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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/24334-8.txt b/24334-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f6c205 --- /dev/null +++ b/24334-8.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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 âge_ + _De son âge 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 Curé'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 + André 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 SOCIÉTÉ:-- + 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 Fête-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 Mæonides"-- + Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit + Not butterflies, but bees! + + You pause, you poise, you circle up + Among my old Japan; + You find a comrade on a cup, + A friend upon a fan; + You wind anon, a breathing-while, + Around AMANDA'S brow;-- + Dost dream her then, O Volatile! + E'en such an one as thou? + + Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. + A sterner purpose fills + Her steadfast soul with deep design + Of baby bows and frills; + What care hath she for worlds without, + What heed for yellow sun, + Whose endless hopes revolve about + A planet, _ætat_ One! + + 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 CURÉ'S PROGRESS. + + + Monsieur the Curé down the street + Comes with his kind old face,-- + With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, + And his green umbrella-case. + + You may see him pass by the little "_Grande Place_," + And the tiny "_Hôtel-de-Ville_"; + He smiles, as he goes, to the _fleuriste_ Rose, + And the _pompier_ Théophile. + + He turns, as a rule, through the "_Marché_" cool, + Where the noisy fish-wives call; + And his compliment pays to the "_Belle Thérèse_," + As she knits in her dusky stall. + + There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, + And Toto, the locksmith's niece, + Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes + In his tails for a _pain d'épice_. + + There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, + Who is said to be heterodox, + That will ended be with a "_Ma foi, oui!_" + And a pinch from the Curé's box. + + 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-Préfet_, + And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; + And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, + And a nod to the Sacristan:-- + + For ever through life the Curé goes + With a smile on his kind old face-- + With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, + And his green umbrella-case. + + + + +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 Kürhaus, 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 _Dôle_! + +M. JOLICOEUR. + Truly. How sad! + (_Aside_) + (Yet, on the whole, + How fortunate! BEAU-_pré_?--BEAU-_vau_? + Which can it be? Ah, there they go!) + --Madame, your enemies retreat + With all the honours of ... defeat. + +THE LADY. + Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown + A skill PRÉVILLE 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 Sultán, tired and wan, + Nodded at noon on his diván. + + Beside the fountain lingered near + JAMÍL the bard, and the vizier-- + + Old YÚSUF, sour and hard to please; + Then JAMÍL sang, in words like these. + + _Slim is Butheina--slim is she + As boughs of the Aráka 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!" YÚSUF 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 JAMÍL ceased. But still Life's page + Shows diverse unto YOUTH and AGE: + + And,--be the song of Ghouls or Gods,-- + TIME, like the Sultán, 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 château, + 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 château? + + Did it happen that no single + Word of mouth could either speak? + Did the brown and gold hair mingle, + Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle + To the shock of cheek and cheek? + + 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 château? + + Left to lie, with thin lips resting + Frozen to a smile of scorn, + Just the bitter thought's suggesting, + At this excellent new jesting + Of the rabble Devil-born. + + 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 Alcinoüs! + + Here, in alleys cool and green, + Far ahead the thrush is seen; + Here along the southern wall + Keeps the bee his festival; + All is quiet else--afar + Sounds of toil and turmoil are. + + 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.) + +"_Hæc decies repetita_ [non] _placebit_."--Ars Poetica. + + + Flaccus, you write us charming songs: + No bard we know possesses + In such perfection what belongs + To brief and bright addresses; + + No 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 Lydë's lyre and hair; + Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes; + Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,-- + + O, spare to sing, what none deny, + That things we love decay;-- + That Time and Gold have wings to fly;-- + That all must Fate obey! + + Or bid us dine--on this day week-- + And pour us, if you can, + As soft and sleek as girlish cheek, + Your inmost Cæcuban;-- + + Of that we fear not overplus; + But your didactic 'tap'-- + Forgive us!--grows monotonous; + _Nunc vale! Verbum sap._ + + + + +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 blessèd 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 Staël before whose mannish pride + Our frailer sex shall tremble; + Perchance this audience anserine + May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)-- + May hiss--a future Kemble! + + Or say the gingham shadows o'er + An undeveloped Hannah More!-- + A latent Mrs. Trimmer!! + Who shall affirm it?--who deny?-- + Since of the truth nor you nor I + 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, hélas! après la vérité; + Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite._" + Voltaire. + + + Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks, + I find Miss Mary, _ætat_ six, + Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious, + Absorbed in her first fairy book, + From which she scarce can pause to look, + Because it's "_so_ delicious!" + + "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 delà_ and the dim remote,-- + Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West, + 'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best; + To the end of Time 'twill be still the same, + For the Earth first laughed when the children came! + + + + +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 Molière, + + 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? + + + + +ANDRÉ LE CHAPELAIN. + +(_Clerk of Love, 1170._) + +HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS. + + "_Plus ne suis ce que j'ay esté_ + _Et ne le sçaurois jamais estre;_ + _Mon beau printemps et mon esté_ + _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 pleasànce, + 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 André'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 mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier._" + + + The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, + And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, + As she thought of the Gardener standing by-- + "He is old,--so old! And he soon must die!" + + 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 præter 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 fratrisée_; + 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 MOLIÈRE, + 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 _Æschylus_? + 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 wingéd 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 _Confrère_; + 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 _Virtú_ 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 _Arsinoë_, + 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 aënea + 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 _régime_ 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 _chère 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 LEUCONOË, + 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 pæan; + 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 certé!_--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 certé!_ (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 _soufflé_ + 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 croquêt, + 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 _à 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 _tête-à-tête_!) + 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 _moiré 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'âge 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 looséd 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 Ramadán, + 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 learnèd 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, MOLIÈRE! + + + + +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, _à-propos_ of the above, the following passage from Molière, +which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:-- + +1 Porteur (prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise). _Çà, payez-nous +vitement!_ + +Mascarille. _Quoi!_ + +1 Porteur. _Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout à l'heure._ + +Mascarille. _Il est raisonnable, celui-là,_ etc. + _Les Précieuses 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 Préville could not disown._"--Page 23. + +Préville 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: '_à Lucile St. A.... chez M. Batemans, à +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 André 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 _Athenæum_ 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 Virtú 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 24334-8.txt or 24334-8.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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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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + +<div class="title_page"> +<h1><span class="smcap">Collected Poems</span></h1> + + +<p style="font-size:.9em;"><br /><br />BY</p> + +<p style="font-size:1.1em;">AUSTIN DOBSON</p> + + +<p style="font-size:.9em;"><br /><br />IN TWO VOLUMES</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Vol.</span> II.</p> + + +<p style="font-size:.8em;"><br /><br /><em>Majores majora sonent</em></p> + + +<p><br /><br />NEW YORK<br /> + +DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY<br /> + +<span class="smcap">Publishers</span></p> + + + +<hr /> +<p><a name="Copyright_1895" id="Copyright_1895"></a><em>Copyright, 1895,</em></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">By Dodd, Mead and Company</span></p> + +<hr style='width: 25%;' /> + +<p><em>All rights reserved.</em></p> + +<p><br /><br /><em>University Press:</em></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.</span></p> +</div> <!--title_page--> + +<hr /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>"For old sake's sake!" 'Twere hard to choose</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Words fitter for an old-world Muse</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Than these, that in their cadence bring</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Faint fragrance of the posy-ring,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>And charms that rustic lovers use.</em><br /><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>The long day lengthens, and we lose</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>The first pale flush, the morning hues,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Ah! but the back-look, lingering,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><em>For old sake's sake!</em><br /><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That <em>we retain. Though Time refuse</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>To lift the veil on forward views,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Despot in most, he is not King</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Of those kind memories that cling</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Around his travelled avenues</em><br /></span> +<span class="i8"><em>For old sake's sake!</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Qui n'a pas l'esprit de son âge</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>De son âge a tout le malheur.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i12"><span class="smcap">Voltaire</span>.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></div></div> + + + +<hr /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> + + + +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap ralign">Page</span></li> +<li> </li> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#LYRE"><b>At the Sign of the Lyre</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>The Ladies of St. James's <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></span></li> +<li>The Old Sedan Chair <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_6">6</a></span></li> +<li>To an Intrusive Butterfly <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></span></li> +<li>The Curé's Progress <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></span></li> +<li>The Masque of the Months <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></span></li> +<li>Two Sermons <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></span></li> +<li>"Au Revoir" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></span></li> +<li>The Carver and the Caliph <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></span></li> +<li>To an Unknown Bust in the British Museum <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></span></li> +<li>Molly Trefusis <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></span></li> +<li>At the Convent Gate <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></span></li> +<li>The Milkmaid <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></span></li> +<li>An Old Fish-Pond <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></span></li> +<li>An Eastern Apologue <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></span></li> +<li>To a Missal of the Thirteenth Century <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></span></li> +<li>A Revolutionary Relic <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></span></li> +<li>A Madrigal <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></span></li> +<li>A Song to the Lute <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></span></li> +<li>A Garden Song <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></span></li> +<li>A Chapter of Froissart <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_60">60</a></span></li> +<li>To the Mammoth Tortoise <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></span></li> +<li>A Roman "Round-Robin" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></span></li> +<li>Verses to Order <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></span></li> +<li>A Legacy <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></span></li> +<li>"Little Blue Ribbons" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></span></li> +<li>Lines to a Stupid Picture <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></span></li> +<li>A Fairy Tale <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></span></li> +<li>To a Child <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></span></li> +<li>Household Art <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></span></li> +<li>The Distressed Poet <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></span></li> +<li>Jocosa Lyra <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></span></li> +<li>My Books <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></span></li> +<li>The Book-Plate's Petition <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></span></li> +<li>Palomydes <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></span></li> +<li>André le Chapelain <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></span></li> +<li>The Water of Gold <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></span></li> +<li>A Fancy from Fontenelle <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></span></li> +<li>Don Quixote <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></span></li> +<li>A Broken Sword <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></span></li> +<li>The Poet's Seat <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></span></li> +<li>The Lost Elixir <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_104">104</a></span></li> +</ul> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#MEMORIAL"><b>Memorial Verses</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>A Dialogue (Alexander Pope) <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></span></li> +<li>A Familiar Epistle (William Hogarth) <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></span></li> +<li>Henry Fielding <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></span></li> +<li>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></span></li> +<li>Charles George Gordon <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></span></li> +<li>Victor Hugo <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></span></li> +<li>Alfred, Lord Tennyson <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></span></li> +</ul> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#FABLES"><b>Fables of Literature and Art</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>The Poet and the Critics <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></span></li> +<li>The Toyman <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_130">130</a></span></li> +<li>The Successful Author <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></span></li> +<li>The Dilettant <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_136">136</a></span></li> +<li>The Two Painters <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></span></li> +<li>The Claims of the Muse <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></span></li> +<li>The 'Squire at Vauxhall <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></span></li> +<li>The Climacteric <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></span></li> +</ul> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#TALES"><b>Tales in Rhyme</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>The Virgin with the Bells <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></span></li> +<li>A Tale of Polypheme <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></span></li> +<li>A Story from a Dictionary <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></span></li> +<li>The Water Cure <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_178">178</a></span></li> +<li>The Noble Patron <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></span></li> +</ul> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#VERS"><b>Vers de Société</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>Incognita <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></span></li> +<li>Dora <em>versus</em> Rose <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></span></li> +<li>Ad Rosam <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></span></li> +<li>Outward Bound <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></span></li> +<li>In the Royal Academy <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></span></li> +<li>The Last Despatch <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></span></li> +<li>"Premiers Amours" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_216">216</a></span></li> +<li>The Screen in the Lumber Room <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></span></li> +<li>Daisy's Valentines <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></span></li> +<li>In Town <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_224">224</a></span></li> +<li>A Sonnet in Dialogue <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></span></li> +<li>Growing Gray <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></span></li> +</ul> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#VARIA"><b>Varia</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>The Maltworm's Madrigal <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></span></li> +<li>An April Pastoral <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_236">236</a></span></li> +<li>A New Song of the Spring Gardens <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></span></li> +<li>A Love Song, 1700 <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_239">239</a></span></li> +<li>Of his Mistress <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_240">240</a></span></li> +<li>The Nameless Charm <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></span></li> +<li>To Phidyle <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></span></li> +<li>To his Book <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_244">244</a></span></li> +<li>For a Copy of Herrick <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></span></li> +<li>With a Volume of Verse <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_247">247</a></span></li> +<li>For the Avery "Knickerbocker" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_248">248</a></span></li> +<li>To a Pastoral Poet <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_250">250</a></span></li> +<li>"Sat est Scripsisse" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></span></li> +</ul> +<ul class="TOC"> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#PROLOGUES"><b>Prologues and Epilogues</b></a></span>:—</li> +<li>Prologue and Envoi to Abbey's Edition of "She Stoops to Conquer" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></span></li> +<li>Prologue and Epilogue to Abbey's "Quiet Life" <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_264">264</a></span></li> +<li> </li> +<li><span class="smcap"><a href="#NOTES"><b>Notes</b></a></span> <span class="ralign"><a href="#Page_271">271</a></span></li> +</ul> + + + +<hr /> +<h2><a name="LYRE" id="LYRE"></a>AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.</h2> + + + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>"At the Sign of the Lyre,"</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Good Folk, we present you</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>With the pick of our quire,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>And we hope to content you!</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>Here be Ballad and Song,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>The fruits of our leisure,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Some short and some long—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>May they all give you pleasure!</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>But if, when you read,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>They should fail to restore you,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Farewell, and God-speed—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>The world is before you!</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + +<div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></div> +<h3>THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S.</h3> + +<p class="center">A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Phyllida amo ante alias.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i20"><span class="smcap">Virg.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Go swinging to the play;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their footmen run before them,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a "Stand by! Clear the way!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She takes her buckled shoon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When we go out a-courting<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath the harvest moon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wear satin on their backs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They sit all night at <em>Ombre</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With candles all of wax:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She dons her russet gown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And runs to gather May dew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before the world is down.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They are so fine and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'd think a box of essences<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was broken in the air:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The breath of heath and furze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When breezes blow at morning,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is not so fresh as hers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They're painted to the eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their white it stays for ever,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their red it never dies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her colour comes and goes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It trembles to a lily,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It wavers to a rose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You scarce can understand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The half of all their speeches,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their phrases are so grand:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her shy and simple words<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are clear as after rain-drops<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The music of the birds.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ladies of St. James's!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They have their fits and freaks;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They smile on you—for seconds,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They frown on you—for weeks:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Phyllida, my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come either storm or shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is always true—and mine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My Phyllida! my Phyllida!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I care not though they heap<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hearts of all St. James's,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And give me all to keep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I care not whose the beauties<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of all the world may be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Phyllida—for Phyllida<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is all the world to me!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand?</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Where's Troy, and where's the May-Pole in the Strand?</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i32"><span class="smcap">Bramston's</span> "<span class="smcap">Art of Politicks</span>."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now 'tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is battered and tattered,—it little avails<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">See,—here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,—under the seat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is a nest with four eggs,—'tis the favoured retreat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet—Can't you fancy a face in the frame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Heu! quantum mutata</em>," I say as I go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—"With Care,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> +<h3>TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>The meanest thing upon its upward way.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i25"><span class="smcap">Five Rules of Buddha</span>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I watch you through the garden walks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I watch you float between<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The avenues of dahlia stalks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And flicker on the green;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You hover round the garden seat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You mount, you waver. Why,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why storm us in our still retreat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O saffron Butterfly!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Across the room in loops of flight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I watch you wayward go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dance down a shaft of glancing light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Review my books a-row;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the bust you flaunt and flit<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of "blind Mæonides"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not butterflies, but bees!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You pause, you poise, you circle up<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Among my old Japan;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You find a comrade on a cup,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A friend upon a fan;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You wind anon, a breathing-while,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Around <span class="smcap">Amanda's</span> brow;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dost dream her then, O Volatile!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">E'en such an one as thou?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Away! Her thoughts are not as thine.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sterner purpose fills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her steadfast soul with deep design<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of baby bows and frills;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What care hath she for worlds without,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What heed for yellow sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose endless hopes revolve about<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A planet, <em>ætat</em> One!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Away! Tempt not the best of wives;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Let not thy garish wing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come fluttering our Autumn lives<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With truant dreams of Spring!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Away! Re-seek thy "Flowery Land;"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be Buddha's law obeyed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lest Betty's undiscerning hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Should slay ... a future <span class="smcap">Praed</span>!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Monsieur the Curé down the street<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Comes with his kind old face,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his green umbrella-case.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You may see him pass by the little "<em>Grande Place</em>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the tiny "<em>Hôtel-de-Ville</em>";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He smiles, as he goes, to the <em>fleuriste</em> Rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the <em>pompier</em> Théophile.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He turns, as a rule, through the "<em>Marché</em>" cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the noisy fish-wives call;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his compliment pays to the "<em>Belle Thérèse</em>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As she knits in her dusky stall.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Toto, the locksmith's niece,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In his tails for a <em>pain d'épice</em>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who is said to be heterodox,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That will ended be with a "<em>Ma foi, oui!</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a pinch from the Curé's box.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is also a word that no one heard<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the furrier's daughter Lou;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a "<em>Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!</em>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But a grander way for the <em>Sous-Préfet</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a nod to the Sacristan:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For ever through life the Curé goes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a smile on his kind old face—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And his green umbrella-case.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS.</h3> + +<p class="center">(FOR A FRESCO.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Firstly thou, churl son of Janus,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rough for cold, in drugget clad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Firstly thou, churl son of Janus.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Caverned now is old Sylvanus;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Numb and chill are maid and lad.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">After thee thy dripping brother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dank his weeds around him cling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After thee thy dripping brother.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hearth-set couples hush each other,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Listening for the cry of Spring.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hark! for March thereto doth follow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Blithe,—a herald tabarded;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er him flies the shifting swallow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hark! for March thereto doth follow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swift his horn, by holt and hollow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wakes the flowers in winter dead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou then, April, Iris' daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Born between the storm and sun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou then, April, Iris' daughter.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now are light, and rustling water;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Now are mirth, and nests begun.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">May the jocund cometh after,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Month of all the Loves (and mine);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May the jocund cometh after.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beaks are gay on roof and rafter;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Luckless lovers peak and pine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">June the next, with roses scented,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Languid from a slumber-spell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">June in shade of leafage tented;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">June the next, with roses scented.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now her Itys, still lamented,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sings the mournful Philomel.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hot July thereafter rages,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fierce as pard the hunter cages,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hot July thereafter rages.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Traffic now no more engages;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tongues are still in stall and street.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">August next, with cider mellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Laughs from out the poppied corn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hook at back, a lusty fellow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">August next, with cider mellow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now in wains the sheafage yellow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twixt the hedges slow is borne.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Laden deep with fruity cluster,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then September, ripe and hale;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bees about his basket fluster,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laden deep with fruity cluster.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Skies have now a softer lustre;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Barns resound to flap of flail.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou then, too, of woodlands lover,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dusk October, berry-stained;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wailed about of parting plover,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou then, too, of woodlands lover.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fading now are copse and cover;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Forests now are sere and waned.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Next November, limping, battered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Blinded in a whirl of leaf;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Worn of want and travel-tattered,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Next November, limping, battered.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now the goodly ships are shattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Far at sea, on rock and reef.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Last of all the shrunk December<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Cowled for age, in ashen gray;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fading like a fading ember,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Last of all the shrunk December.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him regarding, men remember<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Life and joy must pass away.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TWO SERMONS.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Between the rail of woven brass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That hides the "Strangers' Pew,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear the gray-haired vicar pass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From Section One to Two.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And somewhere on my left I see—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whene'er I chance to look—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who notes them—in a book.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, worthy <span class="smcap">Goodman</span>,—sound divine!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall I your wrath incur,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I admit these thoughts of mine<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will sometimes stray—to her?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I know your theme, and I revere;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I hear your precepts tried;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must I confess I also hear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sermon at my side?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or how explain this need I feel,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This impulse prompting me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within my secret self to kneel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To Faith,—to Purity!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>"AU REVOIR."</h3> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">A Dramatic Vignette</span>.</p> + + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Scene</span>.—<em>The Fountain in the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is surrounded +by Promenaders.</em></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Monsieur Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A Lady</span> (<em>unknown</em>).<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis she, no doubt. Brunette,—and tall:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A charming figure, above all!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This promises.—Ahem!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i22">Monsieur?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah! it is three. Then Monsieur's name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is <span class="smcap">Jolicœur</span>?...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i28">Madame, the same.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Monsieur's goodness has to say?...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your note?...<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i14"><em>Your</em> note.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i25">Forgive me.—Nay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>Reads</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<em>If Madame</em> [I omit] <em>will be</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Then Madame—possibly—may hear</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>News of her Spaniel.</em> <span class="smcap">Jolicœur</span>."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur denies his note?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i26">I do.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now let me read the one from you.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<em>If Monsieur Jolicœur will be</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Beside the Fountain-rail at Three,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Then Monsieur—possibly—may meet</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>An old Acquaintance. '<span class="smcap">Indiscreet</span></em>.'"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>scandalized</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, what a folly! 'Tis not true.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never met Monsieur. And you?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>with gallantry</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have lived in vain till now. But see:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We are observed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>. (<em>looking round</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i17">I comprehend....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>After a pause.</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur, malicious brains combine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For your discomfiture, and mine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us defeat that ill design.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If Monsieur but ... (<em>hesitating</em>).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>bowing</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i20">Rely on me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>still hesitating</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur, I know, will understand ...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Madame, I wait but your command.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You are too good. Then condescend<br /></span> +<span class="i10">At once to be a new-found Friend!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>entering upon the part forthwith</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How? I am charmed,—enchanted. Ah!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What ages since we met ... at <em>Spa</em>?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>a little disconcerted</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At <em>Ems</em>, I think. Monsieur, maybe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will recollect the Orangery?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At <em>Ems</em>, of course. But Madame's face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might make one well forget a place.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seems so. Still, Monsieur recalls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Kürhaus, and the concert-balls?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Assuredly. Though there again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis Madame's image I retain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur is skilled in ... repartee.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(How do they take it?—Can you see?)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay,—Madame furnishes the wit.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(They don't know what to make of it!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Monsieur's friend who sometimes came?...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That clever ... I forget the name.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <span class="smcap">Baron</span>?... It escapes me, too.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas doubtless he that Madame knew?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>archly</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Precisely. But, my carriage waits.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur will see me to the gates?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>offering his arm</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall be charmed. (Your stratagem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bids fair, I think, to conquer them.)<br /></span> +<span class="i38">(<em>Aside</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Who is she? I must find that out.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—And Madame's husband thrives, no doubt?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>off her guard</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur de <span class="smcap">Beau</span>—?... He died at <em>Dôle</em>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Truly. How sad!<br /></span> +<span class="i16">(<em>Aside</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i16">(Yet, on the whole,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How fortunate! <span class="smcap">Beau</span>-<em>pré</em>?—<span class="smcap">Beau</span>-<em>vau</em>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which can it be? Ah, there they go!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Madame, your enemies retreat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all the honours of ... defeat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thanks to Monsieur. Monsieur has shown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A skill <span class="smcap">Préville</span> could not disown.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You flatter me. We need no skill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To act so nearly what we will.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay,—what may come to pass, if Fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Madame bid me cultivate ...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>anticipating</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas!—no farther than the gate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monsieur, besides, is too polite<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To profit by a jest so slight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Distinctly. Still, I did but glance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At possibilities ... of Chance.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which must not serve Monsieur, I fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the little grating here.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>aside</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(She's perfect. One may push too far,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Piano, sano</em>.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>They reach the gates.</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i21">Here we are.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Permit me, then ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>Placing her in the carriage.</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i20">And Madame goes?...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your coachman?... Can I?...<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>smiling</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i20">Thanks! he knows.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thanks! Thanks!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>insidiously</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i16">And shall we not renew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our ... "<em>Ems</em> acquaintanceship?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span> (<em>still smiling</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i32">Adieu!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My thanks instead!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>with pathos</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i19">It is too hard!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>Laying his hand on the grating.</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find one's Paradise is barred!!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">The Lady</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay.—"Virtue is her own Reward!"<br /></span> +<span class="i34">[<em>Exit.</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">M. Jolicœur</span> (<em>solus</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Beau</span>-<em>vau</em>?—<span class="smcap">Beau</span>-<em>vallon</em>?—<span class="smcap">Beau</span>-<em>manoir</em>?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that's a detail!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>Waving his hand after the carriage.</em>)<br /></span> +<span class="i22"><span class="smcap">Au Revoir</span>!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(<em>We lay our story in the East.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Because 'tis Eastern? Not the least.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>We place it there because we fear</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>To bring its parable too near,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>And seem to touch with impious hand</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Our dear, confiding native land.</em>)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Haroun Alraschid</span>, in the days<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He went about his vagrant ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And prowled at eve for good or bad<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In lanes and alleys of <span class="smcap">Bagdad</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once found, at edge of the bazaar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en where the poorest workers are,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Carver.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">Fair his work and fine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With mysteries of inlaced design,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shapes of shut significance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To aught but an anointed glance,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dreams and visions that grow plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In darkened chambers of the brain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And all day busily he wrought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From dawn to eve, but no one bought;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save when some Jew with look askant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or keen-eyed Greek from the Levant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would pause awhile,—depreciate,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then buy a month's work by the weight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearing it swiftly over seas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To garnish rich men's treasuries.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now for long none bought at all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So lay he sullen in his stall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him thus withdrawn the Caliph found,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And smote his staff upon the ground—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Ho, there, within! Hast wares to sell?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or slumber'st, having dined too well?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"'Dined,'" quoth the man, with angry eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"How should I dine when no one buys?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay," said the other, answering low,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay, I but jested. Is it so?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take then this coin, ... but take beside<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A counsel, friend, thou hast not tried.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This craft of thine, the mart to suit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is too refined,—remote,—minute;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These small conceptions can but fail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere best to work on larger scale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rather choose such themes as wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More of the earth and less of air,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fisherman that hauls his net,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The merchants in the market set,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The couriers posting in the street,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gossips as they pass and greet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These—these are clear to all men's eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therefore with these they sympathize.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Further (neglect not this advice!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be sure to ask three times the price."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Carver sadly shook his head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He knew 'twas truth the Caliph said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From that day forth his work was planned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So that the world might understand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He carved it deeper, and more plain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He carved it thrice as large again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He sold it, too, for thrice the cost;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Ah, but the Artist that was lost!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.</h3> + +<p class="center">"<em>Sermons in stones.</em>"</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who were you once? Could we but guess,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We might perchance more boldly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Define the patient weariness<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That sets your lips so coldly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You "lived," we know, for blame and fame;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But sure, to friend or foeman,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You bore some more distinctive name<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than mere "B. C.,"—and "Roman"?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your pedestal should help us much.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thereon your acts, your title,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had doubtless due recital;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vain hope!—not even deeds can last!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That stone, of which you're <em>minus</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maybe with all your virtues past<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Endows ... a <span class="smcap">Tigellinus</span>!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We seek it not; we should not find.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But still, it needs no magic<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell you wore, like most mankind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your comic mask and tragic;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And held that things were false and true,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Felt angry or forgiving,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As step by step you stumbled through<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This life-long task ... of living!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You tried the <em>cul-de-sac</em> of Thought;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The <em>montagne Russe</em> of Pleasure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You found the best Ambition brought<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was strangely short of measure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You watched, at last, the fleet days fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till—drowsier and colder—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You felt <span class="smcap">Mercurius</span> loitering by<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To touch you on the shoulder.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That howso Time should garble<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those deeds of yours when you were dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At least you'd live—in Marble;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You smiled to think that after days,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At least, in Bust or Statue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not quite incurious, at you.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>We</em> gaze; <em>we</em> pity you, be sure!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In truth, Death's worst inaction<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must be less tedious to endure<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than nameless petrifaction;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far better, in some nook unknown,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sleep for once—and soundly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than still survive in wistful stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Forgotten more profoundly!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>MOLLY TREFUSIS.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0"><em>"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>And ten is the number of Muses;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>My dear little Molly Trefusis!"</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So he wrote, the old bard of an "old magazine:"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As a study it not without use is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If we wonder a moment who she may have been,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This same "little Molly Trefusis!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre;"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And she lived in the era of patches and bows,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The lilies of Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That the evidence hard to produce is)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With <span class="smcap">Bath</span> in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This dangerous Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(How charming that old-fashioned puce is!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All blooming in laces, fal-lals and what not,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the <span class="smcap">Pump Room</span>,—Miss Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I fancy her reigning,—a Beauty,—a Toast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where <span class="smcap">Bladud's</span> medicinal cruse is;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He says she was "<span class="smcap">Venus</span>." I doubt it. Beside,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His "little" could scarce be to Venus applied,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If fitly to Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No, no. It was <span class="smcap">Hebe</span> he had in his mind;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled,—you'll find,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was certainly Molly Trefusis!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then he calls her "a <span class="smcap">Muse</span>." To the charge I reply<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That we all of us know what a Muse is;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is something too awful,—too acid,—too dry,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But "a <span class="smcap">Grace</span>." There I grant he was probably right;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(The rest but a verse-making ruse is)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was all that was graceful,—intangible,—light,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The beauty of Molly Trefusis!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was she wooed? Who can hesitate much about that<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Assuredly more than obtuse is;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For how could the poet have written so pat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<em>My</em> dear little Molly Trefusis!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since of suitors the common excuse is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To take to them Wives. So it happened to her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of course,—"little Molly Trefusis!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In practical matters a goose is;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas a knight of the shire, and a hunting J.P.,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who carried off Molly Trefusis!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And you'll find, I conclude, in the "<em>Gentleman's Mag.</em>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At the end, where the pick of the news is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<em>On the</em> (blank), <em>at 'the Bath,' to Sir Hilary Bragg</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>With a Fortune</em>, <span class="smcap">Miss Molly Trefusis</span>."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thereupon ... But no farther the student may pry:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So here, at the threshold, we part, you and I,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From "dear little Molly Trefusis."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>AT THE CONVENT GATE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wistaria blossoms trail and fall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above the length of barrier wall;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And softly, now and then,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From roof to gateway-top, and sit<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And watch the ways of men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gate's ajar. If one might peep!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shadowy garden seems!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And note how dimly to and fro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like figures seen in dreams.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Look, there is one that tells her beads;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yonder one apart that reads<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A tiny missal's page;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see, beside the well, the two<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, kneeling, strive to lure anew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The magpie to its cage!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not beautiful—not all! But each<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With that mild grace, outlying speech,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which comes of even mood;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Veil unseen that women wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And hope of higher good.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A placid life—a peaceful life!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What need to these the name of Wife?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What gentler task (I said)—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What worthier—e'en your arts among—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than tend the sick, and teach the young,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And give the hungry bread?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No worthier task!" re-echoes She,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who (closelier clinging) turns with me<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To face the road again:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—And yet, in that warm heart of hers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She means the doves', for she prefers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To "watch the ways of men."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE MILKMAID.</h3> + +<p class="center">A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Across the grass I see her pass;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She comes with tripping pace,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A maid I know,—and March winds blow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her hair across her face;—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Dolly shall be mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Before the spray is white with May,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or blooms the eglantine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The March winds blow. I watch her go:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her eye is brown and clear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her cheek is brown, and soft as down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(To those who see it near!)—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Dolly shall be mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Before the spray is white with May,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or blooms the eglantine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What has she not that those have got,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dames that walk in silk!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">If she undo her 'kerchief blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her neck is white as milk.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Dolly shall be mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Before the spray is white with May,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or blooms the eglantine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let those who will be proud and chill!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For me, from June to June,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Dolly's words are sweet as curds—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her laugh is like a tune;—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Dolly shall be mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Before the spray is white with May,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or blooms the eglantine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O tall Lent-lilies flame!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There'll be a bride at Easter-tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Dolly is her name.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Dolly shall be mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Before the spray is white with May,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Or blooms the eglantine.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>AN OLD FISH POND.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Green growths of mosses drop and bead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Around the granite brink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'twixt the isles of water-weed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wood-birds dip and drink.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Slow efts about the edges sleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Swift-darting water-flies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shoot on the surface; down the deep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fast-following bubbles rise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Look down. What groves that scarcely sway!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What "wood obscure," profound!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What jungle!—where some beast of prey<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Might choose his vantage-ground!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who knows what tale? Belike,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those "antres vast" and shadows hide<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some patriarchal Pike;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To whom the sky, the earth,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have but for aim to look on awed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And see him wax in girth;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hard ruler there by right of might;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An ageless Autocrat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose "good old rule" is "Appetite,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And subjects fresh and fat;"—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While they—poor souls!—in wan despair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still watch for signs in him;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dying, hand from heir to heir<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The day undawned and dim,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the pond's terror too must go;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or creeping in by stealth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some bolder brood, with common blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shall found a Commonwealth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or say,—perchance the liker this!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That these themselves are gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Amurath <em>in minimis</em>,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still hungry,—lingers on,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Revolving sullen things,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But most the blind unequal law<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That rules the food of Kings;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The blot that makes the cosmic All<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A mere time-honoured cheat;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That bids the Great to eat the Small,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet lack the Small to eat!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Around the granite brink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'twixt the isles of water-weed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wood-birds dip and drink.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>AN EASTERN APOLOGUE.</h3> + +<p class="center">(To E. H. P.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Melik the Sultán, tired and wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nodded at noon on his diván.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beside the fountain lingered near<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Jamíl</span> the bard, and the vizier—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Old <span class="smcap">Yúsuf</span>, sour and hard to please;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then <span class="smcap">Jamíl</span> sang, in words like these.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>Slim is Butheina—slim is she</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>As boughs of the Aráka tree!</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Lean, if you will,—I call her lean."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>Sweet is Butheina—sweet as wine,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>With smiles that like red bubbles shine!</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"True,—by the Prophet!" <span class="smcap">Yúsuf</span> said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"She makes men wander in the head!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>Dear is Butheina—ah! more dear</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Dear ... and yet always to be bought."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So <span class="smcap">Jamíl</span> ceased. But still Life's page<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shows diverse unto <span class="smcap">Youth</span> and <span class="smcap">Age</span>:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And,—be the song of Ghouls or Gods,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Time</span>, like the Sultán, sits ... and nods.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Missal of the Gothic age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Missal with the blazoned page,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence, O Missal, hither come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From what dim scriptorium?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whose the name that wrought thee thus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ambrose or Theophilus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bending, through the waning light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er thy vellum scraped and white;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Setting round thy border scrolled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buds of purple and of gold?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah!—a wondering brotherhood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doubtless, by that artist stood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raising o'er his careful ways<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Little choruses of praise;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Glad when his deft hand would paint<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strife of Sathanas and Saint,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or in secret coign entwist<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jest of cloister humourist.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well the worker earned his wage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bending o'er the blazoned page!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tired the hand and tired the wit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere the final <em>Explicit</em>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not as ours the books of old—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Things that steam can stamp and fold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not as ours the books of yore—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rows of type, and nothing more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then a book was still a Book,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where a wistful man might look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Finding something through the whole,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beating—like a human soul.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In that growth of day by day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When to labour was to pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surely something vital passed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the patient page at last;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Something that one still perceives<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vaguely present in the leaves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something from the worker lent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something mute—but eloquent!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Old it is, and worn and battered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As I lift it from the stall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the leaves are frayed and tattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the pendent sides are shattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pierced and blackened by a ball.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis the tale of grief and gladness<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That in front of France's madness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hangs a strange seductive sadness,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grown pathetic evermore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And a perfume round it hovers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which the pages half reveal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a folded corner covers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Interlaced, two names of lovers,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A "Savignac" and "Lucile."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As I read I marvel whether,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In some pleasant old château,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once they read this book together,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the scented summer weather,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the shining Loire below?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nooked—secluded from espial,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Did Love slip and snare them so,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the hours danced round the dial<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the sound of flute and viol,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In that pleasant old château?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did it happen that no single<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Word of mouth could either speak?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did the brown and gold hair mingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the shock of cheek and cheek?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did they feel with that first flushing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some new sudden power to feel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some new inner spring set gushing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At the names together rushing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of "Savignac" and "Lucile"?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did he drop on knee before her—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<em>Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine</em>"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his high-flown way adore her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Urgent, eloquent implore her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Plead his pleasure and his pain?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did she turn with sight swift-dimming,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the quivering lip we know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the full, slow eyelid brimming,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the languorous pupil swimming,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like the love of Mirabeau?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For his eager lips to press;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a flash all fate fulfilling<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Crushing life to one caress?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did they sit in that dim sweetness<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of attained love's after-calm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marking not the world—its meetness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marking Time not, nor his fleetness,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Only happy, palm to palm?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till at last she,—sunlight smiting<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Red on wrist and cheek and hair,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sought the page where love first lighting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fixed their fate, and, in this writing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fixed the record of it there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did they marry midst the smother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shame and slaughter of it all?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did she wander like that other<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Woful, wistful, wife and mother,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Round and round his prison wall;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wander wailing, as the plover<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Waileth, wheeleth, desolate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heedless of the hawk above her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While as yet the rushes cover,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Waning fast, her wounded mate,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wander, till his love's eyes met hers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fixed and wide in their despair?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did he burst his prison fetters,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did he write sweet, yearning letters,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<em>A Lucile,—en Angleterre</em>"?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Letters where the reader, reading,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Halts him with a sudden stop,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he feels a man's heart bleeding,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Draining out its pain's exceeding—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Half a life, at every drop:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Letters where Love's iteration<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seems to warble and to rave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Letters where the pent sensation<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaps to lyric exultation,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like a song-bird from a grave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where, through Passion's wild repeating,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Peep the Pagan and the Gaul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Politics and love competing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Abelard and Cato greeting,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rousseau ramping over all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet your critic's right—you waive it,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whirled along the fever-flood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its touch of truth shall save it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its tender rain shall lave it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For at least you read <em>Amavit</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Written there in tears of blood.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Did they hunt him to his hiding,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tracking traces in the snow?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did they tempt him out, confiding,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shoot him ruthless down, deriding,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the ruined old château?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Left to lie, with thin lips resting<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Frozen to a smile of scorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just the bitter thought's suggesting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At this excellent new jesting<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of the rabble Devil-born.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till some "tiger-monkey," finding<br /></span> +<span class="i2">These few words the covers bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some swift rush of pity blinding,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sent them in the shot-pierced binding<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"<em>A Lucile, en Angleterre</em>."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fancies only! Nought the covers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nothing more the leaves reveal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet I love it for its lovers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the dream that round it hovers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of "Savignac" and "Lucile."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A MADRIGAL.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Before me, careless lying,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young Love his ware comes crying;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full soon the elf untreasures<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His pack of pains and pleasures,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With roguish eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He bids me buy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From out his pack of treasures.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His wallet's stuffed with blisses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With true-love-knots and kisses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rings and rosy fetters,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sugared vows and letters;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He holds them out<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With boyish flout,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bids me try the fetters.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay, Child (I cry), I know them;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's little need to show them!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too well for new believing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know their past deceiving,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I am too old<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(I say), and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To-day, for new believing!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But still the wanton presses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With honey-sweet caresses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And still, to my undoing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He wins me, with his wooing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To buy his ware<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With all its care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its sorrow and undoing.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A SONG TO THE LUTE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When first I came to Court,<br /></span> +<span class="i13"><em>Fa la</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When first I came to Court,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Love an idle sport,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sport whereat a man might toy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With little hurt and mickle joy—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When first I came to Court!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Too soon I found my fault,<br /></span> +<span class="i12"><em>Fa la</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too soon I found my fault;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fairest of the fair brigade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Advanced to mine assault.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! against an adverse maid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor fosse can serve nor palisade—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too soon I found my fault!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Silvia's</span> eyes assail,<br /></span> +<span class="i12"><em>Fa la</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Silvia's</span> eyes assail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No feint the arts of war can show,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">No counterstroke avail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naught skills but arms away to throw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And kneel before that lovely foe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Silvia's</span> eyes assail!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet is all truce in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i12"><em>Fa la</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet is all truce in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since she that spares doth still pursue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To vanquish once again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And naught remains for man to do<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But fight once more, to yield anew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so all truce is vain!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A GARDEN SONG.</h3> + +<p class="center">(To W. E. H.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, in this sequestered close<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bloom the hyacinth and rose;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here beside the modest stock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here, without a pang, one sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ranks, conditions, and degrees.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the seasons run their race<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In this quiet resting place;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peach, and apricot, and fig<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here will ripen, and grow big;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is store and overplus,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More had not Alcinoüs!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, in alleys cool and green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far ahead the thrush is seen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here along the southern wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Keeps the bee his festival;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All is quiet else—afar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sounds of toil and turmoil are.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here be shadows large and long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here be spaces meet for song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grant, O garden-god, that I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now that none profane is nigh,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now that mood and moment please,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Find the fair Pierides!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A CHAPTER OF FROISSART.</h3> + +<p class="center">(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You don't know Froissart now, young folks.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This age, I think, prefers recitals<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of high-spiced crime, with "slang" for jokes,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">And startling titles;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, in my time, when still some few<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's <em>Homer</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Nay, thought to style him "poet" too,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Were scarce misnomer),<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sir John was less ignored. Indeed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I can re-call how Some-one present<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read<br /></span> +<span class="i16">And find him pleasant;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For,—by this copy,—hangs a Tale.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Long since, in an old house in Surrey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where men knew more of "morning ale"<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Than "Lindley Murray,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Neath Hogarth's "Midnight Conversation,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">With fond elation,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I turned the brown old leaves. For there<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All through one hopeful happy summer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At such a page (I well knew where),<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Some secret comer,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Though scarcely such a colt unbroken),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would sometimes place for private view<br /></span> +<span class="i16">A certain token;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A rose-leaf meaning "Garden Wall,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An ivy-leaf for "Orchard corner,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thorn to say "Don't come at all,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Unwelcome warner!—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But then Romance required dissembling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Some genuine trembling;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though, as a rule, all used to end<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In such kind confidential parley<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As may to you kind Fortune send,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">You long-legged Charlie,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When your time comes. How years slip on!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We had our crosses like our betters;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fate sometimes looked askance upon<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Those floral letters;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And once, for three long days disdained,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dust upon the folio settled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For some-one, in the right, was pained,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">And some-one nettled,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That sure was in the wrong, but spake<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of fixed intent and purpose stony<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To serve King George, enlist and make<br /></span> +<span class="i16">Minced-meat of "Boney,"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who yet survived—ten years at least.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And so, when she I mean came hither,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One day that need for letters ceased,<br /></span> +<span class="i16">She brought this with her!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here is the leaf-stained Chapter:—<em>How</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>The English King laid Siege to Calais</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>I think Gran. knows it even now,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i16"><em>Go ask her, Alice.</em><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE</h3> + +<p class="center">OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0"><em>"Tuque, Testudo, resonare septem</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Callida nervis."</em><br /></span> +<span class="i32"><span class="smcap">Hor.</span> iii. 11.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Monster Chelonian, you suggest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To some, no doubt, the calm,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The torpid ease of islets drest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In fan-like fern and palm;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To some your cumbrous ways, perchance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Darwinian dreams recall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And ancient youth appal;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So widely varied views dispose:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But not so mine,—for me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your vasty vault but simply shows<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A <span class="smcap">Lyre</span> immense, <em>per se</em>,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A <span class="smcap">Lyre</span> to which the Muse might chant<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A truly "Orphic tale,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could she but find that public want,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A Bard—of equal scale!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, for a Bard of awful words,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And lungs serenely strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sweep from your sonorous chords<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Niagaras of song,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, dinned by that tremendous strain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The grovelling world aghast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should leave its paltry greed of gain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And mend its ways ... at last!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A ROMAN "ROUND-ROBIN."</h3> + +<p class="center">("HIS FRIENDS" TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS.)</p> + +<p class="center">"<em>Hæc decies repetita</em> [non] <em>placebit</em>."—<span class="smcap">Ars Poetica.</span></p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flaccus, you write us charming songs:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No bard we know possesses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In such perfection what belongs<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To brief and bright addresses;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No man can say that Life is short<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With mien so little fretful;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No man to Virtue's paths exhort<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In phrases less regretful;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or touch, with more serene distress,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On Fortune's ways erratic;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then delightfully digress<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From Alp to Adriatic:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All this is well, no doubt, and tends<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Barbarian minds to soften;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, <span class="smcap">Horace</span>—we, we are your friends—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why tell us this so often?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then thrust in our faces<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These barren scraps (to say the least)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of Stoic common-places?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O, spare to sing, what none deny,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That things we love decay;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Time and Gold have wings to fly;—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That all must Fate obey!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or bid us dine—on this day week—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And pour us, if you can,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your inmost Cæcuban;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of that we fear not overplus;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But your didactic 'tap'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgive us!—grows monotonous;<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Nunc vale! Verbum sap.</em><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>VERSES TO ORDER.</h3> + +<p class="center">(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How weary 'twas to wait! The year<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Went dragging slowly on;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The red leaf to the running brook<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dropped sadly, and was gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">December came, and locked in ice<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The plashing of the mill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white snow filled the orchard up;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But she was waiting still.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Spring stirred and broke. The rooks once more<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Gan cawing in the loft;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The young lambs' new awakened cries<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Came trembling from the croft;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The clumps of primrose filled again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The hollows by the way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pale wind-flowers blew; but she<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grew paler still than they.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How weary 'twas to wait! With June,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through all the drowsy street,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came distant murmurs of the war,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And rumours of the fleet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gossips, from the market-stalls,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Cried news of Joe and Tim;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But June shed all her leaves, and still<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There came no news of him.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then, at last, at last, at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One blessèd August morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Pang-panging came the horn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The swift coach paused a creaking-space,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then flashed away, and passed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she stood trembling yet, and dazed:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The news had come—at last!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And thus the artist saw her stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While all around her seems<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As vague and shadowy as the shapes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That flit from us in dreams;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And naught in all the world is true,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Save those few words which tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That he she lost is found again—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is found again—and well!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A LEGACY.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, <a name="tn1" id="tn1"></a><a href="#tn1a">Postumus</a>, we all must go:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My strength begins to fail; I know<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>You</em> find me older;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My Muse's friend and not my purse's!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who still would hear and still commend<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My tedious verses,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How will you live—of these deprived?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I've learned your candid soul. The venal,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sordid friend had scarce survived<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A test so penal;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But you—Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are not as you: you hide your merit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You, more than all, deserve the best<br /></span> +<span class="i2">True friends inherit;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not gold,—that hearts like yours despise;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression),<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">No; but the rarer, dearer prize—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Life's Confession!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You, you alone, admired my Cantos;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I've left you, P., my whole MS.,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In three portmanteaus!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>"LITTLE BLUE-RIBBONS."</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her that<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For may not a person be only five,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet have the neatest of taste alive?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As a matter of fact, this one has views<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we never object to a sash or bow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her primitive look is wise and grave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a sense of the weight of the word "behave;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though now and again she may condescend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a radiant smile for a private friend;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to smile for ever is weak, you know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She's a staid little woman! And so as well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is her ladyship's doll, "Miss Bonnibelle;"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I think what at present the most takes up<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the object thereon,—be it understood,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the "Robin that buried the 'Babes in the Wood'"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is not in the least like a robin, though,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But "little Blue-Ribbons" declares it so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Little Blue-Ribbons" believes, I think,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the spot where the suns of yesterday set;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I know that she fully expects to meet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a lion or wolf in Regent Street!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We may smile, and deny as we like—But, no;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For "little Blue-Ribbons" still dreams it so.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear "little Blue-Ribbons!" She tells us all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That she never intends to be "great" and "tall";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(For how could she ever contrive to sit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In her "own, own chair," if she grew one bit!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, further, she says, she intends to stay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In her "darling home" till she gets "quite gray;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But "little Blue-Ribbons" will have it so!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i10">"<em>—the music of the moon</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i32"><em><span class="smcap">Aylmer's Field.</span></em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Five geese,—a landscape damp and wild,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A stunted, not too pretty, child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath a battered gingham;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such things, to say the least, require<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Muse of more-than-average Fire<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Effectively to sing 'em.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet—Why should they? Souls of mark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have sprung from such;—e'en Joan of Arc<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had scarce a grander duty;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not always ('tis a maxim trite)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From righteous sources comes the right,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From beautiful, the beauty.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who shall decide where seed is sown?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maybe some priceless germ was blown<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To this unwholesome marish;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(And what must grow will still increase,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though cackled round by half the geese<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And ganders in the parish.)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Maybe this homely face may hide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Staël before whose mannish pride<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our frailer sex shall tremble;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perchance this audience anserine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">May hiss—a future Kemble!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or say the gingham shadows o'er<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An undeveloped Hannah More!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A latent Mrs. Trimmer!!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who shall affirm it?—who deny?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since of the truth nor you nor I<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Discern the faintest glimmer?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So then—Caps off, my Masters all;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reserve your final word,—recall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your all-too-hasty strictures;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Undreamed potentialities<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In most unhopeful pictures.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A FAIRY TALE.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>On court, hélas! après la vérité;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Ah! croyez-moi, l'erreur a son mérite.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i32"><em><span class="smcap">Voltaire.</span></em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Curled in a maze of dolls and bricks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I find Miss Mary, <em>ætat</em> six,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Blonde, blue-eyed, frank, capricious,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Absorbed in her first fairy book,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From which she scarce can pause to look,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Because it's "<em>so</em> delicious!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Such marvels, too. A wondrous Boat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In which they cross a magic Moat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That's smooth as glass to row on—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Cat that brings all kinds of things;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see, the Queen has angel wings—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then <span class="smcap">Ogre</span> comes"—and so on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What trash it is! How sad to find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Dear Moralist!) the childish mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So active and so pliant.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rejecting themes in which you mix<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fond truths and pleasing facts, to fix<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On tales of Dwarf and Giant!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In merest prudence men should teach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That cats mellifluous in speech<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are painful contradictions;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That science ranks as monstrous things<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Two</em> pairs of upper limbs; so wings—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">E'en angels' wings!—are fictions:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That there's no giant now but Steam;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That life, although "an empty dream,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is scarce a "land of Fairy."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Of course I said all this?" Why, no;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I <em>did</em> a thing far wiser, though,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>I read the tale with Mary</em>.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO A CHILD.</h3> + +<p class="center">(FROM THE "GARLAND OF RACHEL.")</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How shall I sing you, Child, for whom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So many lyres are strung;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or how the only tone assume<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That fits a Maid so young?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What rocks there are on either hand!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Suppose—'tis on the cards—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You should grow up with quite a grand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Platonic hate for bards!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How shall I then be shamed, undone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For ah! with what a scorn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your eyes must greet that luckless One<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who rhymed you, newly born,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who o'er your "helpless cradle" bent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His idle verse to turn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And twanged his tiresome instrument<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Above your unconcern!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay,—let my words be so discreet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That, keeping Chance in view,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whatever after fate you meet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A part may still be true.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let others wish you mere good looks,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your sex is always fair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She's rich who has to spare:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I wish you but a heart that's kind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A head that's sound and clear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Yet let the heart be not too blind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The head not too severe!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A joy of life, a frank delight;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A not-too-large desire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And—if you fail to find a Knight—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At least ... a trusty Squire.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>HOUSEHOLD ART.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Mine be a cot," for the hours of play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the kind that is built by <span class="smcap">Miss Greenaway</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And "play with the pups," and "reprove the calves,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From "Hunt the Slipper" and "Riddle-me-ree"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To watching the cat in the apple-tree.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O Art of the Household! Men may prate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of their ways "intense" and Italianate,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They may soar on their wings of sense, and float<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the <em>au delà</em> and the dim remote,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the Earth first laughed when the children came!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE DISTRESSED POET.</h3> + +<p class="center">A SUGGESTION FROM HOGARTH.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One knows the scene so well,—a touch,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A word, brings back again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That room, not garnished overmuch,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In gusty Drury Lane;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The empty safe, the child that cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The kittens on the coat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The good-wife with her patient eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The milkmaid's tuneless throat;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And last, in that mute woe sublime,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The luckless verseman's air:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Rhyme ... that is not there!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Poor Bard! to dream the verse inspired—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With dews Castalian wet—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is built from cold abstractions squired<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By "Bysshe," his epithet!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No step upon the stair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betrays the guest that none refuse,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She takes us unaware;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And tips with fire our lyric lips,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sets our hearts a-flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then, like Ariel, off she trips,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And none know how she came.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only, henceforth, for right or wrong,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By some dull sense grown keen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some blank hour blossomed into song,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We feel that she has been.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>JOCOSA LYRA.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In our hearts is the Great One of Avon<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Engraven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we climb the cold summits once built on<br /></span> +<span class="i23">By Milton.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But at times not the air that is rarest<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Is fairest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we long in the valley to follow<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Apollo.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then we drop from the heights atmospheric<br /></span> +<span class="i23">To Herrick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Of Landor;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or our cosiest nook in the shade is<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Where Praed is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or we toss the light bells of the mocker<br /></span> +<span class="i23">With Locker.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, the song where not one of the Graces<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Tight-laces,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,<br /></span> +<span class="i23">But archly,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,<br /></span> +<span class="i23">Comes playing,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer<br /></span> +<span class="i23">In answer,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It will last till men weary of pleasure<br /></span> +<span class="i23">In measure!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It will last till men weary of laughter ...<br /></span> +<span class="i23">And after!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>MY BOOKS.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They dwell in the odour of camphor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They stand in a Sheraton shrine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are "warranted early editions,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">These worshipful tomes of mine;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In their creamiest "Oxford vellum,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In their redolent "crushed Levant,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With their delicate watered linings,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They are jewels of price, I grant;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are graceful, attenuate, polished,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But they gather the dust, no less;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the row that I prize is yonder,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Away on the unglazed shelves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bulged and the bruised <em>octavos</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dear and the dumpy twelves,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Howell the worse for wear,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the little old cropped Molière,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the Burton I bought for a florin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the others I never have opened,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But those are the books I read.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION.</h3> + +<p class="center">BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While cynic <span class="smcap">Charles</span> still trimm'd the vane<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twixt <em>Querouaille</em> and <em>Castlemaine</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In days that shocked <span class="smcap">John Evelyn</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My First Possessor fixed me in.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In days of <em>Dutchmen</em>, and of frost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The narrow sea with <span class="smcap">James</span> I cross'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Returning when once more began<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Age of <em>Saturn</em> and of <span class="smcap">Anne</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am a part of all the past;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I knew the <span class="smcap">Georges</span>, first and last;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have been oft where else was none<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save the great wig of <span class="smcap">Addison</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seen on shelves beneath me grope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The little eager form of <span class="smcap">Pope</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I lost the Third that owned me when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">French <span class="smcap">Noailles</span> fled at Dettingen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The year <span class="smcap">James Wolfe</span> surpris'd Quebec,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The day that <span class="smcap">William Hogarth</span> dy'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This was a <em>Scholar</em>, one of those<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose <em>Greek</em> is sounder than their <em>hose</em>;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">He lov'd old Books and nappy ale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So liv'd at Streatham, next to <span class="smcap">Thrale</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas there this stain of grease I boast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was made by Dr. <span class="smcap">Johnson's</span> toast.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(He did it, as I think, for Spite;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Master call'd him <em>Jacobite</em>!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now that I so long to-day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have rested <em>post discrimina</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must I these travell'd bones inter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In some <em>Collector's</em> sepulchre!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must I be torn herefrom and thrown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With <em>frontispiece</em> and <em>colophon</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With vagrant <em>E's</em>, and <em>I's</em>, and <em>O's</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The spoil of plunder'd <em>Folios</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With scraps and snippets that to <span class="smcap">Me</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are naught but <em>kitchen company</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay, rather, <span class="smcap">Friend</span>, this favour grant me:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tear me at once; <em>but don't transplant me</em>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cheltenham</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Sept. 31, 1792.</em><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>PALOMYDES.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Nor joy he had.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, unloved ever, still must love the same,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And riding ever through a lonely world,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Against the danger desperately hurled,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Crying her name.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So I, who strove to You I may not earn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Methinks, am come unto so high a place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That though from hence I can but vainly yearn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For that averted favour of your face,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">I shall not turn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To find the doubtful thing that fights with me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And cry your name in my extremity,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">As Palomyde,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Until the issue come. Will it disclose<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No gift of grace, no pity made complete,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After much labour done,—much war with woes?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;—<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Ah, Death—who knows?<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>ANDRÉ LE CHAPELAIN.</h3> + +<p class="center">(<em>Clerk of Love, 1170.</em>)</p> + +<p class="center">HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Plus ne suis ce que j'ay esté</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Et ne le sçaurois jamais estre;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Mon beau printemps et mon esté</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Ont fait le saut par la fenestre.</em>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Queen Venus, round whose feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To tend thy sacred fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With service bitter-sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor youths nor maidens tire;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Goddess, whose bounties be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Large as the un-oared sea;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mother, whose eldest born<br /></span> +<span class="i2">First stirred his stammering tongue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the world's youngest morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the first daisies sprung:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose last, when Time shall die,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the same grave shall lie:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hear thou one suppliant more!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Must I, thy Bard, grow old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bent, with the temples frore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not jocund be nor bold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tune for folk in May<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ballad and virelay?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall the youths jeer and jape,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Behold his verse doth dote,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leave thou Love's lute to scrape,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And tune thy wrinkled throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To songs of 'Flesh is Grass,'"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall they cry thus and pass?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the sweet girls go by?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Beshrew the grey-beard's tune!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What ails his minstrelsy<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sing us snow in June!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall they too laugh, and fleet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far in the sun-warmed street?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But Thou, whose beauty bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Upon thy wooded hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With ineffectual light<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wan sun seeketh still;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Woman, whose tears are dried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hardly, for Adon's side,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Have pity, Erycine!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Withhold not all thy sweets;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must I thy gifts resign<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For Love's mere broken meats;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And suit for alms prefer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That was thine Almoner?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Must I, as bondsman, kneel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That, in full many a cause,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have scrolled thy just appeal?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Have I not writ thy Laws?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>That none from Love shall take</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Save but for Love's sweet sake;</em>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>That none shall aught refuse</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>To Love of Love's fair dues;—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>That none dear Love shall scoff</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Or deem foul shame thereof;—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>That none shall traitor be</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>To Love's own secrecy;</em>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Avert,—avert it, Queen!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Debarred thy listed sports,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let me at least be seen<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An usher in thy courts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Outworn, but still indued<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With badge of servitude.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I no more may go,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As one who treads on air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To string-notes soft and slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By maids found sweet and fair—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I no more may be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Love's blithe company;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I no more may sit<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Within thine own pleasànce,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To weave, in sentence fit,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy golden dalliance;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When other hands than these<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Record thy soft decrees;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Leave me at least to sing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">About thine outer wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell thy pleasuring,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy mirth, thy festival;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, let my swan-song be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy grace, thy sanctity.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">[<em>Here ended André's words:</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>But One that writeth, saith—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Betwixt his stricken chords</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>He heard the Wheels of Death;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>And knew the fruits Love bare</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>But Dead-Sea apples were.</em>]<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE WATER OF GOLD.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buy,—who'll buy?" In the market-place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Out of the market din and clatter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quack with his puckered persuasive face<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Patters away in the ancient patter.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buy,—who'll buy? In this flask I hold—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The One, Original, True Elixir!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buy—who'll buy? There's a maiden there,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is a draught that will make you fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fit for an emperor's own caresses!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buy,—who'll buy? Are you old and gray?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buy,—who'll buy? Is a baby ill?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Here is wealth for your life,—if you will but ask;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the price is a couple of silver groschen!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Buy,—who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And still in the great world's market-places<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Quack, with his quack catholicon,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he sells the thing that never can come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE.</h3> + +<p class="center">"<em>De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier.</em>"</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Rose in the garden slipped her bud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she thought of the Gardener standing by—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"He is old,—so old! And he soon must die!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she laughed once more as she heard his tread—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the breeze of the morning blew, and found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he came at noon, that Gardener old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he raked them gently under the mould.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.</em><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>DON QUIXOTE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make Wiseacredom, both high and low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dispatch its Dogberrys upon thy track:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! poor Knight! Alas! poor soul possest?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet would to-day when Courtesy grows chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some fire of thine might burn within us still!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, would but one might lay his lance in rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And charge in earnest—were it but a mill!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A BROKEN SWORD.</h3> + +<p class="center">(<span class="smcap">To A. L.</span>)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The shopman shambled from the doorway out<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And twitched it down—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At half-a-crown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Useless enough! And yet can still be seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In letters clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">"<em>Povr Paruenyr.</em>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whose was it once?—Who manned it once in hope<br /></span> +<span class="i6">His fate to gain?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To this—in vain?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailed<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The Western Seas;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed<br /></span> +<span class="i6">For toasting cheese!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawn<br /></span> +<span class="i6">With silken knot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Perchance 'twas not!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Who knows—or cares? To-day, 'mid foils and gloves<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Its hilt depends,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Remembered friends;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A word to aid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or like a warning comes, in puffed success,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Its broken blade.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE POET'S SEAT.</h3> + +<p class="center">AN IDYLL OF THE SUBURBS.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes</em></span> +<span class="i4"><em>Angulus</em> Ridet."</span> +<span class="i32">—<span class="smcap">Hor</span>. ii. 6.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was an elm-tree root of yore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With lordly trunk, before they lopped it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And weighty, said those five who bore<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its bulk across the lawn, and dropped it<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not once or twice, before it lay.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With two young pear-trees to protect it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Safe where the Poet hoped some day<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The curious pilgrim would inspect it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He saw him with his Poet's eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The stately Maori, turned from etching<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ruin of St. Paul's, to try<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some object better worth the sketching:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He saw him, and it nerved his strength<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What time he hacked and hewed and scraped it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the monster grew at length<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Master-piece to which he shaped it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To wit—a goodly garden seat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And fit alike for Shah or Sophy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With shelf for cigarettes complete,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And one, but lower down, for coffee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He planted pansies 'round its foot,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Pansies for thoughts!" and rose and arum;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Motto (that he meant to put)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was "<em>Ille angulus terrarum.</em>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But "Oh! the change" (as Milton sings)—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"The heavy change!" When May departed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When June with its "delightful things"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had come and gone, the rough bark started,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Began to lose its sylvan brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grew parched, and powdery, and spotted;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, though the Poet nailed it down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It still flapped up, and dropped, and rotted.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor was this all. 'Twas next the scene<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of vague (and viscous) vegetations;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Queer fissures gaped, with oozings green,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And moist, unsavoury exhalations,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faint wafts of wood decayed and sick,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till, where he meant to carve his Motto,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strange leathery fungi sprouted thick,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And made it like an oyster grotto.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Briefly, it grew a seat of scorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bare,—shameless,—till, for fresh disaster,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From end to end, one April morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twas riddled like a pepper caster,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drilled like a vellum of old time;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And musing on this final mystery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Poet left off scribbling rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And took to studying Natural History.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This was the turning of the tide;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His five-act play is still unwritten;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dreams that now his soul divide<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are more of Lubbock than of Lytton;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<em>Ballades</em>" are "verses vain" to him<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose first ambition is to lecture<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(So much is man the sport of whim!)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On "Insects and their Architecture."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE LOST ELIXIR.</h3> + +<p style="margin:0 3em;">"<em>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.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Lowell</span>.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood!"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We had it once, may be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When our young song's impetuous flood<br /></span> +<span class="i2">First poured its ecstasy;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now the shrunk poetic vein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yields not that priceless drop again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We toil,—as toiled we not of old;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Our patient hands distil<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shining spheres of chemic gold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With hard-won, fruitless skill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that red drop still seems to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond our utmost alchemy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Perchance, but most in later age,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Time's after-gift, a tear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will strike a pathos on the page<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beyond all art sincere;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that "one drop of human blood"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MEMORIAL" id="MEMORIAL"></a>MEMORIAL VERSES.</h2> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + +<h3>A DIALOGUE</h3> + +<p class="center">TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Non injussa cano.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i20"><span class="smcap">Virg.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Poet</span>. I sing of <span class="smcap">Pope</span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Friend</span>. What, <span class="smcap">Pope</span>, the <em>Twitnam</em> Bard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom <em>Dennis</em>, <em>Cibber</em>, <em>Tibbald</em> push'd so hard!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Pope</span> of the <em>Dunciad</em>! <span class="smcap">Pope</span> who dar'd to woo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then to libel, <em>Wortley-Montagu</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Pope</span> of the <em>Ham-walks</em> story—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i29">P. Scandals all!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scandals that now I care not to recall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surely a little, in two hundred Years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One may neglect Contemporary Sneers:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surely Allowance for the Man may make<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That had all <em>Grub-street</em> yelping in his Wake!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And who (I ask you) has been never Mean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No: I prefer to look on <span class="smcap">Pope</span> as one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not rightly happy till his Life was done;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose whole Career, romance it as you please,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was (what he call'd it) but a "long Disease:"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think of his Lot,—his Pilgrimage of Pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His "crazy Carcass" and his restless Brain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think of his Night-Hours with their Feet of Lead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His dreary Vigil and his aching Head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Think of all this, and marvel then to find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The "crooked Body with a crooked Mind!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay rather, marvel that, in Fate's Despite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You find so much to solace and delight,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So much of Courage, and of Purpose high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that unequal Struggle <em>not</em> to die.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I grant you freely that <span class="smcap">Pope</span> played his Part<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sometimes ignobly—but he lov'd his Art;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I grant you freely that he sought his Ends<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not always wisely—but he lov'd his Friends;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And who of Friends a nobler Roll could show—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Swift</em>, <em>St. John</em>, <em>Bathurst</em>, <em>Marchmont</em>, <em>Peterb'ro'</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Arbuthnot</em>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11"><span class="smcap">Fr.</span> <span class="smcap">Atticus</span>?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i23"><span class="smcap">P.</span> Well (<em>entre nous</em>),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most that he said of <em>Addison</em> was <em>true</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plain Truth, you know—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i23"><span class="smcap">Fr.</span> Is often not polite<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(So <em>Hamlet</em> thought)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i21"><span class="smcap">P.</span> And <em>Hamlet</em> (Sir) was right.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But leave <span class="smcap">Pope's</span> Life. To-day, methinks, we touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Work too little and the Man too much.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take up the <em>Lock</em>, the <em>Satires</em>, <em>Eloise</em>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How keen the Irony, the Wit how bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then read once more, and you shall wonder yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was ever Thought so pithily express'd?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, what a Homily on Yours ... and Mine!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or take—to choose at Random—take but This—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Fr.</span> Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was he a <span class="smcap">Poet</span>?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i13"><span class="smcap">P.</span> Yes: if that be what<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Byron</em> was certainly and <em>Bowles</em> was not;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What <em>Dryden</em> had, that was denied to <em>Tate</em>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Fr.</span> Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">P.</span> True, there are Classes. <span class="smcap">Pope</span> was most of all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Akin to <em>Horace</em>, <em>Persius</em>, <em>Juvenal</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Pope</span> was, like them, the Censor of his Age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An Age more suited to Repose than Rage;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <em>Phœbus</em> touch'd the Poet's trembling Ear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With one supreme Commandment <em>Be thou Clear</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Thought meant less to reason than compile,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the <em>Muse</em> labour'd ... chiefly with the File.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in the Days of great <span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to the Bards of <span class="smcap">Anna</span> was denied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Note that <em>Wordsworth</em> heard on <em>Duddon</em>-side.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But <span class="smcap">Pope</span> took up his Parable, and knit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Woof of Wisdom with the Warp of Wit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He taught the Epigram to come at Call;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He wrote——<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i12"><span class="smcap">Fr.</span> His <em>Iliad</em>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i26"><span class="smcap">P.</span> Well, suppose you own<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You like your <em>Iliad</em> in the Prose of <em>Bohn</em>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tho' if you'd learn in Prose how <em>Homer</em> sang,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere best to learn of <em>Butcher</em> and of <em>Lang</em>,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suppose you say your Worst of <span class="smcap">Pope</span>, declare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Art but Artifice—I ask once more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where have you seen such Artifice before?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where can you show, among your Names of Note,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So much to copy and so much to quote?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So I, that love the old <em>Augustan</em> Days<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That like along the finish'd Line to feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That like my Couplet as compact as clear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I fling my Cap for Polish—and for <span class="smcap">Pope</span>!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A FAMILIAR EPISTLE</h3> + +<p class="center"><em>To * * Esq. of * * with a Life of the late Ingenious M<sup>r</sup>. W<sup>m</sup>. +Hogarth.</em></p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear Cosmopolitan,—I know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I should address you a <em>Rondeau</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or else announce what I've to say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At least <em>en Ballade fratrisée</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And take to simple <em>Hudibrasticks</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why should I choose another Way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When this was good enough for <span class="smcap">Gay</span>?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">You love, my <span class="smcap">Friend</span>, with me, I think,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Age of Lustre and of Link;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of <em>Chelsea</em> China and long "s"es,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Age of Folly and of Cards,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—No <span class="smcap">H—lts</span>, no <span class="smcap">K—g—n P—ls</span> were then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dispensing Competence to Men;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gentle Trade was left to Churls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your frowsy <span class="smcap">Tonsons</span> and your <span class="smcap">Curlls</span>;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <span class="smcap">Author</span> in a Sheep-skin Back;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then <span class="smcap">Savage</span> and his Brother-Sinners<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In <em>Porridge-Island</em> div'd for Dinners;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or doz'd on <em>Covent Garden</em> Bulks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know that by-gone Time, I say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That aimless easy-moral'd Day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When rosy Morn found <span class="smcap">Madam</span> still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrangling at <em>Ombre</em> or <em>Quadrille</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When good Sir <span class="smcap">John</span> reel'd Home to Bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From <em>Pontack's</em> or the <em>Shakespear's Head</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Trip</span> <em>convey'd</em> his Master's Cloaths,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And took his Titles and his Oaths;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While <span class="smcap">Betty</span>, in a cast <em>Brocade</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ogled <span class="smcap">My Lord</span> at Masquerade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Garrick</span> play'd the guilty <em>Richard</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or mouth'd <em>Macbeth</em> with Mrs. <span class="smcap">Pritchard</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Foote</span> grimac'd his snarling Wit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When <span class="smcap">Churchill</span> bullied in the Pit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the <span class="smcap">Cuzzoni</span> sang—<br /></span> +<span class="i23">But there!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The further Catalogue I spare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Having no Purpose to eclipse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That tedious Tale of <span class="smcap">Homer's</span> Ships;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This is the <span class="smcap">Man</span> that drew it all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From <em>Pannier Alley</em> to the <em>Mall</em>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then turn'd and drew it once again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From <em>Bird-Cage Walk</em> to <em>Lewknor's Lane</em>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its <span class="smcap">Henleys</span>, <span class="smcap">Lovats</span>, <span class="smcap">Malcolms</span>, <span class="smcap">Chartres</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its <em>quicquid agunt Homines</em>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor yet omitted to pourtray<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Furens quid possit Foemina</em>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In short, held up to ev'ry Class<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Nature's</span> unflatt'ring looking-Glass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, from his Canvass, spoke to All<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Message of a <span class="smcap">Juvenal</span>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Take Him. His Merits most aver:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His weak Point is—his Chronicler!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Nov<sup>r</sup>.</span> 1, 1879.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h3>HENRY FIELDING.</h3> + +<p class="center">(<span class="smcap">To James Russell Lowell</span>.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not from the ranks of those we call<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Philosopher or Admiral,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Neither as <span class="smcap">Locke</span> was, nor as <span class="smcap">Blake</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is that Great Genius for whose sake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We keep this Autumn festival.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet in one sense, too, was he<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A soldier—of humanity;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, surely, philosophic mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Belonged to him whose brain designed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That teeming <span class="smcap">Comic Epos</span> where,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in <span class="smcap">Cervantes</span> and <span class="smcap">Molière</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jostles the medley of Mankind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Our <span class="smcap">English Novel's</span> pioneer!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His was the eye that first saw clear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How, not in natures half-effaced<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By cant of Fashion and of Taste,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not in the circles of the Great,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faint-blooded and exanimate,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay the true field of Jest and Whim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which we to-day reap after him.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No:—he stepped lower down and took<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The piebald <span class="smcap">People</span> for his Book!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, what a wealth of Life there is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that large-laughing page of his!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What store and stock of Common-Sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How his keen Satire flashes through,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cuts a sophistry in two!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How his ironic lightning plays<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around a rogue and all his ways!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, how he knots his lash to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whose are the characters that give<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such round reality?—that live<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With such full pulse? Fair <span class="smcap">Sophy</span> yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sings <em>Bobbing Joan</em> at the spinet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We see <span class="smcap">Amelia</span> cooking still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That supper for the recreant <span class="smcap">Will</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We hear Squire <span class="smcap">Western's</span> headlong tones<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bawling "Wut ha?—wut ha?" to <span class="smcap">Jones</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are they not present now to us,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Parson with his <em>Æschylus</em>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Slipslop</span> the frail, and <span class="smcap">Northerton</span>,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Partridge</span>, and <span class="smcap">Bath</span>, and <span class="smcap">Harrison</span>?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are they not breathing, moving,—all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The motley, merry carnival<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That <span class="smcap">Fielding</span> kept, in days agone?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was the first who dared to draw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mankind the mixture that he saw;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not wholly good nor ill, but both,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With fine intricacies of growth.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He pulled the wraps of flesh apart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And showed the working human heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He scorned to drape the truthful nude<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With smooth, decorous platitude!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He was too frank, may be; and dared<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the light their secret thought.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therefore the <span class="smcap">Tartuffe</span>-throng who say<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<em>Couvrez ce sein</em>," and look that way,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therefore the Priests of Sentiment<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rose on him with their garments rent.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plies ever round some generous thing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old "might-have-beens" and "heretofores";—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, from that garbled record-list,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made him his own Apologist.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And was he? Nay,—let who has known<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If to have sense of Joy and Pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too keen,—to rise, to fall again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To live too much,—be sin, why then,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This was no pattern among men.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But those who turn that later page,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Journal of his middle-age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watch him serene in either fate,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Philanthropist and Magistrate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faithful, and patient to the end;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But for the loved ones he must leave:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These will admit—if any can—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That 'neath the green Estrella trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No Artist merely, but a <span class="smcap">Man</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrought on our noblest island-plan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Nec turpem senectam</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Degere, nec cithara carentem.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i30">—<span class="smcap">Hor.</span> i. 31.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Not to be tuneless in old age!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who, in his Winter's snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still sings with note as sweet and clear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in the morning of the year<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the first violets blow!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blest!—but more blest, whom Summer's heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Have taught no feverish lure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose Muse, benignant and serene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Because his verse is pure!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lie calm, O white and laureate head!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Since from the voiceless grave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy voice shall speak to old and young<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While song yet speaks an English tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By Charles' or Thamis' wave!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>CHARLES GEORGE GORDON.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Rather be dead than praised," he said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That hero, like a hero dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In this slack-sinewed age endued<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With more than antique fortitude!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who loved thee, now that Death sets free<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thine eager soul, with word and line<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Profane that empty house of thine?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay,—let us hold, be mute. Our pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will not be less that we refrain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this our silence shall but be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A larger monument to thee.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>VICTOR HUGO.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look upward lonely—lonely to the height<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</h3> + +<p class="center">EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Grief there will be, and may,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When King Apollo's bay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is cut midwise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grief that a song is stilled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grief for the unfulfilled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Singer that dies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not so we mourn thee now,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not so we grieve that thou,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Master</span>, art passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since thou thy song didst raise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the full round of days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en to the last.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Grief there may be, and will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When that the Singer still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sinks in the song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When that the wingéd rhyme<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fails of the promised prime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ruined and wrong.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not thus we mourn thee—we—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not thus we grieve for thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Master</span> and Friend;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since, like a clearing flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clearer thy pure song came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en to the end.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay—nor for thee we grieve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en as for those that leave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life without name;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lost as the stars that set,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Empty of men's regret,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Empty of fame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Rather we count thee one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, when his race is run,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Layeth him down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Calm—through all coming days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filled with a nation's praise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filled with renown.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FABLES" id="FABLES"></a>FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART.</h2> + + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE POET AND THE CRITICS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If those who wield the Rod forget,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis truly—<em>Quis custodiet?</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A certain Bard (as Bards will do)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dressed up his Poems for Review.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Type was plain, his Title clear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Frontispiece by <span class="smcap">Fourdrinier</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moreover, he had on the Back<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,—in fine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A neat and "classical" Design.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the <em>in</em>-Side?—Well, good or bad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Inside was the best he had:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much Memory,—more Imitation;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some Accidents of Inspiration;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some Essays in that finer Fashion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some (of course) more roughly wrought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To catch the Advocates of Thought.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the less-crowded Age of <span class="smcap">Anne</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our Bard had been a favoured Man;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had ranked him next to <span class="smcap">Garth</span> or <span class="smcap">Tickell</span>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He might have even dared to hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Line's Malignity from <span class="smcap">Pope</span>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now, when Folks are hard to please,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Poets are as thick as—Peas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Fates are not so prone to flatter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Book, then, had a minor Credit:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Critics took, and doubtless read it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said A.—<em>These little Songs display</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>A Promise. They will do no Harm.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas kindly, if not <em>very</em> warm.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said B.—<em>The Author may, in Time,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">This, certainly, could not be worse.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sorely discomfited, our Bard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Worked for another ten Years—hard.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before his second Volume came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Critics had forgot his Name:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And who, forsooth, is bound to know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each Laureate <em>in embryo</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They tried and tested him, no less,-<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sworn Assayers of the Press.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said A.—<em>The Author may, in Time....</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then B.—<em>These little Songs display....</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so forth, in the sense of A.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the Bard I throw a Veil.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is no <span class="smcap">Moral</span> to this Tale.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE TOYMAN.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hereon men waste their Eloquence.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How can you lend your Theme its Force?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How can you be direct and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Concise, and (best of all) sincere,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If you must pen your Strain sublime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who ever heard true Grief relate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its heartfelt Woes in 'six' and 'eight'?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or felt his manly Bosom swell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a French-made <em>Villanelle</em>?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How can your <em>Mens divinior</em> sing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where she must chant her Orphic Tale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In just so many Lines, or fail?..."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Form is the first (the Others bawl);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If not, why write in Verse at all?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(If verse be such Restraint) in Prose?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">For surely if you speak your Soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most freely where there's least Control,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It follows you must speak it best<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And barred no more by Lack of Skill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Mob may crowd <em>Parnassus</em> Hill!..."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Just at this Point—for you must know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All this was but the To-and-fro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of <span class="smcap">Matt</span> and <span class="smcap">Dick</span> who played with Thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lingered longer than they ought<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And trifle round a Paradox!)—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came—but I forgot to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came a Fellow where they sat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He set upon the Ground, and showed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His newest Toy—a Card with Strings.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On this side was a Bird with Wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Twain were one.<br /></span> +<span class="i20">Said <span class="smcap">Matt</span>, "E'en so.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here's the Solution in a Word:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Poet twirls them in his Mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wins the Trick with both combined."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When Fate presents us with the Bays,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We scarcely think our Fame eternal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If vouched for by the <em>Farthing Journal</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when the <em>Craftsman's</em> self has spoken,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We take it for a certain Token.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This an Example best will show,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Derived from <span class="smcap">Dennis Diderot</span>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A hackney Author, who'd essayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And failed to live by every Mode,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From <em>Persian Tale</em> to <em>Birthday Ode</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Theologic Speculation.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had been most orthodox till then;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But oft, as <span class="smcap">Socrates</span> has said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Stomach's stronger than the Head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, for a sudden Change of Creed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is no <em>Jesuit</em> like Need.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">By force of Habit, from the Gaul.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He showed (the Trick is nowise new)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Nothing we believe is true;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But chiefly that Mistake is rife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Touching the point of <em>After-Life</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here all were wrong from <span class="smcap">Plato</span> down:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Thing created quite a Scare:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He got a Letter from <span class="smcap">Voltaire</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naming him <em>Ami</em> and <em>Confrère</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Besides two most attractive Offers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He fell forthwith his Head to lift,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To talk of "I and <span class="smcap">Dr. Sw—ft</span>;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On equal Terms, with <span class="smcap">Bolingbroke</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, at the last, a Missive came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That put the Copestone to his Fame.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Boy who brought it would not wait:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It bore a <em>Covent-Garden</em> Date;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Air of <em>Bridewell</em> or the Clink,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It ran in this wise:—<em>Learned Sir!</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>We, whose Subscriptions follow here,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Desire to state our Fellow-feeling</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>In this Religion you're revealing.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>You make it plain that if so be</em><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>We 'scape on Earth from</em> Tyburn Tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>There's nothing left for us to fear</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>In this—or any other Sphere.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>We offer you our Thanks; and hope</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Your Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With that came all the Names beneath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As <span class="smcap">Blueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Bet Careless</span>, and the Rest—a Score<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Rogues and <em>Bona Robas</em> more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This <em>Newgate Calendar</em> he read:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis not recorded what he said.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE DILETTANT.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The most oppressive Form of Cant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is that of your Art-Dilettant:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or rather "was." The Race, I own,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To-day is, happily, unknown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A Painter, now by Fame forgot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had painted—'tis no matter what;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enough that he resolved to try<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Verdict of a critic Eye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Friend he sought made no Pretence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To more than candid Common-sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor held himself from Fault exempt.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, pausing long, showed here and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Parts required a nicer Care,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A closer Thought. The Artist heard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Expostulated, chafed, demurred.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Just then popped in a passing Beau,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One of those Mushroom Growths that spring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From <em>Grand Tours</em> and from Tailoring;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dealing much in terms of Art<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Picked up at Sale and auction Mart.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight to the Masterpiece he ran<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With lifted Glass, and thus began,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Sublime!—prodigious!—truly Greek!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That 'Air of Head' is just divine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That contour <span class="smcap">Guido</span>, every line;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Forearm, too, has quite the <em>Gusto</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the third Manner of <span class="smcap">Robusto</span>...."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, with a Simper and a Cough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He skipped a little farther off:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The middle Distance, too, is placed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quite in the best Italian Taste;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Nothing could be more effective<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than the <em>Ordonnance</em> and Perspective....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You've sold it?—No?—Then take my word,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall speak of it to <span class="smcap">My Lord</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What!—I insist. Don't stir, I beg.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu!" With that he made a Leg,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Offered on either Side his Box,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So took his <em>Virtú</em> off to <span class="smcap">Cock's</span>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Critic, with a Shrug, once more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turned to the Canvas as before.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay,"—said the Painter—"I allow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Worst that you can tell me now.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis plain my Art must go to School,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To win such Praises—from a <span class="smcap">Fool</span>!"<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE TWO PAINTERS.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In Art some hold Themselves content<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If they but compass what they meant;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Others prefer, their Purpose gained,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still to find Something unattained—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something whereto they vaguely grope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With no more Aid than that of Hope.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The prudent Follower of <span class="smcap">Gay</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Declines to speak for either View,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once—'twas in good Queen <span class="smcap">Anna's</span> Time—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While yet in this benighted Clime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <span class="smcap">Genius</span> of the <span class="smcap">Arts</span> (now known<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On mouldy Pediments alone)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Protected all the Men of Mark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two Painters met Her in the Park.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whether She wore the Robe of Air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Portrayed by <span class="smcap">Verrio</span> and <span class="smcap">Laguerre</span>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, like <span class="smcap">Belinda</span>, trod this Earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And armed at every Point for Slaughter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Essences and Orange-water,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not: but it seems that then,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After some talk of Brush and Pen,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some chat of Art both High and Low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of <span class="smcap">Van's</span> "Goose-Pie" and <span class="smcap">Kneller's</span> "<em>Mot</em>,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Lady, as a Goddess should,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bade Them ask of Her what They would.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Then, Madam, my request," says <span class="smcap">Brisk</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Giving his <em>Ramillie</em> a whisk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Is that your Majesty will crown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My humble Efforts with Renown.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let me, I beg it—Thanks to You—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be praised for Everything I do,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whether I paint a Man of Note,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or only plan a Petticoat."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nay," quoth the other, "I confess"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(This One was plainer in his Dress,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And even poorly clad), "for me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I scorn Your Popularity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why should I care to catch at once<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Point of View of every Dunce?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let me do well, indeed, but find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Fancy first, the Work behind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Goddess both Petitions granted.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Each in his Way, achieved Success;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Too oft we hide our Frailties' Blame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath some simple-sounding Name!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will call Display but <em>Proper Pride</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Curse not their Folly but the <em>Jews</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So <em>Madam</em>, when her Roses faint,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resorts to ... anything but <em>Paint</em>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">An honest Uncle, who had plied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Trade of Mercer in <em>Cheapside</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until his Name on <em>'Change</em> was found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was burdened with an Heir inclined<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To thoughts of quite a different Kind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Morn to Night, and, what was worse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He quitted all at length to follow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That "sneaking, whey-faced God, <span class="smcap">Apollo</span>."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In plainer Words, he ran up Bills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At <em>Child's</em>, at <em>Batson's</em> and at <em>Will's</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Discussed the Claims of rival Bards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Midnight,—with a Pack of Cards;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or made excuse for "t'other Bottle"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over a point in <span class="smcap">Aristotle</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This could not last, and like his Betters<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He found, too soon, the <em>Cost</em> of Letters.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back to his Uncle's House he flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Confessing that he'd not a <em>Sou</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were more poetical than clear:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Alas!" he said, "I name no Names:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <em>Muse</em>, dear Sir, the <em>Muse</em> has claims."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Uncle, who, behind his Till,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Knew less of <em>Pindus</em> than <em>Snow-Hill</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looked grave, but thinking (as Men say)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Youth but once can have its Day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Equipped anew his <em>Pride</em> and <em>Hope</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To frisk it on <em>Parnassus</em> Slope.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In one short Month he sought the Door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More shorn and ragged than before.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This Time he showed but small Contrition,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gloried in his mean Condition.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The greatest of our Race," he said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Through <em>Asian</em> Cities begged his Bread.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <em>Muse</em>—the <em>Muse</em> delights to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not <em>Broadcloth</em> but <em>Philosophy</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who doubts of this her Honour shames,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But (as you know) she has her Claims...."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Friend," quoth his Uncle then, "I doubt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This scurvy Craft that you're about<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will lead your <em>philosophic</em> Feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Either to <em>Bedlam</em> or the <em>Fleet</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still, as I would not have you lack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go get some <em>Broadcloth</em> to your Back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And—if it please this precious <em>Muse</em>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere well to purchase decent Shoes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though harkye, Sir...." The Youth was gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the good Man could go on.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet ere long again was seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Votary of <em>Hippocrene</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As along <em>Cheap</em> his Way he took,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Uncle spied him by a Brook,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not such as <em>Nymphs Castalian</em> pour,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Plight was plain by every Sign<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He strove to rise, and wagged his Head—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The <em>Muse</em>, dear Sir, the <em>Muse</em>—" he said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<em>Muse!</em>" quoth the Other, in a Fury,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The <em>Muse</em> shan't serve you, I assure ye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She's just some wanton, idle <em>Jade</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That makes young Fools forget their Trade,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From <em>Charing Cross</em> to <em>Ludgate Hill</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She's just...." But he began to stutter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So left <span class="smcap">Sir Graceless</span> in the Gutter.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE 'SQUIRE AT VAUXHALL.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nothing so idle as to waste<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This Life disputing upon <em>Taste</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And most—let that sad Truth be written—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In this contentious Land of <em>Britain</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where each one holds "it seems to me"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Equivalent to Q. E. D.,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if you dare to doubt his Word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proclaims you Blockhead and absurd.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then, too often, the Debate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is not 'twixt First and Second-rate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some narrow Issue, where a Touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of more or less can't matter much,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, and this makes the Case so sad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betwixt undoubted Good and Bad.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay,—there are some so strangely wrought,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So warped and twisted in their Thought,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, if the Fact be but confest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They like the baser Thing the best.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take <span class="smcap">Bottom</span>, who for one, 'tis clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Possessed a "reasonable Ear;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He might have had at his Command<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Symphonies of <em>Fairy-Land</em>;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well, our immortal <span class="smcap">Shakespear</span> owns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Oaf preferred the "Tongs and Bones!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Squire <span class="smcap">Homespun</span> from <em>Clod-Hall</em> rode down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the Phrase is—"to see the Town;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(The Town, in those Days, mostly lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betwixt the <em>Tavern</em> and the <em>Play</em>.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like all their Worships the J.P.'s,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He put up at the <em>Hercules</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then sallied forth on Shanks his Mare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rather than jolt it in a Chair,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A curst, new-fangled <em>Little-Ease</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That knocks your Nose against your Knees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the good 'Squire was Country-bred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And had strange Notions in his Head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which made him see in every Cur<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The starveling Breed of <em>Hanover</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He classed your Kickshaws and <em>Ragoos</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Popery and Wooden Shoes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Railed at all Foreign Tongues as Lingo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sighed o'er <em>Chaos</em> Wine for Stingo.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hence, as he wandered to and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing could please him, high or low.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As <em>Savages</em> at <em>Ships of War</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">He looked unawed on <em>Temple-Bar</em>;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scarce could conceal his Discontent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With <em>Fish-Street</em> and the <em>Monument</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And might (except at Feeding-Hour)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have scorned the Lion in the <em>Tower</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that the Lion's Race was run,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And—for the Moment—there was none.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At length, blind Fate, that drives us all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brought him at Even to <em>Vauxhall</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What Time the eager Matron jerks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her slow Spouse to the <em>Water-Works</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the coy Spinster, half-afraid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consults the <em>Hermit</em> in the Shade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dazed with the Din and Crowd, the 'Squire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sank in a Seat before the Choir.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <span class="smcap">Faustinetta</span>, fair and showy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Warbled an Air from <em>Arsinoë</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Playing her Bosom and her Eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Swans do when they agonize.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! to some a Mug of Ale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is better than an <em>Orphic Tale</em>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The 'Squire grew dull, the 'Squire grew bored;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His chin dropt down; he slept; he snored.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, straying thro' the "poppied Reign,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He dreamed him at <em>Clod-Hall</em> again;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He heard once more the well-known Sounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Crack of Whip, the Cry of Hounds.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He rubbed his Eyes, woke up, and lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Change had come upon the Show.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where late the Singer stood, a Fellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clad in a Jockey's Coat of Yellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was mimicking a Cock that crew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then came the Cry of Hounds anew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Yoicks! Stole Away!</em> and harking back;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then Ringwood leading up the Pack.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The 'Squire in Transport slapped his Knee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At this most hugeous Pleasantry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sawn Wood followed; last of all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Man brought something in a Shawl,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something that struggled, scraped, and squeaked<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Porkers do, whose tails are tweaked.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our honest 'Squire could scarcely sit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So excellent he thought the Wit.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when <em>Sir Wag</em> drew off the Sheath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And showed there was no Pig beneath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His pent-up Wonder, Pleasure, Awe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Exploded in a long Guffaw:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, to his dying Day, he'd swear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Naught in Town the Bell could bear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From "Jockey wi' the Yellow Coat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That had a Farm-Yard in his Throat!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Moral the First</span> you may discover:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The 'Squire was like <span class="smcap">Titania's</span> lover;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">He put a squeaking Pig before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Harmony of <span class="smcap">Clayton's</span> Score.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Moral the Second</span>—not so clear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still it shall be added here:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He praised the Thing he understood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twere well if every Critic would.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE CLIMACTERIC.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When do the reasoning Powers decline?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Ancients said at Forty-Nine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Forty-Nine behoves it then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To quit the Inkhorn and the Pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since <span class="smcap">Aristotle</span> so decreed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Premising thus, we now proceed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In that thrice-favoured Northern Land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where most the Flowers of Thought expand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all things nebulous grow clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through Spectacles and Lager-Beer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There lived, at <em>Dumpelsheim</em> the Lesser,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A certain High-Dutch Herr Professor.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than <span class="smcap">Grotius</span> more alert and quick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More logical than <span class="smcap">Burgersdyck</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Lectures both so much transcended,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That far and wide his Fame extended,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proclaiming him to every clime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within a Mile of <em>Dumpelsheim</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But chief he taught, by Day and Night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Doctrine of the Stagirite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proving it fixed beyond Dispute,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Ways that none could well refute;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For if by Chance 'twas urged that Men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er-stepped the Limit now and then,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He'd show unanswerably still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Either that all they did was "Nil,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or else 'twas marked by Indication<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of grievous mental Degradation:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay—he could even trace, they say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Degradation to a Day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Years rolled on, and as they flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More famed the Herr Professor grew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His "<em>Locus</em> of the Pineal Gland"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(A Masterpiece he long had planned)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had reached the End of Book Eleven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he was nearing Forty-Seven.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Admirers had not long to wait;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The last Book came at Forty-Eight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And should have been the Heart and Soul—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Crown and Summit—of the whole.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now the oddest Thing ensued;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas so insufferably crude,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So feeble and so poor, 'twas plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Writer's Mind was on the wane.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing could possibly be said;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en Friendship's self must hang the head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While jealous Rivals, scarce so civil,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Denounced it openly as "Drivel."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never was such Collapse. In brief,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The poor Professor died of Grief.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With fitting mortuary Rhyme<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They buried him at <em>Dumpelsheim</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as they sorrowing set about<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A "Short Memoir," the Truth came out.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had been older than he knew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Parish Clerk had put a "2"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In place of "Nought," and made his Date<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Birth a Brace of Years too late.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he had written Book the Last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His true Climacteric had past!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Moral</span>.—To estimate your Worth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be certain as to date of Birth.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TALES" id="TALES"></a>TALES IN RHYME.</h2> + + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE VIRGIN WITH THE BELLS.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Much strange is true. And yet so much<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He blurs them both beneath his touch:—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In this our tale his part he plays.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Florence, so the legend tells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There stood a church that men would praise<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(Even where Art the most excels)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For works of price; but chief for one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They called the "Virgin with the Bells."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gracious she was, and featly done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With crown of gold about the hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And robe of blue with stars thereon,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And sceptre in her hand did bear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And o'er her, in an almond tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Three little golden bells there were,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">None knew from whence she came of old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor whose the sculptor's name should be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of great or small. But this they told:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That once from out the blaze of square,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bickering folk that bought and sold,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">More moved no doubt of heat than prayer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came to the church an Umbrian,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lord of much gold and champaign fair,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, for all this, a hard, haught man.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To whom the priests, in humbleness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At once to beg for alms began,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Praying him grant of his excess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such as for poor men's bread might pay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or give their saint a gala-dress.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thereat with scorn he answered—"Nay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most Reverend! Far too well ye know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By guile and wile, the fox's way<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"To swell the Church's overflow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But ere from me the least carline<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Bacchus! ye are none too lean<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"For fasting folk!" With that he laughed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so, across the porphyry floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hand upon his dagger-haft,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Strode, and of these was seen no more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At those his words, since gear and store<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oft dower shrunk souls. But, on a day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While yet again throughout the square,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The buyers in their noisy way,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Chaffered around the basket ware,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It chanced (I but the tale reveal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor true nor false therein declare)—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It chanced that when the priest would kneel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the taper's flickering flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sudden a little tremulous peal<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From out the Virgin's altar came.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they that heard must fain recall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Umbrian, and the words of shame<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Spoke in his pride, and therewithal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came news how, at that very date<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hour of time was fixed his fall,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, of the Duke, was banned the State,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all his goods, and lands as well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Holy Church were confiscate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Such is the tale the Frati tell.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A TALE OF POLYPHEME.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"There's nothing new"—Not that I go so far<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As he who also said "There's nothing true,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since, on the contrary, I hold there are<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Surviving still a verity or two;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, as to novelty, in my conviction,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's nothing new,—especially in fiction.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hence, at the outset, I make no apology,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">If this <em>my</em> story is as old as Time,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Cyclops' love,—which, somewhat varied, I'm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Once on a time"—there's nothing new, I said—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It may be fifty years ago or more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beside a lonely posting-road that led<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With low-built bar and old bow-window shady,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An ancient Inn, the "Dragon and the Lady."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where beast and man were equal on the sign,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A road-side break beyond the straggling shops.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so directed, thereupon you led<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your halting roadster to a kind of pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This you descended with a crumbling tread,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And found the sea beneath you like a glass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And soon, beside a building partly walled—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half hut, half cave—you raised your voice and called.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then a dog growled; and straightway there began<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tumult within—for, bleating with affright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A goat burst out, escaping from the can;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, following close, rose slowly into sight—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bared a red forearm, bringing into view<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then he lit his fire.... But I dispense<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As being but a colorable pretence<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To bring an awkward hero in perforce;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since this our smith, for reasons never known,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To most society preferred his own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Women declared that he'd an "Evil Eye,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This in a sense was true—he had but one;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We sometimes say so of the friends we shun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Milking his goat at eve, and it may be,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Spearing the fish along the flats at night,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until, at last, one April evening mild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Lady was a nullity; the Child<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One of those bright bewitching little creatures,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would soften out the ruggedest of features;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fragile and slight,—a very fay for size,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nurses, no doubt, might name her "somewhat wild;"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or corset-makers add, that for a child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She needed "cultivation;"—all I know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Lady was a nullity—a pale,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Remained religiously indoors to read;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So that, in wandering at her will, the Child<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did, in reality, run "somewhat wild."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At first but peering at the sanded floor<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then watching idly from the dusky door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The noisy advent of a coach or car;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then stealing out to wonder at the fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some old ship's figure-head—until at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Straying with each excursion more and more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She reached the limits of the road, and passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so, as you, respected Reader, showed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came to the smith's "desirable abode."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There by the cave the occupant she found,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Weaving a crate; and, with a gladsome cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With all the terrors of his single eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then from a mound came running, too, the goat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Uttering her plaintive, desultory note.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Child stood wondering at the silent man,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Doubtful to go or stay, when presently<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She felt a plucking, for the goat began<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To crop the trail of twining briony<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She held behind her; so that, laughing, she<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the goat followed her on eager feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And therewithal an air so grave and mild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of injured confidence, that soon the Child<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filled the lone shore with louder merriment,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus grew acquaintanceship between the pair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The girl and goat;—for thenceforth, day by day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As might be gathered on the downward way:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Foxglove, or broom, and "yellow cytisus,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, for the Cyclops, that misogynist<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Felt it at least incumbent to resist<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Further encroachment, and as one beguiled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet not less from thence he still must see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That daily coming, and must hear the goat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bleating her welcome; then, towards the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The happy voices of the playmates float;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until, at last, enduring it no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He took his wonted station by the door.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here was, of course, a pitiful surrender;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed to exert an influence but slender,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would run to question him, till, by and by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His moody humor like a cloud dispersing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He found himself uneasily conversing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That was a sow's-ear, that an egg of skate,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And this an agate rounded by the wave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then came inquiries still more intimate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">About himself, the anvil, and the cave;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then, at last, the Child, without alarm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would even spell the letters on his arm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<span class="smcap">G—a—l</span>—<em>Galatea</em>." So there grew<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On his part, like some half-remembered tale,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The new-found memory of an ice-bound crew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And vague garrulities of spouting whale,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, in his heart, which hitherto had been<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Locked as those frozen barriers of the North,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came once more the season of the green,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The tender bud-time and the putting forth,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">So that the man, before the new sensation,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Felt for the child a kind of adoration;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Rising by night, to search for shell and flower,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To lay in places where she found them first;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hoarding his cherished goat's milk for the hour<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When those young lips might feel the summer's thirst;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding himself for all devotion paid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By that clear laughter of the little maid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dwelling, alas! in that fond Paradise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where no to-morrow quivers in suspense,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To break the soft forgetfulness of sense,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where dreams become realities; and where<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I willingly would leave him—did I dare.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet for a little space it still endured,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until, upon a day when least of all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The softened Cyclops, by his hopes assured,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dreamed the inevitable blow could fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came the stern moment that should all destroy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bringing a pert young cockerel of a Boy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Middy, I think,—he'd "<em>Acis</em>" on his box:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A black-eyed, sun-burnt, mischief-making imp,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pet of the mess,—a Puck with curling locks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who straightway travestied the Cyclops' limp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And marveled how his cousin so could care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For such a "one-eyed, melancholy Bear."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus there was war at once; not overt yet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For still the Child, unwilling, would not break<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The new acquaintanceship, nor quite forget<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The boding smith with clumsy efforts tried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To win the laughing scorner to his side.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are some sights pathetic; none I know<br /></span> +<span class="i2">More sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Humbling itself, for love, to come and go<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Before some petty tyrant of its kind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saddest, ah!—saddest far,—when it can do<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naught to advance the end it has in view.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This was at least the Cyclops' case, until,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whether the boy beguiled the Child away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or whether that limp Matron on the Hill<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Woke from her novel-reading trance, one day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He waited long and wearily in vain,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, from that hour, they never came again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet still he waited, hoping—wondering if<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They still might come, or dreaming that he heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sound of far-off voices on the cliff,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But nothing broke the silence of the shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, from that hour, the Child returned no more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Therefore our Cyclops sorrowed,—not as one<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who can command the gamut of despair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But as a man who feels his days are done,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So dead they seem,—so desolately bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For, though he'd lived a hermit, 'twas but only<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now he discovered that his life was lonely.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The very sea seemed altered, and the shore;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The very voices of the air were dumb;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Time was an emptiness that o'er and o'er<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ticked with the dull pulsation "Will she come?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So that he sat "consuming in a dream,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much like his old forerunner, Polypheme.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Until there came the question, "Is she gone?"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With such sad sick persistence that at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Urged by the hungry thought which drove him on,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Along the steep declivity he passed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And by the summit panting stood, and still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just as the horn was sounding on the hill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, in a dream, beside the "Dragon" door,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The smith saw travellers standing in the sun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then came the horn again, and three or four<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Looked idly at him from the roof, but One,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Child within,—suffused with sudden shame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrust forth a hand, and called to him by name.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus the coach vanished from his sight, but he<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Limped back with bitter pleasure in his pain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was not all forgotten—could it be?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And yet the knowledge made the memory vain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then—he felt a pressure in his throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, for that night, forgot to milk his goat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What then might come of silent misery,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What new resolvings then might intervene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not. Only, with the morning sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The goat stood tethered on the "Dragon" green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Found the hut empty,—for the man was gone.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A STORY FROM A DICTIONARY.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"Sic visum Veneri: cui placet impares<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Formas atque animos sub juga aënea<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Saevo mittere cum joco."<br /></span> +<span class="i30">—<span class="smcap">Hor.</span> i. 33.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Love mocks us all"—as Horace said of old:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From sheer perversity, that arch-offender<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still yokes unequally the hot and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The short and tall, the hardened and the tender;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He bids a Socrates espouse a scold,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And makes a Hercules forget his gender:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Sic visum Veneri!</em> Lest samples fail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I add a fresh one from the page of <span class="smcap">Bayle</span>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was in Athens that the thing occurred,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the last days of Alexander's rule,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While yet in Grove or Portico was heard<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The studious murmur of its learned school;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's bird<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who plays therein the hero (or the fool)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a Megarian, who must then have been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A maid, and beautiful, and just eighteen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shan't describe her. Beauty is the same<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Anno Domini as erst B.C.;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The type is still that witching One who came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Between the furrows, from the bitter sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis but to shift accessories and frame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this our heroine in a trice would be,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Save that she wore a <em>peplum</em> and a <em>chiton</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like any modern on the beach at Brighton.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Stay, I forget! Of course the sequel shows<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She had some qualities of disposition,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To which, in general, her sex are foes,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As strange proclivities to erudition,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lore unfeminine, reserved for those<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who now-a-days descant on "Woman's Mission,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or tread instead that "primrose path" to knowledge,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That milder Academe—the Girton College.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The truth is, she admired ... a learned man.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There were no curates in that sunny Greece,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For whom the mind emotional could plan<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fine-art habiliments in gold and fleece;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(This was ere chasuble or cope began<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To shake the centres of domestic peace;)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">So that "admiring," such as maids give way to,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turned to the ranks of Zeno and of Plato.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The "object" here was mildly prepossessing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At least, regarded in a woman's sense;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His <em>forte</em>, it seems, lay chiefly in expressing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Disputed fact in Attic eloquence;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His ways were primitive; and as to dressing,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His toilet was a negative pretence;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He kept, besides, the <em>régime</em> of the Stoic;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In short, was not, by any means, "heroic."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>Sic visum Veneri!</em>—The thing is clear.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her friends were furious, her lovers nettled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas much as though the Lady Vere de Vere<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unheard! Intolerable!—a lumbering steer<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To plod the upland with a mare high-mettled!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand her<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To curled Euphorion or Anaximander.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so they used due discipline, of course,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To lead to reason this most erring daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proceeding even to extremes of force,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Confinement (solitary), and bread and water;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, having lectured her till they were hoarse,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Finding that this to no submission brought her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last, (unwisely<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>) to the man they sent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That he might combat her by argument.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Being, they fancied, but a bloodless thing;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or else too well forewarned of that commotion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which poets feign inseparable from Spring<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To suffer danger from a school-girl notion;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Also they hoped that she might find her king,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On close inspection, clumsy and Bœotian:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This was acute enough, and yet, between us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I think they thought too little about Venus.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Something, I know, of this sort is related<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Garrick's life. However, the man came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And taking first his mission's end as stated,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Began at once her sentiments to tame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Working discreetly to the point debated<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By steps rhetorical I spare to name;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In other words,—he broke the matter gently.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Meanwhile, the lady looked at him intently,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wistfully, sadly,—and it put him out,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Although he went on steadily, but faster.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">There were some maladies he'd read about<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which seemed, at first, most difficult to master;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They looked intractable at times, no doubt,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But all they needed was a little plaster;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This was a thing physicians long had pondered,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Considered, weighed ... and then ... and then he wandered.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">('Tis so embarrassing to have before you<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A silent auditor, with candid eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With lips that speak no sentence to restore you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And aspect, generally, of pained surprise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, if we add that all these things adore you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis really difficult to syllogise:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of course it mattered not to him a feather,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still he wished ... they'd not been left together.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Of one," he said, continuing, "of these<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The young especially should be suspicious;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeing no ailment in Hippocrates<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could be at once so tedious and capricious;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No seeming apple of Hesperides<br /></span> +<span class="i2">More fatal, deadlier, and more delicious—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pernicious,—he should say,—for all its seeming...."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed to him he simply was blaspheming.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If she had only turned askance, or uttered<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Word in reply, or trifled with her brooch,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or sighed, or cried, grown petulant, or fluttered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He might (in metaphor) have "called his coach";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet still, while patiently he hemmed and stuttered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She wore her look of wondering reproach;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(And those who read the "Shakespeare of Romances"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Know of what stuff a girl's "dynamic glance" is.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But there was still a cure, the wise insisted,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Love,—or rather, in Philosophy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Philosophy—no, Love—at best existed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But as an ill for that to remedy:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was no knot so intricately twisted,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There was no riddle but at last should be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Love—he meant Philosophy—resolved...."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The truth is, he was getting quite involved.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O sovran Love! how far thy power surpasses<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Aught that is taught of Logic or the Schools!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here was a man, "far seen" in all the classes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strengthened of precept, fortified of rules,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mute as the least articulate of asses;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nay, at an age when every passion cools,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Conscious of nothing but a sudden yearning<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stronger by far than any force of learning!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Therefore he changed his tone, flung down his wallet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Described his lot, how pitiable and poor;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hut of mud,—the miserable pallet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The alms solicited from door to door;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The scanty fare of bitter bread and sallet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could she this shame,—this poverty endure?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I scarcely think he knew what he was doing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But that last line had quite a touch of wooing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And so she answered him,—those early Greeks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Took little care to keep concealment preying<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At any length upon their damask cheeks,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She answered him by very simply saying,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She could and would:—and said it as one speaks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who takes no course without much careful weighing....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was this, perchance, the answer that he hoped?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It might, or might not be. But they eloped.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sought the free pine-wood and the larger air,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The leafy sanctuaries, remote and inner,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the great heart of nature, beating bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Receives benignantly both saint and sinner;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving propriety to gasp and stare,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And shake its head, like Burleigh, after dinner,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From pure incompetence to mar or mend them:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They fled and wed;—though, mind, I don't defend them.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I don't defend them. 'Twas a serious act,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">No doubt too much determined by the senses;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Alas! when these affinities attract,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We lose the future in the present tenses!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Besides, the least establishment's a fact<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Involving nice adjustment of expenses;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moreover, too, reflection should reveal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That not remote contingent—<em>la famille</em>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet these, maybe, were happy in their lot.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Milton has said (and surely Milton knows)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That after all, philosophy is "not,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Not</em> harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgot<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Much that is needful in this world of prose:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perchance 'twas so with these. But who shall say?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Time has long since swept them and theirs away.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Unwisely," surely. But 'tis well to mention<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That this particular is <em>not</em> invention.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></div></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE WATER-CURE.</h3> + +<p class="center">A TALE: IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"—<em>portentaque Thessala rides?</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i30">—<span class="smcap">Hor.</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"—<em>Thessalian portents do you flout?</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i32">* *<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cardenio's</span> fortunes ne'er miscarried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the day <span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> married.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What then? the Nymph no doubt was young?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was: but yet—she had a tongue!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most women have, you seem to say.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I grant it—in a different way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">'Twas not that organ half-divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What time we seek our nightly pillows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rebukes our easy peccadilloes:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas not so tuneful, so composing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas louder and less often dozing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At <em>Ombre</em>, <em>Basset</em>, <em>Loo</em>, <em>Quadrille</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You heard it resonant and shrill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You heard it rising, rising yet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond <span class="smcap">Selinda's</span> parroquet;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">You heard it rival and outdo<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chair-men and the link-boy too;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In short, wherever lungs perform,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like <span class="smcap">Marlborough</span>, it rode the storm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">So uncontrolled it came to be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> feared his <em>chère amie</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Like <span class="smcap">Echo</span> by <em>Cephissus</em> shore)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would turn to voice and nothing more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">That ('tis conceded) must be cured<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which can't by practice be endured.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cardenio</span>, though he loved the maid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grew daily more and more afraid;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And since advice could not prevail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Reproof but seemed to fan the gale),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A prudent man, he cast about<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find some fitting nostrum out.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What need to say that priceless drug<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had not in any mine been dug?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What need to say no skilful leech<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could check that plethora of speech?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suffice it, that one lucky day<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> tried—another way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">A Hermit (there were hermits then;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The most accessible of men!)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Near <em>Vauxhall's</em> sacred shade resided;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In him, at length, our friend confided.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Simples, for show, he used to sell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But cast <em>Nativities</em> as well.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consulted, he looked wondrous wise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then undertook the enterprise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">What that might be, the Muse must spare:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell the truth, she was not there.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She scorns to patch what she ignores<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With <em>Similes</em> and <em>Metaphors</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so, in short, to change the scene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She slips a fortnight in between.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Behold our pair then (quite by chance!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In <em>Vauxhall's</em> garden of romance,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That paradise of nymphs and grottoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What wonder if, the lamps reviewed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The song encored, the maze pursued,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No further feat could seem more pat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than seek the Hermit after that?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who then more keen her fate to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than this, the new <span class="smcap">Leuconoë</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On fire to learn the lore forbidden<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Babylonian numbers hidden?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forthwith they took the darkling road<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To <span class="smcap">Albumazar</span> his abode.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Arriving, they beheld the sage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Intent on hieroglyphic page,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In high <em>Armenian</em> cap arrayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And girt with engines of his trade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(As <em>Skeletons</em>, and <em>Spheres</em>, and <em>Cubes</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As <em>Amulets</em> and <em>Optic Tubes</em>;)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With dusky depths behind revealing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While more to palsy the beholder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The Hermit eyed the Lady o'er<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As one whose face he'd seen before;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then, with agitated looks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He fell to fumbling at his books.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> felt his spouse was frightened,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her grasp upon his arm had tightened;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Judge then her horror and her dread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When "Vox Stellarum" shook his head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of <em>Taurus</em> and of <em>Capricorn</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of stars averse, and stars ascendant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stars entirely independent;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were set at sixes and at sevens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Portending, in her case, some fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too fearful to prognosticate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"But is there naught," <span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"No sign or token, Sage, to show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From whence, or what, this dismal woe?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The Sage, with circle and with plane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betook him to his charts again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"It vaguely seems to threaten Speech:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more (he said) the signs can teach."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">But still <span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> tried once more:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Is there no potion in your store,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No charm by <em>Chaldee</em> mage concerted<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By which this doom can be averted?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The Sage, with motion doubly mystic,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resumed his juggling cabalistic.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The aspects here again were various;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But seemed to indicate <em>Aquarius</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thereat portentously he frowned;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then frowned again, then smiled:—'twas found!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But 'twas too simple to be tried.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What is it, then?" at once they cried.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Whene'er by chance you feel incited<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To speak at length, or uninvited;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(At times, we know, the softest will!),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This word oracular, my daughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bids you to fill your mouth with water:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Further, to hold it firm and fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the danger be o'erpast."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The Dame, by this in part relieved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The prospect of escape perceived,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rebelled a little at the diet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Cardenio</span> said discreetly, "Try it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Try it, my Own. You have no choice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What if you lose your charming voice!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She tried, it seems. And whether then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some god stepped in, benign to men;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or Modesty, too long outlawed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Contrived to aid the pious fraud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not:—but from that same day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She talked in quite a different way.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE NOBLE PATRON.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Ce sont les amours</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Qui font les beaux jours.</em>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What is a <em>Patron</em>? <span class="smcap">Johnson</span> knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And well that lifelike portrait drew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He is a Patron who looks down</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>With careless eye on men who drown;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>But if they chance to reach the land,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Encumbers them with helping hand.</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah! happy we whose artless rhyme<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No longer now must creep to climb!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah! happy we of later days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who 'scape those <em>Caudine Forks</em> of praise!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose votive page may dare commend<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Brother, or a private Friend!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not so it fared with scribbling man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As <span class="smcap">Pope</span> says, "under my Queen <span class="smcap">Anne</span>."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Dick Dovecot</span> (this was long, be sure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ere he attained his <em>Wiltshire</em> cure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And settled down, like humbler folks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To cowslip wine and country jokes)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dreamed of honours and a Name.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A fresh-cheek'd lad, he came to Town<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In homespun hose and russet brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But armed at point with every view<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enforced in <span class="smcap">Rapin</span> and <span class="smcap">Bossu</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Besides a stout portfolio ripe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For <span class="smcap">Lintot's</span> or for <span class="smcap">Tonson's</span> type.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He went the rounds, saw all the sights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dropped in at <em>Wills</em> and <em>Tom's</em> o' nights;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heard <span class="smcap">Burnet</span> preach, saw <span class="smcap">Bicknell</span> dance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E'en gained from <span class="smcap">Addison</span> a glance;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay, once, to make his bliss complete,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He supp'd with <span class="smcap">Steele</span> in <em>Bury Street</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">('Tis true the feast was half by stealth:<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Prue</span> was in bed: they drank her health.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By this his purse was running low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he must either print or go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He went to <span class="smcap">Tonson</span>. <span class="smcap">Tonson</span> said—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well! <span class="smcap">Tonson</span> hummed and shook his head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thought—at length—it might go down;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With aid, of course, of <em>Elzevir</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And <em>Prologue</em> to a Prince, or Peer.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dick winced at this, for adulation<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was scarce that candid youth's vocation:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor did he deem his rustic lays<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Required a <em>Coronet</em> for <em>Bays</em>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But there—the choice was that, or none.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Lord was found; the thing was done.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With <span class="smcap">Horace</span> and with <span class="smcap">Tooke's</span> <em>Pantheon</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He penn'd his tributary pæan;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Despatched his gift, nor waited long<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The meed of his ingenuous song.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ere two days pass'd, a hackney chair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brought a pert spark with languid air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A lace cravat about his throat,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brocaded gown,—en <em>papillotes</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">("My Lord himself," quoth <span class="smcap">Dick</span>, "at least!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no, 'twas that "inferior priest,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Lordship's man.) He held a card:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Lord (it said) would see the Bard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The day arrived; <span class="smcap">Dick</span> went, was shown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into an anteroom, alone—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A great gilt room with mirrored door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Festoons of flowers and marble floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose lavish splendours made him look<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More shabby than a sheepskin book.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(His own book—by the way—he spied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On a far table, toss'd aside.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Dick</span> waited, as they only wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who haunt the chambers of the Great.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">He heard the chairmen come and go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He heard the Porter yawn below;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He heard the silver stroke of noon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thought how at this very time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old church clock at home would chime.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear heart, how plain he saw it all!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lich-gate and the crumbling wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stream, the pathway to the wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bridge where they so oft had stood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, in a trice, both church and clock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vanish'd before ... a shuttlecock.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A shuttlecock! And following slow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The zigzag of its to-and-fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so intent upon its flight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She neither look'd to left nor right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came a tall girl with floating hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>O Dea certé!</em>—thought poor Dick,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thereupon his memories quick<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ran back to her who flung the ball<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In <span class="smcap">Homer's</span> page, and next to all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dancing maids that bards have sung;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lastly to One at home, as young,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">As fresh, as light of foot, and glad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>O Dea certé!</em> (Still, he stirred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Meanwhile the shuttlecock in air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went darting gaily here and there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now crossed a mirror's face, and next<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Olympus overhead. At last,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The striker miss'd it, and it fell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full on the book <span class="smcap">Dick</span> knew so well.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(If he had thought to speak or bow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Judge if he moved a muscle now!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The player paused, bent down to look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifted a cover of the book;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went forward for a page or more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>Asem and Asa</em>: <span class="smcap">Dick</span> could trace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Almost the passage and the place);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then for a moment with bent head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rested upon her hand and read.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(<span class="smcap">Dick</span> thought once more how cousin <span class="smcap">Cis</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Used when she read to lean like this;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Used when she <em>read</em>,"—why, <span class="smcap">Cis</span> could <em>say</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">All he had written,—any day!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sudden was heard a hurrying tread;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The great doors creaked. The reader fled.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A waft of Bergamot, and after,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His Chaplain smirking at his side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Lord himself in all his pride—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A portly shape in stars and lace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Dick</span> bowed and smiled. The Great Man stared,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With look half puzzled and half scared;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then seemed to recollect, turned round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mumbled some imperfect sound:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A moment more, his coach of state<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dipped on its springs beneath his weight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And <span class="smcap">Dick</span>, who followed at his heels,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heard but the din of rolling wheels.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Away, too, all his dreams had rolled;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet they left him half consoled:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fame, after all, he thought might wait.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would <span class="smcap">Cis</span>? Suppose he were too late!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Next day he took the <em>Wiltshire</em> Stage.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VERS" id="VERS"></a>VERS DE SOCIETE.</h2> + + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> +<h3>INCOGNITA.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Just for a space that I met her—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Just for a day in the train!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It began when she feared it would wet her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That tiniest spurtle of rain:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And carefully padded the pane;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Longing to do it again!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then it grew when she begged me to reach her<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A dressing-case under the seat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was "really so tiny a creature,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That she needed a stool for her feet!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which was promptly arranged to her order<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a care that was even minute,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a glimpse—of an open-work border,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a glance—of the fairyest boot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Were they houses for men or for pigs?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then it shifted to muscular novels,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With a little digression on prigs:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Had I read it?" She knew when I had,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And "poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Too deep for her frivolous mood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That preferred your mere metrical <em>soufflé</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the stronger poetical food;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet at times he was good—"as a tonic:"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was Tennyson writing just now?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And was this new poet Byronic,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And clever, and naughty, or how?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then we trifled with concerts and croquêt,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then she daintily dusted her face;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fished out from the foregoing case;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And voted Aunt Sally a bore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Discussed if the tight rope were easy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And oh! the odd things that she quoted,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the prettiest possible look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the price of two buns that she noted<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the prettiest possible book;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">While her talk like a musical rillet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Flashed on with the hours that flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With just enough summer—for Two.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till at last in her corner, peeping<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From a nest of rugs and of furs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the white shut eyelids sleeping<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On those dangerous looks of hers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She seemed like a snow-drop breaking,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not wholly alive nor dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But with one blind impulse making<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the sounds of the spring overhead;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I watched in the lamplight's swerving<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The shade of the down-dropt lid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the lip-line's delicate curving,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where a slumbering smile lay hid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till I longed that, rather than sever,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The train should shriek into space,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And carry us onward—for ever,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Me and that beautiful face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But she suddenly woke in a fidget,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With fears she was "nearly at home,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whom I mentally wished—well, at Rome;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Got out at the very next station,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Looking back with a merry <em>Bon Soir</em>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adding, too, to my utter vexation,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A surplus, unkind <em>Au Revoir</em>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So left me to muse on her graces,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To dose and to muse, till I dreamed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That we sailed through the sunniest places<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In a glorified galley, it seemed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the cabin was made of a carriage,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we split on a rock labelled <span class="smcap">Marriage</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I woke,—as cold as a stone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And that's how I lost her—a jewel,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Incognita</em>—one in a crowd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor prudent enough to be cruel,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor worldly enough to be proud.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was just a shut lid and its lashes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Just a few hours in a train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Longing to see her again.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>DORA VERSUS ROSE.</h3> + +<p class="center">"<em>The Case is proceeding.</em>"</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At least, on a practical plan—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One love is enough for a man.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But no case that I ever yet met is<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like mine: I am equally fond<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,<br /></span> +<span class="i18">And Dora, a blonde.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Each rivals the other in powers—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Miss Do., perpendicular saints.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In short, to distinguish is folly;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—<br /></span> +<span class="i17">Or Buridan's ass.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If it happens that Rosa I've singled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For a soft celebration in rhyme,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Somehow with the tune and the time;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or I painfully pen me a sonnet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And behold I am writing upon it<br /></span> +<span class="i17">The legend "To Rose."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is all overscrawled with her head),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I fancy at last that I've got her,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It turns to her rival instead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or I find myself placidly adding<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the rapturous tresses of Rose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,<br /></span> +<span class="i17">Ineffable nose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Was there ever so sad a dilemma?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For Rose I would perish (<em>pro tem.</em>);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Dora I'd willingly stem a—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Whatever might offer to stem);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to make the invidious election,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To declare that on either one's side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,<br /></span> +<span class="i17">I <em>cannot</em> decide.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, as either so hopelessly nice is,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My sole and my final resource<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some feat of molecular force,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To solve me this riddle conducive<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By no means to peace or repose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since the issue can scarce be inclusive<br /></span> +<span class="i17">Of Dora <em>and</em> Rose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i16">(<em>Afterthought.</em>)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah),<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Not quite so delightful as Rose,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not wholly so charming as Dora,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the claims of the others are equal,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And flight—in the main—is the best,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I might ... But no matter,—the sequel<br /></span> +<span class="i17">Is easily guessed.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>AD ROSAM.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Mitte sectari <span class="smcap">Rosa</span> quo locorum</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Sera moretur.</em>"<br /></span> +<span class="i26"><em>—<span class="smcap">Hor.</span> i. 38.</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I had a vacant dwelling—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where situated, I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As naught can serve the telling,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Decline to specify;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enough 'twas neither haunted,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Entailed, nor out of date;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I put up "Tenant Wanted,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And left the rest to Fate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, Rose, you passed the window,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I see you passing yet,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, what could I within do,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When, Rose, our glances met!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your rose-mouth made me thrall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was my "Decline and Fall."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I heard the summons spoken<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That all hear—king and clown:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You smiled—the ice was broken;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You stopped—the bill was down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How blind we are! It never<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Occurred to me to seek<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If you had come for ever,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or only for a week.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The words your voice neglected,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seemed written in your eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thought your heart protected,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your cheek told, missal-wise;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I read the rubric plainly<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As any Expert could;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In short, we dreamed,—insanely,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As only lovers should.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I broke the tall Œnone,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That then my chambers graced,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because she seemed "too bony,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To suit your purist taste;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you, without vexation,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">May certainly confess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some graceful approbation,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Designed <em>à mon adresse</em>.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You liked me then, carina,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You liked me then, I think;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For your sake gall had been a<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mere tonic-cup to drink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For your sake, bonds were trivial,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The rack, a <em>tour-de-force</em>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And banishment, convivial,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You coming too, of course.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, Rose, a word in jest meant<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Would throw you in a state<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That no well-timed investment<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Could quite alleviate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond a Paris trousseau<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You prized my smile, I know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The lip of d'Houdetot.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, Rose,—But why pursue it?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When Fate begins to frown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Best write the final "<em>fuit</em>,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And gulp the physic down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet,—and yet, that only,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The song should end with this:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You left me,—left me lonely,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Rosa mutabilis</em>!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Left me, with Time for Mentor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(A dreary <em>tête-à-tête</em>!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pen my "Last Lament," or<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Extemporize to Fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In blankest verse disclosing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My bitterness of mind,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which is, I learn, composing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In cases of the kind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No, Rose. Though you refuse me,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Culture the pang prevents;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I am not made"—excuse me—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Of so slight elements;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I leave to common lovers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The hemlock or the hood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My rarer soul recovers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In dreams of public good.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Roses of this nation—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or so I understand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From careful computation—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Exceed the gross demand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, therefore, in civility<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To maids that can't be matched,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No man of sensibility<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Should linger unattached.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So, without further fashion—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A modern Curtius,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plunging, from pure compassion,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To aid the overplus,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I sit down, sad—not daunted,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, in my weeds, begin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A new card—"Tenant Wanted;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Particulars within."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>OUTWARD BOUND.</h3> + +<p class="center">(HORACE, iii. 7.)</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Primo restituent vere Favonii—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Gygen?</em>"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your absent Arthur back shall bring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enriched with many an Indian thing<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Once more to woo you;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Him neither wind nor wave can check,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still constant, though with stiffened neck,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Makes verses to you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Would it were wave and wind alone!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The terrors of the torrid zone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The indiscriminate cyclone,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A man might parry;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But only faith, or "triple brass,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can help the "outward-bound" to pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Safe through that eastward-faring class<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Who sail to marry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For him fond mothers, stout and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ascend the tortuous cabin stair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only to hold around his chair<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Insidious sessions;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For him the eyes of daughters droop<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the plate of handed soup,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suggesting seats upon the poop,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And soft confessions.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor are these all his pains, nor most.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Romancing captains cease to boast—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loud majors leave their whist—to roast<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The youthful griffin;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All, all with pleased persistence show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His fate,—"remote, unfriended, slow,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His "melancholy" bungalow,—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">His lonely tiffin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In vain. Let doubts assail the weak;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of woes that wait him;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naught can subdue his soul secure;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Arthur will come again," be sure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though matron shrewd and maid mature<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Conspire to mate him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, Laura, on your side, forbear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To greet with too impressed an air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A certain youth with chestnut hair,—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A youth unstable;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Albeit none more skilled can guide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The frail canoe on Thamis tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Through "Guards" or "Mabel."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Be warned in time. Without a trace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of acquiescence on your face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">His airy patter;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Avoid the confidential nook;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If, when you sing, you find his look<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grow tender, close your music-book,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And end the matter.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Hugh</span> (<em>on furlough</em>).<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Helen</span> (<em>his cousin</em>).<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They have not come! And ten is past,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unless, by chance, my watch is fast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Aunt Mabel surely told us "ten."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I doubt if she can do it, then.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In fact, their train....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i26">That is,—you knew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How could you be so treacherous, Hugh?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay;—it is scarcely mine, the crime,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One can't account for railway-time!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At least, there's nothing here of note.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then <em>here</em> we'll stay, please. Once for all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I bar all artists,—great and small!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From now until we go in June<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall hear nothing but this tune:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whether I like Long's "Vashti," or<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Leslie's "Naughty Kitty" more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all that critics, right or wrong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have said of Leslie and of Long....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No. If you value my esteem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I beg you'll take another theme;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paint me some pictures, if you will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But spare me these, for good and ill....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Paint you some pictures!" Come, that's kind!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know I'm nearly colour-blind.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Paint then, in words. You did before;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scenes at—where was it? Dustypoor?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh</span> (<em>with an inspiration</em>).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i14">I'll try.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i24">But mind they're pretty<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not "hog hunts." ...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i20">You shall be Committee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And say if they are "out" or "in."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shall reject them all. Begin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here is the first. An antique Hall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A boy, or rather lad. A girl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laughing with all her rows of pearl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before a portrait in a ruff.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He meanwhile watches....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i26">That's enough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It wants "<em>verve</em>," "<em>brio</em>," "breadth," "design," ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Besides, it's English. I decline.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is the next. 'Tis finer far:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A foaming torrent (say Braemar).<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pony, grazing by a boulder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the same pair, a little older,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Left by some lucky chance together.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He begs her for a sprig of heather....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">—"Which she accords with smile seraphic."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know it,—it was in the "Graphic."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Declined.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i12">Once more, and I forego<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All hopes of hanging, high or low:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behold the hero of the scene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In bungalow and palankeen....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What!—all at once! But that's absurd;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hugh.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Permit me—'Tis a Panorama,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In which the person of the drama,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid orientals dusk and tawny,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In every kind of place and weather,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is solaced ... by a sprig of heather.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">(<em>More seriously.</em>)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He puts that faded scrap before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor"....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He would not barter it for all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Benares, or the Taj-Mahal....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It guides,—directs his every act,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And word, and thought—In short—in fact—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I mean ...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">(<em>Opening his locket.</em>)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i12">Look, Helen, that's the heather!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Too late! Here come both Aunts together.)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Helen.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What heather, Sir?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10">(<em>After a pause.</em>)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i20">And why ... "too late?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Don't you agree that it's a pity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Portraits are hung by the Committee?<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE LAST DESPATCH.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hurrah! the Season's past at last;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At length we've "done" our pleasure.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear "Pater," if you <em>only</em> knew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How much I've <em>longed</em> for home and you,—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Our own green lawn and leisure!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then the pets! One half forgets<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The dear dumb friends—in Babel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hope my special fish is fed;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I long to see poor Nigra's head<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pushed at me from the stable!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I long to see the cob and "Rob,"—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Old Bevis and the Collie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And <em>won't</em> we read in "Traveller's Rest"!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home readings after all are best;—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">None else seem half so "jolly!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One misses your dear kindly store<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of fancies quaint and funny;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One misses, too, your kind <em>bon-mot</em>;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Mayfair wit I mostly know<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Has more of gall than honey!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How tired one grows of "calls and balls!"<br /></span> +<span class="i4">This "<em>toujours perdrix</em>" wearies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(<em>Apropos</em>, I've the loveliest box<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For holding <em>Notes and Queries</em>!)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A change of place would suit my case.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">You'll take me?—on probation?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As "Lady-help," then, let it be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I feel (as Lavender shall see),<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That Jams are <em>my</em> vocation!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How's Lavender? My love to her.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll let me give <em>some</em> picnics, Dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And ask the Vanes and Towers?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I met Belle Vane. "<span class="smcap">He's</span>" still in Spain!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Sir John won't let them marry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Charley,—changing Charley,—think,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Is now <em>au mieux</em> with Carry!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And <span class="smcap">NO</span>. You know what "<em>No</em>" I mean—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">There's no one yet at present:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Benedick I have in view<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must be a something wholly new,—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">One's father's <em>far</em> too pleasant.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So hey, I say, for home and you!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Good-by to Piccadilly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Expect me, Dear, at half-past two;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Till then,—your Own Fond—<span class="smcap">Milly</span>.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>"PREMIERS AMOURS."</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0"><em>Old Loves and old dreams,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>"Requiescant in pace."</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>How strange now it seems,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>"Old" Loves and "old" dreams!</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Yet we once wrote you reams</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Maude, Alice, and Gracie!</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Old Loves and old dreams,—</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>"Requiescant in pace."</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When I called at the "Hollies" to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the room with the cedar-wood presses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aunt Deb. was just folding away<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What she calls her "memorial dresses."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Short-waisted, of course—my abhorrence;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She'd "the loveliest"—something in "een"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She'd the "jelick" she used—"as a Greek," (!)<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She'd the habit she got her bad fall in;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had e'en the blue <em>moiré antique</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2">That she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">New and old they were all of them there:—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sleek velvet and bombazine stately,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had hung them each over a chair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the "<em>paniers</em>" she's taken to lately<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">(Which she showed me, I think, by mistake).<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the faded old shapes seemed to wake<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All the ghosts of my passed-away "passions;"—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the days of love's youthfullest dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When the height of my shooting idea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was to burn, like a young Polypheme,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For a somewhat mature Galatea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was Lucy, who "tiffed" with her first,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And who threw me as soon as her third came;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was Norah, whose cut was the worst,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For she told me to wait till my "berd" came;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Plain Ann, that I wooed for the "siller;"—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All danced round my head in a ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like "The Zephyrs" that somebody painted,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">All shapes of the feminine thing—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To my Wife, in the days she was young....<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Do you dare to include <span class="smcap">Me</span> among<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your loves that have faded and rusted?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Not at all!"—I benignly retort.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(I was just the least bit in a temper!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Those, alas! were the fugitive sort,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But you are my—<em>eadem semper</em>!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Full stop,—and a Sermon. Yet think,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There was surely good ground for a quarrel,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had checked me when just on the brink<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of—I feel—a remarkable <span class="smcap">Moral</span>.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER ROOM.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, here it is, behind the box,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That puzzle wrought so neatly—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That paradise of paradox—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We once knew so completely;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which stood, that chill September,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beside your aunt Lavinia's chair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The year when ... You remember?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Look, Laura, look! You must recall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This florid "Fairy's Bower,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This wonderful Swiss waterfall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And this old "Leaning Tower;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And here is Bewick's "Starling,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here the dandy cuirassier<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You thought was "such a Darling!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She used to say this figure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reminded her of Count D'Orsay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"In all his youthful vigour;"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here's the "cot beside the hill"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We chose for habitation,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The day that ... But I doubt if still<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You'd like the situation!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Too damp—by far! She little knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your guileless Aunt Lavinia,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those evenings when she slumbered through<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"The Prince of Abyssinia,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That there were two beside her chair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Who both had quite decided<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see things in a rosier air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than Rasselas provided!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And maids short waists and tippets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When this old-fashioned screen was planned<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From hoarded scraps and snippets;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But more—far more, I think—to me<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than those who first designed it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is this—in Eighteen Seventy-Three<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I kissed you first behind it.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>DAISY'S VALENTINES.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All night through Daisy's rosy dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Have devious Postmen blundered,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Delivering letters round her bed,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mysterious missives, sealed with red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And franked of course with due Queen's-head,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While Daisy lay and wondered.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But now, when chirping birds begin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Day puts off the Quaker,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Cook renews her morning din,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And rates the cheerful baker,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She dreams her dream no dream at all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For, just as pigeons come at call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Winged letters flutter down, and fall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Around her head, and wake her.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, there they are! With quirk and twist,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And fraudful arts directed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through all disguise detected;)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But which is his,—her young Lothair's,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who wooed her on the school-room stairs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In one neat pile collected?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis there, be sure. Though truth to speak,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(If truth may be permitted),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I doubt that young "gift-bearing Greek"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is scarce for fealty fitted;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For has he not (I grieve to say),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To two loves more, on this same day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In just this same emblazoned way,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His transient vows transmitted?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He <em>may</em> be true. Yet, Daisy dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That even youth grows colder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll find is no new thing, I fear;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And when you're somewhat older,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll read of one Dardanian boy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who "wooed with gifts" a maiden coy,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then took the morning train to Troy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In spite of all he'd told her.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But wait. Your time will come. And then,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Obliging Fates, please send her<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bravest thing you have in men,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sound-hearted, strong, and tender;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The kind of man, dear Fates, you know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That feels how shyly Daisies grow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what soft things they are, and so<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will spare to spoil or mend her.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>IN TOWN.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>The blue fly sung in the pane.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Tennyson.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Toiling in Town now is "horrid,"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(There is that woman again!)—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">June in the zenith is torrid,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thought gets dry in the brain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is that woman again:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thought gets dry in the brain;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ink gets dry in the bottle.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Oh for the green of a lane!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ink gets dry in the bottle;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh for the green of a lane,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where one might lie and be lazy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bluebottles drive me crazy!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where one might lie and be lazy,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Careless of Town and all in it!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bluebottles drive me crazy:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I shall go mad in a minute!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Careless of Town and all in it,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With some one to soothe and to still you;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall go mad in a minute;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With some one to soothe and to still you,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As only one's feminine kin do,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There now! I've broken the window!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As only one's feminine kin do,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There now! I've broken the window!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bluebottle's off and away!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To dash one with eau de Cologne;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bluebottle's off and away;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And why should I stay here alone!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To dash one with eau de Cologne,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All over one's eminent forehead;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And why should I stay here alone!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Toiling in Town now is "horrid."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A SONNET IN DIALOGUE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank</span> (<em>on the Lawn</em>).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come to the Terrace, May,—the sun is low.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">May</span> (<em>in the House</em>).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">May.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They will be riper if we let them grow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">May.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But surely, May, your pony must be fed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">May.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And was, and is. I fed him hours ago.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Still, I had something you would like to hear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">May.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No doubt some new frivolity of men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank.</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay,—'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chiefly, I think....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">May</span> (<em>coming to the window</em>).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i24">What is this secret, then?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Frank</span> (<em>mysteriously</em>).<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>GROWING GRAY.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0">"<em>On a l'âge de son cœur.</em>"—<span class="smcap">A. d'Houdetot.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A little more toward the light;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me miserable! Here's one that's white;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And one that's turning;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu to song and "salad days;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And order mourning.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Renounce the gay for the severe,—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Be grave, not witty;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We have, no more, the right to find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">That Chloe's pretty.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Young Love's for us a farce that's played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Light canzonet and serenade<br /></span> +<span class="i6">No more may tempt us;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From aught but sour didactic themes<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Our years exempt us.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Indeed! you really fancy so?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You think for one white streak we grow<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At once satiric?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To which our ancient Muse shall sing<br /></span> +<span class="i6">A younger lyric.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grow rare to youth because <em>we</em> rail<br /></span> +<span class="i6">At schoolboy dishes?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When neither Time nor Tide can grant<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Belief with wishes.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VARIA" id="VARIA"></a>VARIA.</h2> + + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> +<h3>THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wot that I shall die of Love—an I die not of Ale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out—"Te-Hee!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)—thou art a Pottle-pot!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But little lore of loving can any flagon teach,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For when my tongue is looséd most, then most I lose my speech.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>AN APRIL PASTORAL.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> Whither away, fair Neat-herdess?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She.</em> Shepherd, I go to tend my kine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She.</em> With thee? Nay, that were idleness.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> Thy kine will pasture none the less.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She.</em> Not so: they wait me and my sign.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She.</em> Thy pipe will soothe not their distress.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> Dost thou not hear beside the spring<br /></span> +<span class="i5">How the gay birds are carolling?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She.</em> I hear them. But it may not be.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She.</em> Shepherd, farewell——Where goest thou?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>He.</em> I go ... to tend thy kine for thee!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A NEW SONG OF THE SPRING GARDENS.</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza_o"> +<span class="i0"><em>To the Burden of "Rogues All."</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing <em>Tantarara</em>,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing <em>Tantarara</em>,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the wicket is free to the great and the small;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing <em>Tantarara</em>,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing <em>Tantarara</em>,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here a domino covers the short and the tall;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing <em>Tantarara</em>,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing <em>Tantarara</em>,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>A LOVE-SONG.</h3> + +<p class="center">(XVIII. CENT.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When first in <span class="smcap">Celia's</span> ear I poured<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A yet unpractised pray'r,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My trembling tongue sincere ignored<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The aids of "sweet" and "fair."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only said, as in me lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I'd strive her "worth" to reach;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She frowned, and turned her eyes away,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So much for truth in speech.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then <span class="smcap">Delia</span> came. I changed my plan;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I praised her to her face;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I praised her features,—praised her fan,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her lap-dog and her lace;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I swore that not till Time were dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My passion should decay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She, smiling, gave her hand, and said<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twill last then—for a <span class="smcap">Day</span>.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>OF HIS MISTRESS.</h3> + +<p class="center">(<em>After Anthony Hamilton.</em>)</p> +<p class="center">To G. S.</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She that I love is neither brown nor fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, in a word her worth to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There is no maid that with her may<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Compare.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There are five hundred things we see,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And then five hundred too there be,<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Not seen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the sweet Graces from their store<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A thousand finer touches more<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Have given.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beside her Flora would be wan<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And white as whiteness of the swan<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Her throat.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hebe her nose and lip confess,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, looking in her eyes, you guess<br /></span> +<span class="i12">Her name.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>THE NAMELESS CHARM.</h3> + +<p class="center">(<em>Expanded from an Epigram of Piron.</em>)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Stella, 'tis not your dainty head,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your artless look, I own;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis not your dear coquettish tread,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or this, or that, alone;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor is it all your gifts combined;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis something in your face,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The untranslated, undefined,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Uncertainty of grace,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That taught the Boy on Ida's hill<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To whom the meed was due;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>All three have equal charms—but still</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>This one I give it to!</em><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO PHIDYLE.</h3> + +<p class="center">(HOR. III., 23.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hale the nurslings of thy flock remain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce avail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy modest gods with much slain to assail,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO HIS BOOK.</h3> + +<p class="center">(HOR. EP. I., 20.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For mart and street you seem to pine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With restless glances, Book of mine!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still craving on some stall to stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You chafe at locks, and burn to quit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your modest haunt and audience fit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For hearers less discriminate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I reared you up for no such fate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still, if you <em>must</em> be published, go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But mind, you can't come back, you know!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What have I done?" I hear you cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And writhe beneath some critic's eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What did I want?"—when, scarce polite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They do but yawn, and roll you tight.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet methinks, if I may guess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Putting aside your heartlessness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In leaving me and this your home),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You should find favour, too, at Rome.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That is, they'll like you while you're young,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When you are old, you'll pass among<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Great Unwashed,—then thumbed and sped,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be fretted of slow moths, unread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or to Ilerda you'll be sent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or Utica, for banishment!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I, whose counsel you disdain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At that your lot shall laugh amain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wryly, as he who, like a fool,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay! there is worse behind. In age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They e'en may take your babbling page<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In some remotest "slum" to teach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mere boys their rudiments of speech!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But go. When on warm days you see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A chance of listeners, speak of me.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell them I soared from low estate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A freedman's son, to higher fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(That is, make up to me in worth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What you must take in point of birth);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then tell them that I won renown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In peace and war, and pleased the town;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paint me as early gray, and one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Little of stature, fond of sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or was, the year that over us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>FOR A COPY OF HERRICK.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Many days have come and gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many suns have set and shone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Herrick</span>, since thou sang'st of Wake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Morris-dance and Barley-break;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many men have ceased from care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many maidens have been fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since thou sang'st of <span class="smcap">Julia's</span> eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Julia's</span> lawns and tiffanies;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Many things are past: but thou,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Golden-Mouth</span>, art singing now,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Singing clearly as of old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thy numbers are of gold!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">About the ending of the Ramadán,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At the tenth hour to Caliph <span class="smcap">Omar</span> came.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the last<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Hast thou no calling, Friend?"—the Caliph said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Sir, I make verses for my daily bread."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Verse!"—answered <span class="smcap">Omar</span>. "'Tis a dish, indeed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereof but scantily a man may feed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Verse is a drug not sold in any mart."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>But this I know—he must have versified,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>For, with his race, from better still to worse,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>The plague of writing follows like a curse;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>And men will scribble though they fail to dine,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.</em><br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>FOR THE AVERY "KNICKERBOCKER."</h3> + +<p class="center">(WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY G. H. BOUGHTON.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Help me sing of Knickerbocker!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Boughton</span>, had you bid me chant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had you bid me sing of Wouter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to rhyme of this one,—Mocker!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nay, but where my hand must fail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There the more shall yours avail;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You shall take your brush and paint<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All that ring of figures quaint,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All those solid-looking smokers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pulling at their pipes of amber<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only art like yours can touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shapes so dignified ... and Dutch;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only art like yours can show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How the pine-logs gleam and glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the fire-light laughs and passes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Touching with responsive graces<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All those grave Batavian faces,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Making bland and beatific<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All that session soporific.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then I come and write beneath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Boughton</span>, he deserves the wreath;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He can give us form and hue—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This the Muse can never do!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>TO A PASTORAL POET.</h3> + +<p class="center">(H. E. B.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Among my best I put your Book,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Poet of the breeze and brook!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(That breeze and brook which blows and falls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More soft to those in city walls)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among my best: and keep it still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till down the fair grass-girdled hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where slopes my garden-slip, there goes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wandering wind that wakes the rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And scares the cohort that explore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or starts the restless bees that fret<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bindweed and the mignonette.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then I shall take your Book, and dream<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I lie beside some haunted stream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And watch the crisping waves that pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And watch the flicker in the grass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wait—and wait—and wait to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Nymph ... that never comes to me!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>"SAT EST SCRIPSISSE."</h3> + +<p class="center">(TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.)</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will find the present volume and listless turn the page.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This Book you see before you,—this masterpiece of Whim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They served the Muses truly,—their service was sincere.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Yes,—fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They marched in that procession where is no first or last;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They too had once their ardour—they handed on the fire.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="PROLOGUES" id="PROLOGUES"></a>PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.</h2> + + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> +<h3>PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF<br /> +"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the <span class="smcap">Georges</span> were ruling o'er Britain the free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the <span class="smcap">Goldsmith</span> who brought out the <em>Good-Natur'd Man</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New-fashioned, in truth—for this play, it appears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the type of those days, as the learnèd will tell ye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was the <span class="smcap">Cumberland</span> whine or the whimper of <span class="smcap">Kelly</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Either grizzle or bob—never mind, you look big.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So issue at last on the House in its pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pack yourself snug in a box at the side.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its impudent orange-girls going and coming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its endless surprises of face and of feature,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then we turn to the Boxes where <span class="smcap">Trip</span> in his lace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is aping his master, and keeping his place.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do but note how the Puppy flings back with a yawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a Duke at the least, or a Bishop in lawn!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then sniffs at his bouquet, whips round with a smirk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ogles the ladies at large—like a Turk.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the music comes in, and the blanks are all filling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And <span class="smcap">Trip</span> must trip up to the seats at a shilling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And spite of the mourning that most of us wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The House takes a gay and a holiday air;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the fair sex are clever at turning the tables,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seem to catch coquetry even in sables.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moreover, your mourning has ribbons and stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And is sprinkled about with the red coats of Mars.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Look, look, there is <span class="smcap">Wilkes</span>! You may tell by the squint;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he grows every day more and more like the print<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Ah! <span class="smcap">Hogarth</span> <em>could</em> draw!); and behind at the back<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Hugh Kelly</span>, who looks all the blacker in black.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That is <span class="smcap">Cumberland</span> next, and the prim-looking person<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the corner, I take it, is <em>Ossian</em> <span class="smcap">Macpherson</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rolling and blinking, here, too, with the rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes sturdy old <span class="smcap">Johnson</span>, dressed out in his best;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How he shakes his old noddle! I'll wager a crown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whatever the law is <em>he's</em> laying it down!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beside him is <span class="smcap">Reynolds</span>, who's deaf; and the hale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fresh, farmer-like fellow, I fancy, is <span class="smcap">Thrale</span>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is <span class="smcap">Burke</span> with <span class="smcap">George Steevens</span>. And somewhere, no doubt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the <span class="smcap">Author</span>—too nervous just now to come out;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He's a queer little fellow, grave-featured, pock-pitten,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tho' they say, in his cups, he's as gay as a kitten.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But where is our play-bill? <em>Mistakes of a Night!</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the title's prophetic, I pity his plight!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>She Stoops.</em> Let us hope she won't fall at full length,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the piece—so 'tis whispered—is wanting in strength.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the humour is "low!"—you are doubtless aware<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's a character, even, that "dances a bear!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the cast is so poor,—neither marrow nor pith!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why can't they get <span class="smcap">Woodward</span> or Gentleman <span class="smcap">Smith</span>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<span class="smcap">Lee Lewes!</span>" Who's <span class="smcap">Lewes</span>? The fellow has played<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing better, they tell me, than harlequinade!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<span class="smcap">Dubellamy</span>"—"<span class="smcap">Quick</span>,"—these are nobodies. Stay, I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Believe I saw <span class="smcap">Quick</span> once in <em>Beau Mordecai</em>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, <span class="smcap">Quick</span> is not bad. Mrs. <span class="smcap">Green</span>, too, is funny;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But <span class="smcap">Shuter</span>, ah! <span class="smcap">Shuter's</span> the man for my money!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He's the quaintest, the oddest of mortals, is <span class="smcap">Shuter</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he has but one fault—he's too fond of the pewter.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then there's little <span class="smcap">Bulkely</span>....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i36">But here in the middle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the orchestra comes the first squeak of a fiddle.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then the bass gives a growl, and the horn makes a dash,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the music begins with a flourish and crash,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And away to the zenith goes swelling and swaying,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While we tap on the box to keep time to the playing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we hear the old tunes as they follow and mingle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till at last from the stage comes a ting-a-ting tingle;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the fans cease to whirr, and the House for a minute<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grows still as if naught but wax figures were in it.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then an actor steps out, and the eyes of all glisten.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who is it? <em>The Prologue.</em> He's sobbing. Hush! listen.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p style="margin:0 6em;">[<em>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.</em>]<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h3>L'ENVOI.</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Good-bye to you, <span class="smcap">Kelly</span>, your fetters are broken!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good-bye to you, <span class="smcap">Cumberland</span>, <span class="smcap">Goldsmith</span> has spoken!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Good-bye to sham Sentiment, moping and mumming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For <span class="smcap">Goldsmith</span> has spoken and <span class="smcap">Sheridan's</span> coming;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the frank Muse of Comedy laughs in free air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she laughed with the Great Ones, with <span class="smcap">Shakespeare</span>, <span class="smcap">Molière</span>!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></div></div> + + + + +<h3>PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S "QUIET LIFE."</h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Even as one in city pent,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dazed with the stir and din of town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drums on the pane in discontent,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sees the dreary rain come down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, through the dimmed and dripping glass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beholds, in fancy, visions pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Spring that breaks with all her leaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of birds that build in thatch and eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of woodlands where the throstle calls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of girls that gather cowslip balls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of kine that low, and lambs that cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of wains that jolt and rumble by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of brooks that sing by brambly ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sunburned folk that stand at gaze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all the dreams with which men cheat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stony sermons of the street,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, in its hour, the artist brain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Weary of human ills and woes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weary of passion, and of pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And vaguely craving for repose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deserts awhile the stage of strife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To draw the even, ordered life,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The easeful days, the dreamless nights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The homely round of plain delights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The calm, the unambitioned mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which all men seek, and few men find.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i10">EPILOGUE.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let the dream pass, the fancy fade!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We clutch a shape, and hold a shade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is Peace <em>so</em> peaceful? Nay,—who knows!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There are volcanoes under snows.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></div></div> + +<hr /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>In after days when grasses high</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Though ill or well the world adjust</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>My slender claim to honoured dust,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>I shall not question or reply.</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>I shall not see the morning sky;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>I shall be mute, as all men must</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>In after days!</em><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><em>But yet, now living, fain were I</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>That some one then should testify,</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>Saying—"He held his pen in trust</em><br /></span> +<span class="i2"><em>To Art, not serving shame or lust."</em><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Will none?—Then let my memory die</em><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><em>In after days!</em><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES"></a>NOTES.</h2> + + + +<hr /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> + +<h3>NOTES.</h3> + + +<p>"<em>To brandish the poles of that old Sedan Chair!</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_7">7</a>.</p> + +<p>A friendly critic, whose versatile pen it is not easy to mistake, +recalls, <em>à-propos</em> of the above, the following passage from Molière, +which shows that Chairmen are much the same all the world over:—</p> + +<p>1 Porteur (prenant un des bâtons de sa chaise). <em>Çà, payez-nous +vitement!</em><br /> + +Mascarille. <em>Quoi!</em><br /> + +1 Porteur. <em>Je dis que je veux avoir de l'argent tout à l'heure.</em><br /> + +Mascarille. <em>Il est raisonnable, celui-là,</em> etc.</p> + +<p style="text-align:right;"><em>Les Précieuses Ridicules</em>, Sc. vii.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>It has waited by portals where Garrick has played.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.</p> + +<p>According to Mrs. Carter (Smith's <em>Nollekens</em>, 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."</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>A skill Préville could not disown.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</p> + +<p>Préville was the French Foote, <em>circa</em> 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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">Molly Trefusis.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</p> + +<p>The epigram here quoted from "an old magazine" is to be found in the +late Lord Neaves's admirable little volume, <em>The Greek Anthology</em> +(<em>Blackwood's Ancient Classics for English Readers</em>). 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 +<em>Poems</em> 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.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">An Eastern Apologue.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</p> + +<p>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 <em>pastiche</em>, 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.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">A Revolutionary Relic.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_48">48</a>.</p> + +<p>"373. <span class="smcap">St. Pierre</span> (Bernardin de), <em>Paul et Virginie</em>, 12mo, old calf. +Paris, 1787. This copy is pierced throughout by a bullet-hole, and bears +on one of the covers the words: '<em>à Lucile St. A.... chez M. Batemans, à +Edmonds-Bury, en Angleterre</em>,' very faintly written in pencil." (Extract +from Catalogue.)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>Did she wander like that other?</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.</p> + +<p>Lucile Desmoulins. See Carlyle's <em>French Revolution</em>, Vol. iii. Book vi. +Chap. ii.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>And its tender rain shall lave it.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_52">52</a>.</p> + +<p>It is by no means uncommon for an editor to interrupt some of these +revolutionary letters by a "Here there are traces of tears."</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>By 'Bysshe,' his epithet.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</p> + +<p>i.e. <em>The Art of English Poetry</em>, by Edward Bysshe, 1702.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">The Book-plate's Petition.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_87">87</a>.</p> + +<p>These lines were reprinted from <em>Notes and Queries</em> in Mr. Andrew Lang's +instructive volume <em>The Library</em>, 1881, where the curious will find full +information as to the enormities of the book-mutilators.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>Have I not writ thy Laws?</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</p> + +<p>The lines in italic type which follow, are freely paraphrased from the +ancient <em>Code d' Amour</em> of the XIIth Century, as given by André le +Chapelain himself.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">A Dialogue, etc.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_107">107</a>.</p> + +<p>This dialogue, first printed in <em>Scribner's Magazine</em> 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.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>The 'crooked Body with a crooked Mind.'</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Mens curva in corpore curvo."<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Said of Pope by Lord Orrery.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></div></div> + + +<p class="break">"<em>Neither as <span class="smcap">Locke</span> was, nor as <span class="smcap">Blake</span>.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>The Journal of his middle-age.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</p> + +<p>It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to the +<em>Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon</em>, 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 <em>Persiles and +Sigismunda</em>.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">Charles George Gordon.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</p> + +<p>These verses appeared in the <em>Saturday Review</em> for February 14th, 1885.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">Alfred, Lord Tennyson.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.</p> + +<p>These verses appeared in the <em>Athenæum</em> for October 8th, 1892.</p> + + +<p class="break"><em>With that he made a Leg.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_137">137</a>.</p> + +<div class="poem break"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<span class="smcap">Jove</span> made his Leg and kiss'd the Dame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Obsequious <span class="smcap">Hermes</span> did the Same."<br /></span> +<span class="i38"><span class="smcap">Prior.</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="break">"<em>So took his Virtú off to Cock's.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_137">137</a>.</p> + +<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>Of Van's 'Goose-Pie.'</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"At length they in the Rubbish spy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Thing resembling a Goose Py."<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><span class="smcap">Swift's</span> verses on <em>Vanbrugh's House</em>, 1706.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="break">"<em>The Oaf preferred the</em> 'Tongs and Bones.'"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.</p> + +<p>"I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the tongs and the +bones."</p> + +<p class="center"><em>Midsummer-Night's Dream</em>, Act iv., Sc. i.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>And sighed o'er Chaos wine for Stingo.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.</p> + +<p>Squire Homespun probably meant Cahors.</p> + + +<p class="break"><span class="smcap">The Water-Cure.</span>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.</p> + +<p>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 <em>Tatler</em> 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 <em>Anatomy of Melancholy</em>.</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>In Babylonian numbers hidden.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">"—nec Babylonios<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tentaris numeros."<br /></span> +<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Hor.</span> i., 11.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p class="break">"<em>And spite of the mourning that most of us wear.</em>"—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</p> + +<p>In March, 1773, when <em>She Stoops to Conquer</em> was first<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> played, there +was a court-mourning for the King of Sardinia (Forster's <em>Goldsmith</em>, +Book iv. Chap. 15).</p> + + +<p class="break">"<em>But he grows every day more and more like the print.</em>—<span class="smcap">Page</span> <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</p> + +<p>"Mr. <em>Wilkes</em>, with his usual good humour, has been heard to observe, +that he is every day growing more and more like his portrait by +<em>Hogarth</em> (i.e. the print of May 16th, 1763)."</p> + +<p><em>Biographical Anecdotes of William Hogarth</em>, 1782, pp. 305-6.</p> + + + + +<h2>Transcriber's Notes:</h2> + +<p><a name="tn1a" id="tn1a"></a>Ah, Postumus, we all must go:<br /> +'<a href="#tn1">Postumus</a>' unchanged. 'Posthumous' is current spelling.</p> + +<p>Hyphenation of the following unchanged:</p> + <ul> + <li>chairmen chair-men</li> + <li>Masterpiece Master-piece</li> + <li>recall re-call</li> + </ul> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 24334-h.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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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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