And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi, + And voted Aunt Sally a bore; + Discussed if the tight rope were easy, + Or Chopin much harder than Spohr. + + And oh! the odd things that she quoted, + With the prettiest possible look, + And the price of two buns that she noted + In the prettiest possible book; + While her talk like a musical rillet + Flashed on with the hours that flew, + And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it + With just enough summer--for Two. + + Till at last in her corner, peeping + From a nest of rugs and of furs, + With the white shut eyelids sleeping + On those dangerous looks of hers, + She seemed like a snow-drop breaking, + Not wholly alive nor dead, + But with one blind impulse making + To the sounds of the spring overhead; + + And I watched in the lamplight's swerving + The shade of the down-dropt lid, + And the lip-line's delicate curving, + Where a slumbering smile lay hid, + Till I longed that, rather than sever, + The train should shriek into space, + And carry us onward--for ever,-- + Me and that beautiful face. + + But she suddenly woke in a fidget, + With fears she was "nearly at home," + And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget, + Whom I mentally wished--well, at Rome; + Got out at the very next station, + Looking back with a merry _Bon Soir_, + Adding, too, to my utter vexation, + A surplus, unkind _Au Revoir_. + + So left me to muse on her graces, + To dose and to muse, till I dreamed + That we sailed through the sunniest places + In a glorified galley, it seemed; + But the cabin was made of a carriage, + And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne, + And we split on a rock labelled MARRIAGE, + And I woke,--as cold as a stone. + + And that's how I lost her--a jewel, + _Incognita_--one in a crowd, + Nor prudent enough to be cruel, + Nor worldly enough to be proud. + It was just a shut lid and its lashes, + Just a few hours in a train, + And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes + Longing to see her again. + + + + +DORA VERSUS ROSE. + + "_The Case is proceeding._" + + + From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- + At least, on a practical plan-- + To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, + One love is enough for a man. + But no case that I ever yet met is + Like mine: I am equally fond + Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, + And Dora, a blonde. + + Each rivals the other in powers-- + Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-- + Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; + Miss Do., perpendicular saints. + In short, to distinguish is folly; + 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass + Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-- + Or Buridan's ass. + + If it happens that Rosa I've singled + For a soft celebration in rhyme, + Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled + Somehow with the tune and the time; + Or I painfully pen me a sonnet + To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, + And behold I am writing upon it + The legend "To Rose." + + Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter + Is all overscrawled with her head), + If I fancy at last that I've got her, + It turns to her rival instead; + Or I find myself placidly adding + To the rapturous tresses of Rose + Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, + Ineffable nose. + + Was there ever so sad a dilemma? + For Rose I would perish (_pro tem._); + For Dora I'd willingly stem a-- + (Whatever might offer to stem); + But to make the invidious election,-- + To declare that on either one's side + I've a scruple,--a grain, more affection, + I _cannot_ decide. + + And, as either so hopelessly nice is, + My sole and my final resource + Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-- + Some feat of molecular force, + To solve me this riddle conducive + By no means to peace or repose, + Since the issue can scarce be inclusive + Of Dora _and_ Rose. + + (_Afterthought._) + + But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah), + Not quite so delightful as Rose,-- + Not wholly so charming as Dora,-- + Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-- + As the claims of the others are equal,-- + And flight--in the main--is the best,-- + That I might ... But no matter,--the sequel + Is easily guessed. + + + + +AD ROSAM. + + "_Mitte sectari ROSA quo locorum + Sera moretur._" + --Hor. i. 38. + + + I had a vacant dwelling-- + Where situated, I, + As naught can serve the telling, + Decline to specify;-- + Enough 'twas neither haunted, + Entailed, nor out of date; + I put up "Tenant Wanted," + And left the rest to Fate. + + Then, Rose, you passed the window,-- + I see you passing yet,-- + Ah, what could I within do, + When, Rose, our glances met! + You snared me, Rose, with ribbons, + Your rose-mouth made me thrall, + Brief--briefer far than Gibbon's, + Was my "Decline and Fall." + + I heard the summons spoken + That all hear--king and clown: + You smiled--the ice was broken; + You stopped--the bill was down. + How blind we are! It never + Occurred to me to seek + If you had come for ever, + Or only for a week. + + The words your voice neglected, + Seemed written in your eyes; + The thought your heart protected, + Your cheek told, missal-wise;-- + I read the rubric plainly + As any Expert could; + In short, we dreamed,--insanely, + As only lovers should. + + I broke the tall Oenone, + That then my chambers graced, + Because she seemed "too bony," + To suit your purist taste; + And you, without vexation, + May certainly confess + Some graceful approbation, + Designed _a mon adresse_. + + You liked me then, carina,-- + You liked me then, I think; + For your sake gall had been a + Mere tonic-cup to drink; + For your sake, bonds were trivial, + The rack, a _tour-de-force_; + And banishment, convivial,-- + You coming too, of course. + + Then, Rose, a word in jest meant + Would throw you in a state + That no well-timed investment + Could quite alleviate; + Beyond a Paris trousseau + You prized my smile, I know, + I, yours--ah, more than Rousseau + The lip of d'Houdetot. + + Then, Rose,--But why pursue it? + When Fate begins to frown + Best write the final "_fuit_," + And gulp the physic down. + And yet,--and yet, that only, + The song should end with this:-- + You left me,--left me lonely, + _Rosa mutabilis_! + + Left me, with Time for Mentor, + (A dreary _tete-a-tete_!) + To pen my "Last Lament," or + Extemporize to Fate, + In blankest verse disclosing + My bitterness of mind,-- + Which is, I learn, composing + In cases of the kind. + + No, Rose. Though you refuse me, + Culture the pang prevents; + "I am not made"--excuse me-- + "Of so slight elements;" + I leave to common lovers + The hemlock or the hood; + My rarer soul recovers + In dreams of public good. + + The Roses of this nation-- + Or so I understand + From careful computation-- + Exceed the gross demand; + And, therefore, in civility + To maids that can't be matched, + No man of sensibility + Should linger unattached. + + So, without further fashion-- + A modern Curtius, + Plunging, from pure compassion, + To aid the overplus,-- + I sit down, sad--not daunted, + And, in my weeds, begin + A new card--"Tenant Wanted; + Particulars within." + + + + +OUTWARD BOUND. + +(HORACE, III. 7.) + + "_Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi + Primo restituent vere Favonii-- + Gygen?_" + + + Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring + Your absent Arthur back shall bring, + Enriched with many an Indian thing + Once more to woo you; + Him neither wind nor wave can check, + Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck, + Still constant, though with stiffened neck, + Makes verses to you. + + Would it were wave and wind alone! + The terrors of the torrid zone, + The indiscriminate cyclone, + A man might parry; + But only faith, or "triple brass," + Can help the "outward-bound" to pass + Safe through that eastward-faring class + Who sail to marry. + + For him fond mothers, stout and fair, + Ascend the tortuous cabin stair + Only to hold around his chair + Insidious sessions; + For him the eyes of daughters droop + Across the plate of handed soup, + Suggesting seats upon the poop, + And soft confessions. + + Nor are these all his pains, nor most. + Romancing captains cease to boast-- + Loud majors leave their whist--to roast + The youthful griffin; + All, all with pleased persistence show + His fate,--"remote, unfriended, slow,"-- + His "melancholy" bungalow,-- + His lonely tiffin. + + In vain. Let doubts assail the weak; + Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak," + Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak + Of woes that wait him; + Naught can subdue his soul secure; + "Arthur will come again," be sure, + Though matron shrewd and maid mature + Conspire to mate him. + + But, Laura, on your side, forbear + To greet with too impressed an air + A certain youth with chestnut hair,-- + A youth unstable; + Albeit none more skilled can guide + The frail canoe on Thamis tide, + Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide + Through "Guards" or "Mabel." + + Be warned in time. Without a trace + Of acquiescence on your face, + Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space, + His airy patter; + Avoid the confidential nook; + If, when you sing, you find his look + Grow tender, close your music-book, + And end the matter. + + + + +IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. + + HUGH (_on furlough_). + HELEN (_his cousin_). + + + HELEN. + + They have not come! And ten is past,-- + Unless, by chance, my watch is fast; + --Aunt Mabel surely told us "ten." + + HUGH. + + I doubt if she can do it, then. + In fact, their train.... + + HELEN. + + That is,--you knew. + How could you be so treacherous, Hugh? + + HUGH. + + Nay;--it is scarcely mine, the crime, + One can't account for railway-time! + Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;-- + At least, there's nothing here of note. + + HELEN. + + Then _here_ we'll stay, please. Once for all, + I bar all artists,--great and small! + From now until we go in June + I shall hear nothing but this tune:-- + Whether I like Long's "Vashti," or + Like Leslie's "Naughty Kitty" more; + With all that critics, right or wrong, + Have said of Leslie and of Long.... + No. If you value my esteem, + I beg you'll take another theme; + Paint me some pictures, if you will, + But spare me these, for good and ill.... + + HUGH. + + "Paint you some pictures!" Come, that's kind! + You know I'm nearly colour-blind. + + HELEN. + + Paint then, in words. You did before; + Scenes at--where was it? Dustypoor? + You know.... + + HUGH (_with an inspiration_). + + I'll try. + + HELEN. + + But mind they're pretty + Not "hog hunts." ... + + HUGH. + + You shall be Committee, + And say if they are "out" or "in." + + HELEN. + + I shall reject them all. Begin. + + HUGH. + + Here is the first. An antique Hall + (Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall. + A boy, or rather lad. A girl, + Laughing with all her rows of pearl + Before a portrait in a ruff. + He meanwhile watches.... + + HELEN. + + That's enough, + It wants "_verve_," "_brio_," "breadth," "design," ... + Besides, it's English. I decline. + + HUGH. + + This is the next. 'Tis finer far: + A foaming torrent (say Braemar). + A pony, grazing by a boulder, + Then the same pair, a little older, + Left by some lucky chance together. + He begs her for a sprig of heather.... + + HELEN. + + --"Which she accords with smile seraphic." + I know it,--it was in the "Graphic." + Declined. + + HUGH. + + Once more, and I forego + All hopes of hanging, high or low: + Behold the hero of the scene, + In bungalow and palankeen.... + + HELEN. + + What!--all at once! But that's absurd;-- + Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird! + + HUGH. + + Permit me--'Tis a Panorama, + In which the person of the drama, + Mid orientals dusk and tawny, + Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee, + Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins, + In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins, + In every kind of place and weather, + Is solaced ... by a sprig of heather. + + (_More seriously._) + + He puts that faded scrap before + The "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor".... + He would not barter it for all + Benares, or the Taj-Mahal.... + It guides,--directs his every act, + And word, and thought--In short--in fact-- + I mean ... + + (_Opening his locket._) + + Look, Helen, that's the heather! + (Too late! Here come both Aunts together.) + + HELEN. + + What heather, Sir? + + (_After a pause._) + + And why ... "too late?" + --Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait! + Don't you agree that it's a pity + Portraits are hung by the Committee? + + + + +THE LAST DESPATCH. + + + Hurrah! the Season's past at last; + At length we've "done" our pleasure. + Dear "Pater," if you _only_ knew + How much I've _longed_ for home and you,-- + Our own green lawn and leisure! + + And then the pets! One half forgets + The dear dumb friends--in Babel. + I hope my special fish is fed;-- + I long to see poor Nigra's head + Pushed at me from the stable! + + I long to see the cob and "Rob,"-- + Old Bevis and the Collie; + And _won't_ we read in "Traveller's Rest"! + Home readings after all are best;-- + None else seem half so "jolly!" + + One misses your dear kindly store + Of fancies quaint and funny; + One misses, too, your kind _bon-mot_;-- + The Mayfair wit I mostly know + Has more of gall than honey! + + How tired one grows of "calls and balls!" + This "_toujours perdrix_" wearies; + I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox"; + (_Apropos_, I've the loveliest box + For holding _Notes and Queries_!) + + A change of place would suit my case. + You'll take me?--on probation? + As "Lady-help," then, let it be; + I feel (as Lavender shall see), + That Jams are _my_ vocation! + + How's Lavender? My love to her. + Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?-- + Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear?-- + You'll let me give _some_ picnics, Dear, + And ask the Vanes and Towers? + + I met Belle Vane. "HE'S" still in Spain! + Sir John won't let them marry. + Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink; + And Charley,--changing Charley,--think, + Is now _au mieux_ with Carry! + + And NO. You know what "_No_" I mean-- + There's no one yet at present: + The Benedick I have in view + Must be a something wholly new,-- + One's father's _far_ too pleasant. + + So hey, I say, for home and you! + Good-by to Piccadilly; + Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu! + Expect me, Dear, at half-past two; + Till then,--your Own Fond--MILLY. + + + + +"PREMIERS AMOURS." + + _Old Loves and old dreams,--_ + _"Requiescant in pace."_ + _How strange now it seems,--_ + _"Old" Loves and "old" dreams!_ + _Yet we once wrote you reams + _Maude, Alice, and Gracie!_ + _Old Loves and old dreams,--_ + _"Requiescant in pace."_ + + + When I called at the "Hollies" to-day, + In the room with the cedar-wood presses, + Aunt Deb. was just folding away + What she calls her "memorial dresses." + + She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen,-- + Short-waisted, of course--my abhorrence; + She'd "the loveliest"--something in "een" + That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence; + + She'd the "jelick" she used--"as a Greek," (!) + She'd the habit she got her bad fall in; + She had e'en the blue _moire antique_ + That she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:-- + + New and old they were all of them there:-- + Sleek velvet and bombazine stately,-- + She had hung them each over a chair + To the "_paniers_" she's taken to lately + + (Which she showed me, I think, by mistake). + And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions, + Till the faded old shapes seemed to wake + All the ghosts of my passed-away "passions;"-- + + From the days of love's youthfullest dream, + When the height of my shooting idea + Was to burn, like a young Polypheme, + For a somewhat mature Galatea. + + There was Lucy, who "tiffed" with her first, + And who threw me as soon as her third came; + There was Norah, whose cut was the worst, + For she told me to wait till my "berd" came; + + Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts; + Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller; + Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz; + Plain Ann, that I wooed for the "siller;"-- + + All danced round my head in a ring, + Like "The Zephyrs" that somebody painted, + All shapes of the feminine thing-- + Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,-- + + To my Wife, in the days she was young.... + "How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted, + "Do you dare to include ME among + Your loves that have faded and rusted?" + + "Not at all!"--I benignly retort. + (I was just the least bit in a temper!) + "Those, alas! were the fugitive sort, + But you are my--_eadem semper_!" + + Full stop,--and a Sermon. Yet think,-- + There was surely good ground for a quarrel,-- + She had checked me when just on the brink + Of--I feel--a remarkable MORAL. + + + + +THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER ROOM. + + + Yes, here it is, behind the box, + That puzzle wrought so neatly-- + That paradise of paradox-- + We once knew so completely; + You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear, + Which stood, that chill September, + Beside your aunt Lavinia's chair + The year when ... You remember? + + Look, Laura, look! You must recall + This florid "Fairy's Bower," + This wonderful Swiss waterfall, + And this old "Leaning Tower;" + And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere," + And here is Bewick's "Starling," + And here the dandy cuirassier + You thought was "such a Darling!" + + Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way, + She used to say this figure + Reminded her of Count D'Orsay + "In all his youthful vigour;" + And here's the "cot beside the hill" + We chose for habitation, + The day that ... But I doubt if still + You'd like the situation! + + Too damp--by far! She little knew, + Your guileless Aunt Lavinia, + Those evenings when she slumbered through + "The Prince of Abyssinia," + That there were two beside her chair + Who both had quite decided + To see things in a rosier air + Than Rasselas provided! + + Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land, + And maids short waists and tippets, + When this old-fashioned screen was planned + From hoarded scraps and snippets; + But more--far more, I think--to me + Than those who first designed it, + Is this--in Eighteen Seventy-Three + I kissed you first behind it. + + + + +DAISY'S VALENTINES. + + + All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems, + Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered; + All night through Daisy's rosy dreams + Have devious Postmen blundered, + Delivering letters round her bed,-- + Mysterious missives, sealed with red, + And franked of course with due Queen's-head,-- + While Daisy lay and wondered. + + But now, when chirping birds begin, + And Day puts off the Quaker,-- + When Cook renews her morning din, + And rates the cheerful baker,-- + She dreams her dream no dream at all, + For, just as pigeons come at call, + Winged letters flutter down, and fall + Around her head, and wake her. + + Yes, there they are! With quirk and twist, + And fraudful arts directed; + (Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist," + Through all disguise detected;) + But which is his,--her young Lothair's,-- + Who wooed her on the school-room stairs + With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears, + In one neat pile collected? + + 'Tis there, be sure. Though truth to speak, + (If truth may be permitted), + I doubt that young "gift-bearing Greek" + Is scarce for fealty fitted; + For has he not (I grieve to say), + To two loves more, on this same day, + In just this same emblazoned way, + His transient vows transmitted? + + He _may_ be true. Yet, Daisy dear, + That even youth grows colder + You'll find is no new thing, I fear; + And when you're somewhat older, + You'll read of one Dardanian boy + Who "wooed with gifts" a maiden coy,-- + Then took the morning train to Troy, + In spite of all he'd told her. + + But wait. Your time will come. And then, + Obliging Fates, please send her + The bravest thing you have in men, + Sound-hearted, strong, and tender;-- + The kind of man, dear Fates, you know, + That feels how shyly Daisies grow, + And what soft things they are, and so + Will spare to spoil or mend her. + + + + +IN TOWN. + + "_The blue fly sung in the pane._"--Tennyson. + + + Toiling in Town now is "horrid," + (There is that woman again!)-- + June in the zenith is torrid, + Thought gets dry in the brain. + + There is that woman again: + "Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" + Thought gets dry in the brain; + Ink gets dry in the bottle. + + "Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" + Oh for the green of a lane!-- + Ink gets dry in the bottle; + "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane! + + Oh for the green of a lane, + Where one might lie and be lazy! + "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane; + Bluebottles drive me crazy! + + Where one might lie and be lazy, + Careless of Town and all in it!-- + Bluebottles drive me crazy: + I shall go mad in a minute! + + Careless of Town and all in it, + With some one to soothe and to still you;-- + I shall go mad in a minute; + Bluebottle, then I shall kill you! + + With some one to soothe and to still you, + As only one's feminine kin do,-- + Bluebottle, then I shall kill you: + There now! I've broken the window! + + As only one's feminine kin do,-- + Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!-- + There now! I've broken the window! + Bluebottle's off and away! + + Some muslin-clad Mabel or May, + To dash one with eau de Cologne;-- + Bluebottle's off and away; + And why should I stay here alone! + + To dash one with eau de Cologne, + All over one's eminent forehead;-- + And why should I stay here alone! + Toiling in Town now is "horrid." + + + + +A SONNET IN DIALOGUE. + + + FRANK (_on the Lawn_). + Come to the Terrace, May,--the sun is low. + + MAY (_in the House_). + Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead. + + FRANK. + There are two peaches by the strawberry bed. + + MAY. + They will be riper if we let them grow. + + FRANK. + Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know. + + MAY. + Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead. + + FRANK. + But surely, May, your pony must be fed. + + MAY. + And was, and is. I fed him hours ago. + 'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir. + + FRANK. + Still, I had something you would like to hear. + + MAY. + No doubt some new frivolity of men. + + FRANK. + Nay,--'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores + Chiefly, I think.... + + MAY (_coming to the window_). + What is this secret, then? + + FRANK (_mysteriously_). + There are no eyes more beautiful than yours! + + + + +GROWING GRAY. + + "_On a l'age de son coeur._"--A. d'Houdetot. + + + A little more toward the light;-- + Me miserable! Here's one that's white; + And one that's turning; + Adieu to song and "salad days;" + My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, + And order mourning. + + We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,-- + Renounce the gay for the severe,-- + Be grave, not witty; + We have, no more, the right to find + That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,-- + That Chloe's pretty. + + Young Love's for us a farce that's played; + Light canzonet and serenade + No more may tempt us; + Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams; + From aught but sour didactic themes + Our years exempt us. + + Indeed! you really fancy so? + You think for one white streak we grow + At once satiric? + A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string + To which our ancient Muse shall sing + A younger lyric. + + The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale" + Grow rare to youth because _we_ rail + At schoolboy dishes? + Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant + When neither Time nor Tide can grant + Belief with wishes. + + + + +VARIA. + + + + +THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL. + + + I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; + At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; + For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day; + And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say. + + The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree, + He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily; + But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail; + I wot that I shall die of Love--an I die not of Ale. + + Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink; + Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; + But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out--"Te-Hee! + Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?" + + "Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small? + Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall? + Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot? + Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)--thou art a Pottle-pot!" + + "No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto! + "Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do." + I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail; + Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale! + + So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe; + All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep, + But little lore of loving can any flagon teach, + For when my tongue is loosed most, then most I lose my speech. + + + + +AN APRIL PASTORAL. + + + _He._ Whither away, fair Neat-herdess? + _She._ Shepherd, I go to tend my kine. + _He._ Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine. + _She._ With thee? Nay, that were idleness. + _He._ Thy kine will pasture none the less. + _She._ Not so: they wait me and my sign. + _He._ I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine. + _She._ Thy pipe will soothe not their distress. + _He._ Dost thou not hear beside the spring + How the gay birds are carolling? + _She._ I hear them. But it may not be. + _He._ Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now. + _She._ Shepherd, farewell----Where goest thou? + _He._ I go ... to tend thy kine for thee! + + + + +A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING GARDENS. + + _To the Burden of "Rogues All."_ + + + Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids, + To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades; + Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;-- + Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall! + + Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives! + Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives! + For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;-- + Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall! + + Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast! + Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post! + For the wicket is free to the great and the small;-- + Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall! + + Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack! + Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back! + Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;-- + Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall! + + Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask! + Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)! + Here a domino covers the short and the tall;-- + Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall! + + 'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din; + 'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come in + You are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;-- + Sing _Tantarara_,--Vauxhall! Vauxhall! + + + + +A LOVE-SONG. + +(XVIII. CENT.) + + + When first in CELIA'S ear I poured + A yet unpractised pray'r, + My trembling tongue sincere ignored + The aids of "sweet" and "fair." + I only said, as in me lay, + I'd strive her "worth" to reach; + She frowned, and turned her eyes away,-- + So much for truth in speech. + + Then DELIA came. I changed my plan; + I praised her to her face; + I praised her features,--praised her fan, + Her lap-dog and her lace; + I swore that not till Time were dead + My passion should decay; + She, smiling, gave her hand, and said + 'Twill last then--for a DAY. + + + + +OF HIS MISTRESS. + + (_After Anthony Hamilton._) + + To G. S. + + + She that I love is neither brown nor fair, + And, in a word her worth to say, + There is no maid that with her may + Compare. + + Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween: + There are five hundred things we see, + And then five hundred too there be, + Not seen. + + Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven: + But the sweet Graces from their store + A thousand finer touches more + Have given. + + Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note? + Beside her Flora would be wan + And white as whiteness of the swan + Her throat. + + Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came, + Hebe her nose and lip confess, + And, looking in her eyes, you guess + Her name. + + + + +THE NAMELESS CHARM. + + (_Expanded from an Epigram of Piron._) + + + Stella, 'tis not your dainty head, + Your artless look, I own; + 'Tis not your dear coquettish tread, + Or this, or that, alone; + + Nor is it all your gifts combined; + 'Tis something in your face,-- + The untranslated, undefined, + Uncertainty of grace, + + That taught the Boy on Ida's hill + To whom the meed was due; + _All three have equal charms--but still + This one I give it to!_ + + + + +TO PHIDYLE. + +(HOR. III., 23.) + + + Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain, + At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow, + O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know + Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane, + And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain + Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow + 'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow, + Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain + The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail + Thy modest gods with much slain to assail, + Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please. + Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault; + More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease, + Though pious but with meal and crackling salt. + + + + +TO HIS BOOK. + +(HOR. EP. I., 20.) + + + For mart and street you seem to pine + With restless glances, Book of mine! + Still craving on some stall to stand, + Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. + You chafe at locks, and burn to quit + Your modest haunt and audience fit + For hearers less discriminate. + I reared you up for no such fate. + Still, if you _must_ be published, go; + But mind, you can't come back, you know! + + "What have I done?" I hear you cry, + And writhe beneath some critic's eye; + "What did I want?"--when, scarce polite, + They do but yawn, and roll you tight. + And yet methinks, if I may guess + (Putting aside your heartlessness + In leaving me and this your home), + You should find favour, too, at Rome. + That is, they'll like you while you're young, + When you are old, you'll pass among + The Great Unwashed,--then thumbed and sped, + Be fretted of slow moths, unread, + Or to Ilerda you'll be sent, + Or Utica, for banishment! + And I, whose counsel you disdain, + At that your lot shall laugh amain, + Wryly, as he who, like a fool, + Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule. + Nay! there is worse behind. In age + They e'en may take your babbling page + In some remotest "slum" to teach + Mere boys their rudiments of speech! + + But go. When on warm days you see + A chance of listeners, speak of me. + Tell them I soared from low estate, + A freedman's son, to higher fate + (That is, make up to me in worth + What you must take in point of birth); + Then tell them that I won renown + In peace and war, and pleased the town; + Paint me as early gray, and one + Little of stature, fond of sun, + Quick-tempered, too,--but nothing more. + Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four, + Or was, the year that over us + Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus. + + + + +FOR A COPY OF HERRICK. + + + Many days have come and gone, + Many suns have set and shone, + HERRICK, since thou sang'st of Wake, + Morris-dance and Barley-break;-- + Many men have ceased from care, + Many maidens have been fair, + Since thou sang'st of JULIA'S eyes, + JULIA'S lawns and tiffanies;-- + Many things are past: but thou, + GOLDEN-MOUTH, art singing now, + Singing clearly as of old, + And thy numbers are of gold! + + + + +WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE. + + + About the ending of the Ramadan, + When leanest grows the famished Mussulman, + A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name, + At the tenth hour to Caliph OMAR came. + "Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last + The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast; + Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be, + Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!" + "Hast thou no calling, Friend?"--the Caliph said. + "Sir, I make verses for my daily bread." + "Verse!"--answered OMAR. "'Tis a dish, indeed, + Whereof but scantily a man may feed. + Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,-- + Verse is a drug not sold in any mart." + + _I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died; + But this I know--he must have versified, + For, with his race, from better still to worse, + The plague of writing follows like a curse; + And men will scribble though they fail to dine, + Which is the Moral of more Books than mine._ + + + + +FOR THE AVERY "KNICKERBOCKER." + +(WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY G. H. BOUGHTON.) + + + Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker, + Help me sing of Knickerbocker! + + BOUGHTON, had you bid me chant + Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant! + Had you bid me sing of Wouter, + (He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!) + But to rhyme of this one,--Mocker! + Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker? + + Nay, but where my hand must fail + There the more shall yours avail; + You shall take your brush and paint + All that ring of figures quaint,-- + All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,-- + All those solid-looking smokers, + Pulling at their pipes of amber + In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber. + + Only art like yours can touch + Shapes so dignified ... and Dutch; + Only art like yours can show + How the pine-logs gleam and glow, + Till the fire-light laughs and passes + 'Twixt the tankards and the glasses, + Touching with responsive graces + All those grave Batavian faces,-- + Making bland and beatific + All that session soporific. + + Then I come and write beneath, + BOUGHTON, he deserves the wreath; + He can give us form and hue-- + This the Muse can never do! + + + + +TO A PASTORAL POET. + +(H. E. B.) + + + Among my best I put your Book, + O Poet of the breeze and brook! + (That breeze and brook which blows and falls + More soft to those in city walls) + Among my best: and keep it still + Till down the fair grass-girdled hill, + Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes + The wandering wind that wakes the rose, + And scares the cohort that explore + The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er, + Or starts the restless bees that fret + The bindweed and the mignonette. + + Then I shall take your Book, and dream + I lie beside some haunted stream; + And watch the crisping waves that pass, + And watch the flicker in the grass; + And wait--and wait--and wait to see + The Nymph ... that never comes to me! + + + + +"SAT EST SCRIPSISSE." + + (TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.) + + + When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, + And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall, + It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age, + Will find the present volume and listless turn the page. + + For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him), + This Book you see before you,--this masterpiece of Whim + Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),-- + Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. + + For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen; + They had their points at issue, they differed now and then; + But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart + The hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art. + + And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style, + Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File;" + And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned + (This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend. + + They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star; + They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far; + And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear, + They served the Muses truly,--their service was sincere. + + This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains + (Yes,--fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains; + And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote, + No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note." + + And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed, + They marched in that procession where is no first or last; + Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire, + They too had once their ardour--they handed on the fire. + + + + +PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES. + + + + +PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." + + + In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three, + When the GEORGES were ruling o'er Britain the free, + There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan, + By the GOLDSMITH who brought out the _Good-Natur'd Man_. + New-fashioned, in truth--for this play, it appears, + Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears, + While the type of those days, as the learned will tell ye, + Was the CUMBERLAND whine or the whimper of KELLY. + So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted, + And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted; + But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it. + Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it! + Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig, + Either grizzle or bob--never mind, you look big. + You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles, + And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles. + You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter, + From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre; + You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet, + And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street; + Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow, + Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know. + See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing, + And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing, + And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir, + Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?" + Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs, + With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs; + So issue at last on the House in its pride, + And pack yourself snug in a box at the side. + Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit, + Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,-- + With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming, + With its impudent orange-girls going and coming, + With its endless surprises of face and of feature, + All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature. + Then we turn to the Boxes where TRIP in his lace + Is aping his master, and keeping his place. + Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn, + Like a Duke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn! + Then sniffs at his bouquet, whips round with a smirk, + And ogles the ladies at large--like a Turk. + But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling, + And TRIP must trip up to the seats at a shilling; + And spite of the mourning that most of us wear + The House takes a gay and a holiday air; + For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables, + And seem to catch coquetry even in sables. + Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars, + And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars. + + Look, look, there is WILKES! You may tell by the squint; + But he grows every day more and more like the print + (Ah! HOGARTH _could_ draw!); and behind at the back + HUGH KELLY, who looks all the blacker in black. + That is CUMBERLAND next, and the prim-looking person + In the corner, I take it, is _Ossian_ MACPHERSON. + And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest, + Comes sturdy old JOHNSON, dressed out in his best; + How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown, + Whatever the law is _he's_ laying it down! + Beside him is REYNOLDS, who's deaf; and the hale + Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is THRALE. + There is BURKE with GEORGE STEEVENS. And somewhere, no doubt, + Is the AUTHOR--too nervous just now to come out; + He's a queer little fellow, grave-featured, pock-pitten, + Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten. + + But where is our play-bill? _Mistakes of a Night!_ + If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight! + _She Stoops._ Let us hope she won't fall at full length, + For the piece--so 'tis whispered--is wanting in strength. + And the humour is "low!"--you are doubtless aware + There's a character, even, that "dances a bear!" + Then the cast is so poor,--neither marrow nor pith! + Why can't they get WOODWARD or Gentleman SMITH! + "LEE LEWES!" Who's LEWES? The fellow has played + Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade! + "DUBELLAMY"--"QUICK,"--these are nobodies. Stay, I + Believe I saw QUICK once in _Beau Mordecai_. + Yes, QUICK is not bad. Mrs. GREEN, too, is funny; + But SHUTER, ah! SHUTER'S the man for my money! + He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, is SHUTER, + And he has but one fault--he's too fond of the pewter. + Then there's little BULKELY.... + + But here in the middle, + From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle. + Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash, + And the music begins with a flourish and crash, + And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying, + While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing. + And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle, + Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle; + And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minute + Grows still as if naught but wax figures were in it. + Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten. + Who is it? _The Prologue._ He's sobbing. Hush! listen. + + [_Thereupon enters Mr. Woodward in black, with a + handkerchief to his eyes, to speak Garrick's Prologue, + after which comes the play. In the volume for which the + foregoing additional Prologue was written the following + Envoi was added._] + + + + +L'ENVOI. + + + Good-bye to you, KELLY, your fetters are broken! + Good-bye to you, CUMBERLAND, GOLDSMITH has spoken! + Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming, + For GOLDSMITH has spoken and SHERIDAN'S coming; + And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free air + As she laughed with the Great Ones, with SHAKESPEARE, MOLIERE! + + + + +PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S "QUIET LIFE." + + + Even as one in city pent, + Dazed with the stir and din of town, + Drums on the pane in discontent, + And sees the dreary rain come down, + Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass, + Beholds, in fancy, visions pass, + Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves, + Of birds that build in thatch and eaves, + Of woodlands where the throstle calls, + Of girls that gather cowslip balls, + Of kine that low, and lambs that cry, + Of wains that jolt and rumble by, + Of brooks that sing by brambly ways, + Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze, + Of all the dreams with which men cheat + The stony sermons of the street, + So, in its hour, the artist brain + Weary of human ills and woes, + Weary of passion, and of pain, + And vaguely craving for repose, + Deserts awhile the stage of strife + To draw the even, ordered life, + The easeful days, the dreamless nights, + The homely round of plain delights, + The calm, the unambitioned mind, + Which all men seek, and few men find. + + + EPILOGUE. + + Let the dream pass, the fancy fade! + We clutch a shape, and hold a shade. + Is Peace _so_ peaceful? Nay,--who knows! + There are volcanoes under snows. + + + + + _In after days when grasses high + O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, + Though ill or well the world adjust + My slender claim to honoured dust, + I shall not question or reply._ + + _I shall not see the morning sky; + I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; + I shall be mute, as all men must + In after days!_ + + _But yet, now living, fain were I + That some one then should testify, + Saying--"He held his pen in trust + To Art, not serving shame or lust." + Will none?--Then let my memory die + In after days!_ + + + + +NOTES. + + + + +NOTES. + + +"_To brandish the poles of that old Sedan Chair!_"--Page 7. + +A friendly critic, whose versatile pen it is not easy to mistake, +recalls, _a-propos_ of the above, the following passage from Moliere, +which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:-- + +1 Porteur (prenant un des batons de sa chaise). _Ca, payez-nous +vitement!_ + +Mascarille. _Quoi!_ + +1 Porteur. _Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout a l'heure._ + +Mascarille. _Il est raisonnable, celui-la,_ etc. + _Les Precieuses Ridicules_, Sc. vii. + + +"_It has waited by portals where Garrick has played._"--Page 8. + +According to Mrs. Carter (Smith's _Nollekens_, 1828, i. 211), when +Garrick acted, the hackney-chairs often stood "all round the Piazzas +[Covent Garden], down Southampton-Street, and extended more than +half-way along Maiden-Lane." + + +"_A skill Preville could not disown._"--Page 23. + +Preville was the French Foote, _circa_ 1760. His gifts as a comedian +were of the highest order; and he had an extraordinary faculty for +identifying himself with the parts he played. Sterne, in a letter to +Garrick from Paris, in 1762, calls him "Mercury himself." + + +MOLLY TREFUSIS.--Page 32. + +The epigram here quoted from "an old magazine" is to be found in the +late Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, _The Greek Anthology_ +(_Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English Readers_). Those familiar +with eighteenth-century literature will recognize in the succeeding +verses but another echo of those lively stanzas of John Gay to "Molly +Mogg of the Rose," which found so many imitators in his own day. Whether +my heroine is to be identified with a certain "Miss Trefusis," whose +_Poems_ are sometimes to be found in the second-hand booksellers' +catalogues, I know not. But if she is, I trust I have done her +accomplished shade no wrong. + + +AN EASTERN APOLOGUE.--Page 43. + +The initials "E. H. P." are those of the late eminent (and ill-fated) +Orientalist, Professor Palmer. As my lines entirely owed their origin to +his translations of Zoheir, I sent them to him. He was indulgent enough +to praise them warmly. It is true he found anachronisms; but as he said +these would cause no 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. + + +A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC.--Page 48. + +"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: '_a Lucile St. A.... chez M. Batemans, a +Edmonds-Bury, en Angleterre_,' very faintly written in pencil." (Extract +from Catalogue.) + + +"_Did she wander like that other?_"--Page 50. + +Lucile Desmoulins. See Carlyle's _French Revolution_, Vol. iii. Book vi. +Chap. ii. + + +"_And its tender rain shall lave it._"--Page 52. + +It is by no means uncommon for an editor to interrupt some of these +revolutionary letters by a "Here there are traces of tears." + + +"_By 'Bysshe,' his epithet._"--Page 81. + +i.e. _The Art of English Poetry_, by Edward Bysshe, 1702. + + +THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION.--Page 87. + +These lines were reprinted from _Notes and Queries_ in Mr. Andrew Lang's +instructive volume _The Library_, 1881, where the curious will find full +information as to the enormities of the book-mutilators. + + +"_Have I not writ thy Laws?_"--Page 93. + +The lines in italic type which follow, are freely paraphrased from the +ancient _Code d' Amour_ of the XIIth Century, as given by Andre le +Chapelain himself. + + +A DIALOGUE, ETC.--Page 107. + +This dialogue, first printed in _Scribner's Magazine_ for May, 1888, was +afterwards read by Professor Henry Morley at the opening of the Pope +Loan Museum at Twickenham (July 31st), to the Catalogue of which +exhibition it was prefixed. + + +"_The 'crooked Body with a crooked Mind.'_"--Page 108. + + "Mens curva in corpore curvo." + Said of Pope by Lord Orrery. + + +"_Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake._"--Page 115. + +The Shire Hall at Taunton, where these verses were read at the +unveiling, by Mr. James Russell Lowell, of Miss Margaret Thomas's bust +of Fielding, September 4th, 1883, also contains busts of Admiral Blake +and John Locke. + + +"_The Journal of his middle-age._"--Page 118. + +It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to the +_Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon_, published posthumously in February, +1755,--a record which for its intrinsic pathos and dignity may be +compared with the letter and dedication which Fielding's predecessor and +model, Cervantes, prefixed to his last romance of _Persiles and +Sigismunda_. + + +CHARLES GEORGE GORDON.--Page 120. + +These verses appeared in the _Saturday Review_ for February 14th, 1885. + + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.--Page 122. + +These verses appeared in the _Athenaeum_ for October 8th, 1892. + + +"_With that he made a Leg._"--Page 137. + + "JOVE made his Leg and kiss'd the Dame, + Obsequious HERMES did the Same." + Prior. + + +"_So took his Virtu off to Cock's._"--Page 137. + +Cock, the auctioneer of Covent Garden, was the Christie and Manson of +the last century. The leading idea of this fable, it should be added, is +taken from one by Gellert. + + +"_Of Van's 'Goose-Pie.'_"--Page 139. + + "At length they in the Rubbish spy + A Thing resembling a Goose Py." + SWIFT'S verses on _Vanbrugh's House_, 1706. + + +"_The Oaf preferred the_ 'Tongs and Bones.'"--Page 145. + +"I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the tongs and the +bones." + +_Midsummer-Night's Dream_, Act iv., Sc. i. + + +"_And sighed o'er Chaos wine for Stingo._"--Page 145. + +Squire Homespun probably meant Cahors. + + +THE WATER-CURE.--Page 178. + +These verses were suggested by the recollection of an anecdote in Madame +de Genlis, which seemed to lend itself to eighteenth-century treatment. +It was therefore somewhat depressing, not long after they were written, +to find that the subject had already been annexed in the _Tatler_ by an +actual eighteenth-century writer, who, moreover, claimed to have founded +his story on a contemporary incident. Burton, nevertheless, had told it +before him, as early as 1621, in the _Anatomy of Melancholy_. + + +"_In Babylonian numbers hidden._"--Page 180. + + "--nec Babylonios + Tentaris numeros." + Hor. i., 11. + + +"_And spite of the mourning that most of us wear._"--Page 259. + +In March, 1773, when _She Stoops to Conquer_ was first played, there +was a court-mourning for the King of Sardinia (Forster's _Goldsmith_, +Book iv. Chap. 15). + + +"_But he grows every day more and more like the print._--Page 259. + +"Mr. _Wilkes_, with his usual good humour, has been heard to observe, +that he is every day growing more and more like his portrait by +_Hogarth_ (i.e. the print of May 16th, 1763)." + +_Biographical Anecdotes of William Hogarth_, 1782, pp. 305-6. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Ah, Postumus, we all must go: +'Postumus' unchanged. 'Posthumous' is current spelling. + +Hyphenation of the following unchanged: + chairmen chair-men + Masterpiece Master-piece + recall re-call + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Collected Poems, by Austin Dobson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 24334.txt or 24334.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/3/3/24334/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Leonard Johnson and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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