ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

Said a poet to a woodlouse—'Thou art certainly my brother;I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole;And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother,In the colours shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul.'Yea,' the poet said, 'I smell thee by some passive divination,I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,Had the æons thought of making thee a man, and me a louse.'The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test;Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.'Man, the fleshly marvel, alway feels a certain kind of awe stickTo the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight:Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.''Notwithstanding which, O poet,' spake the woodlouse, very blandly,'I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee;I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lieThe inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.'I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,And the air I breathe is coloured with apocalyptic blush:Ripest-budded odours blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.'I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee:And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.'And I sacrifice, a Levite—and I palpitate, a poet;—Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of the heroic;Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursèd me? look! approve me! I have wings.'Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like,And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod:We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.'For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunderstorms,Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels;And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.'Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.'Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passionSee that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.'Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink;All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd,While he makes his mundane music—and he will not stop, I think.'

Said a poet to a woodlouse—'Thou art certainly my brother;

I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole;

And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene smut and smother,

In the colours shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul.

'Yea,' the poet said, 'I smell thee by some passive divination,I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,Had the æons thought of making thee a man, and me a louse.

'Yea,' the poet said, 'I smell thee by some passive divination,

I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house;

What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion,

Had the æons thought of making thee a man, and me a louse.

'The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test;Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.

'The broad lives of upper planets, their absorption and digestion,

Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test;

Through a shiver of the senses comes a resonance of question,

And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best.

'Man, the fleshly marvel, alway feels a certain kind of awe stickTo the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight:Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.'

'Man, the fleshly marvel, alway feels a certain kind of awe stick

To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight:

Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic,

On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate.'

'Notwithstanding which, O poet,' spake the woodlouse, very blandly,'I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee;I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lieThe inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.

'Notwithstanding which, O poet,' spake the woodlouse, very blandly,

'I am likewise the created,—I the equipoise of thee;

I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie

The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me.

'I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,And the air I breathe is coloured with apocalyptic blush:Ripest-budded odours blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.

'I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences,

And the air I breathe is coloured with apocalyptic blush:

Ripest-budded odours blossom out of dim chaotic stenches,

And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush.

'I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee:And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.

'I am thrilled half cosmically through by cryptophantic surgings,

Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee:

And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pancreatic organs,

Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt catalepsy.

'And I sacrifice, a Levite—and I palpitate, a poet;—Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of the heroic;Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursèd me? look! approve me! I have wings.

'And I sacrifice, a Levite—and I palpitate, a poet;—

Can I close dead ears against the rush and resonance of things?

Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of the heroic;

Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursèd me? look! approve me! I have wings.

'Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like,And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod:We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

'Ah, men's poets! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like,

And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod:

We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight,

And our polecat chokes not cherubs; and our skunk smells sweet to God.

'For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunderstorms,Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels;And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

'For He grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles,

Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunderstorms,

Shimmers up the non-existent round the churning feet of angels;

And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms.

'Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

'Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us;

Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong?

For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos,

Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song.

'Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passionSee that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.

'Eyes once purged from homebred vapours through humanitarian passion

See that monochrome a despot through a democratic prism;

Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration,

Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism.

'Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink;All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd,While he makes his mundane music—and he will not stop, I think.'

'Pass, O poet, retransfigured! God, the psychometric rhapsode,

Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink;

All eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsèd,

While he makes his mundane music—and he will not stop, I think.'

Idyl CCCLXVI. The Kid.

My spirit, in the doorway's pause,Fluttered with fancies in my breast;Obsequious to all decent laws,I felt exceedingly distressed.I knew it rude to enter thereWith Mrs. V. in such a state;And, 'neath a magisterial air,Felt actually indelicate.I knew the nurse began to grin;I turned to greet my Love. Said she—'Confound your modesty, come in!—What shall we call the darling, V.?'(There are so many charming names!Girls'—Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab:Boys'—Mahershalal-hashbaz, James,Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.)Lo, as the acorn to the oak,As well-heads to the river's height,As to the chicken the moist yolk,As to high noon the day's first white—Such is the baby to the man.There, straddling one red arm and leg,Lay my last work, in length a span,Half hatched, and conscious of the egg.A creditable child, I hoped;And half a score of joys to beThrough sunny lengths of prospect slopedSmooth to the bland futurity.O, fate surpassing other dooms,O, hope above all wrecks of time!O, light that fills all vanquished glooms,O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme!I covered either little foot,I drew the strings about its waist;Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit,But barely decent, hardly chaste,Its nudity had startled me;But when the petticoats were on,'I know,' I said; 'its name shall bePaul Cyril Athanasius John.''Why,' said my wife, 'the child's a girl.'My brain swooned, sick with failing sense;With all perception in a whirl,How could I tell the difference?'Nay,' smiled the nurse, 'the child's a boy.'And all my soul was soothed to hearThat so it was: then startled JoyMocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear.And I was glad as one who seesFor sensual optics things unmeet:As purity makes passion freeze,So faith warns science off her beat.Blessed are they that have not seen,And yet, not seeing, have believed:To walk by faith, as preached the Dean,And not by sight, have I achieved.Let love, that does not look, believe;Let knowledge, that believes not, look:Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve,While reason blunders by the book.Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus:'Sir, if you'll be advised by me,You'll leave the blessed babe to us;It's my belief he wants his tea.'

My spirit, in the doorway's pause,

Fluttered with fancies in my breast;

Obsequious to all decent laws,

I felt exceedingly distressed.

I knew it rude to enter there

With Mrs. V. in such a state;

And, 'neath a magisterial air,

Felt actually indelicate.

I knew the nurse began to grin;

I turned to greet my Love. Said she—

'Confound your modesty, come in!

—What shall we call the darling, V.?'

(There are so many charming names!

Girls'—Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab:

Boys'—Mahershalal-hashbaz, James,

Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.)

Lo, as the acorn to the oak,As well-heads to the river's height,As to the chicken the moist yolk,As to high noon the day's first white—Such is the baby to the man.There, straddling one red arm and leg,Lay my last work, in length a span,Half hatched, and conscious of the egg.A creditable child, I hoped;And half a score of joys to beThrough sunny lengths of prospect slopedSmooth to the bland futurity.O, fate surpassing other dooms,O, hope above all wrecks of time!O, light that fills all vanquished glooms,O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme!I covered either little foot,I drew the strings about its waist;Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit,But barely decent, hardly chaste,Its nudity had startled me;But when the petticoats were on,'I know,' I said; 'its name shall bePaul Cyril Athanasius John.''Why,' said my wife, 'the child's a girl.'My brain swooned, sick with failing sense;With all perception in a whirl,How could I tell the difference?

Lo, as the acorn to the oak,

As well-heads to the river's height,

As to the chicken the moist yolk,

As to high noon the day's first white—

Such is the baby to the man.

There, straddling one red arm and leg,

Lay my last work, in length a span,

Half hatched, and conscious of the egg.

A creditable child, I hoped;

And half a score of joys to be

Through sunny lengths of prospect sloped

Smooth to the bland futurity.

O, fate surpassing other dooms,

O, hope above all wrecks of time!

O, light that fills all vanquished glooms,

O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme!

I covered either little foot,

I drew the strings about its waist;

Pink as the unshell'd inner fruit,

But barely decent, hardly chaste,

Its nudity had startled me;

But when the petticoats were on,

'I know,' I said; 'its name shall be

Paul Cyril Athanasius John.'

'Why,' said my wife, 'the child's a girl.'

My brain swooned, sick with failing sense;

With all perception in a whirl,

How could I tell the difference?

'Nay,' smiled the nurse, 'the child's a boy.'And all my soul was soothed to hearThat so it was: then startled JoyMocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear.And I was glad as one who seesFor sensual optics things unmeet:As purity makes passion freeze,So faith warns science off her beat.Blessed are they that have not seen,And yet, not seeing, have believed:To walk by faith, as preached the Dean,And not by sight, have I achieved.Let love, that does not look, believe;Let knowledge, that believes not, look:Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve,While reason blunders by the book.Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus:'Sir, if you'll be advised by me,You'll leave the blessed babe to us;It's my belief he wants his tea.'

'Nay,' smiled the nurse, 'the child's a boy.'

And all my soul was soothed to hear

That so it was: then startled Joy

Mocked Sorrow with a doubtful tear.

And I was glad as one who sees

For sensual optics things unmeet:

As purity makes passion freeze,

So faith warns science off her beat.

Blessed are they that have not seen,

And yet, not seeing, have believed:

To walk by faith, as preached the Dean,

And not by sight, have I achieved.

Let love, that does not look, believe;

Let knowledge, that believes not, look:

Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve,

While reason blunders by the book.

Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus:

'Sir, if you'll be advised by me,

You'll leave the blessed babe to us;

It's my belief he wants his tea.'

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation,Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath.Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our sensesSweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses—'Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.'Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod;Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer:Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things;Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,

Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,

Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,

These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?

Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation,

Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;

Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,

Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?

Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,

Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:

Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,

Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath.

Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses

Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;

Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses—

'Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.'

Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,

While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod;

Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,

As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.

Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer:

Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things;

Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,

Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

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